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Mike Jackson’s (Kaa.oosh) memories from the years building up to Kake Culture Camp are visceral. As the magistrate judge in remote Alaska during the ’80s, he also served as the de facto coroner.
During that period, he says, a suicide epidemic struck Kake.
“I had to go investigate all of these suicides before the state troopers came and make sure the scene was locked down. But I also had to make the determination if a person was dead on the scene if there was no doctor,” says Jackson.
In a community of fewer than 700 residents, there are very few strangers.
“It was emotional responding because all the people who committed suicides here I knew.” Jackson, like too many in Kake, lost cousins, lost friends, lost neighbors.
During that period, he says, a suicide epidemic struck Kake.
“I had to go investigate all of these suicides before the state troopers came and make sure the scene was locked down. But I also had to make the determination if a person was dead on the scene if there was no doctor,” says Jackson.
In a community of fewer than 700 residents, there are very few strangers.
“It was emotional responding because all the people who committed suicides here I knew.” Jackson, like too many in Kake, lost cousins, lost friends, lost neighbors.
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“That kind of stuff weighs pretty heavy on your mind when you are a little kid being told you are a devil because you participated in dance or culture. Kids were becoming young adults and were losing hope, losing culture, losing values, and they turned to suicide to end their misery,” Jackson recalls.
“We would bring in consultants and they would leave after they came in for a day or two because they are expensive. What did they leave us with besides waiting for the next consultant to come in and solve our problems?” asks Jackson. He confronted the city council and offered an idea.
“I think we are going to have to do this ourselves. We need to step up,” he told the members.
In 1988, with the self-determination of the council and community, Culture Camp was born.
“We would bring in consultants and they would leave after they came in for a day or two because they are expensive. What did they leave us with besides waiting for the next consultant to come in and solve our problems?” asks Jackson. He confronted the city council and offered an idea.
“I think we are going to have to do this ourselves. We need to step up,” he told the members.
In 1988, with the self-determination of the council and community, Culture Camp was born.
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“We never had mental health, behavioral health professionals in our midst like we do today,” Evan says. “But our culture seems to handle that by having stories, and these stories gave the youth the ‘why’ and the ‘why not.’” For example, she explains how processing food requires a particular state of mind and how this belief system helped the community to cope.
“You try to process with a happy heart, with no sadness or anger or fear, because that is going to be transferred into what you are working on,” says Evan. “If you are working on something with anger, it’s not going to turn out, it will spoil.”
This concept of introspection and pause helps us lay down grief down and step into the present moment. While working hard with family and friends, our hands deep in nature’s gifts, we can focus on joy.
“You try to process with a happy heart, with no sadness or anger or fear, because that is going to be transferred into what you are working on,” says Evan. “If you are working on something with anger, it’s not going to turn out, it will spoil.”
This concept of introspection and pause helps us lay down grief down and step into the present moment. While working hard with family and friends, our hands deep in nature’s gifts, we can focus on joy.
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Seal meat is so dense in iron, Tlingit people have used it as a remedy for anemia for thousands of years. According to the camp’s cooks, 4 ounces of seal meat boast the same density of minerals as 48 hot dogs, or 24 hamburgers.
Campers take turns dipping and cleaning the intestines in the sea. They braid and weave them for the smokehouse, training the delicate muscles of their growing fingers to twist and dance in ways familiar to these shores for generations.
Campers take turns dipping and cleaning the intestines in the sea. They braid and weave them for the smokehouse, training the delicate muscles of their growing fingers to twist and dance in ways familiar to these shores for generations.
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“It wasn’t just the Culture Camp, but camp was one of the main tools in our community to create a safe place, a proud place for people to grow up. We have doctors that went through camp, we have attorneys, we have professional people in corporations all around the world.
We are also looking at kids, that have their heads screwed on right, knowing who they are, where they grew up, and the value of the resources around them, that still choose to come home and help the community become a better village. To me, that’s everything, people going off to get their degrees, coming back home to help our community. To us, this is our world, this is our heaven,” says Jackson.
We are also looking at kids, that have their heads screwed on right, knowing who they are, where they grew up, and the value of the resources around them, that still choose to come home and help the community become a better village. To me, that’s everything, people going off to get their degrees, coming back home to help our community. To us, this is our world, this is our heaven,” says Jackson.
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When we read about food between the pages of a magazine full of glorious recipes and families sitting around tables, we admire only a tiny fraction of its power. The beauty and difficulty of Kake’s Culture Camp story is a reminder of the profound, rich complexity that can manifest in every bite we choose to cultivate, harvest, honor, and share in Alaska. Food connects us to each other, to our values, to our ancestors, and our future. This complexity is one that only a seasoned culture bearer can properly settle in two sentences.
“We don’t call this subsistence,” says Demmert. “We call it our way of life.”
“We don’t call this subsistence,” says Demmert. “We call it our way of life.”
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