“Uvlaalautaq, Mr. Crawford,” my son Henning said as he shook his first grade teacher’s hand at the door before the school day began.
“What did you say?” the teacher asked.
“Uvlaalautaq,” Henning said and went into his classroom to hang his jacket and backpack.
His teacher looked at me.
“He said ‘uvlaalautaq.’ It means ‘good morning’ in Inupiaq,” I said with a smile.
I was surprised Henning had said the word to his teacher. The day prior, I’d mentioned to Henning that it would be cool if he greeted Mr. Crawford by saying, “Uvlaalautaq.” He had seemed excited about the idea, but I wasn’t sure if he’d actually do it.
Mr. Crawford and I took a minute then and went through the pronunciation of the new-to-him word. He tried his best, and we agreed that I’d send an email with the pronunciation written out, so he could practice:
Henning said good morning in Inupiaq. It’s spelled uvlaalautaq, and pronounced (OOV-law-LOW-duq).
Saying “uvlaalautaq” or other everyday phrases in Inupiaq in our home is something we just do. It’s something I grew up with. I’m not a fluent speaker, but we use Inupiaq words and phrases all the time. Kakik for snot. Aarigaa when something brings a feeling of peace and joy in our chest and belly. Migiaq for throw-up. Kilamik if someone needs to hurry. But now, living in Anchorage, daily use of our simple phrases has become a small way for us to root ourselves in identity in a new place. Where many languages are spoken. Where we are the minority.
Living in Anchorage, daily use of our simple phrases has become a small way for us to root ourselves in identity in a new place. Where many languages are spoken. Where we are the minority.
I hadn’t anticipated it, but I feel my roots strengthening. Perhaps like the trees in Unalakleet, my home community, near the house we built there. Rooted, strong and deep into the soil, so when the persistent hurricane-force east winds arrive in January, the trees don’t topple. Maybe a few branches break off and spruce cones scatter across the crusted snow, but the trees themselves stand strong. The last seven months, since we moved to Anchorage, have felt somewhat like a strong wind. I feel my roots deepening.
SINCE THE MOVE, I’ve made mental note of the big and little ways our roots are strengthened and we remain connected to who we are. It’s in saying, “Araa,” when something is annoying. It’s in eating dried ugruk, quaq (frozen trout), herring eggs, carrots and seal oil for dinner when our bodies are needing good oils and iron. When our souls just need a taste of home. Or, honestly, when we’re tired and don’t feel like cooking, because Native food, we joke, is fast food: It’s all prepared and processed at the time of harvest.
My roots deepen when I wear my parki on a normal day, the yellow one my dad’s wife made with the wolverine ruff and the traditional princess cut, heading to Costco to pick up a bag of Power Greens for my morning smoothie and a box of organic dates for the little pick-me-up I make for myself every day after lunch — date, butter, salt. It’s in noticing the side-eye I get from people looking at me wearing a “coat” that looks different from the norm. Feeling a little bit nervous in my stomach. A slight ache in my throat of thinking maybe I don’t belong. And then taking a deep breath and feeling the strength of life flow through my backbone as I look at them with a smile behind my eyes, and maybe see them smile back.
It’s in feeling the spirits of my mom, my gram, and my aunties, Abuz and Zoe, when I browse a shop for the Marimekko mugs I like, a gift for friends getting married. Noticing that I didn’t hear a “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” when I walked into the store, but every white woman is greeted with a strong, warm “Welcome in.” In those moments, I’m keenly aware of my brown skin, soft cheeks and dark hair. I wonder, Do they think I don’t belong here? And I work to relax the muscles in my belly to breathe deep. Breathe from the ground beneath my feet and into my lungs. I feel my strong legs and take my Native body and my plastic credit card out of that shop to purchase a wedding gift elsewhere.
I also feel it when, hiking above the treeline to pick berries, I see another Native family among the hikers and dogs out enjoying the fall colors and fantastic Anchorage trails. In stopping and asking where they’re from. Asking what they’re picking. Asking if they know so and so from Akiak. Happy to have a moment with people who, with their distinct Yup’ik accent, sound like my aunties. Knowing they, too, will make fish akuutaq, most definitely better than mine, with the berries they picked.
It’s moments like those that keep my belly and face soft. Those connections that keep me looking at the world with my forehead, not focused on myself and my too-often-nervous belly. The moments keep me interested in learning and using more of our language. In raising Henning to have a firm understanding of where he comes from. And they keep me connected with the people who surround me, who now make up our world.
BECAUSE THE SOCIAL landscape in Anchorage is telling me to dig deep into my community’s values, to remember my grandparents’ example, and the thousands of years of wisdom shaped by place and community that guides us. It’s telling me to live unapologetically Indigenous. Because simply existing and walking in this world makes a statement. Because I am Inupiaq. It’s how I was raised. It’s who I am. And because me being who I am is me living healthy. Us, being who we are, is freedom. It’s the best of what we can share with the world.
Simply existing and walking in this world makes a statement. Because I am Inupiaq.
It reminds me of the words from my friend Middy: “Bring the best of home with you, wherever you live.”
And so, every now and then, Henning or Henning’s teacher will say, “Uvlaalautaq,” before the school day begins. And I feel my roots dance a little bit.
Lifeways is a column in which an Inuit woman explores living in direct relationship with the land, water and plant and animal relatives in Alaska.
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This article appeared in the February 2025 print edition of the magazine with the headline “Unapologetically Indigenous.”
