Equality on My Mind; Elizabeth Peratrovich Day

You know this story:

Mr. & Mrs. P were eager for their move into a new community.                  A nice house, conveniently located near Mr. P’s workplace.                    The deal was abruptly revoked when the property owner met his buyers.

Though Mr & Mrs. P’s taxes paid for the local public schools, their children weren’t allowed to attend.

Walking down Main Street, they saw sign after sign posted on businesses, explicitly stating that “their kind” wasn’t welcome.

You know this story, but perhaps it’s not the one you’re expecting.

The year was 1941. Alaska was still a territory. Mr. and Mrs. P were Roy and Elizabeth Peratrovich, a Tlingit family with two children. They had just moved to Juneau, where they discovered the extent of inequality facing Alaska Natives.

Alaskan playwright Diane Benson as Elizabeth Peratrovich. Photo by Bill Hess.

As presidents of the Alaska Native Sisterhood/Brotherhood, she and her husband approached Governor Gruening. They began a two year battle to bring an anti-discrimination bill before the Alaska Legislature.

The Governor was supportive; many senators were not. Opponents talked out of both sides of their mouths, dismissing the bill as unnecessary while arguing  it wouldn’t stop discrimination. Racial tension would escalate in response – as would intermarriage, increasing the “mixed race problem.”

Senator Allen Shattuck demanded, “Who are these people, barely out of savagery, who want to associate with us whites, with 5000 years of recorded civilization behind us?”

When the floor opened for public testimony, Elizabeth Peratrovich stepped to the podium.  A composed woman in the most heated discussions, she began, “I would not have expected that I, who am barely out of savagery, would have to remind gentlemen with 5000 years of recorded civilization behind them of our Bill of Rights.”

Calm and deliberate, Mrs. Peratrovich described the legal exclusions Alaska Natives experienced. She told the senators, “There are three kinds of persons who practice discrimination. First, the politician who wants to maintain an inferior minority group so he can always promise them something. Second, the Mr. and Mrs. Jones who aren’t quite sure of their social position and who are nice to you on one occasion and can’t see you on others, depending on who they are with. Third, the great superman who believes in the superiority of the white race.”

When Shattuck asked if she believed a law would eliminate discrimination, she replied, “Do your laws against larceny and even murder prevent those crimes? No law will eliminate crimes but at least you as legislators can assert to the world that you recognize the evil of the present situation and speak your intent to help us overcome discrimination.”

The room erupted in applause, and the bill passed, 11-5. On February 16, 1945, the territory of Alaska signed America’s first anti-discrimination legislation.

*****

That may have been the last time that my home state was ahead of the social justice curve. Though Alaska’s Jim Crow laws were formally abolished in 1945, the explicit signage on storefronts has been replaced by coded shorthand, sotto voce commentary by those who believe they’re in like-minded company. These conversations have a lot to do with my deckhand decision-making these days – when Hate and Fear are your primary shipmates, the crewshare is never worth the price of the show.

Alaskans are still trudging a long, heavily rutted road towards equality.  The battle Elizabeth Peratrovich led over 70 years ago wages on, now for the rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender residents. While Cap’n J and I spent Monday night celebrating Washington State’s long-awaited Marriage Equality, Anchorage still battles for the most basic of civil rights, housing and employment protections for LGBT citizens. As if quoting directly from the wrong side of Alaskan history, Mayor Sullivan vetoed the 2009 ordinance, denying any such protections are necessary.

I find myself wondering who will stand up as this movement’s Elizabeth.

Thanks to Bill Hess for sharing his photo with Hooked. His blog, Logbook Wasilla, is here; you can also read his powerful story of Diane Benson’s one-woman play, “When My Spirit Raised Its Hands,” here.  Also, thanks to Dave Kiffer for his excellent 2008 article, “Alaska Celebrates Civil Rights Pioneer,” available here.

Coming Soon: Fisher Poets 2012!

Hey, you guys – it’s almost time for the Fisher Poets Gathering!

Not familiar with FPG? Every February, men and women connected to the fishing industry flood into Astoria, Oregon, to share poems, songs, memoir, and visual art in celebration of this unique livelihood. People come from around the country to take part in this event (from around the globe, in fact: one of this year’s FisherPoets is from Japan) Now in their 15th year, more than 70 artists will be performing this February 24-26.

(Having a hard time imagining a fisherman/woman poet? Veteran FisherPoet and photographer Pat Dixon put together this gorgeous site of past performers and their work.)

Fishin’ folks, writers, storytellers, nestled into bars and restaurants in a seaside town… Some of my favorite things, right there.  So it’s more than a little shameful that I’ve never been to a FPG. Astoria is only about 5 hours south of Bellingham, but somehow, the timing just never worked out. I’ve been a long-distance, wanna-be groupie for an embarrassing number of years now, swooning over various highliner performers from afar. (Yes, I’m lookin’ at you two, Moe Bowstern and Jen Pickett!)

But no more! When, at the end of last season, Cap’n J and I discussed our winter goals, I announced, “I want to finally make it to Fisher Poets this February.” He’s always game for a road trip, especially to the Oregon Coast. (One of his favorite photography destinations, as you can see here.) And just like that, the room’s rented, we’re going, and I’m a quivery mess of excitement.

That quivery mess? Not just about excitement, but nerves, too. As it turns out, sweet readers, this won’t just be my first time in the Fisher Poets audience, but on the stage, too. The organizers generously gave this greenhorn two slots on the schedule (7 pm Friday at the Baked Alaska, and 9 pm Saturday at the Fort George Showroom. Just, you know, if you’re in the area and wanted to stop by.) I’m grateful to be on board, and am eager to learn from the pros.

Between the thrill of hearing some of my FisherPoet idols in person, and the anxiety of filling my 15 minute slots with worthy pieces, I expect the weekend will fly by in a blur of shanties and salt-tinged stories. I can’t wait.

If you’re within range and looking for a fantastic weekend, please join us in Astoria, February 24-26. All of the information is here – admission, scheduling, etc. Info on lodging in Astoria is here. Can’t make it and want to enjoy vicariously? NPR-affiliate KMUN 91.9 FM will be livestreaming the Astoria Events Center performances on Friday and Saturday nights, beginning at 6 pm. Wherever you are, you can listen here.

 

Salmon Bahn Mi, Just for You

A framed photo sits above my writing space. Three fishermen in their late-20’s crouch on deck, wearing hoodies, rainpants, and matching end-of-a-long-day grins. Team ’77:  friends born within several months of each other, together on a troller that shared our birth year.

My gaze drifts up to this photo often. One of my treasures, proof of the enduring nature of friendships forged on the docks. At an early age, boat kids understand the impermanence of seasonal living, the ease with which people can be washed into memories. We grabbed onto each other more than 25 years ago and refused to give in to life’s opposing tides. We still haven’t let go.

One of my beloveds is celebrating his birthday today. Always a trailblazer, he’s the first of us to hit 35. I’m trying to recall two awkward, competitive nine year olds meeting for the first time, but am caught in images from more recent years. Like when I had an ugly break-up, he tucked me into his couch and resisted saying I told you so. Or the full day he spent with a rented rototiller, churning up my yard for a garden I briefly fantasized about but never planted. I don’t call him unless I’ve got a full hour to spare – he’s a chatty one – and no one else’s emails can make me laugh so hard. Time with him and his partner constitutes one of my winter’s highlights.

I’ve been snowbound all week, and didn’t get to the post office to ship off the usual birthday box of mint brownies. But he’s been asking for this recipe for the past month, and today seems like a good day to share it here.  What better way to celebrate a lifelong friendship than with a delicious sandwich? So, for you, sweetie, and for you, sweet readers: the Salmon Bahn Mi.

Making Salmon Bahn Mi

Precision-minded chefs will cringe at my throw-it-all-together approach, and bahn mi purists will have their own criticisms.  Nope, this isn’t especially authentic, but it’s tasty and works with the limitations of boat life, as inspired by the Vietnamese Shrimp Sandwiches in the fabulous Fishes and Dishes. (If you’re a seafood fan, the Marsh sisters’ fantastic recipes, photos and storytelling make this cookbook a must-have.)

Gather together: wild salmon, soy sauce, sesame oil, olive oil, lemongrass, garlic, a lime, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, ginger root, white sugar, rice vinegar, a carrot, a daikon, mayonnaise, chili paste, red onion, cucumber, jalapeno, cilantro, hoagie rolls.

At least a few hours before dinner, marinate the fish and pickle the veggies.

How much salmon? Oh, enough to fit the rolls. A tail piece of frozen-at-sea coho is perfect for 2. Fool around with skinning it if you must; I’m happy to cook it skin side down and peel the finished product off.

For the marinade, mix 2-3 tablespoons each of soy sauce, sesame oil, and olive oil, with a little squeeze of lime. Chop a couple stalks of lemongrass; add these in along with a spoonful of minced garlic. Grate in some fresh ginger and lime zest, and throw in a few shakes of salt, pepper, and crushed red pepper. Pour it all over the defrosted fish and stick it in the fridge for a few hours.

To pickle the veggies, mix ¼ cup of water, ¼ cup of white sugar, and ¼ cup of rice vinegar. Peel the daikon and carrot, slice them into thin matchsticks, and soak them in the vinegar mix in the fridge.

At dinnertime, place the rolls in the oven, wrapped in tin foil, to warm.  Put a cast iron pan on medium heat, with a teaspoon of sesame oil. When the pan is hot, the salmon goes in, skin side down, with a little marinade spooned in and a lid on top. These are pretty thin pieces of fish, and won’t require much more than 5 minutes.

As the fish cooks, make a plate full of toppings: sliced red onion and jalapeno, peeled/matchsticked cucumber, fresh cilantro leaves. The spread is simple: mix a few dollops of mayonnaise with some chili garlic paste, amount dependent on your spice preference.

The salmon’s done when there’s only a slight bit of translucence left in the middle. Place the fish in your dressed rolls (see how easily the skin peeled off?) and layer with the pickled veggies and all those fresh toppings. Enjoy with a good friend, and afterwards, take a moment to tell me what you did differently to make this even more delicious.

Happy birthday, AB - I love you.

The Long Memory of Silence

“In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies,

but the silence of our friends.”

                                                         - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Snow’s coming down hard at our house today. Flocks of varied thrush have moved down from the mountains to swarm our feeders. Bear the Boat Cat appears content in her off-season role of house cat; she hasn’t left the comfy chair by the fire all day. I have 10 pages to write for tomorrow’s memoir class, but am distracted by thoughts as heavy as the snowfall.

Martin Luther King Day has long been a powerful day of recognition for me, but January’s third Monday gained heavier baggage some years back. I’d taken a winter job at a blue collar business that definitely did not commemorate Dr. King’s legacy. We worked that day. And all day, I heard white men mock “N***** Day.”

I’m ashamed to tell you that I didn’t turn in my coveralls on the spot, when the first n-word hit the air. I didn’t even speak up. I worked in a back room, avoided my coworkers, and wondered who the despicable coward wearing my flesh was.

That night, I stuffed a check into an envelope, written for the amount I’d made that day. You didn’t earn this, I sneered, and scribbled a note to Seattle Education Access, asking that they direct my donation to an African American male student. This didn’t make me feel better. Exoneration isn’t available for purchase, after implicitly condoning a great man’s denigration. The envelope glue tasted unusually bitter.

That job included other gems, for sure. At one crowded morning meeting, my boss seethed about a woman demonstrating on a street corner: “Fuckin’ anti-war cunt!” The room suddenly airless, six pairs of men’s eyes immediately swung to me, the only person in the room with the genitalia inspiring our employer’s wrath. But I sat in the corner, face down, and didn’t meet their stares.

I usually made it home before crying.

This isn’t to say that my workplace sucked. It didn’t. As if I was a zebra among a field of horses – of the same genus, yet clearly Other – my coworkers treated me with indulgent bemusement. Being hard-working, amiable, and white helped.

Neither did that job present uniquely offensive experiences. Before signing on with Cap’n J, I worked for captains who taught me what a really challenging work environment looked like. Discovering 40 miles off-shore that your core beliefs are diametrically opposed to those of your companions, people you’ll work, eat, and sleep next to for weeks, months, without reprieve. Mentally mining every conversation for safety, only to find that the truly devoted will imprint hate on even the most benign topics. Becoming intimately aware of that burning knot in your throat, the one twined out of every Why do you say that? that you swallow, each What do you mean by that? that never makes it past your lips. Knowing that you’ve cashed in your values for the comfort of getting along.

Every Martin Luther King Day, the weight of these encounters settles over me again. Over time, all but the most outrageous comments have faded from my memory. And just as Dr. King warned, among all the offenses, my own silence rings the loudest.

In the time I’ve taken to write this, Bear doesn’t seem to have batted a whisker, while the birds – chickadees, nuthatches, and juncos – swirl into a feathered tornado around the sunflower seeds. Outside, the snow continues to fall.

Welcome, 2012! *waves wildly*

Happy New Year, sweeties!

Here’s to 2012 including blue skies, festive seas, and joyful companions.

(Might turn down/mute the volume if you’re in public; we were rocking out this lovely July afternoon and I’m not tech-savvy enough to edit the sound.)

Riding the Westerly

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