The Gentle Revolutionist
By Jordan Riggs

Juneau, February, 1945.
Her appearance was striking. Luxurious hair swept up into an elegant, raven-dark coiffure. A bracelet, delicately carved by a local artisan, coordinated perfectly with her stylish dress. She was locked in a dancer’s embrace with her husband, the two of them expertly floating about the ballroom floor. Her ebony eyes glittered with quiet passion, a focused drive that was responsible for the events that brought them to this specific place, on this special night. As the hours wore on, the uptempo Benny Goodman tunes gave way to Harry James’ more mellow records. Well-wishers and revelers began to trickle from the dance floor at the posh Baranof Hotel, but the couple danced on. The day had dawned as a typically bleak day in the heart of a long winter, but ended with a promise of bright, warm hope for the Native peoples of the Last Frontier. The man and woman tirelessly waltzed and whirled and foxtrotted, caught up in their celebration, oblivious to the time.

They danced for...the young woman in Nome. The girl, only seventeen, was proud of her father’s service in World War I, as well as her two brothers’ active duty in the Army during the then-current World War II. She’d donned her best dress, strapped on her pumps, and headed to downtown Nome with her friend, an Army sergeant. Rather than ending the evening with a goodnight kiss before retiring to her own bed, the witching hour found her behind bars at the town jail. When her night of fun had culminated in a visit to the local movie house, the usher had requested that she move to her side of the theater. Half white and half Alaskan Native, the young lady had resisted the theater’s attempt to enforce their segregation rules: Alaskan Natives in the left-hand aisle, whites in the right. The act of protest resulted in her arrest and imprisonment for the remainder of the night.

They danced for...weary travelers who desired to rest at the Douglas Hotel, a stone’s-throw from the capital of the Alaskan territory. Permanently painted on the establishment’s street sign was a provocative, but then-customary statement: “No Natives Allowed”. Farther north, hungry Inuits, Yupiks, or Aleuts were denied service at the Anchorage Grill- ironically, the diner was owned by a Greek immigrant who was unquestionably accepted by the predominantly Caucasian society.

They danced for...the schoolgirl in Sitka. The youth had wanted to attend a private school to study musical theory, but was ultimately denied based not only on her ancestry, but because of her family’s traditional customs. Because she spent summers with her Aleut grandmother in salmon fishing camps, she was deemed “uncivilized”. The Russian government, who had occupied the region for 126 years, had never levied laws or taxes upon the Native people, and encouraged their subsistence culture while respecting their trapping and fishing grounds. Yet Americans, the second white group to claim ownership of the land, offered citizenship by requiring taxation (without tribal representation), strict adherence to the rules of approved Christian denominations, and fluency in English. A girl from Sitka, half white, fluent in English, from a Presbyterian family, was refused an education because she assisted with putting food on her family’s table, and was thus considered a “savage”.

They danced for...the female federal employees in Juneau who had blood of the First People running through their veins. Although they spent the workweek providing public service to the United States government, they weren’t permitted to enter the government-owned USO to unwind with a drink or a dance with Uncle Sam’s finest.

They danced for...their victory. The waltzing pair was comprised of Elizabeth and Roy Peratrovich, a husband-and-wife team that led the fight to end discrimination against Alaska’s Native population. Earlier in the day, before they celebrated on the dance floor, Alaska’s legislative body had approved the anti-discrimination bill the couple had promoted for four years, the first bill of its kind to pass in the entire United States. As president of the Alaska Native Brotherhood, Roy had been the figurehead for all efforts to pursue equality for all residents of the soon-to-be 49th state. He later credited his wife for providing him with the insight, strategies, and “steerage” necessary to navigate the political landscape.

Racism towards Native Alaskans had become culturally acceptable, even expected at the time. As World War II commenced and news of the Nazi treatment of Jews spread through global newspapers, a consciousness of human rights struck Elizabeth. Decades before the advent of instant communication, she networked throughout the entire state to inspire others to confront their region’s legislative representatives to make racial discrimination illegal.

On that cold day in February, her determination for the ideals she lobbied for climaxed into a heated debate on the legislative hall’s floor. A senator expressed his displeasure at the proposed anti-discrimination bill because, he retorted, “I don’t want to sit next to an Eskimo when I’m in a theater, they smell”. Yet another politician- Elizabeth’s most vehement antagonist- dared anyone to give a valid reason why Alaskan Natives should be allowed to mingle with the white race, the latter of which that could offer 5,000 years of recorded civilization. Her hands stilled after an afternoon of busy fiddling, her voice commanding and confident, her reply drew a raucous round of applause from delegates and representatives alike:

“I would not have expected that I, who am barely out of savagery, would have to remind gentlemen with five thousand years of recorded civilization behind them, of our Bill of Rights.”