Nunani: In my grandmother’s house

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

If you could see a picture of my grandmother, you would know that she was a true Northern Beauty — raven hair, strong features, toned arms.

You would be able to see that she was not only sure and beautiful, but solid, emotionally and spiritually. She had to be, in order to raise a family of half a dozen (or so) boys, fulfill the role of a hunter’s wife, and co-lead a camp of 30 extended family members. Not only did she have to provide enough direction and stability to survive in her unforgiving environment, but she had to see that her family actually thrived within it.

In photographs of her, she seems just under 40 years old, always running a busy Inuit household, a model of her time. She oversaw the making of an endless stream of hand-designed clothing, able to withstand the needs of the seasons, the wear and tear of a hunting lifestyle.

That would mean, among other things, successions of duffel socks, outer socks, sealskin boots, mitts, pants, parkas, woven belts, boys’ wear — often specialized for alternating wet or dry environments. She also possessed the often-times secret Inuit sewing skills to construct men’s hunting wear for different seasons and weather conditions. To top it off, everything had to be made according to her own region’s idea of style.

To run a household of her size, and deal with the many game animals my grandfather provided for the camp, she would have had to process several hundred sealskins and countless char. She would have had to scrape and dry caribou-skin bedding for three households (her own, my great-grandmother’s, and those of various aunts and uncles in the camps). She was also responsible for the gifts to myriad cousins, nieces, nephews, and us grandchildren (on both sides, of course).

As the wife of the camp leader, there were celebrations and meetings to organize and oversee. These would include Sunday services, requiring of each person a clean face and new set of clothing. I’m not even sure how she managed all of this along with the everyday stuff, like cooking, cleaning, and maintaining the home.

There was no electricity or running water, and therefore no dishwasher or vacuum cleaner to speed things along. And, of course, there was no TV to keep all the kids occupied — which was probably healthier for them, anyway.

She had a tremendous store of traditional knowledge to pass on to her children: how to light and maintain a qulliq, both summer and winter; how to make specialty Inuit “treats” like aluk, igunaq and ujjaq.

There were a lot of details about that lifestyle that I hadn’t noticed until adulthood, until it was all gone. When I study old photographs, for example, I note that everyone wore woven belts. And then there was the complex beadwork, and the inlaid designs on their clothing — all time-consuming and intricate work; not at all for the faint of heart. It is a curse of adulthood that it is only by the time we are grown that we can understand the things we should have appreciated as children.

It is somehow tragic and unfair that her image exists now only in photographs, images that fill me with wonder and amazement at this incredible woman. Mostly, I wonder: Where did she find the time?

All of this work, and yet — unlike modern people — her face doesn’t show a trace of stress or regret. She radiates life, fulfillment. Her children look healthy, lacking for nothing. The camp looks well cared for. It thrives.

Several of my aunts and uncles, in those photos, proudly display pets. Pets! Think about the resources required for such a luxury — but there they are, whether geese, seagulls, jaegers, ducks, or even a seal pup.

Where would my formidable grandmother, Qillaq, have acquired the sort of education necessary to run such an environment? What core of strength and discipline did she access in order to do so?

Perhaps simply from her own heritage, from my equally amazing great-grandmother, Arnoujaq. Her very name means, “Like a Woman,” as though it were a tribute to the strength of women and mothers everywhere.

With this in mind, and as Mother’s Day approaches, do I entreat each of us to regard the special power of the feminine, to regard our matrons, whose nature produces and preserves.

Pijariiqpunga.