little light

 “Her family named her Taklaingiq, but shouldn’t they have named her Nau?” whispered the

humble people of Point Hope over their morning fires and evening meals.

It was a good question.

Nau was Taki’s grandmother, the mother of Taki’s father, who had passed away after a long life of faith, hope, love and laughter for her family, the people and the world.

It was ancient custom among the Iñupiat people to give the name of one who had just left the world to a baby who had just entered the world.

In that way, the loved one could live again in the life of the new baby.

 

The loved one could remain a part of the village and keep it whole.

But her name was Taklaingiq.

They would call her Taki.

“Aren’t you afraid bad luck will fall upon the baby if you don’t follow the old way and change her name to Nau?” asked the family’s closest friend, for the Iñuit people are kind to each other and concerned for each other and share their very lives with each other. “I don’t want a blocked, rocky road in life for her and for you.”

“No, we aren’t afraid,” answered Aaka, who was Taki’s mother’s mother and the matriarch of the family.

“Remember, her first sound was the song of the bowhead whale, the Taklaingiq, so her name is even older and stronger than the old way.

And remember, a little light wasn’t over her when she was born.

She was a little light.

She is a little light.

Taki.

Little light.

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020