Television Quarterly

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FOR THE FORTY-NINTH STATE, A NEW KIND OF TELEVISION
Jeanie Greene's Heartbeat Alaska is not a sitcom, but the exposure is really Northern and authentic. From a storefront studio with second-hand equipment she broadcasts her popular program to Indians, Aleuts, Eskimos and other native Americans in remote villages with names like Shishmaref, Koyakok, Arctic Village and Mary's Igloo. Her amateur correspondents use their own camcorders.
BY BERT BRILLER
ANCHORAGE

In a world where ethnic conflict is raging -- where issues of blood" have produced appalling rivers of blood can television project an ethnic group's image without stirring up hate, can it build a people's pride without increasing prejudice? A unique, Native American-owned-and staffed program, Heartbeat Alaska, is making a big impact not only in the 49th State with its very diverse population, but also in the Lower 48, Canada, Greenland and across ten time zones. Its success provides valuable input for evaluating television's treatment of Native Americans and other minorities -- at a time when some
Americans advocate "the salad bowl not the melting pot" principle.

At the heart of Heartbeat is Jeanie Greene, an Inupiat Native Alaskan, who created the show. produces, directs, edits and anchors it. For Native Alaskans, the half-hour Sunday night program is an absolute must-see. If it is cancelled, the phones ring in an angry chorus. As one viewer complained. "I waited all week for a program with our kind of people in it and instead I got baseball."

I found Jeanie Greene in the storefront shop she's turned into a TV studio, next to a hairdresser's shop a couple of miles from downtown Anchorage. First, I asked why Northern Exposure, which is such a solid hit in the rest of the U.S., doesn't cut much ice with Native Alaskans.

"Exposure is a joke." Greene says, "I zapped it when it showed tacos as part of native diet." Heartbeat's exposure is definitely Northern, but it's authentic--dedicated to showing the real Alaska through the eyes, ears and voices of the many ethnic groups whose ancestors crossed the Bering Straits thousands of years ago.

Greene, trained at the University of Alaska as an actress with a minor in Anthropology, is articulate, dynamic, intense. Apologetically, she warns, "Don't let me bulldoze you, but I've got so much to say," And much of her energy comes from resentment at how Native Alaskans have been and are being mistreated. "In order to understand where I come from, you've got to understand what I've gone through." And that includes hearing television executives call her "that aboriginal" and other
racial epithets.

But, she says, "I don't have any hatred. They did me a favor. They made me tough-skinned. I'm half white and I'm as proud of that half as I am of my Inupiat heritage."

The roots of Heartbeat, she relates, grew from the failure of Alaskan television to show Native Alaskans, except in negative situations. With her anthropology background, she tried to get a story on the air about Native Americans in Bethel, singing in their Russian Orthodox Church hymns lost in the Soviet Union. It was turned down "because natives are unintelligible." So she started a campaign to get native news on a local station. Armed with letters from the elders of several native villages, she got a deal to do three to five-minute segments of native news twice weekly on ABC's Anchorage affiliate, KIMO (from
Eskimo), whose 6 PM newscasts used to be picked up by the Rural Alaska Television Network.

RATNET, as it's called, takes a selection of shows from Anchorage commercial and public stations and cable and beams them by satellite, microwave and mini-transmitters to over 240 communities in the vast wilderness (but not urban Anchorage, Juneau and Fairbanks). The 14 member RATNET council, which represents the audience and chooses the programs, loved Greene's segments.

To compress the story of her struggle against resistance to airing native news on commercial channels - although 17,000 of Anchorage's 250,000 population are Native -- Greene finally decided to package a weekly half-hour native TV magazine program on her own. Managerial types gloomily forecast failure, but Greene says, "Telling me No is giving me permission to succeed."

Alaska--"The Last Frontier"-thrives on a Can-Do philosophy, relishes tackling formidable challenges, and Greene in 1992 began producing Heartbeat by herself in her cramped Anchorage apartment, moving out the dining room table to make space for her second-hand equipment. It was a "Mom and Pop" operation. But she was soon joined by John Dimmick, an Inupiat cousin, a young sometime oil worker who serves as cameraman and keeps the vintage equipment working.

After surviving a full year in her apartment, the show finally was firm enough to set up her store front studio on Fairbanks Street. The location allows her to get closer to some of her audience. Enthusiastic viewers often wander in asking how they can help the show.

Today Heartbeat has broad, if patchwork, distribution blanketing Alaska on RATNET, cable and tape; aired by Television Northern Canada across the continent; by KNR-TV Greenland; the Navajo Nation channel in Window Rock, Arizona, and picked up by various PBS stations via TelStar. Still, Greene worries about paying the rent.

She dreams of upgrading her equipment two studio cameras, two field cameras and 3/4 inch videotape and editing machines. Nevertheless, this self-taught do-it-all does complicated dissolves and moving inserts, without aiming far glitz and glamour. Heartbeat's strong features include videotape footage sent in by videocam amateurs from the Arctic wastes, the tundra, the isolated outposts which get mail (weather permitting) twice a year.

The "home movies" come from remote pierces with names like Shishmaref and Koyaleok, Coldfoot and Kwigillingok, Arctic Village and Mary's Igloo, but they're authentic. Gary Fife, reporter for KSKA, Public Radio in Anchorage, who does a five minute segment of Native American news on each Heartbeat, says, "If Jeanie came to a tribal event with a professional crew, people would all straighten up and behave or show off. The amateurs' tapes give a natural, honest, refreshing picture of their
lives."

Fife sees the program as giving natives a hand in gaining control of their own lives. His news segment surveys what is happening with native groups all over North and South America--and even Siberia.

"We're trying to tie things all together," he adds. "Natives have many common problems. If one group is solving a problem, others may learn from it. We're sharing views and showing many different sets of values -- what works for the Show on the plains of South Dakota may not work for the Cherokee in the hills of Oklahoma. We're trying to give a picture of a reality television never showed before. We have to have our own vehicle, because nobody knows the complexities of our situation as we do."

Greene is convinced the program can reach beyond the Americas: "There's no reason our global village can't expand to include the Maoris of New Zeeland." Because natives and Russians in Siberia were tuning in to Heartbeat's satellite transmission, a Russian journalist, Alex Lubosh, recently came here to interview Greene. Their discussions, which included a report on U.S.- Russian cooperation in counting the bowhead whale population, were carried on Heartbeat in both languages.

Her core concept is that natives should own their own lives and culture. She is very sensitive to what she feels is "the bootlegging of native culture."

"People from the outside are writing books, imitating native arts and crafts, telling our stories," she says. "In the name of documentation they are even robbing graves. It's all done with the best of intentions, by people who are not devious, but who are nevertheless making money from it. It's vital for us to own our own story." She recognizes the complexity of the issues, especially in terms of each artist's right to interpret the world in his own way. Handing me a two-inch thick scrapbook, she points out that she has played women of other races, Shakespeare's Cleopatra, Johnson's Duchess of Malfi. "Much depends
on the artist's intentions and the individual situation," she says. Clippings show she also ran a dinner theater, did TV commercials, was the presenter on a local real estate program.

Natives object to being made "pets," even by social scientists. Greene tells me of an anthropologist who, true to type, grew possessive of the group she studied, the Yupiks. She'd cross her arms over her bosom and glowingly exclaim, "My Yupiks, my Yupiks." Amused, one native asked, "Why does she call her breasts 'Yupiks'?" Greene comments, "Native humor."

Fife, of Muskogee Creek and Cherokee parentage and a member of the Wolf clan, hails from Tulsa, Oklahoma. He says, "We natives are Americans' pet minority. But mostly we're dealt with in terms of 'The Poor Indian', the Indian as Victim, the tragedies of the Trail of Tears and Wounded Knee. We're not shown as contemporary U.S. citizens. We're presented as happy dancers or dysfunctional drunks. An NBC documentary turned a whole tribe of Indians into a bunch of drunks and won a Peabody Award for it!"

Prejudice against Native Americans stems from ignorance of history. Fife declares. "Heartbeat doesn't do the Sucker Story: a crying native child, a beautiful landscape, barbed wire and a dead sheep," he says. "Broadcasters occasionally cover colorful ceremonies, but they ignore the bread-and-butter issues, the economic matters that are so important."

"Jeanie seeks out positive events. When Heartbeat shows a graduation ceremony, with kindergartners and high schoolers getting diplomas," Fife continues, "it touches everybody, as you were touched, and the scenes of natives' academic progress have an uplifting impact."

Natives are resentful of people from outside who think they know the land and its people. Michael Criechton recently told of a writer who visited an Eskimo village in the bush and was asked how long he'd stay. Before he could reply, another Eskimo answered far him: "One day, newspaper story. Two days, magazine story, Five days, book."

In the immense expanse of Alaska, twice the size of Texas, there are three native groups: Indians who speak some five different languages, Eskimos with four languages, and Aleuts with their own. Although one might not understand the other's language, they are interested in each other. Greene points out that she is very careful to call each group, not by the name used by anthropologists or journalists, but by the name the group calls itself: "Checking names for authenticity is one reason I have a $1000-a-month phone bill."

"I am not the authority on native life," Greene stresses. "The authority is the person who lives in the bush, who has to walk on the ground of the village. We air their stories, but they are their stories. I use my skill as an editor, but with great respect for the people and their culture. They teach me constantly."

She emphasizes that Heartbeat is not the Jeanie Greene Show." Now that it is attracting national attention, friends warn her about competition. Her answer: "If God wants to develop 20 more shows, am I going to tell Him no? The day this becomes the Jeanie Greene Show' is the day I lose it." A typical show, one of six I watched, opened with shots of natives, a spirit mask, spectacular Alaskan scenery, backed by a rock song speaking of or heartbeat "loud as thunder" and proclaiming that "revolution is in the air." Greene showed clips of a local parade, with herself on a float, then introduced Fife's native news
report.

This segment included stories on proposals for improving Alaska's native health care system; a meeting in Virginia of indigenous women setting up an international network; negotiations between the Mexican government and the Zapatista
rebels; the Pequot Indians of Connecticut giving a $2,000,000 grant to the Special Olympics to be held at Yale next year; expansion of a Native Americans academic honor society; legal wrangling between the state of Nebraska and natives on repatriation of tribal skeletal remains and artifacts; and a Minnesota law barring the use of Indians' names on beer labels.

The programs are all broadcast in English, although occasionally there are passages in one of the native languages.

A major trend in the news Fife covers is economic growth under native self-determination. "We're calling our own shots more," he points out, "with native governments and corporations exercising more muscle under the treaties that give us sovereignty. Locally tribes are paving roads, building clinics, providing scholarships. On our lands, whether it's gaming, hunting, or access, if outsiders do business with us we have the right to tax them just as we'd be taxed in their jurisdiction."

On the same broadcast, Greene introduced a segment on how natives hunt and fish for subsistence on the North Slope. She followed with tapes of a fish-cutting contest (with the half moon ulu knife) and a beaver-skinning contest in another village where the elders demonstrated traditional techniques to youngsters.

This program like many of her others, boldly tackled the thorny issue of alcoholism. Although natives make up only 16% of Alaska's population, They are 35% of prison inmates -- most incarcerated for drinking or drug related crimes, To fight alcoholism Sobriety Potlatches were held in 9 of the state's 11 prisons, linking sobriety to traditional rituals and family, community and spiritual values. Greene presented tape clips from several prisons, including a "stake dance" in which the staked enemy is alcohol.

Even before that telecast Greene received warm responses from prisoners. The Native Culture Club of the Palmer Correctional facility wrote, "Quyaanakpak [Thanks, in Inupiat]... It really is a blessing for all of us in the institution to be touched and warmed by your program... Many of the brothers would like a copy of the shows you have done on their home towns." Acknowledging the seriousness of natives' alcoholism, Greene's point of view is, "Don't blame others. Look in the mirror. Stop carrying the burden of the six-pack on your back. We're going to cure ourselves, heal ourselves, empower ourselves."

Another program reported on the torching of a one-room schoolhouse and other buildings in a remote community by a drunk discharged employee. The scenes of damage and the comments of villagers underlined the devastating effects of alcohol. One man said. Compassionately, in jail the arsonist will get a chance to think about what he's done, to feel the sorrow of it, to learn that he did it under the influence of alcohol.

Greene tells me that as she edits the tape coming in. she's often moved to tears or to laughter. One example of native humor was a dance by an elder enacting rituals of the hunt, concluding with rubbing his stomach after the meal and finally fluttering his hand behind his backside in a gesture of relief. It was earthy humor that probably wouldn't have made it past network censors.

To outsiders, native stoicism seems to be passivity. I asked about a story in which teens were listening without visible reaction to a teacher stressing native self-respect. Greene explains, "Their seeming dispirited, detached, passive is a symptom of the oppression by Western culture. But you can't say the Tlingits, who battled the Russians, are passive. One of the strongest qualities of the Yupiks is their humbleness and ability to work together. Some hunting people trained their youths to sit straight-out in their kayaks for hours, to silently read the waves, to be master hunters. Along comes the shotgun. Pow! That defines displacement technology taking away many aspects of the old life."

"Western culture is telling natives they're less than human," Greene stresses. "But natives have a fabulous ability to listen. They don't have to talk-talk-talk-talk. They allow others to be themselves. Have you ever been in a group of people who can handle silence without feeling awkward or having to fill the anxious moment of silence? Natives don't have the talking compulsion of Westerners."

In oversimplified terms, Native Americans have seen some of their old ways of life destroyed by the introduction of modern technology, but they have not been prepared for the new style of life, nor is there enough opportunity for them in an industrialized economy in recession. Moreover, cultural disruption is being played out in a society that segregated and debased natives.

Heartbeat gets into these sensitive areas. It covered the anniversary of Elizabeth Peratrovich, the Tlingit Indian woman who led the fight to pass an anti-discrimination law. Greene also devoted a special program to a film produced by the National Conference of Christians and Jews debunking myths and misunderstandings of Native Americans spread by the media. This presented testimony from eight Native Americans, including Gary Fife and Wilma Mankiller, principal chief of the Cherokee nation. Panelists called for a new study of history, an end to the vacuum of information about indigenous peoples, recognition that natives are not just a race but part of political entities having rights and treaty relations with the U.S. They stressed that the press should "take natives out of the shadows" and give them fuller coverage, because they've been on this land much longer than 500 years and can look at environmental and social problems from a more meaningful point of view that we humans are part of this world, not dominating it. The fight to counter media stereotypes, Fife tells me, is growing and minority journalists are joining hands. In July the Native American Journalists Association, on whose board Fife serves, met
with three other associations, of Black, Hispanic and Asian journalists.

In addition to the technology of industrial society invading the Arctic areas isolated by mountains, glaciers and enormous distances, a strong channel of contagion is television. Villagers are exposed to sitcoms and police dramas, CNN and MTV, commercials for Clairol and Nikes.

"People in the bush can't relate to the willowy blonde beside the Cadillac, nor can they afford the luxuries," Greene says, "Regular TV, which is so pervasive, is a foreign land to them. But they respond to Heartbeat. They see Indians and Eskimos and people like themselves. They see a different kind of beauty. The never-never-land of television, which seemed so impossible, is now attainable to them."

Yet the influence of pop culture is felt. Musically, rock has made headway. Frequently Heartbeat includes a music video. An Indian group, Red Thunder, features two sexy male singers who perform with passion and zeal. Their militant lyrics underline change and the consciousness of being native. Many outsiders try to stereotype natives, want them to be their fantasy of "native," Greene says. "They think if we have a snowmobile or a telephone we're less 'native.' But my Inupiat ancestry is not diminished because I drive a car, have a fax and call-forward."

She believes natives learn best by seeing demonstrations, and programs include reports that show the elders' skills, such as whale hunting or basket weaving. In this respect Heartbeat is becoming an archive of Native Alaskan culture. One program showed a native making an Eskimo drum. Some traditional materials were used, but new aluminum screws were incorporated, because they last longer. "That doesn't make the drums less authentic," Greene argues. "The sound and the song come from the heart and soul, not from the walrus skin."

The natives' warm relationship with their children is evident in segments on many Heartbeat programs. Two included cooking segments in which a father is helped by his six-year-old daughter. Eskimo halibut pie is not Julia Child's gourmet cuisine, and measurements are ignored. But as Greene says, "If you need exact quantities, you're in trouble" and the overall effect was charming.

Heartbeat gets some underwriting from Coca-Cola, Alaska Trading Co., and Native Regional Corporations such as Cook Inlet Region, Chugach Alaska Corp. and the North Slope Borough, who are credited on the air with opening billboards. Spots can be bought on commercial stations that broadcast her show. These replace some of the public service announcements.

When prospective sponsors ask for Nielsen ratings, Greene replies, "Just get a map of Alaska. Pick any one of 240 villages out there. Put in a call and ask the operator to speak to anyone. The operator will ask for a name. Tell her, my name with an A or a B. and When I get on the line, whoever answers will say, Hi, Jeanie Greene, we watch your show all the time.

Because they now have Heartbeat as a benchmark, natives are more critical of commercial television. When an Anchorage station did a slanted piece on drunk natives, a large number of angry viewers called Greene. She told them, "Don't complain to me; call the news director at that station. But I will try to do something to show the other side of the story."

Greene told me why she calls her production company One Sky. "I was being interviewed by a white journalist," she relates," and as her fearful eyes looked into my fearful eyes, I felt she feared what she thought I knew. And I feared what I thought she did not know. Racial fear comes from ignorance. To be able to continue, I looked for some common ground--and thanked her for sharing her sky with me. And later I wrote a poem, One Sky.

"U1timately, we all share the earth as human beings. With all our differences and colors, different needs and ways. We need each other and need to shore. Bottom line."

We'll see more of Jeanie Greene. Alaska's Governor Walter J. Hickel recently wrote her, Your show fills a tremendous need in broadcasting not only for Alaska's Native residents but for many other Native American groups, as well as far others around the globe.

"Your dream for or Native American cable channel is a reachable goal and we want to encourage you in marking it happen ...Just keep your positive focus, mid we know you'll succeed." After showing me a tape of a Native bowhead whale hunt, Greene led me to the set area where a hunter's spirit mask hangs as part of the backdrop. "The inner circle represents the earth, the outer, the heavens," she explains. "Around it are harpoons, whale flippers, seal flippers, feathers, walrus hide. The hunter's mouth is open, calling and thanking the animals and the environment with which he lives in one-ness and communication. It's a strong symbol -- and I hope a symbol of its ties between native peoples mid Heartbeat Alaska.

"I won't stop," she continues forcefully, "We've got a lot of myths to eradicate. We won't be the victims who are mired in a tragic past. Do I have hope for the natives? Absolutely. I think native peoples eventually are going to heal the world. I hope and pray that we can get to the rest of the world in time--if only by having people watch how we live and being inspired by how we work with nature."