Fish Out of Water

In his 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College titled “This is Water,” David Foster Wallace jokes, “There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says ‘Morning, boys. How’s the water?’ And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes ‘What the hell is water?’”

In Alaska, 20 years later, I found myself staring out at a body of water with my friend Shaniel, contemplating exactly what we were looking at. It was midday, but the sun was nowhere to be found. We had gotten used to the noon dusk by then––the sky is always grey in Alaska, a stark contrast to my sunny New Jersey home. The water’s reflection of the vast mountains above was sharp as a knife, capturing in piercing clarity the clouds dragging in across us. We were at Allan Point—a cabin in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness overlooking Sitka Sound, attending an orientation of sorts for our summer program. Beside me, Shaniel was impassive: hands in pockets, with shoulders slightly hunched, but not unconfidently so.

Gazing at the scene before us, she cocked her head. “I wonder if blackfish are found in these waters?”

Shaniel’s musings pierced my contemplation of the Alaskan landscape. I glanced at her. All this beauty, I thought, and she’s thinking about fish? I had not even heard of that species before.

**

Fast forward a week, and I found myself in conversation with Shaniel again. As part of the program’s curriculum, our counselors asked us to participate in a “sidewalk study:” the previous night, we had read “The Grammar of Animacy” which discussed the impact of a verb-heavy diction of Native languages on one’s perspective (as compared to English’s noun-heavy lexicon,) and in class we were being asked to physically interact campus in a more active way.

Shaniel and I meandered outside, attributing names like “grass-that-dances” to the grass’s gentle swaying, and using “animate” pronouns like he or she to describe the wisps of clouds in the sky. Gradually, the tree to my left seemed to transform more into a humanoid-like figure. The leaves at my feet became more than just a crunch to my step. I found myself thinking, caring, and even empathizing with my surroundings in an entirely new way.  

“The Grammar of Animacy” is a good example of how one can begin to emerge from the “water” surrounding them. I speak English everyday, but my lap around campus taught me that language—in specific verb and pronoun usage—could transform the way I saw the world. This concept has broader implications as well; viewing the natural world as more “alive” can lead us to take better care of it. 

As we neared the end of our walk, our conversation began to delve into the personal. Words began to flow freely. This was when I learned for the first time that Shaniel’s village, Chevak, is only accessible by either boat or plane—there are few to none roads in the remote, river-cut terrain.

I was suddenly reminded of her similar out-of-the-blue comment at Allan Point. It finally began to make sense. Of course she was sensitive to the local fauna; the fish and other land animals like caribou are a main source of sustenance for her people. After understanding this context, I began to feel a little sheepish. While I viewed Sitka Sound as simply an object of beauty, Shaniel probably saw it as a practical, or even normal matter to be dealt with—a source of food or, possibly, an obstacle to be traversed. 

Shaniel’s comment, then, had not just been a passing observation. It reflected a lived reality beyond the limits of my suburban imagination. Using Wallace’s prose, “this is water.”  However hard, this was an important lesson learned. As Lee Atwater once said, “Perception is reality.” My own privilege reflects this statement. The certainty (or luck) that comes with being surrounded by adults who have graduated college with a degree (sometimes multiple), landing themselves a well-paying white collar job that allows them to raise their family behind a white picket fence has conditioned me to comfort; it is a perspective that allowed me to see the world through rose-colored glasses. But these glasses have largely been shattered by encounters like Shaniel’s story and “The Grammar of Animacy.”

I have returned from Alaska asking, “What the hell is water?” conscious of how my experience has restricted my reality.