Our house sat on the side of Mount Roberts, with a giant window to look out over the Gastineau Channel from the dinner table. We could watch the fish and the whales jumping and the cruise ships coming in, and we could also watch who was coming and going from library across the street. The library sat atop a giant concrete four-level parking garage, so it was almost to eye-level with our house. Its architecture did not compliment the natural landscape, but it was warm in there, and full of stories. The library was home to mystery and wonder. There was a mural of fantastical fairytale scenes in the kids’ corner and two full racks of books on tape that I could bring home if I could just get my hands on a library card.

To get a card at the Juneau Public Library, you had to be able to sign your name. Papa said that it could just be my first name, but that it had to be in cursive. Now that I write that sentence, I realize that the library probably would have let me print it. I didn’t know how to print my name, nor was I familiar with the 26-letter alphabet, but for days on end my four-year-old fingers memorized the rising and falling sequence that made up the visual password to getting that library card. I remember the unfamiliar pain in my fingers from gripping that pencil so tightly and learning how to balance pressure and movement while simultaneously keeping the tracing paper from slipping across the surface.

I practiced the strokes relentlessly until I felt prepared to face the final test of signing my name on the white plastic card under the stare of the librarian. Today, when I put my pencil to paper to sign my name, the beat in my chest drums with the same pattern as it did that day at the library. Today, I call upon the muscle memory of each stroke that I’ve taken before and trust that what comes out will resemble the key to mystery and wonder.

Every time I sign my name, the Library is there. Every time I sign my name, Mama and Papa are with me too. Papa is signing his freshly silkscreen-printed posters. I’m peering over the edge of his worktable in awe of the way he scribbles out the letters. His pencil line expresses confidence and ease. His signature demonstrates control, consistency, and dependability. His name is not too big and not too small, which lets me know that he’s worth being recognized, but humble. I sign my name. I see Mama’s eyebrows raise as she suspiciously inquires, “is that how your signature looks!?” I look down and confirm that there are no inconsistent slants and that the curves of each character mimic those of their neighbors. I want to demonstrate to Mama that I am a confident and easeful woman who is in control, consistent, dependable, humble, and knows I am worthy of taking up space.

Every time I draw a picture, Mama and Papa are with me. Papa draws on a block of cedar and explains how his pinky is steadying his fast, straight lines. He points to the imaginary light source that is casting currently-invisible shadows on his unfolding design. His pencil line expresses mindfulness and practice. His formlines1 demonstrate conviction, fortitude, and grace. Each of his positive shapes bend and move with his negative shapes, which lets me know that every individual mark matters to the others, as essential to a much larger whole. I draw my design. I see Mama’s eyebrows raise and she suspiciously questions, “you didn’t do that, did you?” I look down and confirm that there are no inconsistent slants and that the curves of each ovoid2 mimics those of their neighbors. I want to demonstrate to Mama that I am a mindful and practiced woman who demonstrates conviction, fortitude and grace, and understands the interconnection of all realms.

I learn to draw pictures so that I can paint them on wood like Papa and cut them into fabric like Mama. When Papa paints pictures, he pulls from muscle memory that he developed drawing dinosaurs — their curvy silhouettes and their magnificent relationship with the land and the sky. When he paints, I see the colorful stories that are otherwise unseen inside of him. When Mama sews ceremonial blankets, she pulls from the muscle memory that she developed while navigating her dreams — their striking characters and their detailed spiritual instructions. When she draws, I feel the immensity of ethereal legacy that is otherwise swaying in a world beyond. I am reassured that adults are filled with mystery and wonder.

I’m not allowed to cut the fabric until I know what I’m cutting. Mama says I will know that I’m ready to learn to sew when I can finally cut out my entire design myself. My tiny thumb knocks up and down within the oversized thumb hole of the scissors, rubbing it raw. Still, I must cut until my whole design is freed from its previous form. I notice how it is easer to move the fabric to cut the curves than to move my scissor-holding wrist. I notice that long, drawn-out cuts create smoother lines than short snips do. Now, every time I go to cut my fabric, I am consciously grateful that my scissors fit my adult-sized thumb, reminding me that I know how to sew.

I have proof that hand-sewing did not come easy because I found where the Toothfairy stored all my Toothfairy pillows. I know how to sew by hand because Mama taught me, but I don’t remember her teaching me. I do remember trying to keep the needle threaded. Mama taught me to lick the thread and press it flat between the tips of my thumb and forefinger to thread it through the needle’s tiny eye. If the thread became frayed from too many failed attempts, it meant it needed to be clipped and I’d have to start again. I still worry about frayed thread and the dread of self-defeat that echoes the ongoing journey of learning. Every time I go to thread the needle, I brace myself. Eyes shut, focus recalibrated, breath held, as the thread meets its destiny. Sometimes the needle is too thin and the eye too little, or the thread too thick — but never have I walked away from a project due to an unthreaded needle.

In a silent language of buttons, Mama taught me the lessons of energy flow and reciprocity. She demonstrated that buttons had power to control the speed of time when you line them up just so — tiny buttons to convey weightlessness and large ones to increase the weight. After laying out the buttons, we’d step back to confirm organic symmetry. Then, we’d carefully pick up each button, dab two tiny drops of Elmer’s Glue on the back and adhere it back into its sequence on the felt. She showed me how buttons could depict energy flows that I recognized from watching the whales and the fish jumping in the channel.

My fingers traced the buttons across the blanket, not just to identify those that had come un-stuck but also to feel their intricate, interconnected journey. If the buttons had two holes, then all the holes needed to be in a line, which wasn’t just for aesthetic purposes. Mama taught me how to go down through the hole of one button and up through the hole of the following one with just one motion. And then across that button and down, and up through the following one. Each button formed a forever interlaced sisterhood with the next (or, that was what I was allowed to imagine as a child). If the buttons had four holes, they would require too much sewing and we set them aside for regalia that wasn’t to be sold (ie: the kind that takes more time to make). I don’t remember making that kind of regalia, and I don’t know whatever happened to those four- holed buttons.

I was eight years and eight months old on my first day of school. The classroom window was big enough for a Christmas cactus, and it was positioned in the upper West corner of the room to look out on the retaining wall behind the school. My name was written for me in cursive on a laminated card Velcroed to the top of my desk. I traced the rigidly interconnected letters with my finger to acknowledge its welcoming efforts. I carefully placed my brand-new scissors and freshly sharpened pencils in the flip-top desk, hoping to demonstrate to Mrs. Lister that I am a confident, mindful girl who is in control, consistent, dependable, and humble; who demonstrates conviction, fortitude, and grace; who knows she’s worthy of taking up space; who understands the interconnection of beings and realms.

That year, I learned that school isn’t meant teach children about strength, perseverance, worthiness nor interconnection.

The day was split up into several small increments. I learned to avoid feeling frustrated when it came time to switch gears by not getting too involved in my projects. Whenever it was time to transition between subjects, the teacher would inform us which tools to put away and which to get out. Papers were passed out, whether they were blank or pre-printed worksheets to fill in; we didn’t have to spend any time thinking or dreaming. In fact, our entire days were structured to inhibit any sort of dreaming. We were discouraged from questioning anything mysterious and punished for wondering when it wasn’t time to wonder.

During penmanship hour, the teacher demonstrated the prescribed strokes and pressure on the chalkboard from her manual, so I couldn’t tell what kind of person she was. We taped our papers to the desk and were instructed how to hold our pencils. I remember the then-familiar pain in my fingers from gripping that pencil so tightly when I didn’t really want to grip the pencil.

Kin memory is passed along through repetitive ritual and human connection. It is a drawstring that pulls us together in communion. It becomes engrained in our senses and in our blood and in our bones. It informs the way we face the waking life. Art is the byproduct of the kin memory that moves my fingertips and guides my pencil; it is the echo of those that came before. In a world disassociated with ancestral relationship, we must tune our ears to the rhythm of mystery and wonder.

Footnotes

  1. “Formlines” reference the term coined in the 1970s by Bill Holm who analyzed and documented indigenous Northwest Coast art. The term described the set of rules to apply to the stylized curvilinear forms that all the Northwest Coast art seemed to follow. Holm, Bill. “Principles of Form and Organization.” In Northwest Coast Indian Art: An Analysis of Form, 50th Anniversary Edition, 2nd ed., 67–91. University of Washington Press, 2015. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctvct025f.14. ↩︎
  2. An “ovoid” is a term coined by Bill Holm to describe the oval-like shape that all formlines seem to revolve around. ↩︎