Jenny Irene Miller
Continuous, 2015 – 2019
Continuous is my small inquiry into the large question: how do we as Indigenous peoples decolonize our sexualities, gender identities, and the way we treat individuals who identify outside of the pervasive binary of male or female? I have replied to that question with this portrait series featuring peoples who identify as being part of the Indigenous lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer, and Two-Spirit (LGBTQ2+) community. I am part of this series and so is my brother. My hope is that this project will inspire dialogue within our communities on how to make those spaces safer and more welcoming for our Indigenous LGBTQ2+ relatives.
Continuous explores identity, sexuality, gender diversity, discrimination, and pride and how those elements overlap, diverge, and inform each other. This work is personal and communal. It is the product of the many years it took me to overcome the internalized hatred and fear of my own identity and sexuality. It is in the unity and diversity of the Indigenous LGBTQ2+ community where I found the strength to be who I am today. The individuals shown here are a small sampling of that large and variant group. While we are indeed incredibly diverse, we also share many commonalities. Some I have known since childhood, others I have met as a young adult, and some are new and now cherished friends.
By identifying an Indigenous LGBTQ2+ community, Continuous connects us to a growing global community of Indigenous LGBTQ2+ people. Through knowing who we are and establishing ourselves through this project, we can lend support to one another. I must stress that although the individuals in this series were willing to share their identities and stories, some LGBTQ2+ people cannot safely do so, because of the discrimination that exists. This project is also for them, to be one building block of a world where they can live their lives authentically, as they feel best.
Anthony Capo, 2016
My name is Anthony Capo and I am from Egegik, Alaska. I am of the Sugpiaq people native to the southwest shores of Alaska, and the Taino Indian people native to Puerto Rico.
Anthony is openly gay, but admits, “It was not easy coming out, but I like to think I’ve gained some self respect by doing so. Being closeted perpetuates the idea that being gay is wrong when it is not. Why should I hide something that should be celebrated?”
As a child, Anthony believed that he was the only gay Alaska Native boy: “it was a very lonely feeling.” To Anthony, spreading the awareness that this community is out there is imperative to the health of many LGBTQ2 people. “It creates strength in numbers,” and in turn, “provides a better understanding of who we are.”
Today, Anthony finds strength in his Alaska Native culture: “we are a proud, yet humble people.”
Ricky Tagaban, 2016
My name is Ricky Tagaban. I’m L’uknax.adi from Diginaa Hit, and Wooshkeetaan wadi from Xeitl Hit. My dad is Tlingipino and my mom is German and Italian.
“Being Two-Spirit means I have a clear path lit with wild opportunities. My career as a Chilkat Weaver began because of my sexual orientation. Before I came out of the closet, I took refuge in my Tlingit culture. Being gay and Tlingit has allowed me to constantly evaluate who I am.”
Ricky “came out” one month before his 15th birthday. To him, it was important: “I don’t ever want to lie about who I am. That would disrespect our ancestors who resisted pressures to assimilate; and the generations of gay people who stood up to police brutality, public humiliation, etc. They fought to make it safe for people like us to live without shame.”
Ricky is grateful to live in the present era: it “encourages me to harmonize the various parts of myself. Where I can hunt, fish, create art, perform as a drag queen, love authentically, and weave with pride.”
Will Bean, 2016
My name is Will “Kusiq” Bean. I live in Anchorage, Alaska, and my family is from Wainwright, Alaska. I am Inupiaq, Aleut, and Athabaskan.
Will is passionate about projects like Continuous, that strengthen the LGBTQ2 community that currently lacks quality conversations about being queer:
“By increasing our visibility, I hope it will inspire other LGBTQ2 Alaska Native persons to become more comfortable with their own identity. I think if we learn the words our peoples have used for persons like us, we can bring together Alaska Natives and LGBTQ2 identities to create a strong and thriving community.”
“It’s important to be visible to various communities, especially for the youth. I mention the youth because I, myself, didn’t know any adult LGBTQ2 persons and the ones I did see were on Logo TV. That took a toll on my self-confidence because I didn’t fit within that limited perspective of what a gay male is supposed to look or sound like.”
For Will being part of Continuous, “allows me to look inwardly to examine where these two identities come together and from that I draw personal strength. I believe the more you know about yourself, the stronger you can be as a person. I don’t just say, ‘I am queer’ or ‘I am Alaska Native,’ but proudly state, ‘I am a queer Alaska Native’ and I feel empowered by that. I’ve struggled with being queer and being Alaska Native but I’m realizing that I’m neither but both together and I am proud to be a part of these beautiful communities.”
Red, 2016
My name is Redano, but I go by “Red.” I am originally from the village of Gambell on St. Lawrence Island, Alaska.
Red believes, “being out is important. There are things that one will find out about themselves, often new parts of oneself in the process. There were parts of me that I didn’t know about myself until I came out. When I did come out, I did so on Facebook. I received calls from family members, who told me I was going to hell because of my sexuality.”
Following the negativity, Red was seen at the emergency room for suicidal ideation. His family did come around and now accepts Red for who he is. He writes, “I am very comfortable with myself now.”
After coming out, Red has become a role model for those who are “in the closet” and are ready to make changes in their personal lives. “I have family members who have bravely presented their true selves on Facebook as well, and to our family.”
Kalynna Ashley Paangunnaq Booshu, 2016
I am Kalynna Ashley Paangunnaq Booshu, daughter to Rene and David, and sister to two brothers—Lonny and Emery.
For the first five years of her life, Kalynna solely spoke the Siberian Yupik language. It was not until she started school, at age six, when she began to learn English.
Traditional foods have always played an enormous role in Kalynna’s life. Subsistence traditions originally intended for men, such as hunting moose, boating, and fishing, were extended to Kalynna, a female, at an early age.
Kalynna is overwhelmingly proud of her heritage. To her, to be Alaska Native is to be colorblind; it is to be gender blind; it is to greet anyone with a smile. It is to “be respectful, and mindful of surroundings,” most notably when it comes to elders and locally available food.
On “coming out,” Kalynna says, “I simply was and continued to be as I am. I wasn’t concerned about what the world thought I should be.”
Bethany Horton, 2016
My name is Bethany Horton. I was born and raised in Nome, Alaska. I am Alaska Native and belong to the Nome Eskimo Community. My mother was born in Clover, New Mexico, and she is white – British and Welsh. My father was born in Greenville, South Carolina, and he is Alaska Native and white.
Bethany is not the typical Alaska Native girl. Working on trucks in her spare time, Bethany spends most of her time hunting, fishing, and picking berries for her family and elders who are unable to provide for themselves.
Citing a need for positive role models in the Alaska Native and LGBTQ2 communities, Bethany personally aims to empower younger generations, such as her niece and seven nephews, to be themselves: “no one should be afraid of the life they live, whether they are straight, bi, lesbian, or gay.”
To Bethany, the most important quality in a LGBTQ2 role model is “the ability to overcome troublesome obstacles.”
Andrew Miller, 2016
My name is Andrew Miller. My Inupiaq name is, Senungetuk, after my great-grandpa, which later became our family’s surname following the 1918 Influenza Epidemic that hit Wales, Alaska, and the arrival of missionaries. I am originally from Nome, Alaska.
On whether or not he has hidden his identity in the past, Andrew says: “I was never ‘in’ the closet. I believe that everyone has an intuition of when or if it is important to be out of the closet.”
Andrew understands and stresses the importance of representation for the well-being of the LGBTQ2 community: “I strongly feel that any depictions of hope and/or inspiration, especially from Continuous will elicit some sort of connection that I believe is needed and desired” within the Alaska Native LGBTQ2 community. “Being part of this project helps me by knowing that I could possibly be making a difference in someone’s life and give hope to them, that they are not alone. I want to inspire at least one person to believe they are not wrong for simply being who they are, and they are not as different as they may feel. That we are the same, we are human.”
Andrew states that his family keeps him grounded. “My mom Charlotte, my aunt Leah, and my sister Jenny give me strength.”
Toini Anna-Liisa Alatervo, 2016
My name is Toini Anna-Liisa Alatervo, I am Inupiaq and Finnish, and a University of Alaska Anchorage student. I work as an accountant and have four pets whom I love dearly. My greatest passion is making art and finding myself in nature. I identify as a lesbian Alaska Native who is proud of my heritage and identity.
Representation is important to Toini because it shows other Alaska Native LGBTQ2 people that they aren’t alone, and can foster a supportive community. “Growing up, I struggled coming to terms with my identity and not knowing the possible support groups or programs available. I felt confused and at a loss to who I was.”
After Toini’s parents divorced, her father gained custody of her and her two siblings. Shortly after, they moved to a new town. “Coming out was tremendously difficult. From ages 8 to 13 I lived in a new town and was isolated, with limited socializing opportunities with peers around me.”
“I couldn’t relate to conversations people carried over liking someone of the opposite sex. One night I was watching Ellen DeGeneres’ stand-up act, “Here and Now.” After watching that, I realized my sexuality. Several months later, I introduced my sister to The L Word and opened up to her about my sexuality. She gave caring support, while the rest of my family felt indifferent. Today I still have relatives who don’t agree with my sexuality. Nonetheless, I feel strong being myself, knowing who I am and staying true to that is the best choice I have ever made.”
Quinn Christopherson, 2018
I’m Quinn Christopherson, I was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. I am Ahtna Athabaskan and Inupiaq. My grandmother on my mother’s side is Mary Alee Levshakoff.
“I identify as a transman, but pretty loosely. I’ve never felt comfortable exploring my feminine side until I transitioned. I think I was trying to escape the feminine box people tried to put me in. Now that I’ve transitioned, I find myself more comfortable to be this “flamboyant man” people mistake me for.”
Quinn doesn’t feel like a man, nor a woman. His experience as a trans-person is nuanced. Quinn doesn’t want to use ‘they/them’ pronouns because the focus of his transition has solely been to make being in society easier.
“As a masculine woman, nothing could make me feel smaller than people looking at my face, being confused and then looking at my chest to decide ‘what’ I am — or going into the women’s restroom and getting constant double-takes, or even going a step further and asking me if I was in the right place. I’ve never walked into the wrong restroom, and I’ve never been in the wrong body — so when I use he/him/his pronouns, it’s not just for me, it’s what people are most comfortable with and I’m most comfortable when people aren’t treating me like some oddity.”
Coming out for Quinn was a waiting game. “I let everyone else decide when it was ‘safe’ for me to come out. After I had been on testosterone for some time, and strangers in public started gendering me as he/him I thought that was a good time to request that from everyone that knew me and those close to me.”
“The hardest thing I’ve had to overcome as an Indigenous person is being white-passing and hearing the things people say when they think Indigenous people aren’t around.”
Ezra RedEagle Whitman, 2018
My name is Ezra RedEagle Whitman. My Nez Perce name is Tipiyeleh’neh wiskey’nin ‘ilp’ilp, and I am a descendant of the Wallowa Band and White Bird Band Nez Perce of Oregon and Idaho.
Coming out for Ezra was easy and more about the comfort of others than his own self-acceptance. “I’ve always been a smidge flamboyant, and people seemed to have had a sense of my queerness. I just started bringing my partner home for visits and let my parents and family do their own soul searching.”
Ezra believes being Indigenous and part of the LGBTQ2 community is about survival, resurgence, and tradition. “So much of what once ‘was’ has been systematically stamped out, but there is an underground river that is queerly our own among so many cultures, both non-Indigenous and Indigenous alike.
“Found within our community is resilience, humor, and perspective that is both uniquely Indigenous and LGBTQ2. I like to call it ‘Too-Spirited.’ We have a fight, compassion, and an entertainer’s sense of listening and responding. That’s a big role we take in uplifting our communities.”
Ezra states he is currently working to overcome a sense of urgency, failure, and dissatisfaction and turn it into a healthy seed of purpose. “I’m stuck somewhere between a traditional upbringing where I learned the Nez Perce language (Nimipuutimpt) from my grandmother — yet I can’t drum, sing, dance, hunt or fish — and live a more mainstream life of endless academics and community work hoping to leave my mark somehow.”
Ezra is a role model. He speaks Nimipuutimpt, knows his history, creates art, and educates urban Native youth. “I am aiming to create pedagogy based off of traditional mindsets and to develop curriculum that questions and reexamines ‘language arts’ in the high school classroom.”
Silas Hoffer, 2018
Ink nash waniksha Silas Hoffer uu Yaslams Ichishkiinki. Grand Rondeknik nash wa. Inmi ttawaxt pawacha Yakamaknik. My name is Silas Hoffer or The Morning/Evening Star in Ichishkiin (Yakama/Grand Ronde). I’m from Grand Ronde, Oregon. My family is from Wapato and White Swan on the Yakama rez.
Being Indigenous, queer, and Two-Spirit is met with difficulties. Silas says, “Every day is a struggle to be me, internally and externally. It also means I live a life no one else can dictate. If I’m not accepted in my own community, I’ll search for another. I will have many more options in my life by having the courage to accept myself and others, than those who hold discrimination in their hearts.”
Silas is not out to everyone. “This project is another step in my coming out process. Being out doesn’t mean screaming it from the rooftops. For me, it means not lying to myself anymore, allowing the changes I want to happen, and explaining myself only when I find it necessary.”
“I’ve been bullied by whites, Natives, and people of color, for being Indian and so light. In the past I let people tell me who I am or should be. Witnessing the bullying of other queer people was what kept me from coming out for so long. I haven’t experienced bullying for being queer, but plenty of microaggressions.”
“Waq’itni is the word I was given in Ichishkiin by one of our oldest speakers. I wasn’t given a direct translation. She just said it was used against her in a bad way. That’s ok. At least there’s a word to reclaim.” Knowing the term, Waq’itni helps Silas understand people like them existed before colonization, and being part of Continuous shows others “we still exist.”
Silas believes our Elders can help guide Indigenous communities to be more inclusive of our Indigenous LGBTQ2 peoples for healing to continue.
Silas remains connected to their culture by participating in pow wows, round dances and Washat, stick game, beading/sewing, and by mentoring urban Native kids. “My culture always gives me strength. It breathes for me at times when I can’t breathe for myself.”
Moriah Sallaffie, 2015
I am Uliggag; my English name is Moriah Sallaffie. I was raised mostly in Nome, Alaska, but my family is originally from Mamterilleq (Bethel). Wiinga Yup’iuga (I am Yup’ik).
“I belong to several marginalized communities—women, Indigenous, LGBTQ—and like everyone, I exist in a world that has already defined for me what is considered normal and best:
White. Heterosexual. Male.”
Recently, Moriah made the decision to move to Iqaluit, Nunavut, to live with her partner.
“An elder, a friend, asked me about my move: ‘I hear you’re moving for love. What’s his name?’
I paused and replied, ‘Her name is Jesse.’”
Moriah’s friend was silent before changing the subject. “I was heartbroken,” Moriah writes, “I felt rejected.” It was through meaningful relationships with other women, that Moriah learned more about, and felt more empowered to be, herself.
Her friend then told her that not that long ago, when a man or woman—no matter what their sexual orientation—found a partner and brought them home, their family was happy and welcoming. “That is how it used to be,” he said. Homophobia was not traditionally practiced in Alaska Native communities. Moriah writes, “The colonial mindset has been imposed upon us and forced us to adopt lifeways, ideas, and understandings that are so backwards that we reject ourselves and other community members.”
To Moriah, “too much is at stake when we do not define ourselves; it’s time to change the narrative:
We are — Beautiful. Perfect. Powerful. Indigenous. Two-Spirit. Queer AF. LGBTQ.”