Although Matthew Henson was born in Charles County, Maryland, and spent much of his youth in Washington, he lived for most of his life in New York City. He first moved there temporarily in 1892, when he rented a room at the home of Frederick Cook’s mother while recovering from an Arctic eye ailment. Henson became enamored of the city and, after his estrangement from his first wife in 1897, he moved there permanently, remaining a New Yorker until his death in 1955. His last residence at 246 West 150th Street often buzzed with activity. A fireman who worked at a station near Henson’s house in the 1950s recalled that one day, after having seen so many people visit the home, he was forced to ask the station chief who lived there. “In that home, my boy, resides the great Matthew Henson, who went to the North Pole with Peary,” the chief told him.
Others remember Henson’s legendary long walks, particularly those from his West 150th Street apartment to the Explorers Club on East 70th, in the dead of winter, without a topcoat. Henson enjoyed demonstrating his stamina and extraordinary ability to tolerate the cold.
I had told Anaukaq and Kali about the Explorers Club and their fathers’ involvement with this select body. Peary served as president of the club from 1909 to 1911 and from 1913 to 1916, and Henson was elected to honorary membership in 1937. I arranged for the Eskimo families to have a tour of the club’s house.
Just inside the entrance of the stately Tudor-style building, we were met by a ten-foot-high polar bear, standing on his hind legs, claws outstretched and teeth bared in a menacing snarl. The sight thrilled the old hunters, who rubbed the fur in amazement. They had never seen a stuffed polar bear, and the superb taxidermy made the animal look startlingly real.
“Nanook,” Anaukaq said to Kali. “What a huge thing. I don’t think I have ever killed one this large. Have you?”
“No, not this large. And look at its kokeet [claws],” Kali replied.
Avataq, a hunter who has killed and eaten many polar bears, also marveled at the size of this “lion of the Arctic” that towered over him. “Look at the size of that mouth,” he remarked, examining the stuffed beast as though he thought it might come to life at any moment. Even as Avataq walked away, he continued looking back at the bear in disbelief.
The bell taken from the Roosevelt is mounted on the wall of the club’s main entrance. The family cheered as Anaukaq and Kali took turns ringing the bell, something they were too young to have done when the ship left Greenland for the last time in 1909.
Kali was particularly fascinated by the artifacts from his father’s ship. During our visit to the Peary-MacMillan Arctic Museum in Maine, he spotted a replica of the Roosevelt and became very excited. “Is that the Roosevelt?” he asked. When the translator confirmed that it was, he became even more animated. “That is where I was born,” he told me, gesturing toward the model. “Really, it is the truth. I’m not telling you a joke. That is what my parents told me. I was born in the Roosevelt’s machine room, and cousin Anaukaq was born in the coal room.”
“Did you say Anaukaq was born in the coal room?” I asked in jest.
“Eeee,” Kali replied. “We have known this since we were boys.”
“Is that why Anaukaq is so dark?” I asked.
Kali and the other Eskimos burst into laughter. “Must be!”
On the walls, among the framed photographs of past presidents and honorary members of the club, were classic pictures of their fathers that made Kali and Anaukaq pause: Peary in a grand pose, wearing his military uniform and hat and sporting a thick, curled moustache; Henson, equally striking in his trademark anorak, the wind-blown fur of the hood outlining his features.
“Our ahtahtah,” Kali said to Anaukaq, pointing at the photographs.
“Eeee,” Anaukaq said solemnly.
“Who are all of these other men?” Kali asked.
“Past Explorers Club presidents,” our guide told us.
“They all look so important,” Kali said with a chuckle.
Yet what excited them most was the sight of one of the original sleds that Peary and Henson had used on their North Pole journey in 1909. Given to the club by the Peary family, the dark oak sledge (as sleds were once called) was about twelve feet long, two feet wide, seven inches off the ground, with three-foot upstanders. It was lashed together with sealskin thongs for flexibility and strength.
“Oh, this is a beauty. It suits this place,” said Anaukaq. “It is the kind we had in the old days.”
“Ahhh, look at this. This is very good workmanship,” said Kali.
“Maybe Mahri-Pahluk used this one to give his boss a ride to the North Pole,” Anaukaq said, teasing Kali.
“Maybe!” Kali laughed. “What are these bindings made of?” he asked Anaukaq as he rolled the lashings in his fingers.
“Aren’t these thongs made of bearded seal?” Anaukaq replied, examining the tough leather cords with his experienced hands.
“I don’t know,” Kali said, still feeling the bindings. “Maybe they are made of something from this country.”
The two old hunters explored every inch of the sled, like two old-timers examining an antique car from their youth.
After an extended tour of the club’s several floors we departed, but not before Anaukaq and Kali had put their signatures on Explorers Club stationery, which I had dated to record their visit in the historical archives of their fathers’ mutual fraternity.
Only the mountains of the Eskimos’ world compared with the giant skyscrapers of New York City. Like all newcomers to the city, the two families were awed by the scale of everything around them.
“Igloo, igloo, igloo, quah, quah, quah, pah che [So many, many houses],” was again the cry of everyone on the bus. Ajako called his daughter Aviaq over to his seat and pointed out the tall buildings on his side. She lay on his lap, facing upward toward the ceiling of the bus so that she could appreciate the height of the skyscrapers.
After a shopping spree at Macy’s and other stores, we pounded the pavement for blocks so that our friends could get a feel for Matthew Henson’s city. At times their faces suggested that we were on another planet, as we crossed crowded streets, moved up and down elevators, looked down from skyscrapers, and stopped to touch police horses.
The sights, sounds, and smells of Broadway on a summer night are wildly alive and enticing. My Eskimo friends were taking it all in as we walked past street vendors and street hustler after gaudy street hustler.
“Hey, man! You wanna buy a watch?”
“Hey, you! Come here! See this ace of hearts? Now you find it among the three cards I just dealt on the table, and I will give you twenty dollars. If you don’t select the right one, you give me twenty dollars. Deal?”
“Look here! I got some gold necklaces over here—cheap. I’ll give you a good deal. What do you say?”
Some of the Eskimos bought items as gifts for their wives, children, and other relatives back in Greenland. Though they seemed somewhat puzzled by my efforts to bargain with the ravenous vendors, as we haggled over prices they were dazzled by the vast array of flashing neon lights and the open display of money—not to mention the legions of colorful, unusual-looking people.
“Look at all the people,” Talilanguaq remarked. “Where do all the people come from? They are like huge flocks of birds.”
On the next block, several young black and Puerto Rican teenagers danced to rap music blasting from a “boom box.” Malina and Massauna-Matthew were spellbound by this impromptu street show. Excellent dancers themselves, the two eighteen-year-olds studied the steps intently and then mimicked them playfully.
The video arcade on Broadway was a big hit with everyone, youngsters and adults alike. The people playing the flashy electronic machines were as interesting to the Eskimos as the games themselves. And the old-fashioned mechanical claw that can be manipulated to pick up rings, watches, and other gifts behind a glass enclosure proved universally popular. I had never seen Ole or his father, Talilanguaq, laugh so much as when they tried, time and time ag
ain, to grab a prize with the claw. They became even more delighted when, to the cheers of the group, each succeeded in picking up a new watch.
As our group proceeded down the avenue, I felt Malina tugging vigorously at my arm. I turned to see sheer horror on her face as she mumbled something in Eskimo that I did not understand. Shaking visibly, she pulled me back to a spot we had just passed. She pointed to the ground, where an apparently homeless black man lay against the side of the building, his eyes glazed and fixed. The others watched in silence as Malina tugged at my pockets, beseeching me to give her some money, something she had never done before. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her. She stepped up to the man on the ground and handed him the money. He accepted, then looked up at Malina with a wide-eyed, blank stare and nodded his appreciation. She smiled slightly.
“Come along, Malina,” one of the students said, pulling her along as she kept looking back over her shoulder.
As we continued along the busy New York streets, I could not help thinking of how Malina and the others must regard the stunning contrast of wealth and poverty in our country. She could not understand how people could walk past the obviously disabled man and not even acknowledge his presence, not to mention fail to help him. No one in her homeland would ever walk over a person in need.
Sunday morning. We are driving through Harlem. On one corner we see two apparently drunk young black men fighting. On the other corner stands an impeccably attired, elderly black woman in white dress and large white hat, seemingly oblivious to the violent clash across the street as she waits for her ride to church. Inside the bus, which has stopped at a traffic light, the Eskimos watch the incongruous scene in silence.
We were on our way to New York’s historic Abyssinian Baptist Church. This was Matthew and Lucy Henson’s church. They attended Abyssinian services regularly, and Lucy did civic and social work there. When Matthew died in 1955 and Lucy in 1968, their funerals were held at Abyssinian.
Knowing of the Hensons’ long association with the church and two of its past ministers—Adam Clayton Powell, Sr. and Jr.—I contacted the current pastor, the Reverend Dr. Samuel Proctor, and asked whether he would hold a special service of recognition for my Greenlandic friends. Proctor enthusiastically agreed.
Anaukaq and his children had spoken frequently about their desire to experience various aspects of the culture of the kulnocktooko people, with whom they so strongly identified. I wanted them to experience the most enduring institution in the black community, the African-American church.
Abyssinian is a large Gothic church in the heart of the predominantly black community of Harlem, with a seating capacity of more than a thousand. The church was filled on this day. Two large choirs in flowing gowns stood in different balconies, singing a gospel song, when we entered the church. The uniformed ushers escorted us to reserved seats in the center of the congregation. By now the Eskimos were accustomed to large gatherings, but not so large or animated as this one. In our pews, the Eskimos sat in complete wonder throughout the service. There was singing and hand-clapping and foot-patting and contagious spirituality.
Proctor delivered a powerful sermon, his gravelly voice resounding throughout the church.
“Our circle is widening today, isn’t it, Abyssinian?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, Lord,” answered members of the congregation.
“We have people here today all the way from Greenland,” Proctor stressed. “People who live in ice all the time. Speak another language. Eat another kind of diet. Dress differently. People whose lifestyle is different from our own. But here they are, smiling in our midst because Abyssinian has widened the circle today, and thank God for the friends who have helped us to widen our circle today.”
“Amen,” shouted the congregation in unison.
“Peacemaker, peacemaker. Learn how to be fair!” Proctor thundered. “You don’t have to be so smart. You don’t need to have a Ph.D. degree. Just have some sensitivity to what you are doing to people.”
“Yes, Lord! Amen.”
After the sermon, Proctor officially recognized and welcomed Anaukaq, Kali, and their families to the church.
“We welcome to Abyssinian today the son of Matthew Henson, who was a member of our church. Mr. Henson and his family are from Greenland. Will you bring Mr. Henson forward to speak with the congregation?” Proctor asked, his arm raised high in a magnanimous gesture.
As I escorted Anaukaq to the pulpit, I noticed that he moved swiftly, without reservation or discomfort about speaking before the congregation. At the pulpit, he stood proudly erect and addressed the congregation like a preacher.
“I am happy to be here, to share this ceremony with you today, in such a beautiful way. I am only a very ordinary person from far, far away, visiting the church of my father, Matthew Henson. And I thank you for receiving me and my family. Kooyounah.”
When the translation ended, the congregation erupted into applause. Anaukaq smiled in appreciation.
“We also welcome to our church this morning the son of Admiral Robert Peary. Will you please stand, sir?”
At the translator’s signal, Kali stood to loud welcoming applause.
Following Proctor’s lead, the congregation broke into one of the classic black American spirituals, accompanied by the choir and rhythmic hand-clapping.
I’m—so—proud that Jesus lifted me,
I’m—so—proud that Jesus lifted me,
I’m—so—proud that Jesus lifted me
Singing glory hallelujah,
Jesus lifted me.
This was a traditional Sunday song of fellowship. Members of the congregation turned to their neighbors to shake hands or embrace during the singing. Many came over to greet Anaukaq, Kali, and their families, welcoming them with a warm handshake or an embrace.
The congregation of the all-black church treated Kali and his sons with kindness and respect, as if they were longtime members of their spiritual community. Kali was moved to comment that he “felt good with the kulnocktooko people—like I’m one of them—and they treat me like I am one of them.”
After the service, we were the church’s guests at a lunch attended by hundreds of other parishioners in Abyssinian’s large dining area. There we met many older church members who had known Anaukaq’s father personally, one a well-known sculptor who had had Matthew Henson pose for a bust forty years earlier. To Anaukaq’s delight, the old parishioners shared with him many stories about his uniformly admired father.
Our last stop was Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. This would be our last ceremony on the tour. As in Washington, the ceremony was attended by ministers, political dignitaries, Henson family members, and friends. Letters from the governor of New York and the mayor of New York City were read by their representatives. The Fordham College Choir sang and speeches were delivered. Four U.S. Marines in ceremonial dark-blue uniforms and white hats marched toward Matthew Henson’s headstone in slow lockstep, then stood at attention with rifles shouldered and flagstaffs held high. Somehow a marine honor guard was fitting, I thought. Whereas the clean-cut, tailored, and suave Robert Peary in many ways epitomized the navy, the rugged and intrepid Matthew Henson seemed better suited to the navy’s celebrated assault troops.
As Anaukaq and his family walked forward to lay a wreath at the grave, they were almost stampeded by a pack of disrespectful reporters and photographers. Although we had to stop the ceremony to move them back and give the family some privacy, Anaukaq remained unfazed. He placed the wreath on his father’s grave and stared down at the headstone. After a long silence, he spoke aloud to himself.
“So it is here that my father is buried. . . . He must have had a tough life up in our land. . . . He must have been very cold up there at times. . . . My father. . . . My father.”
He turned to us. “I too will be sinnegbo [asleep] soon. I am now ready to go back home to die and rest near my wife, Aviaq.”
None of us knew what to say. Finally, I turned
to him. “Anaukaq, when I visit Greenland next year or even five years from now, you will still be racing around Moriussaq with that old cane and laughing up a storm.” He laughed.
The North Pole Family Reunion ended where it had begun ten days earlier, at McGuire Air Force Base. There was both joy and sadness as we all embraced and said our good-byes. Joy that the two worlds had been reunited—reconnected in both tangible and spiritual ways. Sadness that new friends and loved ones were about to be separated by vast distances and time.
Anaukaq and Kali were still in high spirits. Just about everything they could have imagined they had accomplished in the previous two weeks. Most important to them was meeting their American kinfolk and visiting their fathers’ graves. They were now ready to return to the only world they had ever known.
But much had happened over the previous ten days. Eighteen-year-old Massauna-Matthew had become deeply infatuated with Suzanne Malveaux, one of the Harvard student escorts. He talked about her incessantly. When he reached the airplane, he started crying openly and did not want to leave. His father, Ussarkaq, had to persuade him to get on the plane.
Ole, the nineteen-year-old full-time hunter, had become equally enamored of Mariana Ortiz-Blanes, another student escort, who, upon sensing the Amer-Eskimo Pearys’ loneliness in the absence of their American kin, had become a kind of protective mother and sister to them.
And Malina had been greatly taken with Kermit Alexander, the first young kulnocktooko man she had ever met. She joked that she wanted to marry him.
Both Eskimo families had fallen in love with Camille Holmes and Sean Brady and wanted to take them back to Greenland.
Ten-year-old Aviaq, who was already beyond her years in maturity, had grown tremendously. Entering the plane, she sported new sunglasses, watches, and other gifts she had received. She had always asked many questions about her American great-grandfather. Now she had some answers.
We had all become one big family.
North Pole Legacy Page 20
