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Authors: Ilarion Merculieff

Tags: #HIS028000 History / Native American, #POL045000 Political Science / Colonialism & Post-colonialism

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Chapter 25
As the Island Turns, Part I

After serving in the governor's cabinet as the head of the Alaska Department of Commerce and Economic Development, as it was known at the time, under Governor Steve Cowper in the late 1980s, I was hired to be the city manager by the city council in my home town. It was 1990, and I did not yet know the dramas I would witness and be part of in the ensuing four years.

On my first day as the city manager, driving through town, I was shocked at the number of outside commercial fishermen who were staggering in the streets drunk. On that first day, I saw a fisherman sitting on the ground adjacent to the bar, openly drinking beer. Yet another was carrying a case on his shoulders as he chugged down a can of beer. When I arrived at the city hall, I toured the premises. The city hall was home to the city administration, the local police force, the magistrate's court, and a radio and TV station. The upstairs used to be the community gathering hall where I recalled our Christmas plays and the twenty-foot tree, richly decorated with colored bulbs, tinsel, fake snow, candy canes, and a giant star at the top. I also remembered how, each year immediately after the Russian Orthodox Christmas, the community would gather to watch ingenious and incredibly funny or scary performances by local people.

It was tradition, during these performances, for some men to dress up as women, and some women to dress up as men. The costumes were worn in a way that exaggerated the physical features of the gender they pretended to be—the men would attach gigantic water-filled balloons to their upper body and overstuffed pillows to their behinds; the women, not to be undone, used cucumbers in one particular location.

I always loved this skit: One “woman” would be in her ninth month
of pregnancy and in labor. This “woman” would be placed on a gurney, with “men” doctors performing the delivery.

“Ow, ow, ow,” screamed the pregnant woman, “that really, really hurts!”

“Let me fix that pain for you,” the lead doctor said as he proceeded to massage the woman's chest and then pop one of the balloons. “There, now doesn't that feel better?”

“Ow, ow, oooooooooooh,” the woman crooned.

“That's better. Now let's get back to work, doctors. Her water bag has broken!” the doctor proclaimed.

“Chainsaw!” the lead doctor commanded with his palm out.

“Doctor, watch out for my bloomers! Don't cut my bloomers!” the woman screamed.

“Chisel!”

“What are you going to do with that?” cried the woman.

“Oh, I don't know, I just like to feel a good man's tool,” the doctor replied. “Hammer. Quickly, I'm going to nail this sucker!”

“Oh, Doctor, this isn't supposed to feel good, is it?” the woman moaned.

“It's a side effect, just don't urinate as I push on your stomach.” A focused stream of yellow water squirted at least four feet in the air as the doctor pushed on her abdomen. “Now you've done it! I told you not to do that! Now I feel the urge to go! Bucket!” the doctor commanded. Sounds of liquid hitting the bucket were heard, and the doctor grinned, full and silly.

The doctor then removed a can of pop from the woman's “womb,” then a box of cereal, a box of Cracker Jacks, some bedsheets, an apple, a shoe, a bra, a pair of shorts, and finally out came the baby—a Raggedy Ann doll!

“Oh, she's got red hair!” a nurse proclaimed. “What is an Unangan doing with a red-haired baby? And look how flexible she is!” throwing the doll ten feet into the air.

The community would then burst into a series of laughter and applause as the New Year's baby arrived. The man who thought he was the most macho in the village would be picked to play the role of the
baby. He would be dressed in diapers, with a baby's bonnet, and a “suskaax,” or baby's bottle, filled with milk in his mouth. The man had to cry and act like an infant throughout that night. I thought to myself,
how wise this is—making overly macho men think twice about demonstrating their macho too much, and the idea of using humor in a good way to make an example of the over-macho
.

“Well, our work is done here,” the doctor said. “Now let's get back to our real work fixing plugged toilets!”

The rest of the night the men dressed as women had to continue to act like women, and the women dressed as men had to continue to act like men. This was always hilarious as many of the “women” were looked up to as “men's men,” and a “man's man” doesn't have the hang-ups about behaving in a feminine way. The live band of locals would play homespun guitar and piano music as the “women” and “men” went out into the audience to select partners of the “opposite sex” to engage in slow dance. The local Russian Orthodox priest, always a man, could only dance with his wife or other men, never other women because of the laws of priesthood.

Our people love to laugh. That night was no exception, even though we might have watched a similar skit the year before, and the children were always very happily mesmerized when adults did silly things. Later in life I reflected that such traditional performances were a wonderful way to playfully poke fun at the opposite sex. It was also to remind ourselves that we all have innate aspects of the opposite gender in each of us, and that was not only okay, but celebrated. I am grateful that these ways continue.

My thoughts came back to the present. As I walked into what used to be this wonderful place of community celebration, I was shocked to see large video-gaming units that took up two-thirds of the hall. What had been a large dance floor was now relegated to an area one-fourth its original size. I checked out these gaming units, all violence oriented, with programs that awarded points for gunning down or hitting and kicking one's opponents before killing or knocking them out. I was horrified that this precious hall that had nurtured togetherness and a sense
of community was now being used for games of destruction. As my first official act as the city manager, I immediately ordered all the gaming units and partitions removed and destroyed and the community hall restored to the way I remembered it as a child and teenager. Most of the children and teenagers who played these games were vocal in their protest within the community, however. Several parents were very upset.

“Why did you do this?” one woman shouted at me. “Now our kids don't have anything to do, and that means trouble!”

I replied, with as much sensitivity and diplomacy as I could muster, in a somewhat pleading voice: “Look, Molly, these kids are playing games that are only about hitting and killing one another. It's not good for them. I will help the community find other, better things to do, and I ask for your help to do this, please! And besides, don't you remember how we used to have the Christmas programs, community basket socials, dances, and muskahraatax skits here? Don't you think it would be nice to bring all that back?”

“Well, I guess, but what do we do for kid activities?”

“I will meet with the young people at the school and see what they would be willing to work with me to do something,” I replied. She was satisfied. Subsequently, I did meet with the students who decided to make the environment their central focus. They decided to build rat traps (because the ships that came to Saint Paul's harbor carried the risk of rats, which were known to devastate bird colonies), clean up debris from the beaches, and lobby for cleanup of the seven fishing vessels that ran aground on fur seal rookeries or adjacent to bird colonies on the island.

The Elders and older adults were elated that the community hall had been restored. We celebrated this when the community Christmas program was held in the hall for the first time in four years. All the Elders voiced their approval and joy at the restoration. That was the best affirmation I could have received.

I then asked the police chief to resign and hired a new police chief, Scott Stender, who was a member of the existing police force. Scott is a soft-spoken, large-framed guy who had served in the military police
and then joined a police force in Washington State. Scott had experience with working on Indian reservations when he applied for police work on Saint Paul Island. I gave him orders to enforce the city ordinance against drunk driving, public consumption of alcohol, and illegal bootlegging of hard liquor.

My mother said, “I'm not afraid of the drunk fishermen, but I'm afraid of the teenagers who drink and drive.” I understood her concern because fishermen would blow off steam when their vessel came to the harbor, and that usually meant drinking alcohol. I had witnessed fishermen lugging six-packs of beer around and sitting outside while they drank themselves to a stupor. They had no care for how the town viewed them. They acted as if they owned the town.

That first month of local enforcement, we had thirty DWI arrests. The following month we had two, and no more fishermen or anyone else continued drinking beer in public.

To ultimately stop outside commercial crab fishermen from “running” our town, it took an incident that seemed to have come directly from a movie script to get out the message that this is one town the fishermen needed to respect.

One of the line officers, Jeff, called the police chief on the police radio: “Uh . . . Chief, we have a problem at the ballfield. There are somewhere between twenty and thirty guys here ready to kill each other and they have lethal weapons!”

“Roger. I am on my way!” Scott grabbed two stun or “flash” grenades and a shotgun and relayed his plan to Jeff and then me. “Boss, we got a situation here and I need your direction,” Scott said to me calmly over the radio phone as he explained what was going on. “I have a plan, but I need you to back me up on this.” He quickly explained, and I told him I'd back him up. “Thanks, boss. Would you come down as an eyewitness?”

“Affirmative, Scott, I am on my way.”

“Jeff,” Scott continued. “I plan to get their attention with flash grenades and hopefully give me a chance to use the vehicle loudspeaker to talk them down! And we gotta split them up, so when we do, you take
one group!”

“Roger that,” Jeff replied.

Scott arrived on an incredible scene along with Jeff, who was in another vehicle. Jeff and Scott are brothers and both trained police officers. Local men were fighting with about twenty commercial fishermen who had come ashore on leave that night. Many of the men, on both sides, had knives, wooden clubs, and metal pipes. Some had large rocks in their hands.

Scott jumped out of his vehicle and ignited the flash grenade that went off with a dramatic, loud bang and a bright flash. The rioting men stopped in their tracks. Scott quickly grabbed his shotgun and announced over his vehicle's PA system, with a trained and strong voice of authority, “This is the Saint Paul Police Department! I want all of you to drop your weapons and hit the ground immediately or face the consequences!” All but two dropped whatever they had in their hands and fell to the ground. Jeff then drove his vehicle between the men to split the groups in half. One guy kept ahold of his knife, and Scott walked to within ten feet of him.

“Mister, if you don't drop your weapon right now and get on the ground face down, I am going to assume you are intending to use it!” Scott stated, holding up his shotgun. The man let go of his knife and dropped to the ground. As Scott handcuffed the fisherman, he said, “You are being charged with inciting a riot and use of a deadly weapon with intent to do bodily harm!” While locking the handcuffs, Scott turned to the other man still standing. “If you don't want to join your friend in our small jail with riot and weapons charges, lose your job, and find your own way off this island, you better drop your weapon now!” Scott commanded. The second man quickly complied and backed off.

“I want all the non-locals out of here now and back to your boats! You are not welcome in this town anymore, and I will make sure your captain knows that!” Scott stated on the PA system. Some local citizens, watching the drama from on the hill, cheered.

Twenty commercial fishermen made their way to the dock as Jeff in
his vehicle and Scott on foot, shotgun in hand, followed behind. Scott then ordered all the locals to disband and go home. Scott also ordered the only bar, owned by the tribal government and selling only beer, closed. The local tribal president agreed that it was a good idea. Later I found out that the riot had been incited by some lewd remarks from an off-island commercial fisherman made to a local married woman in the bar that brought quick reaction from the local men.

And so it went that first year as city manager in a small, remote village in the middle of the Bering Sea. At first it was surreal—as if out of some B-grade movie script in which a new sheriff comes to clean up a wild west town. But life in the community became more peaceful, and the Elders were walking the streets again, relaxed.

Chapter 26
As the Island Turns, Part II

After working at cleaning up the town, I set my sights on an environmental issue on the island. The people took pride in the island and were active in protecting it. I recall how at least a dozen households had called to tell me that processing boat workers, on leave, were scaring the fur seals off the beach next to the village. Mike Zacharof and I mobilized a group of men to go down there and got them to stop. I then told Scott to tell the processors to recall the men on leave and tell them they would not be welcome on the island should this happen again. They had no choice but to comply. We never had problems with the process workers again.

Another issue at hand were seven vessels that had run aground on Saint Paul. The abandoned vessels were strewn next to fur seal rookeries and bird cliffs. When one of them, the 370-foot
Ruyuyu Maru
, ran aground next to the bird cliffs across from the village, the U.S. Coast Guard at the LORAN station on the island didn't know what to do or how to rescue the men because there were no roads to access the vessel. The storm-driven waves made it impossible for the men to disembark to walk to safety. The local men knew what to do, however. They made a pulley system on a tripod on top of the two-hundred-foot cliff and pulled the shipwrecked seamen to the top. It worked, but the vessel was then left to rust next to the bird cliffs. I recall how sad I felt that the birds would suffer the consequences. So, remembering this and how I felt about all the other vessels that had run aground on the island during storms, I thought we could and should do something.

We first contacted the owner of one of the vessels to ask about any plans to remove the remains of the rusting ship. We were told the vessel had been abandoned and to go see the owner's insurance agent. We contacted the insurance agent, who said the asset had already been written
off and that there were no injuries, so no liability. We then contacted the National Marine Fisheries Service because several of the vessels had run aground next to a fur seal rookery. The response was, “We can't do anything, why don't you try the Fish and Wildlife Service?” We received a similar reply and a suggestion that we contact the U.S. Coast Guard, who told us that they had no jurisdiction over such matters because the United States was not party to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea. Basically, all parties denied responsibility, so we decided to sue all of them at once. Authorized by all the organizations on the island, we called and notified the parties of our intent to sue. That broke the ice. We were able to secure the funds necessary to dismantle all the boats and get rid of them.

Unfortunately, the village corporation that got the contract to clean up the mess decided to bury the hunks of metal in a ditch on the island. I was outraged. I decided to approach the school kids who used to use the video arcade in the community hall. I requested a school meeting to explain the situation: “We were able to get those responsible to pay for removal of the vessels that have run aground on the island, and this is a good first step. The village corporation (now under new leadership) got the contract to remove ships, but they are planning to bury the metal on our land. Do you think this is good?” I asked.

“Noooo,” was the group response.

“Well then, do you want to do something about it?”

“Yesss,” came the reply.

So I let them in on a plan that could possibly work, which was to ask them to make posters and to lobby their parents to have the metal removed off island and to a recycling center. The students eagerly agreed, and before long there were posters around the village that said things like “Don't Make Our Island A Dump,” “Let's Keep Our Island Clean,” and “Let's Recycle.” They lobbied their parents and even made arm bands they wore everywhere to broadcast this student effort to keep the island clean. In the meantime, I told the students to find out what recycling companies were out there. Their research led them to a company in Tacoma, Washington, that accepted large metal scraps, and the
students gave this information to the village corporation. The village was then able to negotiate with the company to accept the metals that came from the dismantled vessels. Soon, all the vessels were dismantled and shipped off the island. To this day, I am proud of those students who participated. Without their intervention, we would have a vessel boneyard. And kudos to the village corporation leadership that listened to the students and their parents.

Having cleaned up the abandoned vessels from the island, I set my sights on other things. A Fish and Wildlife field rep, Art Sowls, asked me if we could do something about rats that came off the fishing vessels when they came to the harbor to offload crab to a private processor. I said, “Yes, we should do something about it. What do we know about these rats?”

Art replied, “Well, we know that these rats leave fishing vessels, and they are so prolific that if a male and female rat come onto the island, the island will soon be infested with them. We know, from the rats on the Aleutians, that they can decimate seabird nesting colonies. I know of a guy who understands these kinds of rats. He is considered a world rat expert. We should talk with him.”

I agreed. After talking with the rat expert, we installed the toughest rat ordinances in the United States. Any motor vessel coming into the Saint Paul port would have to be inspected by locally trained people, and any vessel that had indications of rats would be forced to leave the island immediately. Upon leaving the island, crew would have to show proof the vessel had been inspected and found rat free in order to return to Saint Paul. In this effort, we got the students involved once again. They made rat traps and painted them with whatever message they wanted to convey about rats. We placed these rat traps around the docks and at the community dump. Thus far, these measures have worked.

After demonstrating our success at preventing rats from coming onto the island, the Fish and Wildlife Service focused on destroying the rats in the Aleutian Islands. This took extensive effort, but they have been able to recover one entire island from rat infestation thus far.

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