Songwriter's Story
'Native arts consultant' James Afcan creates songs for those without
by Alex DeMarban
James Afcan is a spiritual conduit, imparting the words of his ancestors through song.
It's a critical role for a culture that almost lost its dancing tradition to Christian oppression.
Afcan, who founded the Miracle Drummers and Dancers in Wasilla, has a reputation for taking that role seriously.
Seven years ago, Agnes Ayagarak wanted to preserve her late husband's traditional Eskimo songs. She prayed and consulted family, searching for the right person to carry on his legacy, which was rooted in the village of Chevak.
With her family's support, she chose Afcan, selecting him even above relatives who also danced and drummed.
At the time, Afcan was young for an Eskimo dance leader, in his late 30s. But he'd headed up the Miracle Drummers for years, a prominent group that gives urban Natives an outlet for their village traditions.
And though Afcan was Yup'ik, Ayagarak valued his deep reverence for Native customs in general. She knew he'd perform her husband's Cup'ig songs with care, Afcan recalls.
You see, Afcan believes that traditional Eskimo dancing isn't just entertainment.
It's designed to "lift the spirit" following funerals or long winters. But perhaps more importantly, it preserves ancient beliefs.
Dancers have said they hear the voice of their ancestors in songs. Some have been handed down for generations, despite missionaries who tried to quash the "pagan" dancing well into the 20th century.
The lyrics and motions are often simple. They share potent lessons about spirituality and respecting nature, traditions and each other.
Consider, for example, "Ciuliamta cauyam," a powerful song written by Afcan following a trip to Denali National Park and Preserve. While hunting, he felt thousands of passing caribou rattle the earth.
The song starts with the slow beat of skin drums accompanied by hypnotic lyrics. Later, the drumming and the chorus accelerate until the beats become explosions. Then the booms taper into rattling finales at the end of each verse.
Here are the words:
I heard the drums of my ancestors.
You people, it was the thump of the caribou running.
You people, the wind brought me songs.
My ancestors brought me these songs.
The piece received an unusual honor, when the Anchorage Symphony Orchestra played it in "symphonic form" at the Atwood Concert Hall early this year.
Gregory Prechel, a California composer, heard the song while doing research in Alaska and had it performed as part of a symphony, Afcan said.
But he didn't call Afcan to ask permission.
In fact, Afcan was surprised when a reporter told him he heard it at the symphony.
Afcan, at his house off woodsy Charlie Drive in Wasilla recently, played a video of the song performed at a traditional event years ago. Afcan was leaner and more wiry then, though he still possesses a compact frame and thick dark hair.
He says he's both proud and disturbed to see his intellectual property used without any benefit to its creator.
"In a way I was honored, then in a way I was saddened," he says. "Because the guy got acknowledged and I didn't. That's not right. We don't sing another person's song just because he got a good song. A lot of these songs belong to our people and should be passed on to our people. They are not up for grabs."
Songs from creator
As his lyrics imply, the wind and his ancestors are his muse, and they take their cue from something larger.
"These songs are given to me by the creator," he says.
Even after years as an accomplished songwriter, Afcan still can't write on command.
"Something's stopping me. The songs that came to me, came to me from within," he says.
Still, Afcan's penned dozens of songs. Some honor elders and others are memorials to the dead. They're funny takes on hunting, short stories, or prayer songs asking salmon to return.
Other songs, like those from Ayagarak, are ancient compositions.
She's not the only one relying on Afcan to preserve a legacy.
In his 40s now, he's responded to such requests for decades. Growing up in the lower Yukon River village of St. Mary's, he first heard elders tell him he'd become a leader. He doesn't know how they knew that, but says elders are often right.
Perhaps people knew he had dancing in his veins.
His birth father was the late Andy Kinzy, a beloved culture bearer who had helped revive dancing and the traditional potlatch in St. Mary's.
Kinzy gave up Afcan as an infant, after his wife died giving birth. An uncle, Raphael Afcan, raised the boy.
Afcan learned about his real father at 12. At the time, he'd decided to get a job unloading summer barges for the local store to help his adopted parents pay the bills.
Afcan needed a birth certificate to get a Social Security number, and Raphael reluctantly produced it.
The boy melted when he saw his real father's name.
"Just like someone took a load off my mysterious feelings that I had," he says. "It was a good thing. I knew I had someone else to turn to."
It also explained why Kinzy had showered attention on him, sometimes treating him better than his own children, Afcan says.
A few years later, Afcan moved to the bigger city of Bethel to live with a relative. He was just 16, but wasn't doing well in the village school because trapping interested him more than classes.
After Bethel, he moved back to St. Mary's for a few years, this time living with Kinzy, who was getting older and needed Afcan's help.
Kinzy taught his son songs, those he'd created himself and others he'd adopted.
He also taught Afcan how to carve, a talent that brings Afcan money.
The exquisite fruits of his work are spread throughout his house in Wasilla. Wooden soup spoons with decorative handles hang on his walls. A box of handmade ulus lie under a table. In other boxes are dance fans embellished with ivory figures like snow geese, ivory earrings shaped like salmon, a humorous carving of a polar bear sneaking up on a hunter relieving himself in the woods.
Afcan's also worked in carpentry. After leaving St. Mary's in his 20s, he studied carpentry at a vocational school in Fairbanks. While there, he met his wife, Janet Deacon. They had later moved to Anchorage and Wasilla, and had three children.
Bearing family's songs
Things changed dramatically for Afcan when his father died in 1994. He returned from Wasilla to St. Mary's and spent 40 days there, honoring the local custom.
During his stay, Afcan's aunts and uncles sat him down, and said someone needed to carry on the family's songs.
Afcan didn't want the responsibility. But they chose him anyway.
They turned over recordings and video of Kinzy, and Afcan began making his dad's work his own. A few months later, back in Wasilla, he formed the Miracle dancers.
The group has earned a lot of recognition. A large black folder in his house includes several newspaper articles about the group, some quite extensive.
As the group's renown spread, more elders met with Afcan to share songs or stories. They include Raphael Jimmy of Mountain Village, Anna Oney Polty of Marshall, and Paul John of Toksook Bay.
With knowledge he's collected from them and others, Afcan calls himself a "Native Arts Consultant."
He's worked summers as a cultural ambassador on Southeast Alaska cruise ships, teaching the Yup'ik culture to tourists. He's taught carving classes at the Alaska Native Heritage Center. He even launched a dance group in the village of Tuluksak, where dancing had ended more than a century earlier.
"I shared some of my dance songs, and teach them to make their own songs," he says.
They also used recording recordings from other villages.
"They really had not songs of their own," he says.
Afcan's living room walls reflect that work. They're covered with thank-you plaques, for dancing at potlatches, for passing on Yup'ik traditions at schools around the state.
But those are small rewards.
More importantly, is the joy he's received from dancing, and the legacy he's passed on.
"I'm happy with it, because that's one of the best ways to help my people," she says.
Alex DeMarban can be reached at ademarban@alaskanewspapers.com or 907-348-2444.