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Conserving, protecting and restoring our country's coldwater fisheries and their watersheds.
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- In his early career he was a member of the rock group Th' Dudes and was the main creative force in pop band DD Smash.
The label displays an illustration of a naked, red-haired woman riding bareback on a caribou, her bra and panties tossed in the air behind her. Although Panty Peeler has been sold since the late s, it recently began being packaged in cans and also became the target of online critics who say the label and title promote rape in a state with high rates of sexual violence.
One of the most ardent defenders of the Panty Peeler brand was Avraham Barton Zorea, who describes himself as an oil painter and part-time defense attorney. We also handle all of Midnight Sun Brewing Company's social media. Our direction is to promote strength, adventure and playfulness," Miller said. Although Alaska has one of the highest rates of sexual assault in the nation, the council has helped reduce the reported incidences of the rape over the last five years and is trying to change norms that support the idea that drinking alcohol implies consent to sexual behavior, said Lauree Morton, executive director.
We believe it is time for every Alaskan to confront this myth," she said. Drinking alcohol or being drunk in no way implies consent to sex. Click Here to access the online Public Inspection File. Viewers with disabilities can get assistance accessing this station's FCC Public Inspection File by contacting the station with the information listed below. Questions or concerns relating to the accessibility of the FCC's online public file system should be directed to the FCC at , TTY , or fccinfo fcc.
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Non-album singles. For a more comprehensive list, see DD Smash. Archived from the original on 24 November The album entered the NZ Top 40 Album Charts at Number 2  and remained in the charts for 6 weeks, eventually attaining Gold status. Label: Columbia Records Catalogue no: For a more comprehensive list, see Th' Dudes. Lament for the Numb.
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Long Features – Niki Wilson
It's my daughter's Tsimshian name. She received it last summer at her great-grandparents' home in Southeast Alaska after we met them for the first time earlier that day. The naming ceremony was my idea.
Olive is growing up in Anchorage but she's a daughter of the Tongass -- that fortress of towering spruce, cedar and hemlock, a rainforest that blankets the Southeast panhandle. She's Tsimshian, a member of one of three Alaska tribes that have inhabited the place for thousands of years -- a rugged, bear-infested strip of mountainous coastline, defined by isolated communities, jagged fjords and huge runs of wild salmon.
Olive's biological family is from Metlakatla, a Tsimshian community in the southernmost reaches of the panhandle. As her adoptive mother, I wanted Olive to know this rain-swept place, her blood relatives, her Tsimshian heritage. Olive entered the world on Sept. My husband, John, and I flew down from Anchorage under a full moon, within hours of learning that a young mother had chosen us.
The teenage mom had delivered a healthy 6-pound, ounce girl. We were told she wanted to place the child for adoption, and after looking through several portfolios of potential families, she selected us. As the Alaska Airlines jet descended into Sitka, I felt nauseous with excitement. After landing, we took a taxi to the s-era hospital and stepped inside a dimly lit foyer. Karen, our adoption worker, met us and went over some details about the baby's birth and what we could expect next.
We followed Karen upstairs and settled into an empty room in the maternity ward. A woman who turned out to be Olive's grandmother, Vicky, soon walked in, wheeling a bassinet.
She scooped up the baby and placed her in my arms. We looked down at the sleeping infant and then up at one another. We had completed adoption paperwork six months earlier, seeking to become first-time parents after eight years as a couple.
We had traveled extensively and had careers that took us to remote places. It was time to settle down. When biology failed to produce a child, we started exploring adoption. A former newspaper colleague, Kim Rich, had adopted through Catholic Social Services in Anchorage and encouraged me to explore this route.
Adoption seemed like a long road with many potential pitfalls, but we pursued it. In discussions leading up to Olive's arrival, the social workers explained that most available children would be non-Caucasian. They asked us what we thought about parenting a child of a different race.
We saw no particular issues. Five years in, we're still scratching our heads. How do we keep Olive connected to her culture? We're non-Native without a large circle of Native friends. How do we pull this off? It's unresolved. But contact with Olive's birth family has allowed us to start feeling like things are coming together. Ever since Olive joined our family, I have thought a lot about the fact that she is Alaska Native.
John's background is Finnish and English. I'm first-generation Irish-American. How do we raise a Tsimshian child? We've reached out to a Tsimshian dance group in Anchorage, and its members have welcomed us. But Olive is shy and has not wanted to participate yet. A Raven clan crest graces a wall in her bedroom. Occasionally we watch YouTube videos of Tsimshian dancing, and we speak with pride about Olive's tribe and clan.
Or when a raven flies overhead, she'll point and say, "I'm a Raven too. You are my little Raven, and I'm so proud of you. As someone who spent her childhood an ocean away from relatives, I understand how growing up in a diaspora feels.
The isolation and disconnection can be tough. My parents and older brother immigrated to the United States from Ireland in the late s. I'm the only person in my family born on American soil. Aside from an aunt, a nun in California who we rarely saw, all my relatives live in Ireland. We saw them for two weeks every other summer. I didn't appreciate it then, but the time spent with my Irish relatives and family friends offered a sense of place and belonging.
Recognizing their blue-green eyes and their facial features in mine, I learned I was part of something bigger than my nuclear family in Cliffside Park, N.
Stephanie, Olive's birth mother, and I found each other through Facebook. That tentative contact developed into phone calls, texts and, later, video chats. During a trip to Sitka a couple of years ago, I met Stephanie in a coffee shop, and she said she was ready to meet Olive.
I wanted Olive to have a name that would connect her to her tribe. Her English name -- Olive Connolly Reed -- is a combination of John's surname and my mother's maiden name. Her first name honors my father, Oliver, and my mother's best friend, Olive. But John and I wanted her Tsimshian heritage recognized too.
At the time of her adoption, we didn't know her birth family, so it didn't seem right to pick a Tsimshian name randomly on our own. But after contact, I asked Olive's Aunt Kandi if she could research the Tsimshian word for "treasured gift. Kandi said she would. We decided to travel to the island in early August.
Metlakatla celebrates its founding every Aug. Last year marked the community's th anniversary, and Metlakatla's four clans were planning potlatches. John's parents, John Sr. We rendezvoused in Anchorage. After a morning flight from Anchorage to Ketchikan, we boarded a ferry to Metlakatla, our clothes damp from rain. After a minute ride through the Inside Passage, the ferry docked on Annette Island, a forested dot in the sea.
Olive's grandmother Vicky had promised to pick us up. We had not seen her since the night of Olive's birth. I scanned the crowd and saw a middle-aged woman with a long, black ponytail. Wearing wraparound sunglasses, jeans and a blue Metlakatla Indian Community Casino T-shirt, Vicky waved when she spotted us. As grandmother and granddaughter looked each other over, smiles lit up their faces.
Normally shy with new people, Olive scrambled up into Vicky's giant pickup and nestled next to her. I sat in the passenger seat. Everyone else squeezed into the back. The mile road from the ferry terminal into town cut through steep forested mountains on one side, a steely gray sea on the other.
Within minutes, we arrived in the heart of town. Vicky pulled the truck to a stop in front of a small ranch house with tan siding. A young woman with long brown hair streamed out of the house, two little boys behind her. She had the same round cheeks, pug nose, high forehead and brown eyes as Olive. Cousins, aunts and other relatives gathered close by and watched.
Everyone was smiling. The house, owned by Olive's great-grandparents, Freeman and Marlene, smelled like stew and rice. Family photos covered the wall. After hugs and handshakes, the adults sank into armchairs and an afghan-covered couch.
We chatted about the weather and the trip from Anchorage, the polite and somewhat-stilted conversation people just getting to know one another might have. But it was happening, and it felt miraculous to me.
A gaggle of kids, including Olive and Drew, their new baby brothers, Tayler and Bailey Stephanie's other kids ; and cousins Dorothy, Isabella and Ethan, played in the front yard. They searched for ladybugs in the bushes, played Ring around the Rosie, and stomped in rain puddles.
After a dinner of chicken chop suey and beef stew over white rice, Olive's Aunt Kandi asked for everyone's attention. Go to the living room.
Olive should sit next to Papa," said Kandi. John and I glanced at each other. We didn't know what was coming next.
According to Tsimshian tradition, when a child receives a Tsimshian name, the male head of household places his hand on the shoulder of the child and repeats the name three times. Kandi handed her grandfather a piece of paper with words on it I didn't recognize. She said the family is starting to learn more of the tribe's traditional language and integrate more Tsimshian customs and practices into their lives. Olive would be the first member of the family to formally receive a Tsimshian name.