Host/Teller: Marjorie Tahbone

[cheers and applause] 

Marjorie: [00:00:18] [speaks in foreign language] When I was a little girl, I asked my mother what that tattoo on her wrist was. She said, “It's a tattoo I stitched on myself when I was a teenager. You're much too young to understand. Ask me when you're older.” I'm Iñupiat from Nome, Alaska, and my parents raised me to embrace my Iñupiat heritage. Raised out on the land, learning how to process and cut the animals, pick the greens and the berries and respect them in such a way that there was just no words to be shared, I knew who I was. But I wanted that spiritual component, that link to our ancestors that I just felt was missing. 

I found an old photograph of a relative. It was of a woman. She had three distinct tattoos running from the bottom of her lip to the bottom of her chin. I had asked my grandmother, what those were, what they meant. And she said, “A long time ago, every woman got those traditional chin tattoos. I don't remember what they meant, but I think they were a form of beauty.” I had asked several other elders, and they all gave me the same reply that they were called Tavluġun. And the practice was called Kakiniits, traditional tattoos. I had soon learned that the practice of Kakiniits had been suppressed by missionaries in the late 1800s, and had slowly faded away with the passing of our elders. What little knowledge was left were in myth and the occasional journal of early explorers. 

I was a young woman now and I asked my mother again, “What that wrist tattoo had meant?” And she shared with me, “When I was a teenager, I decided to tattoo myself, because I was so angry that our culture had been uprooted, and our native community was in a crisis of identity and I wanted to be grounded so badly.” And I asked her, “Why that tattoo? Why one line across the wrist?” And she said, “Your great grandmother had three lines going across the wrist, and I wanted to have those three lines,” but she was unable to complete them. 

I thought to myself, I want to have that spiritual connection to our ancestors just like my mother. I wanted to be bold. I wanted to get my Tavluġun. But I knew I needed to get permission from my family, because at that time in the early 2000s, it was extremely rare to see a woman with facial tattoos. It would have been almost like an act of rebellion rather than a strengthening of my identity. My parents were supportive. But when I went to my grandmother and I asked her if I could get my Tavluġun, she looked right at me and she said, “Oh, no. Not your beautiful face.” 

My grandmother was one of the first generations to be sent to boarding school as a child and learned to assimilate into the Western society. She was told to just fit in and to do away with the Iñupiat traditions that she had learned. I think she feared that I would stick out too much and maybe wouldn't get a job. I needed to prove to her that I was strong enough to wear the Tavluġun. I needed to earn it. 

With the little literature that was available, I come to learn that the main technique of giving a tattoo was done by a needle and thread. The thread was dipped in ink made of soot from the seal oil lamp and skillfully stitched in the top layers of the skin. I also learned that it was almost always women getting the tattoos done. But the coolest thing was that the tattooist was always a woman. [audience cheers and applause] 

I was empowered. An opportunity came up where I could compete in a statewide cultural pageant. And the cultural pageant, it's similar to a beauty pageant in the lower 48, except you're not really judged on your evening wear or how good you look in a bathing suit, but instead, you're scored on your cultural knowledge and your ability to demonstrate it to a wide audience. I asked my grandmother, “Does our family have any traditional regalia?” And she continued to pull out the most beautiful, unfinished, ground squirrel parka. She said, “Your great grandmother started sewing this parka in the 1960s, my same great grandmother who had those three lines tattooed on her wrist.” 

The competition was three weeks away, and we still had to do the bottom half of this parka. And mind you, this parka had intricate geometric designs that made our family Qupaġ, family crested designs, that people knew who you were, and the stitches were so fine, tight and close. I wondered if my great grandmother had tattooed herself or tattooed others. It was so unifying, knowing that my great grandmother, my grandmother, my mother and I worked on this family heirloom. And with a finished ground squirrel parka, I went to the competition and shared the cultural knowledge that I had learned growing up on the land and talked about the importance of reclaiming our identity and I won. [chuckles] [audience cheers and applause] 

My grandmother was so proud, and I asked her again, I said, “Grandmother, I really want to get these tattoos, but I really need your blessing.” She looked at me and she said, reluctantly, “Okay.” Now, I knew I wanted to get it in a respectful way. In some of the research that I did, I found that when a young woman reached a marriageable age and she was able to bear children, she would receive her traditional chin tattoo. I thought, how can I keep that concept the same, but adapt it to today's world to make it relevant to me? So, I decided that I would get my traditional Tavluġun when I graduated from college, and felt more secure in my identity as an Iñupiat woman, and moved back to my home community and worked for my people. 

So, the day after I graduated college, I made that appointment at the only place that was available to me, because there were no traditional tattooists at that time, at the local tattoo parlor by a non-native man. I had the tattoo done, and it was a beautifully transforming time. I had my family's support, but it lacked something, that ceremony, that connection with the ancestors that I wanted so desperately. 

I went back home, and I was walking down the street and I remember an elder stopped me. He looked at my face and he said, “I remember when my grandmother had traditional chin tattoos like that.” Another elder stopped me another day and said, “I remember seeing women always having traditional tattoos. I'm so glad you're bringing that back.” I remember babies would reach out and they would touch my chin, almost as if they recognized me, like the ancestors were acknowledging me and approving of my tattoo. Because you see, in our culture, the babies are the closest link to our ancestors by their names. 

Getting my tattoo opened the floodgate of knowledge. People were sharing stories from all over Alaska. They wanted to know the ceremony, they wanted to know designs, everybody wanted to learn more. We needed it. We needed it so desperately, because we needed to heal from the historical traumas. I couldn't control what was done in the past, but I could control my next move forward. And even though I didn't know what was next beyond that step, I decided that I was going to be an Iñupiat tattooist. 

And so, I went and I learned from a traditional Filipino tattooist the ancient techniques of skin stitching and hand poking. And along that journey, I learned even more about our tattoos. I learned they were far more than just for beauty. I learned that they were to honor the animals, to acknowledge the spiritual realm. They were also to recognize accomplishments of family. It was like our own form of literature. It was so beautiful, and it was ours, ours to reclaim. 

One of the first tattoos I did, my mom said, “Could you finish the tattoos on my wrist that I started when I was a teenager?” I was so honored. I remember us sitting at fish camp, and me steadily stitching those last two lines to finish those tattoos that were grounding not just her, but me. And soon after, my grandmother's younger sister, in the same generation that went to boarding school and was told to assimilate, called me on the phone, and in her most grandmother tone, said, “You will do my chin tattoo.” [audience laughter] 

And I said, [chuckles] “Okay, Gram.” [audience laughter] I remember going to her house and I was so nervous. I was putting down the stencil on her chin, and I remember saying, “The ancestors are here. They're going to help guide me.” I put the stencil on, and it looked perfect. We tattooed it in this beautiful ceremony that was just healing for both of us. As it was done, we both looked into the mirror and we knew that it was meant to be there. She looked at me in my eyes through the mirror, and she said, “Thank you.” 

I was also able to get my traditional thigh tattoos done, an important component, because I had also discovered that we didn't have tattoos just for this generation or for the past generation. We had tattoos for the future generation. You see, we believe that when a baby exits a womb, the first thing we want them to see is beauty and know that they're coming into a world full of love, and I wanted to make sure I had them, I was preparing to be a mother. 

Now, there are several Iñupiat tattooists. Dozens of women have facial tattoos. Hundreds have traditional tattoos somewhere on their body. But the greatest thing is, eight months ago, I birthed my daughter into a world where our traditional tattooing is a thriving part of being Iñupiat. Quyanaq. 

[cheers and applause]