- Matherly Retains Fairbanks Mayoral Office - November 5, 2019
- Native Crafts, Convention Politics, and a Chance to be Heard - October 24, 2019
Children run and play outside the entrance to the Carlson Center–one child slips on the slick ice and mud, but gets up with a smile, saved by her thick winter garb. Seated, vendors smile and wave, calling attention to their glimmering stone and bone carved into hunting tools and crafts. Their chatter with hovering patrons of their art is drowned by the sound of a thousand feet.
The air is cool–the sharp sting of an October evening in Fairbanks. Inside, hundreds of delegates are meeting for the Alaska Federation of Natives 2019 convention, which represents the political voice of the indigenous peoples of Alaska in politics.
The high, open amphitheater inside the Carlson center is shrouded in the ambient light and music. On all sides I’m encompassed in the sound of a multitude of reveling voices, most notably that of the gifted singer at the stage, his face projected front and center onto the curtain at his back. Though it is indistinct, there is a rhythm, made by the voices of men women and young children patting, humming and swaying, while others close their eyes, and some come into the music awake and with open minds.
As Thursday’s daytime program closes, people flow into the amphitheater thoroughfares that lead to the vendors outside of the building. A white circus tent is set for the event, and inside, throngs of people move to and fro between more vendors, a theatre in its own right, with those brandishing their jewelry and crafts under the beautiful spotlight that centers and emphasizes the physical manifestation of their culture and their pride in it.
The showcase jewelry is hand crafted–a menagerie of color and silver set with what seems like every precious stone on earth, crafted with a discipline forged across generations, that eminent wisdom evident and humbling, and in glimmering beauty.
Brown, heavy, and fine furs line the closed space–even children clamor in the closed rows to see them, moving in haste between their parents and strangers, and even each other to see the dark fur in the hands of their mothers. A mirror stands beside the table, and the vendors watch cautiously with half extended hands toward the children who admire the fur on their shoulders.
Three young men and women line up before men in army uniforms–recruiters for the military in their perfect postures and smiles. The placement is obvious–they are the first station clockwise. No one seems to notice, or care. They almost look as if they belong after a moment, or at the very least a place holder in a moral periphery. A history is completed by their presence.