Awareness, Fall Ptarmigan

Winter 2024-25, FORUM Magazine

I DON'T REMEMBER the first ptarmigan I killed. I only know the stories. The memory is murky, more akin to the puddle in front of my childhood home that filled with snowmelt every spring, than the sharp edge of parent recall. I know the smoothness of a lacquered gun barrel and the friction of rock scraping palm when thrown. This is clear. Before a life is taken, there is a constriction of the lungs, a weight crouched on the chest. A trembling roots my being to the ground. All at once, I feel very large and very small. Then the sound of impact as a projectile hits feathers, sometimes a spray of red. There is a ringing in the silence that follows a heart no longer beating. Distantly, I wonder if I’ve killed myself too.

The idea of awareness, or ella is central to Yup’ik values. Its meaning is synonymous with the world, outdoors, weather, sky, universe, sense, and awareness. The idea of awareness within Yup’ik culture is not something new but stems from a long line of Indigenous scholars like Oscar Kawagley, Theresa Arevgaq John, Harold Napoleon,¹ and before them, thousands of years of Elders’ knowledge.

I don’t remember the first ptarmigan I killed, but the legend of it told with pride by my older brother and father remains a core memory. The details change. It was in the front yard in Dillingham, at the Big House at the top of the hill. Sometimes it is with a pellet gun, a BB gun, or rocks we grabbed and threw. What doesn’t change is how this story shaped my worldview. Hunting is to be celebrated, we can hunt on our land, we take care of the animals we harvest, and we eat what we harvest. This is how I make sense of the world around me.

However, this story does not quite meet the definition of ellange, or gaining awareness. I can look and know this experience to be true and take value from the story, but I was still canguq, still beginning to acquire something. This understanding would come later.

There are old tales of animals becoming people or vice versa, and this is why there is a deep need to respect all things, human and non-human. Oscar Kawagley (1995) says:

[that] careful observation was made of animal behavior and the inner qualities and the genius of a particular animal species with a view of deriving spiritual and moral lessons from that animal species. There is a metaphysical basis for the belief that animals have much to teach man concerning the Divine wisdom about his own inner nature. (p. 228)

Ptarmigan have taught me many lessons about myself and the world in which we live and move. Through the lens of my childhood, they represent the principles of a good hunter. As I aged, so did the meaning of ptarmigan.

When we are little, no one thinks of oneself as other. You exist as yourself and that is all you know. There are no other ways to be. It isn’t until someone points out differences that it begins to seep into the mind, bleeding into the image of yourself.

Recreating this image requires rewiring the brain. The brain does not like change. Change is inefficient. The brain balks at inefficiencies, even ones beneficial to the host. The Host, a shell of the body that the brain animates. When struck by a .22 bullet, the brain stops working the way it should. This is what I think about as I crouch over the ptarmigan. I begin to pull and feel its delicate skin give.²

It is this, the feeling of pulling myself apart, I experience when I shift to accommodate whiteness. Sometimes it is as subtle as pushing past my discomfort to make eye contact. Other times it is a full physical transformation of winter white, where I stylize my voice, what I wear, and how I hold myself. Ellanguq qangqiirmek, she obtained awareness from the one ptarmigan, and the awareness is this: I have torn myself into varied forms of whiteness and Indigeneity so many times that I have forgotten my true form and am left with a slurry of feathers, stained with red.

My mother told me the story of the first time she took me to the store as a baby. There is no specific person I see, but an amorphous shadow with a wide grin that says, “Are you sure you brought home the right baby? Are you sure you’re the mom?” Being multi-racial isn’t a special experience. What is of note is the universal feeling of not belonging. Even more unusual is that this feeling doesn’t (typically) stem from outrageously racist treatment but a collection of smaller interactions that pile into a blurring of self.

A change of season allows ptarmigan to demonstrate evolutionary adaptation. Every fall, their brown feathers melt to white for the coming winter. This camouflage offers life-preserving invisibility from predators.

From the time I was old enough to understand difference, and it was normal for us to shriek our blood-quantum³ at each other in primary school, I leaned into racial and cultural ambiguity to remain as invisible as possible. Blending in was second nature until one day, on the tundra, I remembered what it was to be seen. A ptarmigan might not forget this, but I am a human and hunters never crossed my mind.

Time had passed. I grew up. I wasn’t alone. We walked, my love and I, across miles of rolling tussocks, wondering if we were the only people in the world. The hours spent beneath the sky dusted us brown, matching us to ayuq,⁴ fragrant and stiff. Every time we stood still, movement caught our eyes. It danced at the edges of our vision, sometimes in small skittering shapes, others in large dark blotches lumbering along. We stopped to eat berries until our tongues ached and our stained fingers remained purple for hours. It was evening before we stumbled into a flock of ptarmigan. There was a burst of sound, our hearts pounding as fast as their wings. Each party stilled. My husband and I slowly drew our guns.

Besides physical camouflage, ptarmigans employ behavioral adaptations. When feeling exposed, they cease movement and rely on their feathers to avoid being seen. The pause stretched into a sea of silence. As my finger rested on the trigger, I caught a glimpse of a curved neck, speckles, and red-lining soft eyes. It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. I felt the press of my heartbeat before the world exploded into sound.

Ellange - to become aware or to experience something that leaves a lasting memory. This awareness is linked to understanding who you are, where you are, and what you’re doing. Hunting, being on Nunapik, is more than taking life. It’s about creating an ethical relationship with nature. Animals were once humans, and humans can sometimes become animals, showing a much closer connection between the two states. This idea is common in many Indigenous cultures, but in Western thought, is an idea often dismissed as myths rather than serious belief. Animals have their thoughts and feelings.

They allow themselves to be seen.

Part of this flock chose to give themselves to my husband and I.

I thought about this, as I showed him how to field dress a ptarmigan. How to gently pull the legs until they tear, leaving its full chest exposed. What would my husband see, if he did the same to me? If my multi-colored feathers were stripped away at the hands of someone I loved? Would he find, as I feared, a mess of white-washed assimilation dressing up as Indigeneity? Would he find a stupid Native woman, afraid of her anger and defined by trauma? My husband looked at me, his expression full of joy. The answers to these questions began to reveal themselves in small, skittering moves, and my fear ebbed. Hunting was something he cherished.

He did not grow up harvesting animals. I teach him what I can, but mostly we learn together. If I had been a bird, he would be someone to give myself to. I marveled at this. I thought the only things to take life could be exposure or an unexpected snatch of teeth. To think of life as a gift freely given made my hands shake. I moved to pour a bit of water into each of the birds’ mouths.⁵ I don’t remember doing this when I was younger but I practice it now. I reminded my husband it’s important to thank an animal for willingly giving up their anerneq, or spirit.

When a hunter takes a life, they accept that life’s past. In that moment of taking and teaching, I clung to the pieces of myself I knew best. Even though my mother and maurluqa⁶ spoke our language, I was only taught a few words and phrases. When I became an adult, I was able to learn more. My name connected me to the world so I shared my kin, marking a physical anchor to the world. I’m not sure if it was a thought, a prayer, or the right thing to say but I whispered:

Camai, wiing atqa Maurluviluq, curryungarmiunguunga, kassatun Emily, taugaam maani uitalartua Anchorage aami. Maurluqa the late Mary Bavilla, Tuyuryarmiunguuq. Apa’urluqa the late Henry Bavilla, Aleknagiqarmiunguuq. Aanaka Sirena Tennyson, Tuyuryarmiunguuq. Aataka Ken Brockman, Carson, Iowarmiunguuq. Aipaqa Will Hemmen, Anchorage-armiunguuq. Quyana caknek pikiutegken.

Ptarmigan have evolved physical, behavioral, and ecological adaptations that allow them to thrive in harsh environments. From their feathers changing color to specialized feet for moving in snow, their survival is tuned to the environment. Their ability to adapt to extreme cold, scarce food, and predators has allowed them to thrive in Alaska’s harsh climates.

Ptarmigan obey the shifting of the seasons. They don’t question if their feathers are natural or out of place amidst tundra or mountaintops. They are the product of millennia of death and survival, an integral stitch, weaving through the coil of the food chain, shaped by Nunamta. They are an unyielding part of the Land.

When they are willingly torn open, it does not change their essence.

I kneeled over our gifts with my husband, fingers stained red, and trembled with love.

Hunters do not hesitate. Ptarmigan do not fear their nature. They do not question the colors they wear or the shifting landscapes we call home.

I exhaled, pressing my hands to the tundra, feeling the weight of the moment settle around my shoulders. I poured water into each bird’s mouth, whispering quyana—not just for their sacrifice, but for their lesson.

Maybe I, too, was more than the sum of my shifting seasons. ■

¹ Professor Oscar Kawagley was best known for his concept “Native Ways of Knowing,” to explain how different people see the world. Professor Theresa John specializes in education and cross-cultural education. Harold Napoleon authored the book, “Yuuyaraq, The Native Way of Life”.

² This is an easy field cleaning method for ptarmigan or grouse. Step each foot on either wing while maintaining a firm but gentle pressure with each hand grasping around the ankles.

³ A controversial measurement of the amount of "Indian blood" you have. It can affect your identity, your relationships, and whether or not you or your children can have tribal citizenship.

⁴ Tundra tea, also known as “Rhododendron tomentosum”, or labrador tea. Can be made into a medicinal herbal tea to aid coughs and colds.

⁵ If you are not familiar with this practice, you may research it. If you can’t find information, maybe it’s not for you to know.

⁶ Grandmother.

Emily Maurluviluq Brockman is a strong proponent of traditional and cultural education, an enthusiastic consumer of fiction and food, and a pedestrian outdoors woman. She lives in Kicarvik with her partner and 2 pets. She was a 2024 FORUM Storytelling Fellows.