Praise from Print Magazine

The Anchorage Daily News wasn't an average newspaper, and it didn't look like one, either. We featured award-winning design, much of which would be cutting edge in print today. The Society of Newspaper Design named us one of the 20-best designed newspapers in the world, and Print Magazine had a multi-page spread on "A Style to Match Alaska.:"

Here are some samples from Print:

ADN's computer-assisted reporting from 1985

In July, 1986 Time Magazine took note of early efforts at computer-assisted reporting undertaken at the Anchorage Daily News by reporter Richard Mauer and contributor Larry Makinson. They used an early database program to trace contributions made to local officials and uncovered "a nest of questionable schemes, including one to funnel 20 seemingly independent contributions to a single state senator in one day."

Alaska Advocate Manifesto

From the original statement of purpose of The Alaska Advocate, a weekly newspaper published in Anchorage, AK from 1976—1979. Written by Howard Weaver.

“We are against all lies, and their more vicious step-children, the half-truths. We are against shadow in the conduct of public business, secure in our belief that there is no public affair best handled in the dark. We are against that which is dull or stifling. We oppose any limit or barrier to the exercise of talent. We believe that in the honest, unimpeded exchange of ideas the best course is to be found. We believe we can play a part in that process.”

My history of the Alaska Advocate and the Alaska Newspaper War—Write Hard, Die Free—will be published in April.

Thanks to Daniel Colvin

The beautiful photo of dunes in Oregon is used with permission from Daniel Colvin. Visit Daniel Colvin Fine Art to learn more.

Empire: The Alaska Teamsters Story

I wrote this as a chapter in the book Kay Fanning's Alaska Story to help complete the memoir after her untimely death.

Pulitzer Lightning
Winning journalism’s top award confirmed Fanning’s quest for journalistic excellence, but didn’t pay any bills


When you win a Pulitzer Prize people naturally start asking, “What’s it like?” The answer is complicated, of course, but over the years I’ve settled on a short response that’s both honest and economical: “It’s like lightning striking,” I tell them.

On May 5, 1976, that lightning struck in Alaska for the first time. A ringing telephone in the second-floor newsroom of the Anchorage Daily News conveyed the unimaginable news that a tiny, struggling daily on the edge of North America had won not just a Pulitzer, but the celebrated Gold Medal prize for Public Service. The paper was among the smallest ever to have captured that award, its staff one of the youngest. The journalistic excellence and community service that had animated Kay and Larry Fanning in buying the paper and sustained her in preserving it had been stunningly confirmed.

Only weeks after that proud moment, the paper announced that it stood at the brink of bankruptcy, soliciting community support for survival. A few months later about 40 percent of the newsroom staff was laid off for lack of money. The replica gold medals distributed to the writers seemed accompanied by a distinctly bittersweet taste, yet the prize held within it the seeds of one of the country’s most improbable newspaper success stories.

Within the next 15 years, the editor and publisher who launched the prize-winning project would depart to edit an international newspaper; her fledgling little daily would go on to eclipse its long-time rival to become the state’s largest paper; and the Daily News staff would learn, by winning another Pulitzer, that lightning really can strike twice.

Perhaps the portent of such success glimmered deep in Kay Fanning’s well of perpetual optimism on that sunny day in May, but none of the rest of us had a clue.

Even before we published the project called “Empire: The Alaska Teamsters Story,” the odds seemed stacked against us. For starters, our subject had somehow attracted the attention of a competitor that probably didn’t even recognize we were playing the same game.

One good thing about being local: when somebody from out of town shows up and starts asking questions, chances are you’ll hear.

That was the good news. The bad news was that what we heard was this: the mighty L.A. Times was in the state – a whole TEAM of reporters, people said – and they were covering the same ground our little paper had been laboring over for months.

Just how powerful was the Alaska Teamsters union? How wide open were things in Alaska during those Klondike-Dodge-City days of trans-Alaska pipeline construction? And what about these rumors of organized crime?

Bob Porterfield and I had been asking those questions for a couple of months already by the time we heard the L.A. Times was in the state sniffing around. Dispatched by Fanning and directed by Executive Editor Stan Abbott, we’d set out to examine pervasive rumors about the wealth, power and operating technique of Alaska’s most potent labor union. By that point we’d uncovered reams of previously unreported information, but very little of it would fit under the kind of “Union goons rape state” headline that some 24-year old reporters – like me – might have imagined.

Alaska Teamsters Local 959 had a reputation that encouraged such speculation, to be sure. You could hear the stories at any legislative watering hole in Juneau, any lawyers’ luncheon in Anchorage or any union bar in Fairbanks. But you sure couldn’t find anybody to quote. By that time Porterfield and I had learned first-hand the truth of the old newsroom cliché: those who talk don’t know, and those who know don’t talk – not for attribution, anyhow.

But I suppose it’s easier to be bold when your newsroom is 2,300 miles away; when the L.A. Times team got back to California, anything they had learned, they shouted. On Nov. 18, 1975, the paper featured a bold, front page banner headline: Crime Wave Strangles Alaska. Their lead: “Widespread lawlessness, a helpless government and the stranglehold of a single Teamsters Union chief severely threaten a state crucial to the nation’s future energy independence.”

As we read that, our own investigation was still weeks away from publication. “Crime Wave Strangles Alaska.” Damn. Sitting in the newsroom in my home town, I wondered how we could have missed a thing like that.

Still we labored on in the paper’s Fifth Avenue newsroom, a bright, newly constructed space with the ambience of an insurance office, leased from the rival Anchorage Times under an agreement by which it managed everything but our journalism. Two of our dozen staffers had been working on the project nearly fulltime for months, and a third had recently joined in, which obviously strained remaining editors and reporters even more than usual. It seemed somehow symbolic when the electricity failed one evening near deadline; a gas-powered lantern augmented Anchorage’s waning autumn twilight, and we kept writing.

As publication day approached, I tried out one proposed lead after another, stretching for as much drama as I thought the facts could sustain. Still, our series was a good deal less dramatic than L.A.’s. The lead article Fanning finally approved ran under a question-mark headline – “Teamsters: how much power?” – and began this way: “Teamsters Union Local 959 is fashioning an empire in Alaska, stretching across an ever-widening slice of the life from the infant oil frontier to the heart of the state’s major city. “

Rather than breathlessly decrying generalized lawlessness and helplessness, ADN reported on more concrete realities: how much money were the union’s trust funds generating, and did the fact that they invested them with the state’s richest bank give the union influence? (It did.) Did financial ties between the union’s legendary lobbyist and various elected and appointed officials result in favorable decisions? (Sure enough.) Were there a surprising number of convicted felons on the roster at a Teamster-controlled warehouse supplying the trans-Alaska pipeline? (As a matter of fact, there were).

And while the hyperbole and “Outside agitator” status of the L.A. Times provoked outrage in the state, it was the steadier hometown reporting of Fanning’s Daily News that brought results. The final product was likewise an honest reflection of her steady judgment. Less flash. More substance. Ultimately, more impact.

Publishing the series required journalistic courage I couldn’t appreciate at the time. On a personal level, I entertained predictable “boy reporter” fantasies when my old VW bug caught fire in my driveway one evening, and the L.A. Times later reported that its reporters worked in pairs in Alaska “partly as a matter of safety.” But the genuine bravery involved was that of the beleaguered small-town publisher playing You-Bet-Your-Newspaper on a daily basis. Though we didn’t know it at the time, Kay was by this point only months away from the wrenching public acknowledgement that her paper was broke and close to folding. Still, instead of kissing up to the power structure in Anchorage, she gave us a flashlight and sent us looking in the shadows.

Any way you sliced it, the odds were against us, a mismatch of Goliathian proportions. The paper was at the time a distant number two contender even in Anchorage, claiming a circulation of a little more than 13,000 to the 45,000 of the Anchorage Times. (Perhaps it was coincidence that the bigger paper, though staunchly Republican on most matters, delivered little substantive criticism of the union that was making big deposits to the bank owned the publisher’s brother in law.) Stacked up against the L.A. Times, ADN’s odds looked incalculably longer; with a Sunday circulation then numbering 1.2 million and a staff of hundreds, the paper had already won eight Pulitzers, and its voice boomed where ours strained to whisper.

When contrasted with Local 959, the Daily News looked even more fragile. The union’s dues-paying membership was more than double the paper’s circulation and, as reporter Jim Babb detailed, its trust funds were growing by a million dollars a week. Where politicians jokingly asked the progressive ADN editorial page to do them a favor and not endorse them, the Teamsters enjoyed a widespread reputation as kingmakers – and backed it up with campaign cash and the delivery of disciplined voters.

So what?

Kay Fanning never told me why she decided to investigate the Teamsters. I didn’t ask, for the simple reason that I never wondered. I knew she did it because it was the right thing for the newspaper to do, a self-evident act of public service that many good newspapers elsewhere would have undertaken without a second thought.

The fact that tackling the project represented a rare act of independence and integrity says as much about the Anchorage power structure of the day as it does about Kay Fanning. The city’s ruling elite was as cohesive as it was insulated in those days: the state’s biggest union boss sat on the board of the state’s biggest bank, whose owner was the brother-in-law of the publisher of the state’s biggest newspaper. A lot of what went on in Anchorage then could be decided with no more advance work than booking a reservation for four at the Chart Room.
Kay Fanning stood outside that circle, partly by her choice and partly by theirs. What it cost her in dinner invitations and newspaper ads it repaid in independence, and she was splendidly unafraid to spend that capital.

Pulitzer jurors noticed. So did the American Society of Newspaper Editors, which later elected her its first woman president, and heard her say, “... profit is not the purpose of the press, as protected by [the] First Amendment; the free, unfettered flow of ideas is. In the end, ideas are more powerful than dollars.” And she would also be noticed, one day, by a similarly principled newspaper owner in Sacramento – an owner with a profitable operation, and a great deal more money to spend.

But that’s a chapter for later in this story.

A personal footnote: I was living in Juneau in 1976, the one-man legislative bureau of the Daily News. I was in Anchorage the day the Pulitzer was announced only because Kay – who knew about the victory beforehand – brought me to town under the pretense of planning for another Teamster installment. It was characteristically thoughtful, one of many classy, generous acts I’ll always remember. Bio note: Howard Weaver was born in Anchorage and began writing for the Anchorage Daily News during his junior year at East Anchorage High School in 1967. Between 1972-1995 he was a reporter, columnist and editor at the newspaper and worked on both of ADN’s Pulitzer Prize-winning series.

A Generation of Despair

This was the introduction to a 10-day series involving approximately 60 articles and extensive photojournalism and information graphics that won the 1989 Pulitzer Prize Gold Medal for Public Service for the Anchorage Daily News.

PEOPLE IN PERIL
A Generation of Despair

Byline: By HOWARD WEAVER
Anchorage Daily News
Run Date: 2/19/1988

Page: A1

Something is stalking the village people.

Across the state, the Eskimos, Indians and Aleuts of Bush Alaska are dying in astonishing numbers. By suicide, accident and other untimely, violent means, death is stealing the heart of a generation and painting the survivors with despair.

A growing sense of helplessness simmers in alcohol throughout the Bush. Among a growing percentage of Alaska Natives, life has become equal parts violence, disintegration and despair. An epidemic of suicide, murder and self destruction threatens to overwhelm cultures that have for centuries survived and prospered in the harshest environments on earth.

The village of Alakanuk lived on the razor's edge: a town of 550 with eight suicides, dozens of attempts, two murders and four drownings in 16 months. This was Eskimo Armageddon.

But while Alakanuk's experience has been the worst, it is by no means an isolated example. The pace of suicide, self destruction and abuse is accelerating all over Alaska. There are echoes everywhere:

At Wainwright, where four young people died in September 1986 after drinking methanol from a barrel that washed up on the beach. The dead were aged 16, 17, 21 and 33.
In Quinhagak, where 11 teenagers were hospitalized and one died in April 1987 from drinking copier fluid stolen from the village school. Officials reported that a 19-year old "never woke up" from the party.
In Hooper Bay, where a 16-year old boy killed himself playing Russian roulette last July. In the aftermath, his girlfriend shot herself through the mouth and was permanently damaged, and two other young women shot themselves and survived.
And in grief, like that of drunken parents from Birch Creek who left a drinking session in Fort Yukon with their 2-year old in the boat and discovered only after getting home that the baby had been abandoned on a sand bar or lost overboard.

FEARSOME NUMBERS

Numbers scarcely begin to sketch the bounds of misery, but the numbers themselves are awful. Where 10 young white men would kill themselves, 100 young Natives will. There is roughly a one-in-10 chance that a 15-year old Native boy will kill himself or make a serious attempt to do so before he is 25.

Sloppy record-keeping and a sense of shame lead to vast under recording of Native suicides; for years, they combined to mask the terrible scope of the problem. When state officials discovered the mistakes and began to double check, reported numbers of Native suicide increased by as much as 73 percent for a single year, and the full dimension of the tragedy began to emerge.

Among men aged 20 to 24, the national suicide rate is 25.6 per 100,000. The best calculations available show that among white men in Alaska it is 44 per 100,000. For Native men in the age group, it is 257 per 100,000.

Native women also kill themselves much more often than non-Natives. Even more tragically, they poison their unborn children. The rate of "fetal alcohol syndrome" a range of birth defects caused by the mother's drinking is two-and-a-half times the national average and more than twice the rate among other Indian populations.

More than four of every thousand Native babies are born with a life sentence: retardation, damaged organs, a shrunken head, learning disabilities, hyperactivity.

All of alcohol's misery is present in abundance among the village people. Where generations might once have passed without assault or abuse, families now face daily torment.

"There is no serious crime without alcohol," says Alaska State Trooper George Dahl in Bethel. But there is almost no village without alcohol and none that escapes the growing epidemic of misery.

Although Natives represent just 16 percent of Alaska's population and live mostly beyond the bounds of intensive law enforcement, they account for 34 percent of prison inmates. A Bethel grand jury's special report in 1986 found child sexual assault in epidemic proportions.

Although their cultures traditionally have reared children in a privileged cocoon of affection and care, neglect now characterizes childhood for a growing number.

An alcohol counselor from Nome told this story to a legislative committee investigating local option alcohol laws:

"I went into a community . . . I'm not sure if the alcohol came in on the plane that I was on or if it came in on another plane that day. There were two sober adults for the entire week that I was in that particular village. That was myself and (a teacher). . . .

"From watching the kids from day one to day five, it was just incredible. . . . The children were from kindergarten up to about seventh grade. There were maybe nine or 11 children, total, in that school.

"By the end of the second day, two of the children had started bedwetting, and their clothes were not changed through the entire week I was there. . . . On day three, they started falling asleep in the classroom, and the teacher just let them because they were up during the night.

"It was either the last day or that Thursday that one of the parents came into the school. . . . The parent came in and it was immediate: All 11 kids went into different kinds of behavior. About three of them stood up (put their hands over their ears, and started rhythmically rocking back and forth) . . . two of them hid under tables and chairs. . . ."

Among the dead, those officially labeled "suicide" represent only a small proportion of the epidemic. "Accidental deaths" account for far more destruction. They also bespeak a carelessness for life born of deep despair.
It is not truly an accident when a drunken Eskimo freezes to death within sight of his home.

It is not truly an accident when a drunken man drives his snowmachine into a pair of strolling women.

It is not truly an accident when a drunken fisherman falls out of his boat and drowns in the icy ocean.

"NOT NATURAL'

Dogeared copies of a heartfelt plea about the problem are making their way through the villages. The photocopied statement was found tacked to the laundry door at Alakanuk:

"When someone dies in our villages, we say: "It was their time to go. We could not stop it.' On the other hand, some people say that a great number of deaths in our village are related to alcohol and drug abuse. Knowing this, we still say, "It was their time to go, we could not stop it.'

"We have begun believing that it is natural to die an alcohol-related death. In our minds, it has become as natural as a heart attack, a stroke or dying of old age. We have believed our own lies and excuses that drinking is a natural cause of death.

"To stagger, to fall out of a boat and drown is not natural. To pass out in the snow and freeze is not natural. To fight, to knock over a lamp and burn in a fire is not natural. To abuse and hurt our loved ones is not natural. . . .
"An alcohol-related death is not a natural way to die."

CAUSE OR EFFECT?

But is alcohol the disease or the anesthetic applied to numb a deeper malady? While it is the constant factor in all the pain in Bush Alaska, booze is hardly the only ingredient.

To say that having your culture invaded and engulfed creates despair is self-evident, but it is no less true for its obviousness. The constant assault of Western institutions, Western diseases and Western economies is destroying the fabric of Native life.

Western traders arrived first to exploit the bartering economies of Native people and were shortly followed by missionaries who forcefully stripped away the supporting foundations of spirituality. Preachers and teachers washed out childrens' mouths with soap when they spoke in Native language or talked about Native beliefs. Smallpox and tuberculosis ravaged adults already assaulted by change.

Those people – today's grandparents– were a generation overwhelmed.

Then the government took their children, sending many to "Indian school" thousands of miles away. These returned with elevated aspirations, diminished prospects for advancement and little experience in successful family living. They turned away from elders and toward alcohol.

Today's parents became a generation adrift.

Back in a village economy now tuned ever more completely to the need for cash electric bills, snowmachines and fuel oil cash became harder to get. But television and easier communications create an appetite among youngsters who don't fit in the engulfing Western culture or have a firm heritage to fall back on.

Today's young people are a generation at risk.

"CAST ADRIFT'

"Our culture has been destroyed," says Doug Modig, a Tsimshian Indian who runs an alcohol program. "We're fighting for our lives."

Culture is not an item – an artifact to be lost or pawned, or a memory that might be forgotten like the words to an old, no longer popular song. It is the anchor that holds each individual to his or her place in a vast and otherwise uncaring universe. When the culture is gone, the individual stands face-to-face with apocalypse.

At the core of that culture, whether adapted to the Eskimo, Indian or Aleut ways, is what has come to be called "subsistence lifestyle." In traditional Native cultures, it was not a lifestyle, but a life. Hunting, fishing and gathering were the economy, the industry and the religion.

"I've been watching the villages since I left. They got TV. The men are not what they were," said Thekla Hootch, who left her childhood home in Emmonak for life in Anchorage.

"Men had dog teams, they'd go out in the morning. Everybody helped each other. My grandfather would go hunt ducks and seals.

"They don't do that anymore. They're on welfare, food stamps. There's snowmachines. Even though they do share, it's not like it used to be."

Native men have been devalued by the changes in their culture. Economist George Rogers of Juneau recalls that even when he arrived in Alaska in 1945, a study was being done on male Native status.

"There was a shift. Suddenly, a male Native was no longer a key person in the survival of his family. A young mother with kids got (welfare) payments, older people with Social Security brought in a tremendous amount of cash. The male was sort of cast adrift . . .

"In Barrow, the young men are not interested (in community college courses). Women are eager to learn. They are going to be the future breadwinners, too. This has had a devastating effect, particularly among males."

Women with more employable skills migrate to towns and cities. With fewer eligible mates among them, village men suffer even worse.

"When we lose our women, we lose our Native blood, and when we lose our Native blood, we lose our heart. And we drink," said a young Yupik man.

With loss of their cultural anchor, many of Alaska's Native people have chosen simply to opt out. Suicide is quick from the barrel of a shotgun, slower from the neck of a plastic whiskey bottle. It is slowest of all in the lingering misery of unconnected life at the edges of existence.

"Life doesn't mean what it used to in the old days," Aleut Agafon Krukoff says simply.

"Some young guys from Bethel were sitting around talking," said Martha Upicksoun, an Inupiat woman who lives in Anchorage. "There was this discussion about people who have died. It was just like a war, only where the people who have died were victims of suicide or violence. These guys sitting around talking about them are saying, "Well, we made it,' and these guys aren't even 30 years old.

"I mean, it isn't Beirut or Vietnam, but it's a battlefield for them. That's how they think of life, and for some of them, it's normal."

THE SUICIDE OPTION

The extraordinary has become ordinary in this generation.

Youngsters and expert psychiatrists agree that suicide has become a standard option for many in Bush Alaska. In Alakanuk, students' reasoning turned easily to self-destruction "I can drop out of school, I can go away, I can kill myself" said high school teacher Ralph Baldwin.

The life they choose to depart makes their choice more understandable. The 15-year-old who today stands at greatest statistical risk is caught in the suffocating grip of forces far beyond any individual's ability to handle.

Probably he lives in an isolated village of about 300. His parents were torn from home at 13; their parenting skills were never well developed.

His village elders, the centerpiece of most Native cultures, were themselves overwhelmed by white assault: traders, missionaries, fuel oil salesmen. They struggle now with representatives of cultural change their ancestors never faced: television repairmen and bill collectors and a village bootlegger resupplied by air.

There may be a lot of what some villagers call "closet sobriety" in his home town, but chances are that most of the men in the village drink alcoholically at least some of the time. Binge drinking begins when a shipment arrives and ends only when the last bottle is gone. Beatings, abuse and accidents are commonplace. Death is not unusual.

SIMILAR STORIES

A legislative committee took testimony across the state.

From Minto, population 153:

"Elders in Minto are afraid to go to bed at night when they know people in the village have been drinking. The fear comes from the knowledge that the elders would be unable to defend themselves if a drunk came into their house during the night. The elders have medical problems caused by fear and depression arising out of the drinking problems of others.

"When there is a lot of alcohol in the village, children go to school tired, fall asleep during class and cannot pay attention. Children of drinkers go to school with dirty clothes, get more colds than other children and do not eat properly. These children appear to be nervous, depressed and lonely. Pregnant mothers hurt their unborn children through fetal alcohol syndrome."

From Selawik, population 545:

"Of the 82 people brought before the magistrate in 1985, all had been drinking at the time of committing the offense with which they were charged."

From Toksook Bay, population 333:

"Alcohol can interrupt critically important subsistence activities. For example, last year two people were shot and wounded in an alcohol-related incident during the time when everyone in the village was at spring fish camp. The families of those wounded had to leave fish camp before they had finished getting the necessary amount of fish."

From Shishmaref, population 393:

"Within families, alcohol precipitates incidents of domestic violence and family crisis. The use and abuse of alcohol is threatening the structure of the extended family. Children and grandchildren are either excluded or exclude themselves from extended family activities in an effort to be protected from alcohol abusers."

It is a grim tale, but an undeniable one. Within the heart of the ancient cultures at risk, a tentative, first response to the terrible reality is beginning to stir.

A growing sobriety movement unites activists from across the state in a new campaign against alcohol, the deadly catalyst for so much Native death and suffering. Individual accountability and community unity are the touchstones of the movement that draws from traditional Indian spiritualism, contemporary self-help and Alcoholics Anonymous for its prescription.

Over the next eight days, detailed reports in The Daily News will chart the depths of death and despair among Alaska Natives and look at the emerging lights of hope on the horizon.