Tele Aadsen

writer - fisherman - listener

Long­time Hooked friends may rec­og­nize Isabel­la Brady’s name from last summer’s sto­ry of a tra­di­tion­al foods din­ner. Lean­ing on a walk­er, dish­ing slabs of moose along­side veni­son stew, the Alas­ka Native Sis­ter­hood pres­i­dent com­mand­ed as much atten­tion as the chewy tex­ture of whale between my teeth.

I’d hes­i­tat­ed to post that sto­ry with­out Isabella’s bless­ing. Before we left town on a fish­ing trip, I print­ed a copy at the library and dropped it into the mail, feel­ing more vul­ner­a­ble than I had in a long time.

When we returned to town a week lat­er, a grav­el-voiced mes­sage await­ed me. Isabel­la told me to call her. Exas­per­at­ed with my ner­vous­ness, Joel asked, “What’s the worst she can say?”

Um… Don’t write about her, don’t post her pho­to – oh, and my writing’s a ter­ri­ble bunch of cul­tur­al exploitation?

When Isabel­la answered, I stum­bled through my intro­duc­tion. She inter­rupt­ed me. “I thought your arti­cle was out­stand­ing.” Anx­i­ety gave way to embar­rass­ment, as she shared over­ly gen­er­ous praise. This sin­gle sen­tence would have been enough: “I was hav­ing a real bad day when I got it, and it made me feel real good.”

*****

Our inter­ac­tions devel­oped around a direc­tive: “Come to my house and have some­thing to eat with me.” More com­mand­ment than invi­ta­tion. Isabel­la liked to talk, and I was an eager audience.

She instruct­ed me in mak­ing clam chow­der, while describ­ing the sharp con­trast between her Sit­ka child­hood and the North Dako­ta Pres­by­ter­ian col­lege she attend­ed on $100/month schol­ar­ship. “Bring me the flour tin and a fork. Col­lege was like being a celebri­ty. Home was like being in the Deep South, for all the prej­u­dice against my skin, but at col­lege, it made me spe­cial. Are those pota­toes gonna boil over? Most­ly my class­mates were dis­ap­point­ed I wasn’t an Eskimo.”

A woman of fero­cious faith, Isabel­la began every meal with a thor­ough bless­ing. On our third vis­it, she asked if I was affil­i­at­ed with a church. My response didn’t please her.

When I brought salmon heads from our final trip last sum­mer, she recalled her boat-build­ing grand­fa­ther, Peter Simp­son, and her own fish­ing child­hood. “We had a scow, used to buy fish from oth­er boats at Lazaria and She­likof. We’d col­lect sea gull eggs at Sea Lion Rocks, had to time get­ting out of the boat with the waves. I hat­ed it – I got so sea­sick. My broth­ers teased me, they told me to eat bacon.”

She asked if I knew how to work a video recorder, still wrapped in plas­tic. “My friend sent it; she said I should record my sto­ries.” We talked about the chal­lenge of telling your own sto­ry, for all of the places that it inter­sects with oth­er people’s. She spoke of her reluc­tance to intrude on oth­ers’ pri­va­cy, then shrugged. “They’re most­ly all dead now, anyway.”

*****

On Tues­day, my feet bounced light­ly down Sitka’s main drag, my back­pack laden with a Tup­per­ware of mar­i­nat­ed black cod tips. After the meals she’d shared with me, I felt shy­ly eager to bring Isabel­la a gift of food I’d harvested.

A few min­utes away, I pulled out my phone to make sure it was a good time to vis­it. A male voice answered on the sec­ond ring. I did­n’t think any­thing of it. Isabel­la’s home was a hive: a con­stant flow of chil­dren, grand­chil­dren, friends buzzing in and out.

Hi, is Isabel­la there?” I chirped.

No… She’s not here right now.”

I glanced at the after­noon sun­shine and thought of the black cod in my pack. “Well, will you be there for a minute? I’ve got some fish for her that I could drop off.”

Who is this?” the man asked.

I hes­i­tat­ed. “Friend” assumed too much; “smit­ten admir­er” would be more hon­est. “My name’s Tele… I vis­it with Isabel­la sometimes.”

His qui­et words hit my ear like small peb­bles dropped down a well, as he explained that Isabel­la had fall­en the day before. “She was Mede­vaced to Anchor­age… We don’t think she’s com­ing home.”

*****

I saw Isabel­la once this spring, short­ly after we returned to Sit­ka. She told me to make us some pan­cakes, super­vis­ing every step from her seat at the kitchen table, mur­mur­ing along with the stereo. That saved a wretch like me. She said how blessed she was, reflect­ing on the love and gen­eros­i­ty that peo­ple had shared dur­ing her win­ter hos­pi­tal­iza­tions. She said that she wasn’t afraid of death.

Pen­ny piles lined her cof­fee table, cop­per flash­es amidst the end­less papers of a life­long leader still orga­niz­ing from her liv­ing room couch. When she grum­bled about need­ing pen­ny rolls, I vol­un­teered to pick some up at the bank. They’re still in my back­pack, a rub­ber-band­ed stack heavy with accu­sa­tion. Why didn’t I take them straight to her, right after leav­ing the bank?

Isabel­la sent me out the door with a small jar of sour­dough starter. She promised, “Once you make your pan­cakes from sour­dough, you’ll won­der why you nev­er did before.” It’s in the Nerka’s dorm-sized refrig­er­a­tor now. I don’t know any­thing about keep­ing starter alive, but I’ll learn. It’s what remains.

*****

Some peo­ple seem too pow­er­ful to die. Whether by the con­fi­dence with which they move through the world, the mag­ni­tude of their ser­vice, or the depth of what they’ve sur­vived, they seem invin­ci­ble. As if they glow so bright that they’d scorch Death’s grasp­ing hand. Maybe part of me imag­ined that would be true of Isabel­la. When I saw Raven Radio’s Wednes­day head­line – “Native leader, activist Isabel­la Brady dies at 88 – I didn’t want to believe.

As a non-Native, I’ll nev­er know the strength, courage, and hope that she pro­vid­ed to so many. The com­mu­ni­ty is reel­ing, grief shroud­ing the Brady fam­i­ly, the Kik.sadi clan, and Native peo­ple through­out the region. I’ll nev­er know the taste of their loss. I was blessed to spend a mere speck of time in Isabella’s com­pa­ny, a few after­noons far more sig­nif­i­cant to me than they would have been to her. And though I fear some may hear this sto­ry as self-absorbed, my expe­ri­ence is the only authen­tic place I can speak from, the only lan­guage I have to hon­or Isabella’s tremen­dous legacy.

In sev­er­al grace-filled sen­tences, Mike Schinke said what I’ve spent pages strug­gling to con­vey. I’m thank­ful for his per­mis­sion to re-post them here.

A prayer of solace for the Brady fam­i­ly. A prayer for the health of remain­ing elders. A prayer for the per­pet­u­a­tion of Tlin­git lan­guage and culture. 

Let Isabel­la Brady’s life be a tes­ta­ment that one per­son can make a dif­fer­ence in the world. May her accom­plish­ments inspire many to also make the world a bet­ter place in their own ways. She will be missed by many and her absence will be felt far and wide for a long time.”

Amen. Rest in peace, Isabel­la. My deep sym­pa­thy to all who are mourning.