This week, I had the pleasure of getting to know one of our legislative counsel team, Scott, a
bit better. Scott and I work kitty corner to one another in the office on days we’re both in, and before this week our conversations mostly revolved around basketball – small talk about who was doing well, who needed a bit of help, and who we thought would do well as the season continues on. This week though, during a lull in the workday, we connected a bit more over a letter I was writing concerning the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA). Admittedly, I am not an expert on VAWA, and had not until recently exercised due diligence in reviewing the bill. But this week, as I was preparing to write a letter touching on it, I was able to go back through and explore the legislative history of VAWA. Reviewing the legislative history of the bill, I was surprised to note both its bipartisan support and its failure to be reauthorized in 2018. Scott, who has spent extensive time on the Hill in former Senator Ted Stevens’ (R-AK) office and Representative Don Young’s (R- AK) office, taught me a lot about how legislation is crafted and steered on both the House and Senate sides of Congress. Through our conversation, Scott put me in touch with an old colleague of his on the House side, Deputy Chief of Staff for Representative Young Alex Ortiz. Scott told me that Alex was one of his go-to people for questions concerning Alaska Native policy questions, and encouraged me to reach out to him with the questions I had. Over email, we set aside a time to call and get to know one another a little bit and get to answering some of the questions I had. I was elated. Here I am, practically an intern, speaking directly with a deputy chief of staff about wonky policy related questions I have about a bill that didn’t pass. At once I was surprised he’d take a minute out of his day to talk to me and grateful for the opportunity to learn from another person knowledgeable about something I’m intensely interested in. Looking back, a small part of me feels like I shouldn’t be so surprised with the opportunity to talk to Alex. After all, I’ve had amazing opportunities before. I ran the Save Our Seas 2.0 Act down to the floor in my first week of working here. I saw the impeachment documents being rolled from the House side of the Capitol to the Senate chambers, and was able to sit down and see the impeachment hearings first hand. I’ve met with old teachers and talked with senators. I’ve done so much more through this experience than I ever imagined would be possible. I have a job I love with people I care about and work that doesn’t feel like work. On some level, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at what happens anymore. But I am. In my heart, I’m still “just a kid from Alaska”, and I always intend to be that way. The honest truth is that I never knew I’d be here. I didn’t even know an experience like this would be possible for a person like me. That I’d be able to have half of what I have. Or be able to see anyone I visit with at work. Talking with Alex and Scott about issues that matter to me, in the single greatest place where action can be had on those same issues, is exactly what I dreamed of. To be able to do it though, and move a fantasy to a reality leaves me amazed and forever grateful. I can’t wait to see what’s next, and be surprised by it too.
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Unlike most weeks, this week I want to write about something not entirely connected to my
time in the Senator’s office. I want to write about a decision just handed down from the District of Columbia’s U.S. Court of Appeals concerning the case Confederated Tribes of the Chehalis Reservation v Mnuchin. This decision, if upheld, has the potential to disrupt decades of Congressional precedent and completely upend the function of our Alaska Native Corporations (ANCs). Handed down just this Friday, Sept. 25 th , the opinion of Judge Katsas holds that per definitional language within the Indian Self-Determination and Education Assistance Act of 1975 (ISDA), Alaska Native Corporations are not eligible for the historic $8 billion stimulus funding provided in the CARES Act. Instead, the holding dictates that Alaska Native Corporations will need Tribal consent in order to receive federal funding. In essence, the holding requires an additional layer of bureaucracy be applied to ensure ANCs have access to federal funding intended to support our Alaska Native communities in need. The holding is also not narrowly tailored, meaning that this requirement will be applied to all other future funding measures unless Congress or the Supreme Court intervenes. If upheld, Judge Katsas’ holding would upend ANC functions by threatening ANC’s abilities to participate in the compacting process – harming Alaska Natives’ abilities to self-govern in housing, healthcare, and other crucial social programs. Though these programs may be taken up by Tribes over time, the intervening chaos, lost productivity, and lost institutional knowledge poses a substantial risk to Alaska Native lives and livelihoods. The reform is not worth the risk. Meanwhile, the system we have chosen to work through his provided countless dividends since its conception in 1971. It is efficient, workable, and, most importantly, a system we self-determined. For a court a continent away to upend that system is inconceivable and unjust, not to mention ignorant and short-sighted. The coronavirus pandemic is an existential threat to our Indigenous communities. History leaves no doubt as to the detrimental effect disease has upon us. Time and again, pandemics have taken away our young ones, our Elders, our mothers and fathers, and our sisters and brothers. Public health crises are nigh a generation removed for Alaska Native communities, whose present housing shortages and infrastructure poor environments present ripe opportunities for communicable diseases like the coronavirus to spread, infect, and kill. There could not be a worst time to impart this decision. Further frustrating is the dogmatic, apathetic reasoning underlying the court's decision. Presented in the twelfth page of Judge Katsas’ Opinion of the Court, the holding of the court is predicated upon a strict ideological reading of law promoted by the late Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia and lawyer Bryan Garner in their book Reading Law: The Interpretation of Legal Texts (2012). Specifically, Judge Katsas relies upon a passage concerning the clausal order of a text as the basis for his decision. It is hard to picture a reasoning more acute and arcane than this as the basis for a decision with such great ramifications. Judge Katsas’ Opinion of the Court and Judge Henderson’s tacit approval of it belies decades of Congressional action. In focusing on the tree of ISDA’s clausal structuring, the court willfully ignores the forest of Congressional precedent supporting ANCs’ inclusion in federal funding dedicated to Tribes, as well as the ways ANCs function in conjunction with federally recognized Tribes in their respective regions. The court willfully ignores the unique, beneficial roles ANCs play in disbursing essential services to those in their regions. The court willfully ignored the coronavirus pandemic and the urgent needs of Alaska Natives in forming its decision. Instead, it focused on the clausal order of a definition using a guidebook written in 2012. A court a continent away from our communities (a) denies our Alaska Native communities the crucial funding they need in order to combat and control the coronavirus, (b) obscures future federal funding from Alaska Native Corporations, and (c) upends our self- determined way of receiving essential services and programs all because of a reading of a guidebook written by a deceased Supreme Court justice in 2012. How is that just? Without the Supreme Court stepping in to overrule the circuit court’s holding, any change would require Congressional action, agency buy-in, and Tribal consultation. Such an effort would probably cost millions of dollars and years of work. The coronavirus presents a cost which may be measured in human lives. For as long as ANCs are unable to access CARES Act funding, fewer resources are able to reach our Alaska Native communities. Less resources are able to support our essential workers. Less resources are available to help get our communities through the harsh winter ahead. Most importantly, Alaska Native Corporations’ inability to access CARES Act funding may mean fewer people may be around in the spring to help get our communities back on their feet. Less people may be around to carry on our languages. To support our youth. To take care of our Elders. This holding presents a paradigm shift. And while I do not know the future, I know that now is not the time to restrict access to essential resources. It is not the time to upend a tried and true method of support for our Alaska Native communities. This moment is a time to support all communities, and increase access to scarce resources like PPE and novel vaccines. More than ever, they are needed. We have seen what disease can do to our communities if we do not receive the resources we need. It is not a history worth repeating. Additionally, as Indigenous peoples, we must not fight one another for access. We must come together. The fact that we are fighting one another in this lawsuit is shameful to me. It hurts me to think that we attack one another this way. Instead of celebrating the historic $8 billion explicit congressional set aside, we’ve given outside powers who do not know our histories, priorities, or legal structures as well as we do the opportunity to marginalize critical allies of our Indigenous communities. The division shown through this lawsuit within our Indigenous community astounds me. It seems to be the same intra-Indigenous factionalism and divisiveness which for decades allowed the forces of colonialism and imperialism to fundamentally destroy our civilizations. While I understand no single federal policy will be able to adequately address the acute needs present within our societies, surely there must be a better way to work for greater resources for our communities than fighting each other for the limited resources present. Surely, after hundreds of years of losing our sovereignty due to a lack of Indigenous solidarity, we would realize that the path towards progress comes not in attacking each other. That progress is not possible through the degradation of institutions which benefit our communities. That, in truth, we hold more power as a collective unit than as an assortment of disparate interests. And that in the long run, we do a disservice to each other by politically isolating our fellow Indigenous organizations, when we could do extraordinary good should we stand united. I hope this decision gets overturned. That Congressional intent and historical precedent be honored, and the needs of our Indigenous communities are met in full during this extreme time of need. I also hope this case may serve as a catalyst for conversations within the Indigenous communities about the necessity of supporting one another. That through this case, we can focus on areas of mutual interest where we can present ourselves as a united front. Above all, I hope we can work together to implement strategies which do not allow for the possibility of outsiders to determine the paths we ought to be able to chart ourselves. It has been a busy week. I’ve really taken to writing letters, but this week I actually found
the most joy in a meeting the interns and I had with the Senator. It wasn’t long, probably half an hour at most. But what I found the most enjoyable was the opportunity to reflect on where I’d been and where I am now. At the beginning of my Al Adams Fellowship, I was acutely aware of my outsider status. I felt distinctly separate from the system of power and prestige I was working with. I had taken classes on Congress and the Legislative Branch, though I knew little to nothing about its day-to-day operations. Each time I saw Sen. Sullivan walk by on his way to the floor or a committee meeting, I stared in awe. All around me, I brushed shoulders with arguably the most powerful people in the United States. I was working directly with speechwriters, policy makers, legislative directors, and legislative counsel. I felt out of my depth. I came into my position intimidated, shy, and generally discombobulated. Over time, however, I gained confidence in the role I had. Remembering everything I’ve been taught from my parents, I worked hard to learn quickly. To produce quality work and prove myself capable of any responsibility seen fit to give me. Just before the coronavirus pandemic threw everything into uncertainty, I felt tentatively capable. I was finding my footing. Throughout the course of the pandemic as I worked from home, part of me felt like I was robbed. Grateful as I was to still have a position with Team Sullivan, I yearned to be back in the office. I felt I had more to grow into. Having tasted the satisfaction that comes from knowing you’re just starting to get your feet under you, I craved more. Coming back to the office this fall, even with the changes I noted last week, I have that chance again. I’m no longer shy in engaging with the Senator in meetings. I’m ready whenever he asks a question of me. I’ve been where my fellow interns are now. And though we have the same title, I don’t know if we share the same mindset. I don’t mean to degrade them at all, for I believe they all are exceptional in their own right. I only mean to reflect on my own unique experiences. From where I was this January to where I am now in September, a lot has changed. In coming back to the office, I’m realizing more than ever I am not the person I once was. My skills are finely shone, my technical writing is better, my researching capabilities are improved, and I’m not scared to answer a phone. I feel more confident in who I am, where I feel I belong, and in the environment around me. So while I return back to the office, I feel less like an outsider, and more like a true member of the team. I can’t wait to see where things go from here. This week marks my first time back in Sen. Sullivan’s D.C. office since the beginning of the
pandemic. Needless to say, the experience felt surreal. Everything is more or less where I remember it being: my friend Allison up front answering calls, Erin and Sarah in the back working through IQ, Soukup quietly gathering clips in the press room. Like the world following Thanos’ snap though, only half of the staff was present. The rest worked from home, either in Alaska or around D.C. Select staff seem to break the rule, if only because they have offices insulating them from everyone else. Nevertheless, everyone wears a mask. With the lessened in-person attendance, everyone is safely socially distant, and hand sanitizer is readily available wherever you go in the office. It’s a far cry from what I’ve seen from every other office on our floor so far, where the lights are off, the doors are locked, and its clear everyone is working remotely. Honestly though, I like being back in person. I won’t lie in saying that a part of me is afraid I’ll catch the coronavirus, but I’ve missed team Sullivan. I’ve missed the friends I have here, and the office comradery we share. As much as I was grateful to stay on and work remotely for the Senator and the people of Alaska over the spring and through the early summer, I missed putting on a suit and coming into the office. I missed learning what issues were important to Alaskans across the state. I missed the connection I felt between my studies and my work. It was nice to get all of those things back, or at least the impression of them. It was also nice to come back and feel immediately like I was a part of the team. That I wasn’t an intern to work on menial tasks, but rather was a trusted team member. While the other interns in the fall cohort trained to answer phones, navigate the office, sort mail, and get to know the intern handbook, I was assigned a desk in the back to get to work straightaway. From my second day back, I was tasked with helping the legislative correspondents reply to constituent requests and opinions. I was helping out with staff level work. At the best part is, I love the work. I love researching the legislative basis around a constituent’s particular request and learning more about the policy world around me. I love learning more about the impacts our policies have on the citizens we serve. I love the work it takes to informatively reply to those who have reached out to us. Each time I come to work, I feel in touch with those back home, even if we are a continent apart. I feel like I make a difference with the work I do here. It’s a feeling I’ve really missed. And a feeling I’m ever grateful to have again. As the world has quickly sought to reopen, only to close again, my world has hardly changed. My room still operates as my office. My computer still serves as the portal into work and school. My window still offers a getaway for me as I break from work. Amidst a world still fighting to find its bearing amidst the coronavirus pandemic, my life has lapsed into a calm sort of monotony. No longer do I face stark shyness and insecurity when faced with the audio production system. Though a greater knowledge of social media has made me a bit more cynical than before, I feel I have a greater handle of its power, as a call to action and a tool for business. Applying what I have learned throughout my time with Koahnic, my days now largely pass without incident. I’m happy to say my days are now perfectly ordinary. Over the course of my two months with Koahnic Broadcasting Corporation, I have learned a lot about a world few of us care think about – audio and media production. In the midst of importing tracks, editing the daily “logs”, controlling the RIVR’s social media feeds, and sitting in on music meetings and production meetings, I feel as if I have a better understanding of the content I take in and the ways in which it is produced. In sitting in on the music and production meetings, I hold a better understanding than ever the processes by which new music is sought out, promoted, collected, added to the rotation, and played for listeners. In working with KNBA’s operations team, I have a better understanding of the difficulties facing players in the music industry (creatives, labels, stations, etc.) as well as current industry trends. I also feel like I have a better understanding of how I, as a consumer, come to think a particular track is good. How as a consumer I may be able to impact the broader industry, and how the industry continuously impacts me. Furthermore, through working with the RIVR, I hold a better understanding of how social media has changed the music industry. How online streaming services and music platforms have revolutionized music distribution, and how ‘influencer’ culture has come to impact the public’s consumption of merchandise and media. I’ve learned how to use social media as a tool, and the process by which one’s social media presence may be amplified and commercialized. Through this internship I’ve been able to peek behind the curtain of content presented to each and every one of us to view its genesis. To learn who is in the room, what questions they ask, why they ask those questions, and the next steps following each meeting. It has been a crash course in media, entertainment, and social awareness, and an experience that I hope will stay with me throughout the rest of my life. An example of it can already be seen in my music preferences, which now include:
Interested in law and working in government, I never thought I would be working for a broadcasting corporation. Like many things amidst the coronavirus epidemic, however, plans change. Under Koahnic Broadcasting Corporation, I’m now working with the RIVR and KNBA to promote indigenous voices within broadcasting. With a small, dedicated team, I’ve spent the past week learning about a world I hardly knew existed. I’ve always considered radio to be something to have on in the background. In the car, working on homework in my room, or puttering about the house, ESPN Radio, NPR, and KGOT were staples for me across near every facet of my life. For all the time I listened to them though, I never thought about the work that went into their production. The work that was put in to ensure I kept listening, minute after minute, hour after hour. This week, I’ve learned more than ever the ways in which the music featured is able to influence one’s preferences. How individual preferences and featured music mix to form what is culturally relevant. I’ve learned more about people than I ever thought I would. How to attract them. What influences them. What turns them off. And how their consumption of media shapes the presentation of media itself. It’s a world I’m new to, I’ll admit. I’m more used to burying my head in books and writing research papers than I am tracking hits on Billboard or analyzing media outlets’ social media pages. But I’m excited to learn more about a side of life I’ve taken for granted. To see how it changes my view of media and my preferences within it. For now though, my favorite songs are:
This week, I spent most of my time collating my notes into one cohesive document. Attempting to bind together all the nuances inherent within any aspect of Federal-Indian relations, I spent a fair amount of my time deciding between sharing what I felt might be too nuanced information and too simplistic of an explanation. For the staff members soon to be reading it, I sincerely hope my account of the topics presented are coherent so much as they may be cogent.
Otherwise, this week felt very melancholy to me. Being my last week with the Senator, I didn’t want to face the truth that, in just a few days, I won’t be talking to constituents anymore. I won’t be looking into pieces of legislation. I don’t have to keep up with the news so intensely. I won’t need to know the ins and outs of SBA loans programs, the intricacies of dealing with the IRS, nor anything about substantive federal responses to the coronavirus pandemic. I also won’t be talking to co-workers in the same way. There will be no favors for Erin, tasks from Bre, calls with Marcus, or catch-ups with Allison. At least for the next few months, I likely won’t be in contact with Ryan, Greg, or Kate. I won’t be routing casework to Jocelyn or Rachel. In essence, I’ll be apart from a collection of co-workers I’ve taken to be a sort of work family. Though I now look forward to working with the First Alaskans Institute again through their Summer Internship Program, I do hope to be able to come back in the fall in order to continue working with the Senator and the D.C. office. It is my hope that, as school again draws me to D.C. in the fall, that I may again serve my fellow Alaskans in working with the Senator. This fellowship has afforded me so many beneficial opportunities, even amidst the time of impeachment and the coronavirus pandemic. Through it, I have learned more about myself as well as the world around me. More about my people and our history. And more about what I can do to be an effective changemaker in the years to come. So, while I leave now in working elsewhere, I hope this isn’t the end of my time with the Senator, nor the end of my time being a representative for the Native people of Alaska. As I finish up my second to last week, I’m continuing to work on my favorite type of projects - deep research memo drafting. Using publicly available, verifiable resources, I’ve learned more over the course of five days about Federal Indian Law as applied to Alaska than I could’ve dreamt of learning through a university course. Working alone, I’ve felt free to let my curiosity take over. Any question I have I can immediately seek to answer through further research. Any interest I have is nearly immediately sated, as I have been free to research, read, and report back on topics like PL-280, ANCSA, ANILCA, the amendments to both ANCSA and ANILCA, etc.
One thing I have always hoped for within my personal scholarship is to learn more about the political environment under which Alaska Natives have lived, struggled against, changed, and thrived. Though my connection culturally with the Alaska Native remnants of my family have historically been more lacking than I would like to admit, I always hoped to at least have an intellectual connection to the framework under which they lived. For me, this final culminating project has represented large steps towards achieving that private goal. I feel more confident in my knowledge of the legal problems and public safety issues facing rural Alaska. I feel more confident in my knowledge of how important ANCSA has been for all residents of Alaska. And I feel more confident in knowing, politically, legally, and policy wise, where I come from, and what I can still do for my people. In this, I am grateful for our Elders and their willingness to share their knowledge online. I am grateful for the many regional corporations, universities, and third parties willing to devote their money and time towards accurately reflecting the history of our Alaska Native peoples. And I am grateful to Senator Sullivan’s office for trusting me to be a reliable source in sharing what I have learned with others. I recognize that the information I know hold is great, and extremely nuanced. I am sure that I know less than I think, and must continue searching for knowledge in order to actually trust that the knowledge I hold is akin to truth. But I am grateful to have the opportunity to better educate myself on my people. And to be trusted and respected enough to be considered a responsible source on some of the issues I have been looking into. I feel like with this latest project I have been able to branch out fully from the tasks of the average intern and immerse myself in a niche I love. In this sense, not only have I felt happiest about the work I have been doing this week, but I feel confident and capable as well. Ever grateful to have the opportunity to truly branch out and work on what I love and have always been interested in. One of the first things I was ever told about working in Sen. Sullivan’s D.C. office as an intern was that “you can make this internship your own”. In essence, given the great number of issues our government oversees and legislates, it is possible for any intern to directly work on, research, etc. things that are of special interest to them. For example, before the coronavirus pandemic, fellow interns who were interested in the finance sector were able to go to committee hearings involving the U.S. Treasury. Others were able to see witness testimony from higher ups in the armed forces as they testified before the Senate Armed Services Committee. For my part, I’ve been able to see witness testimony from indigenous leaders and members of the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service and Department of Energy in the Senate Committee on Indian Affairs. I’ve also been able to sit in on meetings with Alaska Native community leaders and regional representatives with members of our team and the Senator. During my time with the office, I have also been able to go to conferences concerning Alaska Native issues and meet with elders I never thought I’d be able to hear from, much less be able to talk to. In working with Sen. Sullivan’s office, I’ve been exposed to experiences I never could have pictured, during a time no one could have foreseen.
In being away from the office, experiences like these are fewer and further between, if not impossible. Yet, gratefully, I’ve still been able to dig into issues I care about while being away from the office. Online, I’ve been able to do more research into federal policy as it pertains to Alaska Native communities, regional corporations, etc. Learning more about ANCSA, ANILCA, and a litany of other pieces of legislation, I now feel like I’ve been able to learn about issues and individuals I care about holistically - first in person, now by research. Of course, there are still plenty of things I want to look into. There’s so much more I to learn and I think it’s amazing that I’m able to learn while I work. I haven’t been to many workplaces, but something tells me that learning and working about issues one truly cares about is a rare thing. Work, I’ve learned, can be tedious. Research can be beyond annoying. Writing and rewriting can be frustrating beyond belief. But working towards things one cares about, working towards something that inspires you, that isn’t work. It may be upsetting, but it isn’t an endless affliction. Completing a task under the umbrella of one’s inspiration is more of a triumph than a trial. Now, working on form letters, information memos, etc. and applying what I’ve learned to the task at hand, I feel more secure in my work. I feel like I’ve been able to make the fellowship my own, even as it’s changed. Though it ends soon, I’m happy to have seen it this far, and am proud to see it through to the end. No matter who you talk to, finals week seems to carry a measure of austerity. My father still tells me of dreams he has, now decades past his time at university, in which he is anxiously awaiting his coming finals. Waking up in a sweat, he realizes that that time in life is far past, and I’m again reminded of how important it is to do well in my classes.
As I consider my time in college, finals week represents the death to all fervor surrounding collegiate spirit and happiness. It is a time where organized campus activity ends, and the chaotic degradation of one’s emotional, physical, and psychological well-being begins. Representing a seemingly everlasting tumult of stress and anxiety, finals week can become a week of trauma for any given student, as classes vary in intensity, expectation, and evaluation. It is a time of perseverance, but also of all-nighters, breakdowns, and exhaustion. For many students, finals week represents not only the culmination of their term, but quite possibly the truest test of their commitment to themselves and their futures. For this reason, I was grateful to the office for allowing me to take the week off to complete my final papers and study for my final exams. Putting aside my work laptop and phone for a week, I pushed myself into my studies. Making sure I was 100% caught up on my classes, I went to work drafting final papers, making study guides for my final exams, and put everything else to the side. Over the course of the week, I learned more than I ever thought I would on Ceuta and Melilla (two Spanish occupied cities on the African continent), the historical collection and theologian analyses of the Gospels, and quotidian procedures guiding congressional practice and procedure. With my classic finals work/study combination of a can of Pepsi, a bag of gummy bears, my favorite music, and plenty of space, I was simultaneously exhausted and desperately trying to consume every piece of pertinent information I could. It was a weird state of mind to be in. Yet I still pushed on every time I felt like faltering because even with the coronavirus pandemic, my peers and I were expected to complete our exams and assessments as previously scheduled. In some classes, the majority of my grade rested on this final week of work. Buckling down, papers strewn across my room, hair a bit wild, my mind raced the entirety of the week. I lost my appetite and my sense of time. I lived in hoodies and sweatpants, and slept by my computer. I’m sure I looked a mess, but I never really had time to check. This past week, I just worked. Anticlimactically, my week ended with a click of a button. Submitting my papers via Blackboard or email, finals week ended with a sigh rather than exhilaration. Closing out my tabs and shutting down my computer, I felt relieved, hungry, and exhausted all at the same time. Over the course of my weekend, my grades began to trickle in. And by the time of my writing this, I’m proud to say I ended the semester with a 3.8 GPA. I’ve still got a little bit of sleep to catch up on, though it’ll be nice to relax a bit before summer classes start up next week. |
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Photo used under Creative Commons from Mike Juvrud