Stepping Into the Unknown
When my husband, Rick, and I packed our bags and moved to Alaska, we thought we knew what we were signing up for. We expected snow, cold winds, and the everyday challenges of living in rural communities. What we didn’t expect was how deeply those eight years would change us, not just as teachers, but as human beings.
Our first flight into the village was the moment everything shifted. The world below us was a vast stretch of white, untouched and quiet, with only a cluster of small homes breaking the landscape. It was beautiful and intimidating all at once. I remember gripping Rick’s hand and thinking, “We’re really doing this.” And we were.
The Lessons I Didn’t Know I Needed
I came to Alaska as an educator with years of teaching behind me. I had my methods, my expectations, and a clear idea of what “school” looked like. But within weeks, those ideas were gently, and sometimes not so gently challenged.
The Inupiat and Yupik communities welcomed us with a warmth that stood in perfect contrast to the freezing air outside. They taught us to slow down, to listen more, and to understand that culture is not something you observe from the outside. It is something you respect, honor, and participate in.
I learned that community wasn’t just a word, it was a way of life. Everyone belonged to everyone. Children were raised by many hands. Stories weren’t entertainment; they were lessons, history, identity, and survival woven into every word.
Teaching Became More Than a Job
It didn’t take long to realize that my classroom wasn’t just a place for reading and math. It was a bridge between worlds. Some days we worked through textbooks; other days we paused everything because the entire village was preparing for a hunt or gathering together for a celebration.
At first, I struggled with the flexibility. My internal rhythm as a teacher had been shaped by structure, schedules, and bells. But in the villages, life had its own pace. The seasons dictated routines. Family needs came first. Community events weren’t interruptions; they were the heartbeat of the village.
Slowly, I learned to embrace the flow. And once I did, the most beautiful teaching moments began to unfold.
The Children Who Changed Me
I still remember the laughter of the children as they ran across the snow-packed playground. I remember the way they told stories with their whole bodies, how their eyes lit up when they shared something personal, and how their silence carried meaning just as loudly as their words.
They taught me to be present.
To be patient.
To be humble.
Every child carried a history I had not grown up with a history of tradition, resilience, and connection to land and family. They taught me about respect in a way no textbook ever could. Teaching them was a privilege I will always treasure.
Seeing Life Through a New Lens
Living in remote Alaska forced me to unlearn and relearn what truly matters. I witnessed strength in the face of harsh winters, generosity in moments when resources were limited, and joy in the simplest gatherings.
I learned that culture is not something you “study.” It is something you enter with humility. And once you do, it changes your understanding of the world.
Those eight years taught me to value community in a deeper way. They taught me that education looks different depending on where you stand, and yet the heart of it remains the same everywhere: connection, compassion, and understanding.
Where That Journey Led Me
When Rick and I eventually returned to the lower forty-eight, I carried Alaska with me. I carried the lessons from the children who trusted me. I carried the stories shared around kitchen tables, in classrooms, and during long, cold evenings filled with laughter.
Those years shaped my teaching philosophy, my worldview, and ultimately, my reason for writing There’s a Pig on the Playground. They taught me that every community has wisdom to share if you’re willing to listen long enough.
A Final Reflection
I went to Alaska expecting to teach.
I left realizing I had been taught.
Those eight years remain some of the most meaningful of my life. And even now, when I close my eyes, I can still hear the wind across the tundra, the laughter of students bundled in coats, and the quiet strength of a community that taught me what it truly means to belong.