Knowing what it means to be “civilized”

When I was a kid, the Netsilingmiut (a mainland Inuit people) called me uqalluriktuq. It meant, “one who speaks freely.” I came by it honestly.

Speech was easy, but proper communication relied upon mastering the traditional protocol of elders. Even though my family was Inuit, we were Igloolik. My father’s lifestyle necessitated that we relocate, living among the Netsilingmiut, who stuck to very ancient ways. Frankly, it sometimes seemed that we were of two different continents.

There, we occasionally ran into Qallunaat (whites) who liked to talk about “Eskimos” in front of us, as though we were dogs who were not expected to understand the conversations of their masters. Not all Qallunaat did this. Many were good, but there was another breed that seemed to want to be regarded as superior. They always praised southern conventions, as though missing them terribly, which of course made us wonder why they had come north. Why suffer needlessly? Go home.

We ignored just about everything they said, but there was one reference that nettled me from my earliest memories of hearing it. It was the constant reference to “civilized” ways. Now, I know that the word really only denotes those who live in cities. But you should have heard the way these people used it ? in an elitist, Victorian sort of way, a way to distinguish themselves from us “Natives.” As though we were dirty.

But it always seemed as though the true mark of civilized behavior, to them, was politeness ? which was odd to me, since, by Inuit standards, they were grossly impolite. They were constantly talking overtop of one another, interrupting each other, squabbling.

Maybe, as a growing girl, they simply made me self-conscious. I was a tomboy. I was not “lady-like.” My slacks and boots were constantly covered in mud. My sleeves were untidy, tucked up to my elbows. I hardly ever combed my hair. But I was polite. I figured out that if I sat and listened to the elders patiently, it would be seen as good behavior, and I could then hold conversations with adults. Really old people were the most fun. But as I mentioned earlier, protocol took a while to learn.

In our family, we were quite loud compared to others, and expressed our opinions as they came to us. This was atypical of many Inuit. Whenever I visited homes, I was continually surprised to find that people hardly ever held lively conversations. I soon learned that this was their particular way of practicing silent behavior, forming “good habits”(especially in children) that would allow them to reflexively remain quiet during a hunt. These families were very traditional, living exclusively off the Land ? a good hunt meant everything to them. Our family’s way was to be silent out on the Land, but to act the opposite back in camp.

There were other complications as well. The worst involved figuring out how to address people or behave in the presence of certain individuals, especially exceptionally traditional sorts such as elders. Here is how it would typically go in an elder’s home:

I would approach the door of the tent and wait to be noticed, or I would let out a polite little “ahem,” or small cough. When I was finally told to enter, I would sit down way off to the side, making a huge display of becoming comfortable. That gave the elder a chance to ask where my father was, maybe whether he was out hunting. It would open up the chance for chitchat, which I was not allowed to initiate. I would answer yes or no in the traditional way, either widening my eyes or wrinkling my nose. When the elder was saying something, I would politely look down and only look up when he was done. Of course I didn’t ask questions, which would have been scandalously rude. There would be long pauses in between the elder’s statements or questions, in which I was allowed to say, “Eee …,” to indicate that I was hearing what was being said.

Sometimes I was asked what I thought about this or that. What did I think? If I didn’t have an opinion, I would answer, “I don’t know,” and that would be the end of that. On the other hand, there was no guarantee that I would not have an opinion. If so, the elder would be treated to an earful. But the system was fair. If I was asked to speak, it was culturally assumed that I was now allowed my opinion. When it was my turn, I had the floor, and no one else could talk until I was finished. I knew, as I had been taught by the elders, that when I was done, I was to indicate so, typically by saying “Pijariiqpunga.” It had no literal translation, but it meant something akin to, “That’s all I have to say about that.” It meant that someone else could have the floor now. This didn’t mean that the conversation went back and forth like English, or even that the speaker had to make some obvious point. In fact, in English the statements might have been considered hopelessly long-winded and rambling. There could even be pauses ? very long, completely silent pauses ? in which no one spoke a word because the speaker had not yet indicated that he was finished.

I’m grown now, and I’ve alternately worked in cities and northern communities over the span of my life. And in those cities, I’ve heard the urbanites yell at each other just about every demeaning thing that a human being could think to say to another.

So it’s like a breath of fresh air to sit with an elder, communicating in the old way. It summons a flood of memories, those of being a child eager to earn the elders’ respect by communicating with them in their mild, selfless sort of way.

And it seems to me that this was a very civilized way of doing things.

Pijariiqpunga.

Rachel Attituq Qitsualik was born into a traditional Igloolik Inuit lifestyle. She has worked in Inuit sociopolitical issues for the last 25 years, and witnessed the full transition of her culture into the modern world.