<\/a>(Illustration by Stephanie Harold)<\/p><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
Using a dual-instructor model with cultural specialists (the seal hunters) and researchers (some from the University of Alaska Fairbanks) as co-teachers, the necropsy demonstrates how traditional sustenance harvesters can contribute to the ecological data used by government resource managers. As an art educator at the school, I’m here to sketch, modeling an aesthetic approach to documentation. Intriguingly, I’m sketching the scientific process of my father, Franklin M. Harold, an internationally known biochemist, in the context of the Indigenous values of my adopted home.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
Over the next two hours, researchers and the less squeamish volunteers gather data: check for damage, measure the size, take skin and whisker samples. The skin’s genetic information will connect an individual seal to a lineage. The whisker, a movement-sensing organ which detects prey, will yield life history and dietary information because it grows continuously throughout life.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
I delight in such factoids. It’s the only piece of my father’s devotion to basic research that I adopted. He was committed, above all, to investigations undertaken for no specific purpose — knowledge gathered for knowledge’s sake.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
Now the hunters take over. Under the federal Marine Mammal Protection Act, only coastal Indigenous people meeting blood quantum requirements may harvest marine mammals. In the hunters’ hands, the seals transition from simply being research subjects, labeled and documented as “Hoonah Small” and “Hoonah Large,” to Beings who are part of the sustenance tradition of gathering and eating wild foods. That’s why the Lingít Language and Culture teacher Lgeik’i Heather Powell reminds the students that you must, “have a good attitude in your heart as you cut into seal.” Tomorrow, the students will make seal grease and seal cracklings with one of the hunters, Guk’l Bill Veler. They will distribute the foods to their families, Elders who no longer harvest, and hosts of local Ku.éex’ (memorial parties) to be gifted to guests.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
<\/a>(Illustration by Stephanie Harold)<\/p><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
With fluid knife strokes, the hunters peel the skin off the fat layer — just like removing adhesive backing from a mailing label. Guk’l Bill Veler explains that in the summer, seals have less fat and tend to sink when shot. “I swam for this one,” he jokes.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
Elder Sinak Owen James, soft-voiced and infinitely generous with sustenance knowledge and cultural history, demonstrates calling a seal. A croak slides from his throat, no visible movement from his mouth. Of course, a few kids try to imitate him. It reminds me of a hot August day with him 20 years ago.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
That day, I had accompanied Owen to net sockeye salmon. On the way home, skiff already heavy with 100 red-tinged fish, he suddenly slowed. Fifty yards ahead, a shiny black head bobbed at the waterline, revealing only eyes and nose. “Seal oil sure tastes good with boiled fish,” he said.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
He made an unidentifiable, disembodied sound. The bewhiskered head peered at us. He repeated the sound. Now the head was closer. He lifted his rifle, relaxed. Fired. Soon we were back on shore, not far from where we had cleaned the fish. His hands blended into beach gravel, disappearing in a fan of blood.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
With the hunters now in charge, things move quickly. Blood splatters their boots and rubberized rain gear. Their hands fly with the same ease that I find with my pen and brush — except that all I can do is describe, forever at arms’ length from what they simply do.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
<\/a>(Illustration by Stephanie Harold)<\/p><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t
Hunter Sheens Levi Mills says that, recently seal populations have been higher, but they don’t have as much fat as expected. I add this as notes beside the sketch. I assume the researchers do the same. But does that information — from a lifetime of seal hunting — count as data for the researchers? Acquired over eons and passed down through generations, Traditional Ecological Knowledge refers to the Indigenous information, traditions, and beliefs about the interconnections between all beings within an ecosystem.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
The students’ attention wanders: they chit-chat and cell phones emerge. But everyone perks up for an organ tour. I’m still trying to document the varied red hues in the bloody pile when the researchers whisk the parts into waiting coolers for future lab analysis.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
* * *<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
It’s been a year since the necropsy — and two months since my father died at age 95. His friends send me consolation emails, full of praise for his devotion to scientific thinking. His work strived to publish results — get information out there where the like-minded can access it. His goal was facilitating a larger dialogue, building on concepts to further understanding.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
I find the necropsy sketchbook in a pile on my art table. Turns out, I hadn’t finished the spread. Perhaps I hoped to hear what exactly the researchers found out. Or had “Hoonah Small” and “Hoonah Large” simply dissolved into the larger data pool?<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t
My concern highlights an essential difference between knowledge types and access to information. Indigenous knowledge is shared according to community tradition and grounded in an understanding of the ecosystem, including the human relationships within. The science of my father is a quest for reproducibility, often detached from the specific location. Moreover, you normally need an admission ticket of education and academic connections to access his understandings.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t