Maine poverty in a Pulitzer

Maine is beautiful but it's also poor. Although nearly all calendar views of the beautiful state of Maine depict idyllic beauty and the magnificent rocky coast, there is also a poverty side of Maine, hidden from view, but poignantly revealed in this essay: 

Strider Wolf and his brother Gallagher, in a Pulitzer Award photo taken in rural Maine by Jessica Rinaldi

A Poignant Tableau and a Pulitzer - nice writing by Jesse Ellison, contributing editor to Downeast.com The Magazine of Maine.

Born into poverty in rural Maine, Strider Wolf was only 2 years old when his mother's boyfriend nearly beat him to death.  By age 5, he and his younger brother, Gallagher, were in the custody of their already overburdened grandparents, living in Oxford, Maine under constant threat of eviction.  Journalist Sarah Schweitzer and photographer Jessica Rinaldi sent four months with the family for their 2015, Boston Globe story, "The Life and Times of Strider Wolf."  If you haven't read it, consider putting down this magazine and doing so; it is a raw, intimate, and affecting a portrait of rural poverty in America as anything you will read.

Last year, Rinaldi won the Pulitzer Prize in Feature Photography for the photos that accompanied the piece, including the memorable shot of Strider and Gallagher on the back of an abandoned Ford, staring at the moon.  It was the first time the award has recognized a photo series taken in Maine.

"By the time they got evicted - the night the moon photo was taken - we were entrenched," remembers Rinaldi.  "It wasn't so weird anymore that we were there with a notebook and cameras and everything. It was a nuts day. Everybody was jut scrambling.  The adults were so focused on trying to salvage their things, the boys were kind of left to their own devices and running wild a little bit. They were kids; exhausted, running around, being nuts."  Strider and Gallagher ran out to see a train pass on tracks nearby and, on their way back, stopped to play on the truck carriage.  In the photo, Strider is holding broken auto hoses to his eyes, like binoculars.  "What's on the moon?," he wondered, aloud.

The moment, to me, it felt so hopeful," she says.  "Nothing is working for this kid and yet he's still a did.  He can still pull something broken from the car, put it up to his eyes, and look at the moon. That's hopefulness, that's childhood. And at the same time, it's two kids standing on a broken car that's not going anywhere."

Even apart from its heartbreaking context, it's a tension between stasis and wide-eyed wonder that may resonate with anyone who looks back on a rural Maine upbringing.

The response to Schweitzer and Rinaldi's feature was enormous.  "We hoped that this story would do something, generate some sort of reaction," Rinaldi said, "but in the end, we didn't know. We thought, 'Will anyone really care?' ".

They did.  Globe readers donated tens of thousands of dollars.  The newspaper set up a trust and a GoFundMe campaign raised another $20,000.  Last summer, for the first time, Strider went to summer camp.  - Jesse Ellison, Contributing Editor

Alaska - a missionary story

This article was found while I was cleaning out a stack of really old "stuff".  I apologize to Father Patrick Bergquist for taking so long to post his lovely essay on my "Let's Write" blog.  

Father Bergquist's challenging experience while serving as a priest in Alaska are rooted in revealing how blessings are shared on both human and spiritual dimensions. This is a religious essay that speaks to the human condition. Good writing, too!

Faith in Focus: Out of the Cold - Into a night of quiet grace
Published in America Magazine January 2-9, 2012

Rev. Patrick Bergquist, a priest of the Missionary Diocese of Northern Alaska-Fairbanks, pastor of Holy Mary of Guadalupe Church in Healy, Alaska, diocesan vicar general and author of The Long Dark Winter's Night (Liturgical Press 2010).

It was nearly dusk when the small, single-engine plane landed near a Koyokon Athabaskan Indian village, which clung to the banks of a frozen river in northwestern Alaska. The pilot tossed my old, faded green duffle to me, waved and said, “Good night, Father.” I wished him well and blessed him as the plane disappeared downriver. It was early November and already 20 degrees below zero, but the real cold had yet to settle into my bones. I zipped up my parka, slung my duffle over my shoulder and began the journey.

As I walked the two miles to the village, I was aware of only two things: my breathing, deep and labored, and the whispers of my mukluks, or skin boots, upon the snow. But my heart listened and longed for so much more.

Halfway to the village I paused at a small cemetery to catch my breath. Painted crosses and picket fences half buried in the snow marked the graves, which seemed peaceful as they slept among the spruce. I bowed my head and prayed for the repose of these departed souls and prayed, too, for my own soul. Truth be told, being a priest these days can be a lonely journey.

When I arrived at the small mission church, I unlocked the door and flipped the light switch. Two bare bulbs struggled to overcome the darkness, illuminating the four pews with a feeble and yellowed light. I tossed my bag on the back pew, and the sound it made echoed through the emptiness of the place. I bowed to the crucifix, on which my Lord hung upon a cross framed by a fan made of gray feathers from the willow grouse. I knelt and prayed before the tabernacle, pondering the meaning of the bread and the body, broken and blessed. This mystery rested inside a unique ciborium, made of birch bark and adorned in native patterns of dyed porcupine quills. This mystery rested, too, within my heart and soul.

It was 10 degrees below zero inside the little church. Many years ago I would have warmed myself twice, once as I split the wood and again as I built the fire. But that day, I just pushed a button on the oil-burning stove. Carrying a blue plastic water jug, I walked about 200 yards to the washeteria, the site of the village’s well and water. Struggling back with my 50-plus pounds of water, I thought and prayed about the burdens and blessings of baptism and the cost of discipleship.

The village appeared abandoned as I wandered about in what the mystics might have called a long loneliness. I stood in awe of an evening sky in which the deep clouds of indigo were pierced through with the blood red of a dying sun. The only sounds I heard came from a raven, black as the sky on the night of a new moon. It perched and preached from high atop the steeple’s cross. And it cried like some Old Testament prophet demanding an answer. The only reply, however, was the mournful lament of the sled dogs chained to a tree.

Upon countless cabin doors I knocked, but none opened. I walked into the village post office and immediately was assaulted by the pulsating of florescent lights. The church’s box was crammed full of useless junk, not unlike my soul. I dumped all the unnecessary clutter into the trash.

The fullness of night had fallen by the time I noticed many “snowgoes,” or snowmobiles, parked beside the tribal hall. I walked over, opened the door, paused and took off my fog-covered glasses. The light and warmth of the place filled me. I was welcomed and ushered into the pot-latch, or community meal, without a fuss. I took off my parka, and someone offered me a chair. I took my place at the table. My eyes, as well as my heart, searched out the elders, their faces worn by weather, perfected in patience. I noticed how their eyes looked not to the days long gone but rather across the generations and into the eyes of the children—so full of innocence, so full of promise.

Unseen hands set a bowl of steaming hot soup, some half-dry salmon and a scalding cup of tea in front of me. Even before the spoon touched my lips, the hunger I’d felt all day melted. Ever grateful for my priesthood, I gathered into my heart all who were present, both the living and the dead, and for the third time that night I bowed my head and prayed: Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts—Your gifts to me.…




This article also appeared in print, under the headline "Out of the Cold," in the January 2, 2012 issue.
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