When I was a kid my dad told us girls about the importance of work ethic. He taught us the value of going above and beyond. "Don't wait to be told what to do," he said. "See what needs to be done, and do it. If you see a problem, find a solution. Don't wait for someone else to fix it." Those words have remained with me.
Both of my parents have demonstrated tremendous work ethic. They are some of the hardest working people I know. They have shown me how to create opportunities where none seemingly exist. They walked their talk of working hard, and also showed me how to follow the voice of my soul, rather than the noise of the crowd. They made it look easy.
Life experience has shown me that taking the path least traveled is not as easy as it seems. Time and time again I find myself alone, standing apart from the popular opinion of others. "There is never a crowd on the leading edge ..." say the wise ones. I know that is true, but sometimes the edge can be scary to face. Even though I know it's where new creation takes place.
For over two decades I have sat in meetings with professionals talking about how to create a better Alaska -- how to fix the social ills that surround us. I have seen gallons of coffee disappear, flushed down the toilet. And millions of dollars go to the same place. I have sat in numerous trainings where motivational speakers tell us that we can do better. After all the talk, I wonder: Are we better yet? Are we healthier, our communities safer? Are our opportunities brighter? What is it going to take to make rural Alaska a better place? For starters, we have to be honest about waste. What programs and practices actually produce intended results, and which ones are in name only. Where is time, effort, and money being wasted? Anyone with common sense and a (proven) career in public service can identify waste and where we are missing the mark. But that is a whole other essay.
Our state has a budget deficit, and our rural schools are being considered for the chopping block. It is standard practice to spend hours and hours of government funded time to talk about problems, study problems, plan for problems, but many who actually dig in and do the work on the ground are not given proper support, or are restrained by process.
Last fall in my childhood community, an innovative long-term rural teacher, Linda Bates, was removed from her position, after a complaint that she had offered assistance to a student during standardized testing. The young child is autistic, and was about to have a meltdown. There were other complaints, like coordinating a community supported hot lunch program that was not up to government code. It was shut down after nearly 30 years. There was a complaint she looked the other way while a senior walked off school grounds to smoke a cigarette during lunch break. Mrs. Bates helped him graduate, and he now works on the North Slope. She helped many high-risk kids, using means within reach to help them succeed. Including giving rides, helping students get jobs, offering a place to stay. She operated in a very rural Alaskan way, and Slana School has produced students who went on to get degrees or became productive members of society.
Out of respect for my former teacher, who is a proper lady, and a near elder, I have not talked to her directly about this matter. It is no secret she was stripped of her role as lead teacher, and was out of school all semester. In small communities, secrets rarely stay secret. I expect it's taken its toll, as strife in small communities is always painful, though I've heard she is "not whipped yet!" For years the community and district held her in high regard. But the rural school winds are cold at the moment.
Slana is one of three open schoolhouses left in the Copper River district, and the most remote. Since the lead teacher was removed, the small school has unraveled. The school has not had a certified teacher in house for months. The day-to-day leadership is being provided by a college student. The student teacher is a Slana School graduate, and is doing a fantastic job in the wake of the shake-up (a testament to her rural upbringing and education). But without a certified teacher, report cards were not generated the first semester. The community can no longer use the school for events such as the annual Christmas Bazaar. Open gym nights are off-limits. There is fear the administrators are exploiting the situation as a step to close the district's smallest school.
Mrs. Bates rolled up her sleeves and dedicated her life to helping each unique student succeed. Anyone in her position would be subject to criticism. It comes with the territory. But not everyone could operate a small K-12 school that generates successful human beings, and a sense of community. She did the groundwork each and every day. She may not have consulted the book for each of the many decisions she had to make over the years, but she was a champion for rural education and did an outstanding job for the students and community. The well-being of each student, and the school as a whole, was at the center of her actions and decisions.
Mrs. Bates knew the difference between practice and theory, but theory seems to get more support and money. In this case, practicality was wrestled down by policy. How often does that happen in our government programs? The American school system is faltering, no doubt. But I am not at all in support of just closing doors. The schoolhouses are often the main warm, neutral, safe gathering place in rural communities. They provide a foundation that can be built on, by integrating new systems. Taking away the basic infrastructure of community schools will leave a hole in the already gutted rural society. Of all the places to cut pork, don't take it from our babies. If the state needs to know how to work with a deficit, ask a long-term rural schoolteacher, they are good at it.
I appreciate resourceful people, like the schoolteacher and my parents. They provide examples of how to work with what you're given, and make the most of it. I watched my parents support themselves through a business they created, bit by bit over many years. They rolled up their sleeves and went to work. Trapping, tanning furs, making hats and other creations. They developed a backwoods retreat, tapping into the summer tourism economy. They subsist (mainly) on fish, game, and food from their two high-tunnel greenhouses and gardens. They are not the only ones.
The rural Alaska story is evolving. From behind a desk in a high up office, it might look like a wasteland or good for nothing but resource extraction. On the ground, close up, it is a place of innovation, creativity, and common sense. It's worth a chance.
Chantelle Pence is a writer from the Copper River region. She lives part-time in Anchorage with her husband and sons. Her first book, "Homestead Girl," will be released in June 2016.
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