Donate NowLinda Matchan, for the Pulitzer Center (Photos by Michele McDonald)
Running late after a break, one student rushes into Ataguttaaluk High School, while two other students are unconcerned about being late.
It's mid-afternoon at Ataguttaaluk High School in Igloolik. Michele and I have parked ourselves by the desk of Lucie Tapardjuk, the school's secretary. She's 55 years old, a warm and friendly woman who also works as a translator, and she's generously shared her life story with us. She grew up in an outpost camp on the land, even as the traditional nomadic way of life was starting to disappear. She lived in an igloo. She had her own dog team. "They were the happiest days of my young life," she said.
We've been listening to people's stories for days now, and could predict what was coming next. Lucie and her sister were deposited on an airplane – she'd never even seen one before – and shipped down south to a residential school in Chesterfield Inlet, which forbade the speaking of Inuktitut, and where she recalls being physically abused. She was five years old. No warning, no goodbyes. "No questions asked,"she said.
At this point in her story, a student stopped by and reached for a notebook on her desk: It was the sign-out book for kids who were leaving in the middle of the school day. In the "Reason" column" he listed: "Hunting."
"Bring me a seal!" Lucie cheerfully called out as he left the office. He was one of half a dozen students to have signed the notebook that day. Their reasons included:
"Too tired and stressed."
"Go make lunch."
"Falling asleep."
"Sick."
"Mad."
Teacher Larissa Geraghty works with her English class students at Ataguttaaluk High School in Igloolik. Although about 250 students are registered at the high school, on an average day only about half of them show up. Some parents and grandparents, many of them survivors of abusive residential schools, aren't convinced of the value of a formal education and don't insist their children attend school.
The notebook gave us some insight into of the challenges of being a teacher here. It also underscores the degree to which Nunavut -- created 10 years ago as the result of the largest aboriginal land-claims settlement in Canadian history – continues to be a work in progress.
On the face of it, Ataguttaaluk High School resembles many other Canadian high schools in small communities. It's bright and clean and friendly, and there are inspirational signs on the corridor walls, such as, "When You Believe, Anything is Possible." But nobody is sugar-coating the situation here.
Michele and I arrived at lunch time and sat in with some of the teachers as they ate their sandwiches.
I asked how many students were registered. About 250, a teacher told us. "But only about 120 actually show up."
Attendance gets worse, she said, as the grades get higher. The teachers then launched into a spirited debate about which grade had the worst attendance: Eight? Ten? Twelve? The consensus was Grade 10, a transitional year at the school. Until then, the school adheres to a "social promotion" system, meaning kids are automatically promoted to the next grade. But in Grade 10 the system toughens up because of graduation requirements and "lots of kids are forced to apply themselves," a teacher explained. In 10th grade, where there's a bottleneck of students who are repeating the year, a lot of kids fall behind, get frustrated, and show up less and less often. A lot of them drop out.
Natar Ungalaaq, who starred in the feature film "Atanarjuat, The Fast Runner" teaches Inuktitut at Ataguttaaluk High School in Igloolik, in addition to continuing to work in films. He's getting ready for his next class. Three of the school's 13 teachers are Inuit.
The high drop-out rate is a systemic problem in Nunavut where one-third of Inuit aged 25 to 54 have not completed high school. "Education is not fully developed in the North yet," said Vince Pickett, the principal. "Quite a lot of work needs to be done."
One of the first things I noticed is that most students didn't come to school with backpacks. This is because typically they don't get any homework. "We're trying to encourage children to do homework," he said, though "homework is not usually done." Pickett explained that the concept of homework has only recently been introduced, and this year the school has adopted a strategy of enforcing graded homework one night a week.
"This has two purposes," he said. One is try to improve the academic standards. (Teachers say 12th grade academics here are the rough equivalent of 9th grade down South.) The other is to get kids used to the idea of staying home in the evening and doing something constructive. "Otherwise they just wander around."
Getting them used to the idea of coming to school is a challenge, too. Some parents and grandparents -- many of them survivors of abusive residential schools – are suspicious of formal education. "It all depends on how different households perceive and accept the fact that times are changing," said Dave Kisilewicz, a math and science teacher. "Younger ones are more and more aware of how fast we're moving into a global community. Those who adapt and can accommodate both worlds seem to do better."
Most of the students at Ataguttaaluk High School in Igloolik go home for lunch. There are no buses for high school students since Igloolik is on an island that is roughly 5 miles long and a mile wide.
But traditional Inuit culture remains strong here, and the logistics of life work against regular attendance. Boys may be pulled out of school to hunt seal or caribou. Although hunting isn't technically a necessity for survival any more, many Inuit are active hunters and it's still an integral part of life; elders believe that "country food" is healthier than store-bought food (it's certainly cheaper) and skins are harvested for clothing and boots. Almost every day we saw hunters speeding across the frozen water in their skidoos. It's common to see seal pelts stretched to dry across wooden frames outside and houses, then hand-stitched into mittens at women's sewing circles.
Girls have traditional roles, too, and some miss school "because they're pulled out for babysitting," said Kim Hedges, the special education teacher. "I don't know of any other community that doesn't have a day care."
"There is an incredible amount of apathy toward coming to school," said Maren Vsetula
who was a teacher at the high school until last year, and also served as vice principal.
"There is very low motivation in the students and I think it stems from their sense of self and not knowing what they are capable of. They lack self-confidence which leads to them not coming to school to begin with, or coming but doing very little. As a teacher in high school, I shouldn't really be saying, 'Pick up your pencil and write a sentence,' but that's quite common."
Larissa Geraghty teaches English here, and we sat in on one of her 12th grade classes, where the day's lesson was on the blackboard: "Write about a friend who is older than you." She spent a lot of time with one student who was having trouble with the concept, insisting he didn't have any older friends. Geraghty, on her knees at his desk, looked him in the eyes and insisted he did. "Just try to think of someone" she coaxed. Finally, success: "My poker buddy," he said. "There you go!" she said, relieved. "Write about him!"
Between classes at Ataguttaaluk High School in Igloolik, students clown in classroom.
Books were lined up on a shelf, including copies of "The Merchant of Venice" and "Othello." Though children are taught in the Inuktitut language through Grade 3, Igloolik does not yet have an Inuit-based curriculum – they follow the Alberta curriculum – and she conceded that it's sometimes tough to make education seem relevant. Teachers here took it upon themselves to modify a social studies lesson plan on ancient Egypt by relating it to Inuit civilization.
Many changes have been introduced, though, to make schools more Inuit-centric. For example, a CD was developed by the Nunavut Department of Education to introduce students to traditional wayfinding skills and related environmental knowledge. Students are guided through each section ("snow and snowdrifts," "Stars,") by the voices of Igloolik elders.
This year, three of the school's 13 teachers are Inuit, including actor Natar Ungalaaq, who starred in the feature "Atanarjuat The Fast Runner." He teaches Inuktitut; the day we visited the topic was survival skills on the land. They'll need it, he said, even though many young people in Igloolik have never left the community. "We'll be living here in a cold place for a long while."
Still, you get the sense that it's an uphill battle to persuade students that there's a reason to finish school, given that the typical jobs available in Igloolik are cashiers and water truck drivers. And few in this family-oriented community want to, or are able to, leave Igloolik to head South, even to study at the highly-regarded Nunavut Sivuniksavut, an 8-month program in Ottawa for Inuit youth who want to further their education and prepare for careers.
In the meantime, teachers measure success in very small steps. On the good days, it's "little things," said Larissa Geraghty. "When a student comes to school every day for a week, that's success. If a student rewrites some of his work, that's success."
Then there are the bad days. Maren Vsetula's eyes still well up with tears as she recalls the day, three years ago, that one of her Grade 8 students hung herself in the girls' bathroom with the headphone cord of her MP3 player. She'd tied it to the hook on the back of the door. "The girl was a bright light of the school," she said. "She wasn't on on our high-risk list. She embodied such a positive drive for the future."