This series now offers a FORUM where you can ask questions,
share stories and interact with other readers and with the
staffers who worked on the series.

Martin Francis, an alcohol and drug counselor at the Passamaquoddy tribe's Pleasant Point Health Center, has seen a lot of alcohol-related death and violence in his lifetime. Here, he walks through the cemetary pointing out those who lost their lives due to alcohol. ``No family is immune here,'' Francis says. ``Nearly everyone is affected by someone with an alcohol problem.'' Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

PLEASANT POINT RESERVATION - The soft-spoken man with eyes like an owl stands among the dead.

Martin Francis gazes at the homemade white crosses and the granite gray-and-black grave markers.

Here the remains of Passamaquoddy men, women and children rest among yellow dandelions on a hillside cemetery overlooking a royal-blue bay.

Many of those buried here share in death what they abused in life. Squinting in the sunlight, Francis tallies the deadly toll of alcohol - a poison that has plagued Pleasant Point, this 700-member tribe, for decades.

''Here, an uncle died of cancer and alcoholism,'' Francis says, pointing to a black stone. ''There, that's a suicide. Another alcoholic.

''Over there, cirrhosis of the liver,'' he continues, gesturing to another headstone. ''This one, shot in a drunken dispute.''

He nods to a row of graves, reading the names etched on the stones. Francis recounts the bleak stories behind nearly every third grave.

''That one, cirrhosis of the liver. Drunk car accident here. Suicide. Teen-ager killed himself while drinking. There, cirrhosis.''

Francis falls silent. In his heart, he knows that many times he himself has cheated death and this graveyard. Nine years sober, he is a recovering alcoholic in a community awash in alcohol.

''I'm not afraid to say I'm a Passamaquoddy, I'm an alcoholic and my tribe is 100 percent affected by alcohol,'' says Francis, who works as a substance abuse counselor at the reservation's health clinic. ''The elders have told me it's time to talk about our problem and get the message out and not be afraid. There are too many at risk to keep quiet.''

In a community where unemployment hovers around 50 percent and the high school dropout rate is sometimes as high as 33 percent, alcohol has been a salve to the festering wounds of depression, poverty and low self-esteem.

Staff art.

This alcohol abuse carries a terrible cost. Few Passamaquoddy men at Pleasant Point and their sister reservation, Indian Township, 40 miles to the north near Princeton, live to be elders. They die from bad livers, car crashes, brawls and their own hands.

Between 1964 and 1993, Passamaquoddy deaths from cirrhosis of the liver - directly linked to alcohol abuse - were nearly three and a half times higher than the state average.

The tribe's homicide rate is seven times higher; suicide is more than double the state average. They have twice as many fatal car accidents. Nearly three times as many deadly accidents from falls, poisonings.

The underlying cause of these high death rates, tribal members say, is alcohol.

''No family is immune here,'' Francis says. ''Nearly everyone is affected by someone with an alcohol problem.''

And the violence that often accompanies alcohol appears to be getting worse on the reservation. This summer, drunken teen-agers used a baseball bat to crack open a man's forehead. Another youth was stabbed in the abdomen during Labor Day weekend. A young man was shot and wounded in the middle of another drunken disturbance.

''It's the worst I've ever seen it,'' says Health Center Director Brian Altvater.

The boiling teen-ager tempers, Altvater says, are fueled by boredom. There are few places for young people to gather on the 212-acre reservation. Aside from an arcade with pinball machines and a pool table, there is nothing.

There are no stores. The Sipiyak Store, a tribal-run grocery, was shut down after money was mismanaged.

A boarded-up, half-completed youth center taunts the teen-agers, reminding them of unfulfilled promises. The building overlooks Passamaquoddy Bay. Inside there is a pool, gymnasium, saunas.

The tribe spent a $1.3 million on the building and had set aside another $900,000 to finish it in 1995. But the ex-tribal governor decided to use the money to build new tribal offices instead.

Now no one knows when, or if, the youth center will be completed.

''The tribal government stole the money from the youth,'' says Altvater. ''What do they expect these kids are going to do?''

And while the tribal members haggle over the future of the costly, unfinished youth center, more and more youths are drinking at a younger age, health workers say.

''They start tasting liquor now when they're 8,'' Francis says. ''I have a client that's 10 years old with an alcohol addiction.''

Culture, language offer hope

Last year, the elementary school initiated a novel approach to keeping children free from drugs and alcohol. Along with teaching children how to read and write, they're schooling them in the Passamaquoddy culture and language.

If the children graduate from grammar school with a sturdy self-image and a clearer understanding of their heritage, the tribe's elders believe it will shield them from addiction in the years to come.

''Their chance of succeeding will be higher if they feel confident of who they are,'' says Shirley Mitchell, principal of the Beatrice Rafferty Elementary School. ''More of our kids need to have a place inside of them where there is harmony.''

The youths also have mentors they can look up to, like Francis and Altvater, who have chosen to follow the ''Red Path,'' a sacred road free of drugs and booze.

''A lot of people have seen me struggle,'' says Altvater, now 42 and celebrating his 15th year of sobriety. ''Now I try to lead by example. To show that there is another way.''

There are also resilient Passamaquoddy women like Mary Sappier, who came back to the reservation 18 years ago to heal her own wounds and those of her people.

As a child, Sappier was taken from her parents because they were drunk more than they were sober.

Now she runs an ambulance service, racing along the reservation roads tending her people after they've had too much to drink and have hurt themselves or others. Though many of the men and women who ride in her ambulance are chronic customers, Sappier does not chide or judge them. Instead, she offers them encouragement and urges them to get help for their illness.

''They're sick,'' she says. ''They've got a disease and they need help. Our only hope is if we pull together as a tribe to heal each other.''

Sober, but struggling with the past

Martin Francis, overcome by emotion while talking about his former drinking days, burns a small piece of bear root. Francis credits traditional medicines, such as bear root, with helping him overcome his afflictions. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

Martin Francis sits inside his office at the Pleasant Point Health Center, struggling with his past. Here in this tiny room, where he counsels people trying to free themselves of booze, Francis begins to cry. The images of his youth overcome him.

''It's not easy to get in touch with these feelings,'' he says, dropping his head into his hand as he exhales deeply.

Francis got his first taste of booze when he was 12.

''It was my initiation into manhood,'' Francis says. ''I was given a bottle and you had to see how many bubbles you could chug. The more bubbles, the more of a man you were.''

That night, Francis passed out and slept on the street. As he got older, he raged around the reservation and nearby Eastport like a demon, drunk, brawling till he passed out or got locked up. He was 265 pounds poisoned by liquor. He wore his black hair long and tucked in a black cowboy hat with a red bandana around it. He fought anybody who looked at him twice.

There were many trips to the hospital. Concussions from car accidents. Broken bones from fights. He got his chest stabbed, his jaw broken.

There were dozens of mornings when he'd wake up in jail with his knuckles raw and bloody. Half the time he didn't remember what had happened the night before. More than once he was afraid to ask the turnkey: ''I didn't kill anyone, did I?''

He stopped drinking when his liver threatened to explode. It was so bloated it pushed his stomach aside. He started vomiting bile and blood.

''I nearly choked on my own blood,'' he says. ''It's a miracle I'm still here to share this story.''

It's been nine years since he stopping drinking. But the memories of the Wild Irish Rose wine he swigged by the gallon still linger. ''There's nothing more I'd still want,'' he whispers. ''To be able to have a drink. But for me to drink would be a premature death.''

Francis pauses as he thinks about an early grave. A moment later, he reaches inside his desk drawer and pulls out a small pouch.

''This is my medicine now,'' he says, unraveling the pouch string. He pulls a small stub the size of an acorn from the bag. ''This is the bear root,'' he explains, flicking his lighter on the stub.

As smoke rises from the root, he waves it over his head. The room fills with the scent of the musky herb as Francis closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

''This helps me to get back in focus.''

Instead of beginning his day with a beer or wine, Francis now lets the soothing scent of the bear root wash over him. The herb, Francis explains, relieves stress and migraines.

Francis spends his days now making amends to those he hurt in his alcoholic blurs. He sits in the sacred sweat lodge he built himself from tree boughs and blankets. There, he prays to the Creator as smoke from the steaming stones furls skyward.

''I ask for forgiveness,'' he says.

And he asks for guidance to help those who are drowning in booze. Of Francis' 10 clients, three are in jail, one is in detox, and another is in rehabilitation. The others he sees a couple of times a week. His youngest client is 10; his oldest is a 58-year-old woman.

''Alcohol continues to fester here and it's affecting younger and younger generations,'' Francis says. ''A lot of the people get drunk, fall down, go to the hospital, come back and keep drinking. Some go to detox over and over.''

Though alcohol continues to be a problem among the youth, Francis says there are fewer elders who are abusing the drug.

''You used to see a lot of people passed out on the streets, drunk,'' Francis says. ''Now it's not as common.''

And decades ago, few on the reservation would even talk about the addiction that cripples their tribe. The veneer of secrecy and shame is slowly dissolving.

''Everyone used to cover up for everyone,'' Francis says. ''Families didn't want to say anything about what was going on at home. The fights, drunken brawls. The children left with drunken mothers.''

Now tribal members aren't as willing to hide their disease. They're beginning to talk openly about the alcohol problems. Posters warning children about the addictions of drugs and alcohol hang in the elementary school and in the tribal office. There are two Alcoholics Anonymous meetings held on the reservation each week.

''People are finally able to stand up and say: 'I'm a Passamaquoddy and I'm an alcoholic,' '' Francis says.

''Some people aren't willing to hide it any more. We, as a tribe, need to stand up and say we are severely affected.''

Running to stay alcohol-free

Brian Altvater, director of the Passamaquoddys' Pleasant Point Health Center, races along the causeway on the tribe's reservation in Washington County. Altvater, sober now for 15 years, trains hard daily in preparation for his beloved Sacred Fire Runs. ``A lot of people have seen me struggle,'' says Altvater, 42. ``Now I try to lead by example. To show that there is another way.'' Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

Altvater, the Pleasant Point Health Center director, runs five times a week, logging 2,000 miles some years. He runs for his tribe in most of the state's Indian races, sometimes tallying 42 miles in one day. Running, like the herbal medicines sweetgrass and sage, has replaced his thirst for booze.

It's been 15 years since he's drunk a beer. Like Francis, his friend and colleague, Altvater wasted much of his youth and early manhood on booze. He, too, got in car crashes, brawls. Once, during a drunken feud, he got shot at; he still has the fragments of bullets in his skull.

''I should be dead,'' he says. ''I was drinking five and six six-packs a day for several years. It got to the point I was waking up and opening a beer for breakfast.''

Many of Altvater's relatives and friends, who drank as heavily as he, were not as fortunate. They rest in the cemetery on the hill.

''I can't even count on my hands how many people, family, friends I've known that have died because of alcohol,'' Altvater says.

When Altvater was born, his father's brothers and friends passed around bottles of muscatel to celebrate.

Now, 42 years later, none of them are alive.

''My dad died of cirrhosis of the liver; so did my uncle,'' Altvater says. ''Others in my family died in car crashes. Suicides.''

Altvater is one of the few adult Passamaquoddy men who are healthy enough to run along the reservation roads. His face flushed with color from his early evening sprint, Altvater sits in his office at the health center. His black curly hair is shaved on the side, like a partial Mohawk. His eyes are dark and seem to catch every movement, like a bird hunting for prey.

There are dozens of animal and bird pictures on his office wall. Most of them portray eagles, a bird tribal members revere as sacred.

''When you think of an eagle a lot of people think of it as a spirit,'' Altvater says. ''It's closest to the Creator because it flies way up in the heavens.''

Though most people rarely spot an eagle, Altvater sees them often on the reserve. He discovers them on his hikes, his walks in the woods and on his runs.

''It's like I'm meant to find them,'' he says. ''Since I've been sober, I've had many spiritual things happen to me.''

One winter day he sought solace on a mountaintop. ''I was distraught over upheaval in the tribe,'' he remembers. ''I climbed this mountain to pray in the dead of winter.''

His hands outstretched in front of him, Altvater prayed in a clockwise motion. He gazed at the sun glittering below on Passamaquoddy Bay and Cadillac Mountain in the distance. As he turned to face southward, a bald eagle flew within a few feet of him.

''I began to cry and told my Creator that was my sign that I was on the right path,'' Altvater says.

Among the tribe, Altvater is admired for his health and his spiritual strength. Sometimes Passamaquoddy men and women seek him out to help conquer their alcohol addiction.

''They say, 'I want to be like you,' '' he says. ''I tell them I'll do whatever I can to help you. But I tell them to seek out their spiritual side or they'll never make it.''

Though he offers encouragement, he knows many of them will not succeed. ''This is a tough environment to stay sober in,'' he says. ''There's a lot of people in the tribe that make it easy for someone to stay within their addiction.''

Altvater even worries about his own three children, two sons and a daughter, who are now in their teens and early 20s.

''They're all struggling with alcohol and chemical dependency,'' he says.

On Labor Day weekend, Altvater rose in the middle of the night to run for his tribe in a race that stretched 42 miles from Pleasant Point to Mount Katahdin.

He and others participating in the race gathered at 4 a.m. by Passamaquoddy Bay to pray before they set out on their journey.

They dedicated their run to all their ancestors, to all the people still with the tribe, to all their people who are yet to be born.

As they finished their talk with the Great Spirit, Altvater glimpsed his son and nearly a dozen other young Passamaquoddys.

''I didn't see a beer in my son's hand, but what else are you doing out at 4 a.m.?'' Altvater asks. ''I worry about him.''

'Nothing for the kids to do'

Stevens, 17, returned to the reservation a few months ago. He just finished serving four months in the Cumberland County Jail for aggravated assault.

The Passamaquoddy youth center stands boarded-up and vacant on the Pleasant Point reservation after money designated to complete it was redirected to construct new tribal offices. No one knows when, or if, the center will be finished. ``The tribal government stole the money from the youth,'' says Brian Altvater, director of the tribal health center. ``What do they expect these kids are going to do?'' Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

Since his early teens, Stevens has been in and out of the Maine Youth Center for a string of charges. Most of his trouble stems from his temper and too much drinking, he says.

On this Thursday, as dusk settles around him, Stevens sits on the picnic table in his back yard. Laundry flaps in the wind on the clothesline behind him.

A friend stands at a large grill nearby, cooking hamburgers. He repeatedly squirts the grill with lighter fluid. Flames jump three feet, licking his chest.

''Whoa, man, I nearly singed my eyebrows off,'' the youth says, laughing. His eyes are unfocused and glassy as he flips the burgers.

Stevens grins at his friend and swats at a mosquito on his muscled arm. His raven-colored hair matches the color of his eyes, which narrow when he's asked about alcohol on the reservation.

''It's pretty bad,'' he says. ''A lot of fights, some stabbings. A lot of people going to the hospital here and there. Everybody drinks here. Adults with kids. Kids with adults.

''Some guy just got knocked on the head three times with a baseball bat,'' Stevens says of an August assault that is well-known on the reservation. ''He got stitches all over his face.''

Staring at the back wall of the boarded-up Sipiyak store that borders his back yard, he adds: ''They don't even sell alcohol here. That says something, doesn't it?''

A week and half ago, 15 youths gathered in Stevens' back yard for a party.

Three of them wound up fighting with each other.

''Everybody seems on the verge of fighting,'' he says. ''A lot of the kids here ride around with lead pipes and guns in their cars.''

Guns are easy to get on the reservation, Stevens says. His eyes widen with a memory of his own gun use.

''A while back, I was drunk, really messed up, and I was shooting a gun off,'' he says. ''It was stolen and I was just shooting it off.''

He kicks the grass with the heel of his sneaker.

In passing, he mentions his older sister, who was rushed to the hospital at 3 a.m. that morning.

''She was drinking and had some kind of stomach problem,'' he says.

Though he says he doesn't drink much anymore, Stevens points to his right forearm. It's raw and bruised.

''I was drinking at a party last night and tried to do a flip on a porch,'' he explains, inhaling sharply as he touches the tender skin.

Like many on the reservation, Stevens is critical of the tribal government and police.

''There's nothing for the kids to do,'' he says. ''The youth center's boarded up. Nobody seems to care.''

When asked if he takes part in any of the Passamaquoddy ceremonial ways, Stevens shrugs his shoulders.

''That seems like a passing fad,'' he says. ''You don't see many people into it anymore.''

Lately, Stevens says he's trying to stay out of trouble and work out more at the community gym, where he lifts weights and trains for boxing.

''I'm trying to get ready for competition,'' he says.

He also talks about his plans to go to technical college in Calais and learn about breeding dogs.

''I'd like to come back here and try breeding dogs,'' he says, getting up to scratch the neck of his Rottweiler chained near the grill.

''Sometimes, I think I want to leave here, but then I want to come back,'' he says. ''It's beautiful here and there's always hope, right?''

Reading, writing and tribal culture

They eagerly assemble before the blackboard to sing songs older than their great-great-grandparents.

Grace Davis, cultural teacher at Pleasant Point's Beatrice Rafferty Elementary School, accompanies her third-graders on the drum as they sing in preparation for National Indian Day. The tribe's children ``need to know their heritage to instill pride,'' she says. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

Their voices are loud and confident as they chant in Passamaquoddy.

''Yahi, yo. Yahi, yea. Oh, Great Spirit, help us your children for we cannot see. Lead us and guide us and show us the way. To help our poor children to know you today. Yahi, yo. Yahi, yea.''

As their teacher bangs a drum, smiles creep across their small, round faces. Their eyes are bright with pride as they chant another verse.

For the first time at the reservation's sole school, Beatrice Rafferty Elementary, Passamaquoddy culture is considered as important as reading and math.

The students are learning how to speak and sing in Passamaquoddy and how to talk to the Great Spirit. They make native clothes, dance like eagles and burn sage to purify their spirits.

Their elders hope the children's interest in tribal ways will keep them from turning to alcohol and drugs once they graduate from grammar school.

''They need to know their heritage to instill pride,'' says Grace Davis, a Passamaquoddy woman who was hired last year to share her knowledge of the tribal ways. ''These children have to have something to hold onto. They need to know our ways.''

Many Passamaquoddy children encounter difficulty when they must leave the reservation and choose one of three high schools to attend in neighboring communities. Plenty end up dropping out.

''We can keep an eye on the kids when they're here, but when they leave the reservation they get caught up with the outside community, the other ways,'' says Shirley Mitchell, the first Passamaquoddy principal at Beatrice Rafferty Elementary School. ''A lot of them get out of sync with themselves. They get lost in the transformation.''

Once the children drop out of high school, they come back to the reservation, where 50 percent of the adults can't get jobs. With no high school degree and a sense of despair dogging their future, they often turn to drinking and drugging.

On this morning in the elementary school, the Passamaquoddy third-graders flap their arms like eagles and hop on one foot as Davis taps her drum.

The children weave around the room, circling one another carefully. Davis hopes the students will continue to cherish and thirst for more knowledge about their heritage. She also prays that these children will stay on the Red Path and steer clear of alcohol and drugs.

''I don't want them to fall off the path,'' Davis says. ''This is the good way.''

Guidance for a risky journey

Martin Francis, a substance abuse counselor at the Pleasant Point Health Center, hopes his 5-year-old son, Majik Wocawson, will opt for the ``Red Path'' and eschew alcohol in his teen-age years. Francis takes great care in educating his son in Passamaquoddy ways, such as this private ceremony in their home. ``I'm trying to safeguard him as much as I can for his path to adulthood,'' Francis says. Staff photo by David A. Rodgers

He kneels at one end of the cloth and asks his son: ''Ready, mushun?'' Mushun is Passamaquoddy for ''my heart.''

His 5-year-old son Majik, with large brown eyes like his daddy's, kneels at the opposite end of the red cloth.

His father lights a piece of sage and places it in the owl urn. The smoke circles the pot slowly and curls toward the ceiling. Majik listens intently to his father's hypnotic voice speak Passamaquoddy.

Francis tells his son about the power and goodness in natural medicines. About the need to have harmony in his heart and to love himself and his people.

By teaching his son the Passamaquoddy ways at such an early age, Francis hopes it will bolster his son for the risky journey ahead. His son, at age 5, is already familiar with the drunken men and women in his village.

Recently, Francis stopped to pick up a Passamaquoddy man who was staggering along the road. The man tried to get in the passenger seat with Francis' son before Francis got him to sit in the bed of his truck.

''My son told me, 'Daddy there's something wrong with that man.' ''

Francis prays that his son will be strong enough to reject the poison that runs like a river through his tribe.

The thought of his son brawling like he did, rotting his liver or careening along the reservation roads drunk behind the wheel of a car, frightens Francis. Worse still, Francis fears the cemetery on the hill, filled with Passamaquoddy men who never got the chance to grow old.

''I'm trying to safeguard him as much as I can for his path to adulthood,'' Francis says.

As the sage burns to a nub, Majik gets up and hugs his father tightly, wrapping his small arms around his dad's barrel chest.

''Kis-sol-ol-mol, daddy,'' the boy whispers in Passamaquoddy, telling his father he loves him.