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The class assignment was to write a letter to anyone they wanted. In Lingi虂t. Eechdaa Dave Ketah chose his late grandmother, the person who spoke Lingi虂t to him when he was growing up in Ketchikan.

鈥淎nd I was telling her that it鈥檚 hard learning the language at this point in my life, and one thing that makes it even harder is that I have to pay for it,鈥� Ketah said, describing what he wrote. 鈥淲hite people took the language from us and now they鈥檙e charging us to get it back.鈥�

Or: 鈥淪g贸on 岣礱a sh谩ade n谩岣祒鈥檌 dleitx kaa sitee. Tle虂l has ushk鈥檈虂 ka Ling铆t yoo x瘫始at谩ngi has aawata虂w. Yeed谩t Ling铆t x瘫始at谩ngi natoo.eich,鈥� he wrote in the letter.

Ketah is a high school teacher in Portland, Oregon. He鈥檚 been taking online Lingi虂t language classes at the University of Alaska Southeast since 2020. He started out as a beginner and is now in advanced Lingi虂t learning the language his family spoke for thousands of years, but that he didn鈥檛 grow up speaking.

Ketah initially wanted to learn the language as a way to connect with his culture; he had felt detached from it living outside Southeast Alaska for so long. But it鈥檚 turned into so much more. Learning to speak Lingi虂t is a way to connect to his ancestors, including his late grandmother, who had been taught to hide her culture and her language.

鈥淗aving the opportunity to learn the language has been so powerful in my journey,鈥� Ketah said.

School, which forbade his grandmother from speaking Lingi虂t, is now a place that鈥檚 making this type of personal journey even more accessible. A few months after that letter writing assignment, UAS announced over the summer it would be offering Alaska Native language classes tuition-free. It鈥檚 an effort that had been in the works for a few years. Funding from Sealaska Heritage Institute is making it possible.

Students currently taking non-credit classes in Lingi虂t, Xaat K铆l or Sm始algya瘫x 鈥� traditional languages of Southeast Alaska 鈥� are no longer required to pay any tuition or fees.

鈥淭he University of Alaska Southeast is committed to recognizing and acknowledging historical wrongs endured by Alaska Native Communities. We are making sure Indigenous people don鈥檛 have to pay to learn their own language. It鈥檚 so important in the work towards language revitalization and overall healing,鈥� UAS Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences Carin Silkaitis said in.

X瘫鈥檜nei Lance Twitchell, professor of Alaska Native languages at UAS, has been part of the multi-year effort to make the language classes tuition-free. In finding a way to make it happen, he said the conversations would 鈥渃ome back to historical accountability on the part of governments and education as a system for playing a role in the attempted elimination of Indigenous languages.鈥�

When it comes to endangered languages, Twitchell said, it鈥檚 not equitable to get money out of the population of people who have been oppressed.

鈥淭here鈥檚 so much trauma involved with language learning and recovery as Indigenous peoples that it just didn鈥檛 make sense to look at things from this sort of financial perspective,鈥� he said.

Taking down the barrier of cost is working. UAS language professors say enrollment has gone up for both non-credit classes and for-credit classes. UAS still charges tuition and fees for for-credit classes. When Twitchell first joined UAS in 2011, enrollment was in the 30s or 40s. They were happy when it reached 70. 鈥淎nd I remember when we got up to 100,鈥� he said.

Now, enrollment is nearing 300. More than 130 language students are taking for-credit classes and about 150 are taking the non-credit option.

脡edaa Heather Burge, assistant professor of Alaska Native languages at UAS, said classes usually capped at 30 students in previous semesters. This semester, one of her beginning Lingi虂t classes has 70 students. Higher demand and bigger classes come with its own challenges, but it鈥檚 a fantastic problem to have, she said.

鈥淭o have your classes be in such high demand that we鈥檙e struggling to keep up, it鈥檚 an exciting problem,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 do think long term, we need to hire more people to be able to teach these classes if the demand continues to be this high.鈥�

Ketah, who鈥檚 seeing this growth and revitalization from outside Alaska, is amazed.

鈥淚t might be being a little bit hyperbolic, but it鈥檚 like everybody wants to learn, whereas back in my youth, it just wasn鈥檛 something that people were excited about,鈥� Ketah said.

鈥楾rained to do that鈥�

As a kid in Ketchikan, Ketah used to visit his grandmother, Eva Ketah, a couple times a week.

鈥淚 spent an awful lot of time with my grandmother. I loved going over to her house. Every time I would visit with her it felt like she was trying to immerse me in the culture,鈥� he said.

When the two of them were together, 鈥渨e picked berries, she would feed me traditional foods and speak Lingi虂t to me,鈥� he described. 鈥淚t would be all of this stuff that was about her youth, where she came from.鈥�

But Ketah remembers a peculiar thing that his grandmother would do.

鈥淭hings would abruptly change. Food would be put away, she鈥檇 go back to speaking English, and then there鈥檇 be a knock at the door. It didn鈥檛 matter who it was. It could be another Lingi虂t person. It could be a family friend, an acquaintance, whoever, but as soon as somebody else would come, it was hidden,鈥� he said.

Ketah鈥檚 grandmother lived on a hillside that was accessible by a long staircase, which allowed her to see someone coming from a long distance.

The peculiar thing happened a few more times before Ketah asked his grandmother about it.

鈥淚 asked her, 鈥楪randma, when other people come by, why do you stop doing anything that鈥檚 Lingi虂t?鈥欌�� Ketah said, thinking back 40 years.

鈥淪he said, 鈥楤ecause we were trained to do that.鈥欌��

Ketah, 10 years old at the time, was bewildered by her answer, but he didn鈥檛 know how to ask what she meant. Decades later, though, he鈥檚 been able to piece that memory with other memories and stories his grandmother told him.

鈥溾�楾rained to do that鈥� was a euphemism for: It was beaten out of her.鈥� Ketah said.

His grandmother鈥檚 home

Ketah said his grandmother鈥檚 family is originally from S始eek Heen铆, Warm Chuck Inlet on Heceta Island on the northwestern side of Prince of Wales Island, before they moved to Klawock.

鈥淭he reason why she left Warm Chuck Inlet to go to Klawock was because government agents came and told her mother and all of the other mothers of children, 鈥榊ou need to put your kids in school,鈥欌�� he recounted.聽 鈥淭hey would say, 鈥業f you don鈥檛 put your kids in school, we鈥檒l put you in jail. And then after you鈥檙e in jail, we鈥檒l put your kids in school anyway.鈥� And so, there was no choice in the matter.鈥�

The school in Klawock, Ketah said, had a mix of kids who stayed there all the time and kids who had family in the community and went home on the weekends, like his grandmother.

鈥淭eachers would say, 鈥楴ow, when you kids go home, if anybody is breaking the rules 鈥� and that鈥檚 the school rules 鈥� if they鈥檙e speaking the Lingi虂t language, or wearing Lingi虂t clothes, or participating in any of these cultural things, then you tell us when you come back to school,鈥欌�� he said.

The kids were taught to inform on each other. Even a kid who had not broken the rules but failed to turn in another kid who had would get punished.

鈥淎nd the penalties were physical beatings. So that happened to my grandma and all of her contemporaries,鈥� he said.

Ketah said those wounds echoed into his dad鈥檚 childhood and into his own.

In addition to learning the language as an adult, Ketah has also been establishing himself as a and Alaska Native artist. This past summer, he did a residency at the Sheldon Jackson Museum in Sitka and his work was recently part of an exhibit at the Washington State History Museum.

Within the past couple of years, as Ketah has embarked in this expanded learning of his culture, he asked his dad, 鈥溾�榃hy didn鈥檛 you ever teach me any of this stuff?鈥欌��

His dad said, 鈥溾�楤ecause my parents never taught us. We asked, but they wouldn鈥檛.鈥欌��

Ketah knows now that by not teaching about their language or their culture, his grandparents were trying to protect their children.

鈥淭hey were convinced that the way forward was to completely adopt the white way.鈥�

鈥業 can speak my language in my school鈥�

When Ketah learned enough Lingi虂t, he went into the high school in Portland where he teaches and started his class saying yak始茅i ts始ootaat, or good morning.

鈥淚 was able to speak the Lingi虂t language in, what my grandmother would call, a white man school and I鈥檓 not punished. As a matter of fact, they can鈥檛 touch me for anything that I do that鈥檚 related to my culture. And that鈥檚 incredible to me that we are able to overcome all that dark history and I can speak my language in my school,鈥� Ketah said.

Each time he speaks Lingi虂t in a school setting, he feels like he鈥檚 redeeming what his grandmother and other relatives endured. Despite everything they went through, Ketah said, the language lives on and he gets to be a part of it.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 think of it only as a privilege, I think of it as a responsibility because I have that freedom,鈥� he said. 鈥淢y ancestors didn鈥檛 do it because they couldn鈥檛. And that鈥檚 why I should do it. Because I can.鈥�

When Ketah was a kid and his grandmother spoke Lingi虂t to him, he could only understand a few words, which is 鈥渉eartbreaking鈥� to him. He was never able to speak to her in their language.

But there are a couple video recordings from the 1990s that his uncle made of his grandmother and grandfather. 鈥淭here is an awful lot of Lingi虂t being spoken,鈥� Ketah said, 鈥渢hat I understand completely now.鈥�

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