As I near the end of my volunteer year, I can’t help but think about the path not chosen — the path that stays right here in Nome.
No one tells you ahead of time, but once you step off the plane you become the center of a subtle but vigilant campaign. It’s a campaign to win your heart, and believe me: The battle is already over. This place gets under your skin faster than a splinter of driftwood, and is twice as difficult to remove.
It’s a fantastic town, filled with fantastic characters. I often think that someone could live a year or two in Nome and have enough material to write twelve seasons of award-winning sitcoms. (And, no, I’m not talking about Northern Exposure.) Truly, this place is unique and magical. But not without its difficulties.
Alaska has one of the highest alcoholism rates in the country, and the statistics in Western Alaska are particularly dire. There’s a heartbreaking prevalence of suicide — especially among young people — in the Bering Strait region. And the numbers regarding violence against women are staggering.
I realize these are not pleasant or easy things to hear. But to ignore them would do a disservice to the strong, motivated, and inspirational people who work to make our community a better place. Whether they’re developing regional wellness programs, running the volunteer ambulance department, or operating an emergency shelter — you can’t turn a corner in Nome without bumping into someone who has made this place, and the problems that go along with it, their calling.
Some of them arrived from Outside; others have been here for generations. The thing that unites them is their dedication — their unwavering commitment to be “in it for the long haul.”
It’s here I should probably mention that other, less-inspirational group: The Ones Who Leave. Insert cautionary tale about the teachers/doctors/radio personalities that flow in and out of Nome like tides. High turnover rates are another problem plaguing our region, as those in leadership positions come in, build connections, and then move on with alarming regularity.
I should also probably mention that I’ll soon be part of that problem. In two months, I’ll be joining the ranks of those who come and go after only a short stay in this community.
That’s what makes the decision to leave Nome such a hard one — it’s difficult to acknowledge that you may be contributing to the problem, even as you want to help with the solution. I could write a whole other post (and/or book) about the ethical dilemmas of “voluntourism,” but the major takeaway would go something like this: Real change comes from within communities, not from visitors.
But what defines a visitor…and what defines a community member? Is it the number of years you’ve lived here, or the record of your accomplishments? How do you measure your permanence? And when, exactly, do you make that switch? There are plenty of KNOM alumni who have transitioned from fleeting voices on the radio to long-term members of this community. Some have even left, only to return in another capacity or role.
This, I think, touches on the silver-lining of Western Alaska’s retention problem. While people continue to come and go — the ones who stay (and those who return) are all the more incredible in their passion for this community. Which, I believe, says more about Nome than it does about the people who wash up on its shores.
So while I have many reasons for (and doubts about) leaving this place, I think I’d like to end with a word of thanks — for the opportunity to be a part of this community, even for a short time, and for the lessons I’ve learned from those wonderful few who stay.
