Alaska Native Arts & Culture

Thousands of new books, many by Indigenous writers, are landing in the hands of kids across Southeast Alaska this month. A series of book drops are the result of a partnership between the region’s largest tribal government and a Native-led nonprofit with roots in the Navajo and Hopi nations. 

During Thursday’s book distributions at Kax̱dig̱oowu Héen Elementary in Juneau, kids swarmed around tables piled with books.

Audri Ia, a third grader who says she loves reading, picked up a book about Ada Lovelace, a mathematician.

“I liked this one because I read the back of it and I got really interested in it, and I like science books,” she said, adding that she wants to be a scientist.

“I like to, like, blow stuff up at my house, but my mom always says no,” she added. 

Ia wasn’t the only one who had a stack of books in her arms. Throughout the common area, dozens of kids scurried around with their own finds. Some books are for kids as young as five or six years old, and some targeted older readers. The ones for elementary-aged kids were going fast. 

The Central Council of the Tlingit and Haida Indian Tribes of Alaska hosted the book drop. Special Projects Manager Tristan Douville helped orchestrate the event, and he surveyed the pandemonium with visible emotion.

“Oh my gosh. It’s so incredible. It’s like amazing. Mind blowing. Couldn’t be more exciting,” he said. “I’m like, ‘this is crazy.’”

Months ago, he reached out to NDN Girls Book Club — a nonprofit that brings books to Indigenous communities — to float the idea of book drops in Southeast Alaska. He said he knows firsthand that not all Alaska students have ready access to fun reading material. 

“I grew up in a rural community. I grew up on Prince of  Wales Island, in Craig and Klawock, and there were times when it wasn’t super accessible to even get to the library,” Douville said.

That kind of access is the point for Kinsale Drake, the founder of NDN Girls Book Club. She said she wishes there were book drops like this when she was growing up. 

Drake is a poet, and said she thinks she may have found her passion earlier if she had more exposure to Native writers. She said she was motivated to start the book club as a way for her to work against a publishing ecosystem that can exclude certain readers or communities.

“Publishers care about money. They don’t care about representation unless it’s making them money,” Drake said. “And so I think, you know, the anger and the sadness, I think, of dealing with that as somebody who wants every Native kid to be able to have books with characters that look like them, that make them feel confident, that make them feel happy and seen and loved.”

Her organization started delivering books throughout the Navajo and Hopi Nations in a pink van in 2023. Since then, NDN Girls Book Club has traveled across the United States with books in tow. 

Drake says events like these show publishers that there is a market for stories about and for Indigenous youth.

“When we come out here and we have a room full of kids who are, like, so excited to have books like this, it’s like, you know, we’re showing them in their face. This is representation. This is why it’s important. And you’re not going to tell us that it’s not important,” she said. 

The book tour will make it to villages in Southeast, too. Next, books will land in Yakutat, Klukwan and Hydaburg.

This is Lingít Word of the Week. Each week, we feature a Lingít word voiced by master speakers. Lingít has been spoken throughout present-day Southeast Alaska and parts of Canada for over 10,000 years.

Gunalchéesh to X̱’unei Lance Twitchell, Goldbelt Heritage Foundation and the University of Alaska Southeast for sharing the recorded audio for this series.

This week’s word is xóots, or brown bear. Listen to the audio below to learn how to say xóots.

The following transcript is meant to help illustrate the words and sentences. 

Kooshdáakʼu Bill Fawcett: Xóots. 

That means brown bear.

Here are some sentences: 

Kooshdáakʼu Bill Fawcett: De sá wé yaa nagút wé xóots?

Where is the brown bear walking to?

Keihéenák’w John Martin: Teiḵweidí shagóon áyá xóots.

The Teiḵweidí are the brown bear clan.

Keiyishí Bessie Cooley: Xóots, máayatee yéixʼ yatseeneit yóo dax̱ duwasáakw.

Brown bears are sometimes called “Yatseeneit” (the living thing).

Ḵaakal.áat Florence Marks Sheakley: Yá xóots ḵa yá hintaak xóodzi woosh tin has yatee.

Brown bears and polar bears are coming together.

Kaxwaan Éesh George Davis: Xóots aas daax̱ kei wdlitl’ét’.

The brown bear climbed a tree.

You can hear each installment of Lingít Word of the Week on the radio throughout the week. 

Additional language resources:

Find biographies for the master speakers included in this lesson here.

Learn more about why we use Lingít instead of Tlingit here.

Watch a video introducing Lingít sounds here.

The sunlight bounces off the glassy surface of Sitka Sound as community herring fish egg harvesters navigate the waters with boats loaded with hemlock branches for the fish to lay eggs on. Surrounded by the whales, and the sounds of lively seals, sea otters, sea lions and countless seabirds, this annual harvest is a cherished sign of spring for people living in Southeast Alaska. After months of gray skies and cold weather, both people and wildlife eagerly embrace this moment.

Steve Johnson, recognized by his Łingít name Ixt’Ik’Eesh, is a prominent community leader from Sitka.

“It’s like the first real taste of spring that we get here,” Ixt’Ik’Eesh said excitedly

Of the Kiks.adi Clan of Sitka, Ixt’Ik’Eesh has been harvesting herring fish eggs for most of his life. His earliest recollection of the harvest dates back to his childhood, a memory he cherishes deeply. Ixt’Ik’Eesh recalls being on the skiff with his father and uncle, surrounded by the vast ocean.

“I remember putting my hand in the water, and I could feel the herring as they ran around it, and just the sight and the smell of it and the beauty of the world around us,” recalled Ixt’Ik’Eesh. “It’s an amazing time of the year.”

He now plays a vital role in educating community members on the techniques of harvesting herring eggs. He has successfully trained around 100 participants in the community harvest program he leads. This volunteer-driven program involves coordinating volunteers to collect and distribute the eggs through a Facebook group. Active for two decades, the program has successfully distributed about 17,000 pounds of eggs, benefiting roughly 20,000 people. This initiative not only feeds the community but has also empowered individuals by providing them with the necessary experience and knowledge to launch their own fishing operations.

“There was a period of time not too long ago where there was just a little over a dozen harvesters left, and that was really scary to me on a number of ways,” explains Ixt’Ik’Eesh.

For Ixt’Ik’Eesh, it is crucial to preserve and pass on the traditional knowledge of herring egg harvesting to ensure it remains a vital part of Łingít culture rather than fading into history.

“This is one of the few practices that we have that have been unbroken by colonization.” says Ixt’Ik’Eesh.

He not only brings valuable experience and oversees a community harvest program, but also holds formal leadership roles for both Sitka and the state of Alaska, serving on various boards and commissions, in addition to being a Council member of the Sitka Tribe of Alaska. Last year, he represented the Sitka Tribe of Alaska at the Alaska Board of Fisheries meeting as a traditional harvester, where he advocated for the protection of Promisla Bay from commercial fishing. He proposed designating the bay as part of the subsistence conservation zone, highlighting its significance as a major producer of herring eggs and a vital harvesting area for locals.

The proposal didn’t pass but that hasn’t stopped Ixt’Ik’Eesh, and his work doesn’t go unnoticed. In a nomination form for the Joint Board of Fisheries/Commercial Fisheries Entry Commission Herring Revitalization Committee, which is a combined board of the Alaska Commercial Fisheries Entry Commission and the Alaska Board of Fisheries to herring across the state. Ixt’Ik’Eesh has been recognized as the number one producer of subsistence herring egg harvesting.

The nomination highlighted his work providing herring eggs to over 10,000 households through the implementation and 20 years of distribution of tribal food security initiatives. Additionally, it recognized his extensive experience, exceeding 25 years, in both subsistence and commercial fishing.

Ixt’Ik’Eesh shared that he is guided by the Kiks.adi Clan principle of sharing. It serves as a powerful reminder of generosity.

“We measure people, and particularly leaders, not by what they have or what they show but by what they give away,” says Ixt’Ik’Eesh. “And so for me, that’s a big part of my upbringing, of my core values, and that whenever we have an abundance of something, we share it.”

This philosophy is reflected in the numbers. According to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, in 2023, “93% of the harvest was shared with other households within Sitka or in other communities in the state and beyond.” This level of sharing underscores ancestral traditions that prioritize community health and connection.

Despite the unsuccessful Promisla Bay proposal and complexities of colonial management systems, Ixt’Ik’Eesh will always be found on his traditional homelands and ocean. This bond is rooted in a deep cultural understanding of his place and calling. Engaging in the labor of harvesting for community members and individuals who are unable to access the eggs is a task that is both physically and mentally demanding. However, Ixt’Ik’Eesh finds joy in this work, as it allows him to contribute to the well-being of his people while honoring traditional practices. The Facebook group plays a crucial role in this dynamic, serving not only as a means of communication and organizing but also as a place to share memories.

“I really like it when people send pictures and when they post pictures of their family meals and their gatherings and people enjoying them and knowing that myself and my friends and volunteers all had a very strong hand in producing that food that’s on their table that they’re enjoying.” says Ixt’Ik’Eesh.

Capturing Community

One of the volunteers aboard Ixt’Ik’Eesh’s boat this season was Mary Goddard, a Łingít filmmaker and artist. She experienced the herring egg harvest in Yakutat as a young girl and remembers her and her mother running to the beach to witness the herring spawn. They’d return the next day to check if the eggs were ready to eat. She recalls pulling seaweed from the ocean, each strand covered in herring eggs. Originally from Yakutat, a Southeast Alaska community about 230 miles from Sitka, Goddard hadn’t experienced the large harvest that Sitka is known for but still felt the same excitement.

“It was fun to be able to just walk down from our house to the beach and grab those herring eggs and eat them for dinner that night,” says Goddard. Her first career path was in acting, which took Goddard across the country to New York City, where she attended the American Musical and Dramatic Academy. But along the way, she fell in love with filmmaking. After spending 15 years in the industry, she returned to Alaska.

That leap of faith led her to found her own production company, MidnightRun LLC. After moving to Sitka, she came to see the harvest as a community celebration to welcome spring. Due to her curiosity as a filmmaker, Goddard herself began harvesting.

Aboard a boat in the ocean loaded with about 30 hemlock trees, Goddard was nervous yet excited because of her role in the harvesting process.

“My role this year was really fun, because I gotta do it from start to finish,” says Goddard.

The process begins by determining the spawning locations and timing for herring, which, according to Goddard, happen during the spring season when dollar-sized snowflakes are falling from the sky. Following this, the volunteer crew prepares by searching for medium-sized hemlock trees that have fresh needles, as these provide a desirable flavor for the herring eggs. Once enough branches are collected, they are placed in the water, secured with weights and buoys. The next step involves checking the branches one or two days later, with the hope that the herring will have laid their eggs on the gathered branches.

“Then a couple of days later, you’ll come back and pull up those trees and if it’s a good harvest, they’re rich and thick, full of herring eggs,” says Goddard.

Harvesting has evolved into more than just a filming opportunity; it has become a chance for Goddard to share this tradition with her son. This season, she took her 9-year-old out on a Saturday to scout for trees in preparation for the harvest. By bringing her community on screen, Goddard also returned home to connect younger generations with their elders, utilizing filmmaking as a tool to generate enthusiasm for traditional practices.

“Being able to teach the youth in a way that maybe they’re already engaged with is one way to ensure that the youth will continue to practice our harvesting ways,” says Goddard.

Ultimately, Goddard wants her son to appreciate the effort involved in harvesting from the land and recognize the value of natural resources like herring eggs. She emphasizes that it is far easier to waste food purchased from a grocery store than to invest the time and energy required to gather and prepare food sourced directly from the earth or sea. Additionally, she highlights the deep connection that Indigenous peoples have with the animals they rely on, underscoring the importance of respect and stewardship in their relationship with nature.

“I want him to be able to respectfully harvest, respectfully take care of his body through healthy food that he knows where it came from,” Goddard said.

“I want him to really care for himself by eating really healthy food, and being connected to community and gratitude, and all these amazing things that subsistence living teaches you,” Goddard continued.

Family tradition

Like Goddard, for Ricardo Worl, known by his Łingít name Gooshdeihéen, this is a family tradition, something he has looked forward to since childhood. Although he was too young to be on the ocean, he was able to contribute to the harvesting process in other meaningful ways. Gooshdeihéen remembers packaging the eggs collected by his uncles in Sitka, often handling boxes that weighed as much as 50 pounds. Surrounded by family, he participated in the enduring tradition of utilizing and processing the resources provided by the land.

“I just remember me and my cousins receiving that box excitedly, and vacuum sealing it, sharing it out,” reflects Gooshdeihéen.

As a community harvester, he can now be found alongside his uncles in the ocean each spring. As a nephew, he is expected to learn from their experience. His responsibilities extend beyond merely acquiring knowledge; he is also tasked with engaging in physically demanding work.

“My role was to cut down all the trees, bring them from out of the woods, down to the boat so they could put the trees and branches into the water,” Gooshdeihéen said. “And after the herring had spawned on the trees, my job was to pull the trees up to the boat so we could clip the branches off and pull them in.”

Gooshdeihéen didn’t formally participate in the harvest until after completing his undergraduate education at Whitworth University in Spokane, Washington, in 2021. After Gooshdeihéen returned home to Juneau he enrolled in the Haa Yoo X’atángi Deiyí: Our Language Pathway Project to learn his Łingít language. In the program, Gooshdeihéen expressed that he was interested in reconnecting his language with subsistence practices.

“I found that becoming a language scholar has made me a better fisherman and being a better fisherman has made me a better language learner,” says Gooshdeihéen.

He believes that both elements of the language and ways of living are inherently intertwined, and says he now has a greater appreciation when learning about his heritage.

Although Haa Yoo X’atángi Deiyí ended in 2023, Gooshdeihéen continues his linguistic journey to translate the Łingít language, aiming to contribute to the development of educational curricula. He shares that he is not only grateful for past language speakers but that his community is “lucky that our aunties, uncles, and grandparents documented a lot of our language, so there’s a lot to be translated. ”

Gooshdeihéen is one of the 22,601 individuals of Łingít descent, according to the latest Census data. The Łingít people are the largest group of Alaska Natives with a rich cultural heritage and historical presence in Alaska. According to the Alaska Native Language Center there are about 500 speakers of the Łingít language.

“I’d love to do translation and curriculum development to create some curriculum and language learning resources for future generations,” says Gooshdeihéen.

Gooshdeihéen’s goal and data figures highlight the ongoing efforts to preserve and revitalize the language, which is an integral part of the Łingít identity.

In the meantime, he is enrolled in language classes at the University of Alaska Southeast and coaches the Yadaa.at Kalé ski team, and the cross-country, and track teams at Juneau-Douglas High School. When he isn’t focused on language studies, skiing, or retrieving heavy tree branches from the ocean, Gooshdeihéen enjoys preparing herring eggs by blanching them on the branches, then picking them off and dipping them in seal grease. He has also been experimenting with new methods to enjoy this traditional delicacy.

“But recently, I have been trying new recipes with the row on kelp, where I sort of marinate it like you would kimchi,” says Gooshdeihéen.

Beyond trying new recipes and learning traditional ways of living, Gooshdeihéen is part of a larger network of Indigenous people who are living the traditional ways of their ancestors. Belonging to the Kaagwaantaan clan, Gooshdeihéen shares that having the opportunity to harvest herring eggs with his uncles not only reinforces his connection to the land but also the connection to his clans and community. He explained that when he is out on the ocean, he is amazed that he can “connect with the lands that my ancestors stewarded and do the things that they’ve been doing since time immemorial.”

“I’m doing the same thing in 2025 that my ancestors were similarly doing 10, 15,000 years ago,” Gooshdeihéen continued.

A 2019 study by the University of Alaska Southeast confirms this.

“In northwestern North America, the archaeological record of faunal remains shows that herring were fished for more than 10,000 years and were routinely taken by at least 4,000 BP (Before Present),” the university announcement of the study said.

He is dedicated to continuing his ancestral traditions in other ways as well.

“I made sure I shared a box with my grandparent’s people, the T’akhdeintaan out of Hoonah, and it’s really rewarding, and it feels good to reinforce these clan connections that have been also maintained since time immemorial,” says Gooshdeihéen.

The lessons he learned in childhood remain meaningful as he continues to pack eggs into boxes for his community.

Historical Athabascan and Tlingit trade routes

One of the special boxes was sent to Val Adams, a Gwich’in and Koyukon Athabascan from Beaver, who lives in Fairbanks, Alaska. Her friend, Sara Beaber-Fujioka, whom she knows through church, sent the box from Sitka. Beaber-Fujioka’s late husband was a fisherman who also harvested herring eggs and through his knowledge and relationship with Alaska Native traditions, also packaged and sent similar boxes.

“Harvesting and sharing food was central to his life, and so we had been harvesting and sharing herring eggs as this amazing abundance that we have in Sitka,” says Beaber-Fujioka.

After her late husband’s passing, Beaber-Fujioka and her daughters decided to carry on the legacy. She says that being able to share this abundance with people she knows will carry forward the joy of giving, especially among elders, is Beaber-Fujioka’s way of giving back to the community.

Adams chose to share the mail by distributing the eggs among the elders in the Denakkanaaga program, a nonprofit organization that provides cultural programming for elders living in the Interior.

“It’s our traditional way,” says Adams. “It’s our custom to share, especially delicacies such as this.”

Sharon McConnell, the executive director of Denakkanaaga, emphasizes that this generosity illustrates the historical trade relationships that existed before Western contact. As noted by Sealaska Heritage, Łingít people have always historically traded amongst themselves and neighboring communities for goods that couldn’t be found in the region. Łingít’s offered, “greenstone for tools, clams, mussels, red and yellow cedar, dried halibut and salmon, seal oil, herring eggs, seal meat, hooligan oil, and berries.”

“Through the decades we’ve traded with other tribes throughout the state of Alaska, and the bonds have been made between Native people in different regions of Alaska, and one is between Southeast Alaska and Interior Alaska,” says McConnell.

While the box of herring eggs didn’t cross the vast landscape through the rivers, mountains, and lakes on a trade route, the eggs were still enjoyed by the elders. McConnell shared that everyone loved it as the elders enjoyed the eggs to their liking, such as eating them raw or blanching the eggs before eating.

“For those in Southeast to share it with us, it’s very meaningful and very appreciated,” reflects McConnell.

The 2025 herring egg harvest in April serves as a reminder of how traditional values continue to foster unity among diverse communities of Alaska. This annual harvest, deeply rooted in Indigenous practices, reflects a respect for nature and a commitment to sharing resources. As the herring spawned, various clans, each with their own histories, came together to participate.

Goddard shares that the act of gathering isn’t only a means of food security but also reinforces the community aspect of this practice.

“I don’t think we were meant to do it on our own, or especially in our cultures, we weren’t meant to do it on our own,” Goddard said. “We’re meant to rely on each other, and I think that is something like the herring egg harvest really represents.”

ICT originally published this article. ICT is an independent, nonprofit, multimedia news enterprise. ICT covers Indigenous peoples.

On Sitka’s Kaagwaantaan Street, overlooking a busy waterway where fishing boats unload their catches and float planes glide in to land, there’s an unassuming gabled house with faded red siding. If you peer underneath the house, you’ll see charred wood nestled next to newer lumber – evidence of a 1953 fire that damaged parts of the 19th-century structure.

The house is called Kaxátjaa Hít, or Shattering Herring House. Xéetl’ee Katelyn Stiles, who is Kiks.ádi and of the Shattering House, recently walked around it and took note of the fire-damaged wood. For her, the burn marks are part of the house’s story.

“I still see that as, you know, our history,” she said. “That’s where Xéetl’ee, my namesake, gave birth. So, yeah, I just find it all really beautiful how it is.”

Clan houses like this one have historically served as cultural centers for Lingít people – places where members gathered for meetings, ceremonies, and even to give birth. But earlier this year, Stiles – whose great-great-grandparents lived in Shattering Herring House – learned that it was slated for demolition.

“It will always be a clan house”

In Lingít tradition, clan houses are passed down matrilineally and belong to all members. In the western legal system, properties often go to a spouse or children, who don’t belong to the same clan, so houses can fall out of clan ownership. Sometimes multiple clan members are on the deed, making renovation or demolition more difficult.

Lduteen Jerrick Hope-Lang knows those challenges firsthand. Hope-Lang is of the Point House, a Kiks.ádi clan house in Sitka that was passed down via will and demolished in 1997.

In 2022, Hope-Lang worked with the Point House’s legal heirs to acquire the land. It’s now held on behalf of the Kiks.ádi clan by a nonprofit organization, the Katlian Collective, with plans to rebuild. And last year, he helped bring national recognition to Sitka’s Indian Village as a historic endangered place.

“These are precious, and they’re worth saving,” he said. “By preserving these things, we’re more able to accurately tell the history as we see it.”

The Shattering House fell out of clan ownership, but Stiles said that doesn’t change its cultural value.

“In my opinion, if it was a clan house, it will always be a clan house,” she said.

“Emotional and terrifying”

In February, Stiles learned through a meeting of the Sitka Historic Preservation Commission that the legal owner intended to sell the Shattering House to a couple who planned to demolish it and build residential housing on the land.

“It was, of course, very emotional and terrifying,” she said.

Stiles helped gather community and clan members to testify against the demolition. They reached out to the Sitka Tribe of Alaska, asking for them to weigh in. She connected with Hope-Lang, who met with his board of directors, trying to identify ways to help.

In a Feb. 27 special meeting of the Historic Preservation Commission, 18 people testified, mostly against the sale and demolition of the house.

“It really sort of brought us together,” Stiles said. “We want our, you know, grandkids and their kids to know who they are.”

During the meeting, the Historic Preservation Commission recommended against the demolition. But as Stiles learned, they couldn’t actually stop it from happening.

City and Borough of Sitka Planning Director Amy Ainslie said that under the city’s general code, the city didn’t have authority to deny the demolition permit on the basis of historic preservation. In a March 10 letter to the Historic Preservation Commission, she wrote that she approved the demolition permit “with an extremely heavy heart.”

“Everything happened so quickly”

But on April 22, the legal owner agreed to sell the property to Katlian Collective on behalf of the Kiks.ádi clan. Hope-Lang said the nonprofit was able to reroute funds intended for the Point House restoration project to buy the Shattering House.

“I think the ultimate end goal is, we’re stronger with this house standing next to ours,” he said. “So it doesn’t feel like it really pulls away at the end of the day.”

He said they haven’t figured out exactly what happens next.

“Everything was happening so quickly,” he said. “Now we’re kind of in the process phase of how it will be used, how it will be restored, and really the Katlian Collective’s goal in this is to support the clan and what it wants to do. And ultimately, we just didn’t want to see it demolished.”

Hope-Lang said he hopes to get Sitka’s clan houses listed on the National Register of Historic Places. He envisions a future where all the houses in Sitka’s Indian Village have been restored.

“I think it’s not outside the possibility of the 43 or 44 clan homes that existed there, that they couldn’t all be restored or rebuilt,” he said.

Stiles said she hopes to see the city and tribal governments collaborate on historic preservation of clan houses. She said it’s a “huge relief” that Shattering Herring House won’t be demolished — and that her young son will have a cultural space to grow up in.

“He’s, you know, learning to sing and drum,” she said. “I’m so happy that he will have a clan house and know that he’s a part of that.”

Listen here:

Learning a language is hard. Learning a language without a teacher regularly checking in is even harder.

But this year, Kake City School District students got the chance to learn Lingít while creating multilingual poems that give people a glimpse of where they come from.

“I am from the air — daséikw. Salty — li.éil’,” reads third-grader Jessica Padgett. “Like summer. Like fish — xáat. Cold winter, like ice water — si.áat’i héen.”

Switching between English and Lingít, Padgett describes some sights and tastes of Kake in a poem about where she’s from.

This is part of “Stories of Kake,” a project where students from preschool to high school develop literacy skills in English and Lingít through storytelling.

Poems include descriptions of Kake through the five senses, including wildlife and food.

Third-grader Robert Wooten wrote about black bears in his part of the poem.

“I am from black bears —  s’eek,” he reads. “They’re always by my creek. They are big. They are black. t’ooch’ yáx̱ yatee. They eat coho — l’ook. They eat humpies —  cháas’.”

These poems and more will be featured in a community event and an episode of “A Piece of Kake,” a podcast that features stories and culture of the people in Kake.

“Stories of Kake” began as a grant funded project to improve literacy for preschoolers in Kake, but it expanded to teach elementary and high school students Lingít through storytelling and poetry.

X̱’unei Lance Twitchell is an Alaska Native language professor at the University of Alaska Southeast. He’s the main language teacher for the project. Twitchell said he hopes to give students the skills to speak Lingít more in the community.

“Hopefully they’ll be able to share these words with each other and start communicating in the language with the language to one another, as we sort of try and create a transformation, where you create generations that just use the language more,” he said.

Padgett and the other students said their favorite part of the project was learning more Lingít. Padgett said they learned by making up movements for different words.

“We had music on and we just made up movements, and she said a word in Lingít and English, and we had to do the movement and walk around and do the movement,” Padgett said.

Ryan Conarro is one of the project leaders. He said having Twitchell there means he and classroom teachers are able to learn the language with the students.

“There’s a lot of enthusiasm in this school district for Lingít language, for project based learning. Lot of the classrooms have posters on the wall with Lingít language vocabulary, that the teachers are motivated and they also are looking for support,” he said. “And so we’re psyched that this project has provided some of that support, and that Sarah and I both come in and say, ‘Look, we’re like you. We’re also learning, but we’re going to try to be brave, and keep trying.’”

Sarah Campen is the other project leader and co-hosts the “Piece of Kake” podcast. She and Conarro are learning Lingít together alongside teachers and students with the project as Twitchell teaches the language. Campen said learning, making mistakes and improving together with students makes them more willing to try and improve. She said that’s shown in the podcast.

“One of my favorite pieces, is two students working with X̱’unei and working with Ryan, and saying some words over and over again, and just trying and practicing and not getting it quite right, but practicing and just seeing that evolution over time is so fun, because eventually we get better,” Campen said.

Kake City School District will hold the showcase at the school this Wednesday at 3:15. Campen said the podcast episode “Goodáx Xát Sáyá? / Where Am I From?” is expected to come out on the same day.

Correction: this story has been updated with the correct spelling of certain Lingít words.

This is Lingít Word of the Week. Each week, we feature a Lingít word voiced by master speakers. Lingít has been spoken throughout present-day Southeast Alaska and parts of Canada for over 10,000 years.

Gunalchéesh to X̱’unei Lance Twitchell, Goldbelt Heritage Foundation and the University of Alaska Southeast for sharing the recorded audio for this series.

This week’s word is atx̱aan hídi, or smokehouse. Listen to the audio below to learn how to say atx̱aan hídi.

The following transcript is meant to help illustrate the words and sentences. 

Kaxwaan Éesh George Davis: Atx̱aan hídi. 

That means smokehouse.

Here are some sentences:

Kaxwaan Éesh George Davis: Atx̱aan hídi áx̱ ashayaawatée du xaadí. 

He hung his fish in the smokehouse.

Keihéenák’w John Martin: Lingít x̱áat has ax̱ʼán nooch atx̱aan hídi ax̱ has aléiyix̱.

People always make dry fish in the smokehouse by putting it up high.

Keiyishí Bessie Cooley: Atx̱aan hídi yeix̱ ashaayawatee wé tʼá.

They hung up the king salmon in the smoke house

Kooshdáakʼu Bill Fawcett: Ḵúnáx̱ áwé ya’kéi wé x̱áat atgaxtoox̱’aan atx̱aan hídi.

It’s very good, the fish that was smoked in a smokehouse. 

Ḵaakal.áat Florence Marks Sheakley: Atx̱aan hídixʼ yakʼéi wé sʼeiḵ.

The smoke used in smokehouses is good.

You can hear each installment of Lingít Word of the Week on the radio throughout the week. 

Additional language resources:

Find biographies for the master speakers included in this lesson here.

Learn more about why we use Lingít instead of Tlingit here.

Watch a video introducing Lingít sounds here.