Where the East Wind and the Dust Blow
JAMES MIXSOOKE
I have been told many times that Unalakleet means “Where the East Wind Blows,” which makes perfect sense on account of the eastern gusts that never really seem to cease despite the season. Unalakleet actually means southernmost, or on the southern side, because geographically, Unalakleet is the border between the Yupik and Inupiaq cultures. The storm front where two traditions, ancient as the land itself, meet, clash, mix. We are the southernmost Iñupiaq village on the coast of Alaska. The southernmost Iñupiaq community where that bitter wind always blew from the east.
During the short, intensely beautiful summer months, so short and fierce they seemed to burn out in a flash, this wind would pick up and kick up breaths of dust on the road. Clouds of dust trailing various four-wheelers, trucks, and cars exhaling into the blue afternoon sky; the process only to be repeated again. The dirt seemed to follow you everywhere, no matter what you did.
This is where I grew up. In a land both fertile and alive and also desolate. In a culture both fertile and also desolate. In a small community, a village, a culture that can be traced back more years than I could count. Where the people inhabiting the land and the land itself were one.
I grew up in a place where everyone told me to believe in myself. Telling me that I could achieve whatever I wanted if I worked hard enough for it. I could have anything I wanted but dreams. It is a dangerous thing to dream in a village. No matter how supportive the community is, it stays grounded in values that focus on survival and tradition. Forever fighting the various ebbs and tides of change, traumatized by the change enforced and branded on the land when the mercenary missionaries claimed their land for God.
I grew up in a place where, just like the wind gave life to those dusty roads, hope gave life to the community; breathed life into my people.
During the short, intensely beautiful summer months, so short and fierce they seemed to burn out in a flash, this wind would pick up and kick up breaths of dust on the road. Clouds of dust trailing various four-wheelers, trucks, and cars exhaling into the blue afternoon sky; the process only to be repeated again. The dirt seemed to follow you everywhere, no matter what you did.
This is where I grew up. In a land both fertile and alive and also desolate. In a culture both fertile and also desolate. In a small community, a village, a culture that can be traced back more years than I could count. Where the people inhabiting the land and the land itself were one.
I grew up in a place where everyone told me to believe in myself. Telling me that I could achieve whatever I wanted if I worked hard enough for it. I could have anything I wanted but dreams. It is a dangerous thing to dream in a village. No matter how supportive the community is, it stays grounded in values that focus on survival and tradition. Forever fighting the various ebbs and tides of change, traumatized by the change enforced and branded on the land when the mercenary missionaries claimed their land for God.
I grew up in a place where, just like the wind gave life to those dusty roads, hope gave life to the community; breathed life into my people.
James Mixsooke is pursuing a Baccalaureate of English with a Minor in Sociology.