Wearing the Lineage: Tlingit Nose Rings, Rites of Passage, and Leadership Through Service
By Meda DeWitt
This Women’s History Month, I reflect not only on the women who shaped our state but also on the women who shaped me, who entrusted me with teachings about rites of passage, responsibility, and matrilineal lineage.
For the Tlingit people, traditional piercings, particularly septum rings and labret piercings, were markers of maturity, identity, and earned standing. They were not casual fashion. They signified that a young person had moved through discipline, instruction, and transformation into adulthood. They marked readiness to carry cultural knowledge, family responsibility, and community leadership.
While this piece reflects on women’s rites of passage during Women’s History Month, it is important to acknowledge that Tlingit men and Indigenous peoples across the world also pierce as symbols of passage from youth into responsible community members. They told the community: this person has been prepared. This person carries responsibility.
In this way, leadership is not claimed; it is earned through service.
For over fifteen years, I worked alongside Elder women, culture bearers, and community members, studying these practices as living systems of prevention and wellness. My bachelor’s capstone at Alaska Pacific University focused on best practices for raising healthy families and addressing disparities through Indigenous rites of passage. I examined how structured coming-of-age ceremonies, seclusion practices, plant knowledge, and women’s business create protective factors against trauma, substance misuse, and family instability.
This work extended beyond academia. I authored Chapter 8 of Walking Together, Working Together: Engaging Wisdom for Indigenous Well-Being, contributed to the Women’s Rites of Passage exhibition at the Anchorage Museum, and wrote for Chatter Marks on Alaska Native seclusion traditions. I hosted pilot projects, facilitated conversations on maternal and infant health, and taught on cultural parenting and traditional child-rearing practices. I speak publicly about the women’s house, the role of men in building and protecting that space, and the intergenerational transmission of knowledge.
After a decade and a half of this work, I had passed through and earned my rites, and it was time to take the next step.
When I went to have my septum pierced, I was with my mother-in-law, Dee Paoli (a retired Army Major, Vietnam Veteran, first company assigned to active duty in the Coast Guard, nurse), and my two daughters. Dee represents another form of disciplined service: decades of leadership in uniform, medical care under pressure, and devotion to family. Her presence bridged worlds, from military precision to matrilineal strength. My daughters stood beside us, watching. Three generations together in ceremony.
I do not wear a fully traditional nose ring. My family line and daily responsibilities make the larger ancestral styles impractical. But I wear a septum ring every day, intentionally. It is my acknowledgment that after years of service, research, teaching, and accountability to the community, I have passed through my own rite of passage, from student of these traditions to a responsible carrier of them.
Yet as I entered the governor’s race, one of the loudest conversations about me was not about education, health and wellness, data sovereignty, economic stability, climate adaptation, or Alaska’s future. It was about my septum piercing.
The misunderstanding was striking. To some, it was seen as rebellion or fashion. To others, it was framed as unserious. But that reaction reveals how easily Indigenous symbols are stripped of context. What some dismiss as decoration carries weight, history, and responsibility. It represents discipline, preparation, and earned standing in a matrilineal culture that predates the state of Alaska by millennia.
Tlingit society is matrilineal. Clan identity, lineage, and responsibility pass through the mother’s line. Women’s leadership is not a modern invention; it is foundational. The women’s house did not stand alone; men built and guarded it. The community functioned because both roles were balanced and honored.
During this Women’s History Month, I think of Tillie Paul Tamaree, my great-great-great-grandmother and a formidable community leader who helped establish the Alaska Native Brotherhood and the Alaska Native Sisterhood. She worked alongside her son, lawyer William Paul, my great-great-uncle; Chief Shakes VII, Charlie Jones, my grandfather and Louis Paul’s father-in-law; and Louis Paul in the long fight to secure Alaska Native voting rights in 1924.
This year, she was inducted into the Alaska Women’s Hall of Fame. I had the honor of writing her biography and presenting it. Tillie Paul Tamaree was a respected leader of the people; she earned that respect through service. When Alaska Native Peoples organized for the right to vote and throughout history, they did so through discipline, unity, and sacrifice.
Research consistently shows that cultural continuity, identity, and structured mentorship reduce disparities. Healthy rites of passage clarify who you are, where you belong, and what you are responsible for. When we reclaim rites of passage for girls and boys alike, we strengthen protective systems that reduce disparities and create resilient families.
And in wearing that small ring each day, even in the public arena of politics, I carry both the weight and the privilege of that preparation.
Atléin Gunalchéesh, (the biggest of thank-you’s.)
Meda DeWitt, MA., TH.