"When I was a girl growing up in the village, my grandmother taught me songs. Blonde Indian, Blonde Indian, she sang, while I danced and sang and shook my hands. Blonde Indian, Blonde Indian. I had light-colored hair when I was a girl. She told me about the spiders that lived in our barewood house, that they were friends who carried stories, and if I listened carefully, I would know what my friends had come to tell me. An only child, I had few other friends. She told me about the Taku Wind howling over our heads on dark winter days, that it was my grandfather letting me know I couldn't come outside and play on those days when he sang his song too loud.

My other grandfather, the one whose white man name I carried, was gone for long months at a time, fishing. When he came back, he made biscuits, holding the baking sheet over his head before dropping it loudly onto the floor and sliding it into the oven of our wood-burning stove. He brought butter to melt on our biscuits, a rare treat -- fresh baked biscuits and melted yellow butter.

Blonde Indian, Grandmother sang and sometimes danced with me while I dipped my head and shook my hands. Blonde Indian. When you don't act right, she said, people will laugh at you. Never forget who you are. Sometimes she took me into South Franklin Street bars and passed me from lap to lap. I showed off by counting in Tlingit and dancing. Tl�ix' -- D�ix -- N�s'k -- Daax'oon. Men and women who smelled like Tokay gave me wet winey kisses and handfuls of change. Everyone laughed.

Blonde Indian, Grandmother sang. Listen to our story, the spiders thoughtfully whispered. Don't come too close, my bear cousin fondly warned."

Get the Story:
Nature's cousin (The Anchorage Daily News 10/23)
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Q&A: with Ernestine Hayes (The Anchorage Daily News 10/23)