KOTZEBUE WAS THE WORLD TO ME

Kotzebue is quite small as cities go, with roughly 3000 residents. There aren't any roads that connect it to urban areas like Fairbanks or Anchorage; it is only accessible by jet/plane all-year round. Some people travel to and from nearby villages by snowmachine in the winter and four-wheelers (ATV’S) in the summer. Those with boats may travel in the summer as well. It is located on a gravel spit and its Inupiaq name, Kikiktugruk, means “almost an island.”

When I was little, Kotzebue was the world to me. Our whole support system lived there: my maternal grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I belonged to the first generation of grandchildren; all together, we were eleven. We were close and spent a lot of time together and fought like sisters and brothers. With so many cousins, I was never short of friends.

The first grandchildren. I am first row, first one on the left.

It seemed that there were an infinite number of places to play in Kotzebue. I remember walking and playing around town with my cousins, at times filled with a sense of wonder and discovery. I don’t remember ever feeling out of place there; I didn’t have a distinct feeling of being “Eskimo” or “Native.” It wasn’t until we moved outside that I had that distinct feeling of being “Eskimo.” 

 

I think that a lot of people from the village have a hard time adjusting to urban life for these very reasons. When you leave, you are leaving familiar surroundings, your support system and everything you ever knew.  You are no longer with people like yourself; instead, you belong to the minority. 

So how do you make a successful transition to urban life? How do you adjust? For me personally, adjusting meant dealing with homesickness head on.