PAGE 6 January 7, 1994
Warm Springs, Oregon
SpilyayTymoo
Willingness to take risk-continued from page
1986, another shot himself in 1987,
and a suicide pact among high
school students surfacedlast spring.
Kake slipped right back into the
darkness it had only just escaped.
Why? Because the drinkers kept
drinking, and the non-drinkers
wouldn t confront them. It was
"closet sobriety" in full-blown
inaction.
"(Non-drinkers) stick to them
selves," said Al Williams, Kake's
drug and alcohol counselor.
"There's been no kind of growth, no
communication. There's a sense of
isolation here."
Loren Jackson, sober for the last
three of his 40 years, describes
himself as "one of the baddest
drinkers. They seen me for years,
staggering down the road.
But his decision to sober up
didn't lead him to a new community
of supportive non-drinkers. Instead,
it led to isolation.
"I just went into myself. After 5
p.m. at night, I was in my house. I
was afraid I'd see my old drinking
buddies, they might persuade me to
take a drink. So I stayed away from
that. The only place I went was
work and to my dad's house. That's
not enough. We need more places to
go, more things to do Even as a
recovering alcoholic, I still get
bored."
Adella George, 32, has been sober
for eight months. She had a similar
experience when she tried to orga
nize some non-drinking social
events. After she and her husband
first moved back from Juneau with
their four kids, she was determined
not to slip back into the old drinking
cycles. But they were her only
source of social life.
'That was the only time we ever
talked to anybody. I d ask people at
the party to come to my house the
next day, to have some coffee and
talk. They'd just look at me like I'm
real strange. People don't want to
change."
"We've got a real denial problem
here," said Williams. "We all want
to get well, but nobody wants to
take that responsibility.
He offered an example.
A young man of 18 or 19, in
volved with a girl of 16, broke up
with her. He walked out onto the
itreet and told people he was going
o kill himself. Nobody did any-1
hing. he walked back out at 2 p.m.
ind Killed himself. After the funeral,
?eople were saying they didn't do
mything because e didn't want to
upset the family.' I wish it were an
isolated incident, but it's true of all
our suicides. There were signs. We
need to learn how to confront, to
find healthy ways of intervening."
Last resort, first step
But confrontation has been a last
resort in Kake. It took the story of a
suicide pact in the high school last
spring to force one. Whether several
students really agreed to kill them
selves is doubted by many. None
theless, Marvin Kadake, a retired
city councilman of 25 years, decided
the community had to talk about it.
"A couple things came out at that
meeting. That we nave a generation
gap here in Kake between parents
and kids, that there's not enough
communication with each other,
and, that not enough love and
affection are being shown to our
. : i- '. 7 1 i ' ' '
I;: V. - -1 -
- K
Untitled, 19S8 by Jack A braham, painted
pieces in exhibit.
kids. We're too busy scolding and
bawling them out to tell them, 'I
loveyou.'
"One parent told how he was so
mad when he found some drugs
under his son's pillow that he beat
his son up. Then he went out into
the living room and cried. The kid
tried to commit suicide shortly after.
The father said he knew he made
the wrong decision, beating up his
kid. he needed a better approach,
one in which they could both sit
down and talk, and understand
each other."
Last spring, the Saturday Night
Live folks had an idea they thought
would help. Four of them had
attended a workshop in Juneau
called New Directions, developed
by a small band of Sushwap Indians
at Alkali Lake in British Columbia
after their community had started
sobering up.
Alkali Lake learned a critical
lesson: Sobriety is not nirvana.
When half the community stopped
drinking, it had more social prob
lems than ever. People still harbored
the same negative, self-defeating
attitudes they'd had when they
were drinking. In the words of
Alkali Lake veterans, they were
living "a dry drunk."
Then their chief, Andy Chelsea,
and his wife Phyllis found a way to
shed those attitudes. They went
through a program in Vancouver in
which they learned to express their
emotions and confront rather than
avoid.
Seeing the benefits of that train
ing. Alkali Lake developed its own,
called New Directions. Almost
everyone on the reservation, includ
ing school children and elders, has
taken it. As word of Alkali's health
spread, its leaders were asked to
bring New Directions to other
Native communities.
Gordon Jackson was one of the
Saturday Night Live members who
had gone through New Directions.
As president of Kake Tribal Corp.
ana a recovering alcoholic, he was
so convinced ofits value, he put up
$1,500 of his own money to help
bring Alkali Lake to Kake.
"The one thing Alkali Lake offers
is hope," he said. "If we can start
expanding the circle of people who
care, and people can begin to get
Well, the whole town grows."
The assumption underlying New
Directions is that in any alcoholic
community, at any stage of recov-
ery, people are in tremendous
emotional and psychological pain-
from loneliness, self-doubt, abuse.
Kids, forced by neglect to become
little adults at 8 or 9, grow up hating
their parents for it. They have never
felt loved, so they cannot love
themselves.
New Directions trainers go for
that pain like a surgeon to a tumor.
They attack it, so healing can begin.
New Directions is not a pat cure for
every sick community; the trainers
offer assistance, but individuals
must want to change.
"Risking is what this group is all
about," explained Freddie Johnson
of Alkali Lake. "I never told my
mom and dad I love them. I just felt
fuilty and ashamed. With all my
rinking and violence, I carried a lot
of hurt m here. I needed to let it go,
but to let it go it took a lot of risk.
wood and mixed media is one of 24
"It hurts to say I'm hurting. At
Alkali Lake, we talk about the hurts
until we feel good inside about
ourselves.
New directions In Kake
Eighteen Kake residents signed
up for three days of New Directions
in mid-October. They were joined
by 12 social service professionals
from Sitka and Petersburg. Two of
Saturday Night Live's members, Al
Williams and Adella George, as
sisted the trainers from Alkali Lake.
They gathered in Kake's cavern
ous community hall. Quiet and shy
that first morning, participants sat
across from one another in the
kitchen, sipping coffee, their eyes
carefully averted. The air was sticky
with reluctance, a mood just this
side of fear.
At first it was easy. Everyone sat
in folding chairs in a big circle. The
trainers snowed 'The Honor of All,"
the movie of Alkali Lake's journey
from drunkenness to sobriety. The
trainers, Andy Chelsea, his wife
Phyllis, Freddie Johnson and Louie
Thadei, introduce themselves.
Each participant was assigned a
buddy-someone to confide in, a
friend. Then the exercises began.
The first was called the Intention
Walk.
A trainer arranged students along
a line on the floor, and pointed to
another line about 30 feet away.
Walk from here to there, each m a
different way, she ordered. Do it
alone, while everyone watches.
The first woman swaggered
across, giggling. The next skipped.
Another did cartwheels, and an
other crab-walked. Fear of embar
rassment gave way to challenge.
Laughter changedfrom nervous to
appreciative for the novel ways
people found to cross the floor.
When it was over, the trainer sent
them to their seats in the circle.
"You were probably standing up
there, with a little bundle of fear and
self-doubt in the pit of your stom
ach, thinking, 'On no, Ican't do this,
Will I be clever enough to do it
different from everyone else?' That's
called mechanics," she said. "Don't
get bogged down in mechanics, at
tne expense of your goal or your
intention." If you have an idea, do
it. Don't let self-doubt paralyze you.
, The pomt of the RedBlack game,
was to win, they were told. But as.
the game progressed, it became
obvious there was no way to win.
Afterward, they went back to the
circle. The trainers asked what they
had learned; each player had to say
something. A microphone passed
around the circle made the whole
process more intimidating. Palms
sweated and jaws tensed as it
moved closer, each person trying to
think of something suitable-but not
too revealing-to say.
It was Max Brown's turn to
speak. A big hulking logger in his
40's, with silver hair and a shaggy
mustache, Max filled his chair-and
the space around it. He cradled the
mike in one big hand, staring down
at it. He was quiet a long time. Then
he looked up.
"I played that game like I live my
life," ne said. "Once I decided what
our team should do, I didn't listen
to anybody. I did what Max wanted
to do. That's how I live my life.
"My wife, she can't hear so good.
Instead of trying to talk to her, I just
let her be. I never even ask her what
does she want. I just do what I want.
"My little boy, I never tell him I
love him. And my other son, the
only time he ever wants to talk to
me is when he's drunk. And then all
he wants to do is fight with me."
Max's face crumbled, his great
shoulders caved forward. He had
been sober for 13 years, and was
ready to get better. All around him,
participants looked away, uncer
tainty playing across their faces.
The exercise got riskier. There
was an exercise in which each
person in the group walked up to
every other person, looked him in
the eves ana said either 1 trust
you'I don't trust you, or 'I'd
rather not say.' For a community
unaccustomed to confrontation, it
was scary.
In the Mother-and-Father exer
cise, they sat eye to eye with one
another, imagining the other person
as a parent and thinking what they
would like to tell him or her. They
didn't speak their thoughts, but
several people wept openly.
Afterward, back in the circle, a
young woman took the microphone.
"I've always blamed my parents
for choosing the bottle over me, "
she began, her voice thinning to
nothing, she clenched a fist on her
knee, twisted in her chair, "I never
understood how they could do it,
why they would do it But i forgive
them," she said, tears streaming
down her face. They had a lot of
kids. Maybe it's all they could do."
Jon Warren of Crossing Paths Singers and Dancers holds a mirror for a friend as they
dress for a ceremonial dance and drum session near the end of the Glennallen
gathering.
By the close of the second day,,
1 most had wept publicly over their
hurts. ' '" " - ' 4 " "
"Cry," Andy Chelslea told them.
"Let that tension out. You have to
get rid of all that old garbage, so
you can trust and care for one
another again."
On the last day, participant Beth
Crane spoke, half laughing: T never
have visions, but I had a vision," she
said. "And it was all of Kake, sitting
here, laughing and talking and
sharing together."
After the training ended on
Sunday, family and friends were
invited to join the participants for a
supper of donated food-venison,
crab, halibut and salmon, seaweed
and salmon eggs, and a big bowl of
berries.
Max Brown, the logger, volun
teered as emcee for the evening. As
families were just finishing the
meal, he grabbed the mike.
"What this program did was
make it so Max can love Max," he
said. "When I'm walking down the
street, and I see a drunk, I'm going
to go up to him. I'm not going to
preach, but I'm going to noldthat
person, even though ne's lost in his
own world. I'm going to tell him
there's one person who loves him
and his name is Max."
Max introduced the trainers:
Andy, Phyllis, Freddie and Louie.
Andy took the mike. "Sweat house,
Saturday Night Live, AA, band
meetings, whatever it is, get in
volved. Don't sit back, put in your
disc and look for the Playboy Chan
nel. You've gotta go out and sup
port these guys. Because 25 years
from now, your kid is going to ask,
What were you doing when all this
was going on? When the govern
ment was doing this to us' And
you're going to say, 'I'm sorry. I was
sitting in a bar watching TV. I
screwed up your future. I'm sorry.'
"Get involved."
Louie Thadei, an Alaskan from
Southeast who has moved to Alkali
Lake and become a New Directions
trainer, told a parable:
In my memory, there's an image
of Mildred Monte, the public health
nurse, chasing me down a trail to
give me a booster shot, because I
was unwilling to take responsibility
for my own health.
There have been a lot of people
in the spirit of Mildred Monte
who've been chasing us down the
The "People in Peril" series has been reprinted with permission from
the Anchorage Daily News. Copies of the entire eight-part series will
be available for viewing at the Museum at Warm Springs.
5
mwff
trail to do for us the things we need
to do for ourselves." ,
Max called up everyone who'd
taken the training and had them
link arms in a circle. Next, he called
up members of the community who
hadn't taken the training-an elder, a
child, a fireman, a teen, the mayor.
He put them inside the circle, and
asked them to join hands, they
looked awkward and uncomfort
able, he asked those in the outer
circle to honor those in the inner
circle as representatives of all parts
of Kake.
He called individuals from the
dining tables around he room, one
at a time, to come join the outer
circle. With funny, half-embarrassed
expressions on their faces, they
came up. The children didn't wait to
be asked. Smiling, they broke in.
Everyone stood there, holding
hands. People who, three days
earlier, couldn't look each other in
the eye, now smiled openly. Those
who hadn't taken the training could
see the change in those who had.
The outer circle began to sway
gently, as if to music.The moment
stood suspended, a portrait of a
community on the brink of getting
better.
Epilogue
Within a week after New Direc
tions, the Saturday Night Live folks
had another idea: they would bring
in a separate training called "Spirit
of the Rainbow," for the kids, they
hoped to pay for it with money
dedicated to cultural programs for
Native youth.
A community meeting to discuss
the plan had a big turnout, includ
ing a number of ministers from local
churches, who spoke against the
"Spirit of the Rainbow plan. They
linked it to New Directions, which
they considered a form of devil
worship.
"They pointed to the fact that we
all sat in a circle, and that Andy held
a feather," Max Brown said. "They
told us the only way to become
sober was to become a Christian."
The meeting went until 1:30 in
morning; the funding committee
decidednot to pay for "Spirit of the
Rainbow."
But the Saturday Night Live circle
found other money and booked the
group into the community hall.
Spirit of the Rainbow" came to
Kake last December, just as planned.