Antonia Malchik

A short time ago (a million years ago? Covid time is weird and stretchy and shapeless but combine it with attempted coup time and I don’t even know) I wrote a bit about the Boston Tea Party—a founding myth of America, but also a riot that destroyed private property. What many people also don’t know is that the perpetrators dressed up in costume—garb imitating the nearby Mohawk tribe, to be exact—before overtaking three ships and dumping their cargoes of tea overboard.

I’ve read some news reports from that time period (and if anyone’s really interested, the information I used in my book for the Boston Tea Party section came from The Spirit of ’Seventy-Six: The Story of the American Revolution as Told by Participants, an enormous but invaluable volume of first-hand accounts from that era of America-to-be), and after reading mainstream media’s hot takes from yesterday’s attempted coup, I’m thinking about looking back to see how derisively the British Parliament and British press spoke and wrote about the men in costume revolting against their country, or at least their country’s taxes.

Just because people are attempting insurrection in costume and look and sound ridiculous doesn’t mean they aren’t deadly serious.

Like the perpetrators of the Boston Tea Party, those who “stormed” (their word) the U.S. Capitol fervently believed, and continue to believe, in their cause. This is one of the reasons I wrote recently in my post about the CSKT water compact that its opponents are people I have completely given up on reasoning with, if I haven’t given up on them as human beings and neighbors. (And just for the record, this is one of the reasons I value living in a complicated, mixed community that is anything but a bubble and why this “getting along with people whose opinions I detest” can’t just be rhetoric: one of those elected state lawmakers, whom I’m sure supports yesterday’s attempted coup, is married to a teacher who has been one of the few people to make my kid’s middle school years slightly less hellish. They live a ten minutes’ walk from our house.)

I keep going back to this video posted by Molly McKew, an expert on information warfare whose Twitter feed I used to follow, of a young-ish man (need I say white?) who had witnessed the shooting of a radicalized QAnon-believing Air Force veteran as she and others rushed through the doors of the building.

In videos like this what gets my attention is the body language—shakiness, tension in the voice, and the rise in pitch toward the end as the man’s passion comes through. About a minute into the two-minute video is when his real self comes out, his purpose (or what he thinks is his purpose) for being there: “This—this cannot stand,” he says, pointing toward the building. “They don’t represent anyone. . . . They think we’re a joke. . . . We have to do something.” As McKew points out, he can’t really explain who the enemy is or what his goal is. But he is angry and shaken and firm in the beliefs that led him there.

I’d ask where his passion was during Standing Rock or pretty much any week last summer during Black Lives Matter protests, but I imagine we all know the answer to that.

As I tried to drag myself away from Twitter yesterday while doing math with my kids, I thought a lot about bodies and emotion. My publisher, Hachette, did a little interview with me before A Walking Life came out, and in it I said some things I’d maybe revise or update, but some things that seem even more relevant today, like how social media—in fact, all media—seeks to manipulate our emotions, and what that does to us:

“I’m also really interested in the messages our bodies are sending us and how that can be manipulated. When you feel angry because of a news headline or depressed because you’ve been reading your Twitter feed, what do you really know about that emotion and what’s causing it? Are you, in other words, responding according to what you actually know is true in the real world and about real people, or according to outrage constantly triggered by the media you consume? I’ve come to think that getting to know your body—unfiltered through social media—is essential for understanding emotions like anger. Maybe it’s time more of us started asking how our perceptions of people on ‘the other side’ are being manipulated and whom that manipulation serves. Because it’s definitely not serving us.”

The entire scene yesterday is a part-answer to that problem, and as so many have pointed out, from Sarah Kendzior to Joy Ann Reid and many others, it was entirely predictable. I’m a writer at core but essentially I’m a housewife and mom of two living in a small town in Montana—I’m nobody, basically—and last summer even I was saying to friends that I didn’t see any of this going anywhere except armed clashes between police, citizens, and factions of enlisted military and the National Guard if nothing was done. That wasn’t just informed by Trump, but by having grown up in a place with a strong Aryan Nation contingent, and having watched it and its offshoots blossom after the FBI and other enforcement mechanisms lost the stomach for going after violent white extremists post-Ruby Ridge and Waco.

So here we are. The people breaking windows in the Capitol were responding to what they thought was true about the world, and their bodies were pumped with outrage and anger kept fed by a media machine that has zero interest in facts, only in attention.

The title of this post is taken from the book The Body Keeps the Score by psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk, in which he lays out his ideas involving how trauma lodges in the body, and details his work with Vietnam veterans and victims of child abuse. His work has been extended through studies on epigenetics by people like Rachel Yehuda (who studied descendants of Holocaust and 9/11 survivors) and Maria Yellow Horse Braveheart, who has studied trauma passed on through generations of Native American populations—Lakota descendants of those who’d survived the horrors of Wounded Knee in particular, but also those who suffered conditioning and abuse when forced into residential boarding schools.

The man in the video posted by Molly McKew is deeply misinformed at best, and looking for further radicalization at worst. I hope not. But no matter where he goes from here, the reality is that he and so many others who participated in a revolt yesterday are carrying bodies full of toxins that have been pumped into them for years by right-wing radio show hosts, by the Fox network, by online conspiracy theorists, and of course by the president and his supporters and enablers.

All of those words and feelings don’t just pass through the brain or stay on the internet. They stir emotions, start rushing energy and stress hormones around, and clamor for action. This is part of our evolution. Our flight-or-fight reaction is a stress response evolved to save our lives in the fact of immediate danger. Media uses it all the time, in some cases unknowingly but they certainly know what they’re hoping to achieve: to keep people engaged by keeping them outraged and angry, by keeping those bodies pumped full of stress hormones.

At some point all that radicalization and anger was going to have to go somewhere. People have been acting on those emotions for years by yelling online, by going further into conspiracies and disinformation, and by stocking up on weaponry. In some cases they’ve attended training camps for armed revolutionaries.

Nothing ever stays “just online.” It doesn’t matter whether I agree with any of those people or not, or whether you do or not. All of society suffers the consequences because at some point their emotions will need their bodies to take action.

And it’s not like I’m immune. One of the reasons I quit Twitter was because it was clear to me how easily hooked I get in toggling from one political feed to the next, and going further into the “how bad is it?” rabbit hole. Once I left, I was more aware every time I let myself look at Twitter of its physical effects on me. It’s like a craving for sugar or trashy cliffhanger TV shows (24 comes to mind) but worse. I can go from feed to feed to feed and at the same time be completely conscious that my body’s tension is growing—not just from anger, but from a physical need to fix it all. It’s no different, likely, than what a conspiracy theorist goes through engaging in a near-manic desire to connect all the threads together and finally grasp the entire picture. If I just check Molly McKew’s feed one more time, or Sarah Kendzior’s, or Malcolm Vance’s, or JJ MacNab’s*, or someone who seems to have an ear in the White House, then surely I’ll “get” it all.

And then what? I think we know what. Those aren’t the feeds yesterday’s insurrectionists were following, but the mind-body process might have been similar. The end is a strong desire to do something. And when you have a president who’s prompting you to go invade the houses of Congress to save his presidency and the democracy you believe you’re losing, what does anybody expect? Throw in a feeling of connection and fellow-feeling with a whole lot of other radicalized, disinformed insurrectionists, and you’re going to take that body full of excitement and stress hormones and march up the steps. And put your feet up on Nancy Pelosi’s desk I guess?

The longer a toxic media ecosystem is allowed to pump poisons into society, the more their bodies—or all our bodies—will keep the score. But it’s the body politic that pays the price.

*These are really good people to follow if you’re interested in these things, though!

John Vaillant and the likeways of art

“Public property rights stand equally important [to private ownership], for they secure the life sources for all citizens: the air, water, oceans, wildlife, fish, forests, vegetation, and soils. Without an abundance of such natural wealth, there can be no social stability, and thus no individual liberty, for citizens struggling to survive can fall prey to tyrants.” —Mary Christina Wood, Nature’s Trust: Environmental Law for a New Ecological Age

I recently finished reading John Vaillant’s book The Golden Spruce, about a famous golden spruce tree and the logger-turned-environmental activist who cut it down. Somewhere around a third of the way through I almost stopped reading, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle yet another story of the utter destruction wrought by commodification and unchecked capitalism.*

It’s an incredible history, reaching back to the first meetings of the Haida people with European ships looking for commodities and trade in the late 1700s, delving into the growth and mechanization of the logging industry, and tracking one man’s personal journey of heroism or hell.

I kept reading because Vaillant is an excellent writer and several friends whose judgment I trust have recommended him, and I wasn’t sorry I kept going. I didn’t feel any better about commodification or humanity, but Vaillant was deft and matter-of-fact in his treatment of the subjects—not leaving me with hope exactly, but more a bolstering, of refusing to look away from the reality whether you think you can change it or not. His skill in narrative turned the subject from one I wanted to avoid for once, to a book I’ll actually keep on my shelves rather than passing on.

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Some days after finishing the book, I walked to City Beach on a gray, cold day with my husband while our kids were at their grandparents’. We ran into one of the swimming teachers from the gym, a woman I’ve known marginally for several years, and was glad to find was coping with quarantines and pandemic as well as possible. We chatted a bit about this and that, and somehow stumbled onto Elon Musk and Mars.

“What are we doing messing about with this planet?” she said. “We need to be out there, we need to be building space stations and moon bases.”

Well, maybe. Do we? I don’t think so. Personally, I think it’s the frontier mentality, looking around and realizing what a mess things are and how much work it’s going to be to clean it all up, and fantasizing about being able to start over with a clean slate elsewhere. It never actually works that way, and space will be no different.

But she talked about the technology and how fascinating it is and how much we benefit from the kind of research that goes into space tech, and that, of course, isn’t wrong. But I still think we’re fooling ourselves if we imagine we can go and do incredible things in space and somehow be a better species when we still can’t bring ourselves to feed all the children on the planet. We’ll do it anyway, though. Or some people will, while others will keep trying to feed all the children.

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Recently I’ve been questioning the purposes of art, which is kind of a hopeless quest that every creative person goes through (and just for the record, I think everyone’s a creative person)—a three a.m. “What am I doing here?” wail followed by searches on the internet for wildland firefighter training. Which is doubly silly because I already have a non-writing job and, at 44, am probably too old to go off firefighting.

In any case, Vaillant reminded me that the purpose of art is to serve a perhaps undefinable role in tracing the vast networks of connections, knowledge, pain, hope, and lifeways that bind us together, and will always bind us together, no matter how much we forget about them nor how far we travel from one another. To remind us to keep watching the stars while we feed the children.

*I was going to write “unchecked greed” here, but I don’t think greed is the right word. Greed seems to imply an intent to take from others, knowing that it’s unfair, but the kind of capitalism we function in tells us that there’s nothing wrong with commodification that causes complete destruction, that whatever we pursue in the interests of profit is the right thing to do. Plenty of people participate in this system with willful greed, but plenty of others do because there are no other choices.

The Boston Tea Party is one of the defining stories of America’s founding as a nation. I remember learning about it year after year in school in the 1980s, probably every American kid does. What was never said in those scrappy little classrooms across Montana is that the story of the Boston Tea Party is also one of the sharpest tools wielded in defense of the mythologies that make up the American ideal. The fact that it was an illegal riot that destroyed private property doesn’t just get glossed over; it’s never presented that way, not in the U.S. anyway. It’s noble, the little nation that could refusing injustice imposed by a far-off government. What also gets glossed over is that the impetus for the riot wasn’t simply taxes; it was taxes imposed by government in order to benefit a private corporation.

The struggle over taxes in the British colonies had been ongoing for years. The tax on tea, however, had another purpose besides enriching King George III: The British Parliament wanted to keep the tea tax as a symbolic acknowledgment that the government maintained its right to tax the colonies, but they also wanted to help the East India Company claw its way out of debt. The story of the Boston Tea Party, the real one, points to the longer history of government enabling corporate power and profit until it essentially becomes an arm of the corporation itself.

The East India Company had its own private army. It in effect controlled all of India at one point, nominally representing Britain’s interests but serving its own. As with many of our modern corporate-government revolving doors and mutual back-scratching habits, the interests of the corporation often enveloped, or became, those of the state, as noted in this Financial Times article on the East India Company and its implications for modern capitalism:

“The EIC remains history’s most ominous warning about the potential for the abuse of corporate power — and the insidious means by which the interests of shareholders can seemingly become those of the state. . . .

For just as the lobbying of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company was able to bring down the government in Iran and United Fruit that of Guatemala in the 1950s; just as ITT lobbied to bring down Salvador Allende’s Chile in the 1970s and just as ExxonMobil has lobbied the US more recently to protect its interests in Indonesia, Iraq and Afghanistan, so the EIC was able to call in the British navy to enhance its power in India in the 18th century. And just as Facebook today can employ Nick Clegg, the former UK deputy prime minister, so the EIC was able to buy the services of Lord Cornwallis, who surrendered Yorktown to Washington.”

It’s a long but excellent article, detailing the Company’s permission to wage war, and instances of forced privatization across the world at the Company’s behest. It also points to England having isolated itself from the rest of Europe due to wars over religion—I assume the author is referring to the abandonment of Catholicism and establishment the Church of England—as a factor prompting the country to look for markets outside of Europe, a vital ingredient for colonialism: “The English were forced to scour the globe for new markets and commercial openings further afield, and to do so they had no compunction but to use, for the first time in history, unbridled corporate violence.” The article likely summarizes a lot of history I’m not familiar enough with to know the details of; it’s well worth reading.

One of the questions I keep asking myself is if government (the type of government I’m most familiar with, some form of representative democracy) has always existed to serve private interests. Its main claim to enforcement of law is a monopoly on state violence, most often employed in the name of protecting private property, rather than protecting citizens from harm. This is obvious when you look at laws and police actions against something like constructing an oil pipeline. The pipeline is private property built in pursuit of profit; therefore, it qualifies for legal protection from the state even though it threatens clean air, water, and soil—even if it takes others’ private property in turn. The U.S. government’s power of eminent domain, after all, was first used for private gain when railroads were being built across the continent, and has continued to be wielded in the name of private profit ever since—the Supreme Court decision in Kelo v. City of New London (2005) and the Pennsylvania District Court case granting eminent domain to a pipeline builder over the objections of a family of maple tree farmers in 2016 are only very recent examples of a longstanding pattern.

What to do about it is another question. Even democratically elected representatives are eager, as we see all too clearly every day, to promote corporate interests over that of their constituents if it assures them a safer and longer place in a seat of power. We need democracy and the right to vote, but those tools aren’t enough to assure a livable planet and lives of dignity. They are necessary conditions, but not sufficient.

There’s a tendency to just say, f— it, burn it all down and start over. But that’s been done more than once throughout history, in several places within living memory, and all it results in is a lot of suffering and the same cycles starting over again. It’s as if there’s something broken at the center of humanity, or at least a sizable portion of humanity, and we’re never going to find a better way to live together until we clearly define the shape and scope of that brokenness. As long as we* accept structures that prioritize private profits over life and health of the planet, pollution and structural injustice is all we’ll get. If I believed in the devil, it would be someone in a sharp suit promising me two or three generations of decent jobs in exchange for the water, soil, and air I depend on, with the added bonus of sacrificing my kids’ health and sense of themselves as free human beings. It is the purest kind of evil to smile and hand out some cash while snipping the threads that link us to life.

I don’t believe in devils, or deities, though. I do believe that the stories we tell and accept about ourselves and other have tremendous power. If we can change the stories, maybe we can begin to change something about our lives.

Instead of trying to burn it all down, plenty of people focus on building from the ground up—better systems, better ways of doing and being and living: this profile of a local food and farm co-op in Washington, in the November issue of High Country News, is a reminder that even when things feel like they’re falling apart, there are people and networks all over the world trying to piece them back together. Montana’s Alternative Energy Resource Organization (AERO) has been working against corporate agriculture for decades, from lobbying for a different kind of Farm Bill that works for people and food rather than commodities, to producing the bulk of the country’s organic lentils and heirloom grains like kamut. Oakland’s Unity Council has also been working for decades on affordable housing, higher-quality food access, and integrated public transportation in Fruitvale, one of the city’s poorest areas.

There are plenty more. I’m reminded of these organizations and people every time I work on a story about urban planning, affordable housing, or pedestrian advocacy. They are everywhere. They just never get featured on cable news or the podcasts of so-called “thought leaders.”

Changing our systems to serve people involves all of these efforts. And they don’t have to be scaled up—they have most power and efficacy when they stay connected to a particular place and community. Instead of scaling up small, workable, place-based systems, we need to take out the support systems that keep oppressive conglomerations afloat, from tax subsidies to weak interpretation of anti-monopoly laws (which should never have been confined to only the consumer price of a product, but should always have included what it truly costs us). And of course to change the way a large percentage of human beings see themselves as co-existing with the rest of life, which is no small task after centuries—maybe millennia—of negating and oppressing this reality.

During the U.S.’s recent election cycle, my state elected a governor who ran on the tired trope of lowering taxes, “creating jobs,” and being a successful businessman. People in my state are actually very good at “creating jobs.” Small business owners sometimes feel as common as pine trees. Many of those jobs—upwards of 70,000—are dependent on a healthy commons in the form of clean rivers full of fish and public lands that provide the kind of solace and clean air that no job could touch.

It’s often hard to get people to acknowledge the existence of these jobs and the kind of healthy shared commons that make them possible because our idea of a “job” is so starved of meaning and hamstrung by identity and self-perception. (Journalism jobs have fallen by 65% in the last 20 years, for example, while coal jobs have fallen by 61%, but we don’t hear much about the former because a “real job” is completely ensnared in a different form of identity politics than the kind that people like Sam Harris and Jordan Peterson complain about.) Working in a lumber mill is a job; working as a fishing guide is, too, but also somehow isn’t the kind of job you’re talking about when you’re voting for “job creators.” Real jobs means lumber mills, slaughterhouses, car factories, oil pipelines, tech engineers. It means hundreds of people, massive profits for the bosses, and a no-holds-barred attitude when it comes to environmental destruction. Maybe it’s the type of job or maybe it’s the number of people employed at each operation, but the myriad small businesses that rely on public lands and a healthy commons somehow don’t count when it comes to political rhetoric.

This is just a story we’ve been told, one that we then tell ourselves and one another, and it’s a system people then vote for. But we are capable of telling different stories. We just need more people doing so.

The East India Company and various colonial governments were very effective at telling stories. They’ve left legacies of imperial pride that still resonate and warp people’s thinking today, and blind us to the dangers of corporate power. As that Financial Times article pointed out:

“We still talk about the British conquering India, but that phrase disguises a more sinister reality. For it was not the British government that began seizing chunks of India in the mid-18th century, but a dangerously unregulated private company headquartered in one small office, five windows wide, in London.”

People once believed women could be witches. They once believed that illness was caused by dark humors in the body, and that Earth was the center of nested rings of singing spheres. We can change what we believe, starting with what we think we know about history and the real, live world around us. We can tell better stories about what is possible and what we’re capable of. We need to, because corporate growth and greed will not stop taking and commodifying and destroying all that makes life worthwhile, nor will it stop fabricating stories that make vast numbers of people believe it’s inevitable, unstoppable, and probably for the best. We need more stories, better stories, and we need them everywhere in hopes that those stories can, over time, change what is.

That’s what I hope for 2021. Change, as I always say, takes a lot of time and a lot of work. This year, we can start by finding and amplifying as many instances as possible of people doing real work in real communities to make their worlds better. We can commit to finding, and believing in, different stories—the ones that make us realize a different world is possible, and then making it probable.

*Here I go again—“we, we, we.” I think English just needs a different word, or a few different words, to bring about more nuance when talking about societal thinking that shouldn’t be characterized as “us vs. them.”

The CSKT water compact and dealing with (or bypassing) ideology

“Elites have spread the idea that people must be helped, but only in market-friendly ways that do not upset fundamental power equations. . . . in ways that do not change the underlying economic system that has allowed the winners to win and fostered many of the problems they seek to solve.” —Anand Giridharadas, Winners Take All: The Elite Charade of Changing the World

Tucked into the Covid-19 relief bill recently (finally) signed by the U.S. president are a couple of items that are probably unknown outside of the area of northwest Montana I live in, or at least largely unknown outside of Montana. Forwarded by all 3 members of the state’s congressional delegation is the completion of a water compact between the state and the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes—one that resolves almost all water claims by the tribe, and in which the CSKT gave up many of those claims in order to reach an agreement with the state legislature—and at the same time returns the National Bison Range to tribal ownership.

This compact was passed by the state legislature in 2015 and is a huge win for the state and, I hope, a relief for the tribe in finalizing their water rights—this despite the fact that they gave up significant water claims to which they were entitled under the Winters Doctrine (the 1908 U.S. Supreme Court case Winters v. United States that determined reservations that relied on agriculture automatically had first right to water sources). Transfer of the National Bison Range had also already been approved, but Ryan Zinke nixed it when he became Secretary of the Interior (for absolutely no good reason except he thought it would win him political points, but don’t get me started on Zinke because I have almost nothing nice to say).

As Montana-based national journalist and one of my favorite writers Anne Helen Petersen said on her Twitter account, this is going to royally piss off the far right in the Flathead Valley. She’s right. But she’s also right that the only things that make them angrier than the water compact are mask mandates (or even being asked to wear a mask) and refugees. Also liberals, gun control legislation, and the idea of a county-wide bike trail. So there’s that. And at this point it’s hard to care too much. Some of these conservatives have become such rigid ideologues that they object to even the idea of working with fellow legislators in the Democratic Party. Brad Tschida, one of the 18 Republican legislators (8 of whom are from Flathead County, where I live) who signed a letter in opposition to the water compact was quoted as saying in my local paper:

“When you have members on the other side of the aisle that are acknowledging and favorably responding to that decision, then I think there’s something wrong with that, . . . So, to me, that smacks in the face of the citizens of the state of Montana that sent 67 Republicans to the Legislature this year.” (Emphasis added.)

He also literally said that this legislation must be wrong because some Democrats approved of it. Which is one of the now countless examples of the fact that many in the foundation of the Republican Party simply believe that any Democrat having any influence, power, or even winning a vote, is flat-out illegitimate.

I know many people who associate with that thinking, and they have become so entrenched in propaganda that it’s hard to reach for any kind of mutual sympathy. When the bipartisan water compact was passed by the state legislature and approved by the Republican attorney general, some of these objecting legislators were part of a group that launched a competing “People’s Compact” that had very little real support outside their ideological bubble and no political or legal legitimacy. But they tried hard, paying for billboards and a booklet insert in newspapers across the state, and claiming that the legislature had had no time to review or understand the CSKT compact despite also acknowledging the it had been worked on and negotiated for 8 years. They also tried to agitate against transferring the National Bison Range back to tribal ownership by complaining that a public resource was being given to a private entity, but aside from the fact that that doesn’t seem to stop them from wanting to privatize all other public lands plus public education, it ignores the reality that that Flathead Valley land had been set aside for a reservation when the Salish tribe was forced out of their lands in Bitterroot Valley, and that the CSKT then had to give up their nascent buffalo herd when being forced to open the reservation up to white settlement. Aside from ignoring the initial reality of all of this being on stolen land anyway. And that the CSKT has committed to keeping the Bison Range open to the public.

I realize I’m getting a bit lost in the weeds here, but I’ve been following this issue closely since I moved back to my hometown and am absolutely exhausted and annoyed with this group of people that keeps claiming to be the menders of fences while at the same time refusing to acknowledge any reality beyond the ones they’ve defined. You can’t reach mutual understanding over an issue that people believe in completely different realities about, though you can still hold out hope of building connections and understanding in other ways. But someone’s inability to perceive reality or their own prejudices doesn’t justify forcing other people to continue living with those injustices. Some people have a really hard time with change; that doesn’t mean everyone else has to sit around until Doomsday waiting for them to grow up.

These objectors are some of the same people who, when the CSKT paid millions of dollars for full ownership of a dam down-valley that they’d been co-managing, freaked out, insisted that the tribe would mismanage the resource, and then hired a lawyer who tried to claim in court that the tribal dam ownership was somehow linked to the Turkish government and the U.N.’s Agenda 21. (I am not kidding.) I don’t want to give up on people, but there comes a certain point when giving up on trying to help them see facts is the sensible thing to do.

I am incredibly relieved about the water compact and National Bison Range because I was worried that the federal end of the process might have to start over with the new Senate and presidential administration, and the CSKT has waited long enough for those issues to be resolved. It’s something that a lot of good people have been working on for a long time, and with Montana’s recent election of many harder-right conservatives, might be one of the last examples we get of the state’s supposed ability to look beyond party and work together on real issues that affect real people. But I credit the legislature with this win less than I credit the CSKT, who on this issue and many others (I believe they were the first local government in Montana to have a strategic climate change plan, which they wrote and passed in 2013) have shown an example of governance that other communities would be well to look up to.

If I owe you an email, apologies! I’m not always fast at responding to email, but holiday weeks tend to shut down my inbox for a while.

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Some stuff to read or listen to:

• Newsletter reader Timothy shared this incredible essay by Robin Wall Kimmerer (whose Braiding Sweetgrass and Gathering Moss are books I keep returning to) on serviceberries and the struggle of commodification versus the promises of an economy based on reciprocity, reflecting the generosity and abundance of nature. (It also never occurred to me that serviceberries would be attractive enough for farming.)

• Did you know there’s been a transcontinental bike and pedestrian trail in the works in the U.S.? The Rails-to-Trails Coalition, among other organizations, has been piecing it together and it’ll take a while—longer than many of us would like—but the the trail already has 2,000 miles.

• I’ve never read Raynor Winn’s books, but I’m going to after listening to this interview with her on the Scotland Outdoors podcast. Her description of her husband’s illness and the 600-mile walk they took after becoming homeless sound beautiful, and I’m keenly interested in their experience of his neurological health improving during this intensive journey. I wrote a fair bit about neurological health and walking in my book, but of course science is always finding out more.

Droughts and wandering

“Above all, don’t lie to yourself.” —Fyodr Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

I’ve been out of words recently. Lost in wondering what the point of words on pages is. I believe in stories and the power of narrative, but not every word thought by every person needs to be out in the world or amplified, including mine. The world is a noise, which is so different from a sound.

This feeling, however, is also a familiar one, what I call a dry spell. There are writers who never seem to hit these droughts, and I envy them, but I also know this will pass. The first time it ever happened to me I was working on a mystery novel that I’d revised umpteen times, and I suddenly lost interest in it so completely that even picking up printed chapters to try to revise again resulted in itchy skin and my throat swelling up. I literally seemed to be developing an allergy to writing. I wrote a friend of mine, Becky Hagenston, who is one of the best short story writers I’ve ever read, and asked if she’d ever experienced this. She wrote something so funny back to me that I keep it on my desk at all times, and it made me realize that dry spells are just something I have to accept.

This time it’s mostly a wondering and feeling of pointlessness, probably triggered in part by the state of the world and the formlessness of my own days. Now, as I think of the funny thing Becky said to me, and how much I enjoy and admire her short stories, my mind wanders off to when we met, that writing conference in St. Petersburg the year before I got pregnant with my first child, walking the city’s canals for hours and hours, drinking vodka in the bar late at night when the sun never set, watching the World Cup with my uncle and cousin at their apartment across town, looking for the story points of my father’s childhood when the city was still Leningrad and the communal apartment his family shared wasn’t upstaged by a Lexus dealership next door. The strange tour that a faculty member gave of how St. Petersburg’s architecture and corners was reflected in Dostoevsky’s portrayal of his main character in Crime and Punishment.

I’ll just have to wait for whatever passes for a muse in my brain/mind/self to come back from vacation. In the meantime, I’ve got a big pile of research books to dig into, pictured below. The stack on the right are books I’ve read; the two on the left are waiting to be opened (there are more on the way but this is what I have right now). If you were curious about private property, the commons, and the history of ownership, where would you start?

(Thanks to Dr. Greg Davis for pointing me to Nick Hayes’s The Book of Trespass! I hope it’ll be published in the U.S. soon.)

—-

Some stuff to read (no podcasts! I’ve been bingeing on the “Tides of History” podcast, so the rest are just piling up):

• “Hi Ho Cherry-O,” by Becky Hagenston, in Witness. Just one of her many excellent, eerie stories.

• I keep going back to reread Chris La Tray’s lovely essay “Ulm Pishkun” (published in High Desert Journal), about visiting First Peoples Buffalo Jump State Park, and trying to excavate the vague memory I have of visiting the place for the first time as a child. Was it a school trip? Or did my grandmother take me when I was visiting her in Great Falls? I can’t remember. This essay evokes so much sensory memory, though. We are all, indeed, a little lost.

• I’ve been reading through my backlog of magazines, and had the delight this week of reading Will Hunt’s essay “A Pilgrimage on the Sacred Road,” about looking for and walking an ancient Mayan sacbe, in the Winter 2019 issue of Orion.

• Shannon Mattern on a cultural history of Plexiglass, its role in a pandemic and its reflection of our expectations about a world where our safety and ease are paramount, in Places Journal.

Jan Morris and the art of kindness

“Be kind.” — Jan Morris, A Writer’s World: Travels and Reportage 1950-2000

A long time ago now, at least within the span of my own life, I was deeply immersed in the travel and travel writing world. Among my favorites to read, the giants of travel writing literature at the time, were Colin Thubron, Pico Iyer, and of course the incomparable Jan Morris, who I was very sad to hear died on November 20.

Of the writers I was introduced to at the time, Morris was probably the last, at least among those who are well-known in that genre. Her book A Writer’s World, a collection of essays that spans five decades, sat on my shelves for a long time before I finally cracked the binding.

Inside, I found myself delighted by life’s many variations through the eyes of a skilled writer who never seemed to shake a love for the world no matter what she witnessed. It opens when Jan was still James Morris, emerging from a tent with ice in a beard, on the way to acclaim as the only journalist member of Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary’s ascent of Everest; and ends with an essay that was a defining read of my life. After interactions with people all over the world who see humanity and reality in black-and-white, us-or-them, and striving to make meaning of it, Jan arrives at the only things that matters: be kind.

This was, it seems, an exhortation she lived by. Simon Winchester’s tribute to her in The American Scholar is filled with memories of her generosity to him as an aspiring writer. In that same magazine, senior editor Bruce Falconer writes of her as living by kindness, always kindness, quoting one of her columns for the magazine:

“I simply believe that everything one does in life can be measured against a scale of kindness. None of us can ever achieve full marks on the scale, and kindness itself must sometimes be weighed in the balance—is it ever kind to be cruel?—yet it seems to me that if there is any ultimate judge out there beyond the Milky Way, we can hardly be faulted if we have done our kindly best.”

After months of intentional government neglect, worry and fear, the loss of loved ones and the loss of connection, the unraveling of communities and relationships, our ability to be kind to ourselves, must less to one another, has been seriously strained. Let’s not forget that there are people with enormous power who have taken our taxes and our votes but refused to govern, and that whatever struggles we or our neighbors are facing are not—mostly—the fault of the people closest to us. Let’s do our kindly best by one another.

___

Some stuff to read or listen to:

• On the Sapiens podcast, an interview with one of the scientists who found a link between a higher percentage of Neanderthal DNA and worse Covid outcomes. I had no idea how widely Neanderthal DNA varies across the world.

• A compelling piece on how detrimental Biden’s pick for the head of the USDA, Tom Vilsack, will be for the Democratic Party’s hopes of garnering more support among rural voters. People I know who work or have worked in the Forest Service are happy with the choice, but I’ll be curious to see if Vilsack shifts USDA policy to start supporting smaller farms—and actual food—as well as dealing with food insecurity.

• Civil Eats published an op-ed that is more optimistic about Vilsack and the chances he has to make this country’s farms more sustainable (and, again, helping to restructure the system so that it rewards people for growing actual food!), but the very fact that they had to lay out a roadmap for improvement in an op-ed makes me nervous about its chances. On the other hand, it’s a comprehensive vision that takes into account the fact that food access and land ownership play a huge role in many issues of injustice.

• If you have any interest in the (Imaginary) West and its issues, I highly recommend listening to all eight episodes of Oregon Public Broadcasting’s Timber Wars podcast. I have long thought that areas like the one I live in can trace their anti-environmental, anti-government, and anti-progressive attitudes to the timber wars of the late 1980s-early 1990s. Timber Wars does a great job of untangling the issues.

• FUN AND MORE FUN! Our local theater up here in northwest Montana recently launched their new production, “Your Musical is CANCELLED! The Musical,” available to rent from Vimeo. These are among the funniest and most talented people I know and they are the invisible connectors that hold this community together. They are absolute stardust. Rent it, watch it, laugh, cry, and then send it to all your favorite friends. (There’s a 6-minute sneak peak at the bottom of the page you can watch first if you’re unsure.)

Years ago I shared an apartment with a guy who used to take a month-long vow of silence whenever the mood struck him. He was the night cleaner at the coffee shop where I worked and played in a band (or sang? I can’t remember now). The apartment was absolutely frigid—my room was a kind of closed-in former second-story sun room and it was the middle of a Minnesota winter—but it was cheap and we got along fine.

I often worked the morning shift at the coffee shop, and would arrive slightly after 5:30 a.m. when my flatmate was still there cleaning. That job taught me to love the quiet of an early morning. The shift started at 6 but if I got there a bit earlier I’d have time to read the paper with a hot, fresh cup of coffee and quiet before we opened at 6:30.

There was a quality of entering the empty coffee shop when this guy was doing his silent month that I found soothing. When you know a person isn’t going to answer you with words, the social pressure to make small talk falls away. My own mind tended to rest more easily on those days, even if the rest of it was crowded with noise and chatter.

I was reminded of that experience when reading Jane Brox’s book Silence recently. The book was really more about time than silence, about modern life and what happens when the pace of it all, the demands on our time, are removed, either by choice, as in the case of Thomas Merton and the monastic life; or by law, as in the cases of the earliest inmates of the Eastern State Penitentiary, a prison designed by Benjamin Rush to keep all inmates in both total silence and total isolation because it would reform their souls.

The prisoners, Brox wrote, usually craved the work they were assigned (shoemaking in the early days) because it gave a point and structure to their days. The monastic life is likewise full of meaningful work and prayer. Both lives in her book had a minimum of verbal communication, but Merton still struggled against the invasion of time that the renown of his writings brought to the contemplative life he’d chosen.

None of us can truly shape our days any way we’d like. Attending writing residencies in the past showed me what my days would look like if I weren’t responsible for childcare, had little reliable phone service, and never had to cook or do dishes. It’s unbelievably productive and feels wonderful, in part because I don’t have to give or receive conversation unless I choose to and can dedicate all my prime hours to writing, but that’s not my life. Nor is it most people’s. We all have demands and obligations, many with far less control over their time than others.

I don’t know that I would want to take my old flatmate’s vows of silence (though sometimes I wish everyone else would for a while), but I do miss the quality of walking into a space where talking was not expected and I felt, even for half an hour, that I owned my own time.

Meditation, like silence, seeks to hush the cluttered audiosphere that keeps us from focusing on the existence of existence and marveling at it all, inside and out of ourselves. The stillness and aliveness and interconnectedness. They both serve to clear away the distractions that demand attention for the fleeting and irritating.

I would have thought that a pandemic semi-quarantine (whatever all of this is called where the U.S. has no national response and we’re trying to protect one another as best we can) would be a perfect time to really dedicate myself to building a meditation practice and rediscovering the peace of those half hours. But no. I’ve found the opposite.

I’ve been struggling with a strong aversion to my Headspace meditation app and meditation in general over the past few months. It’s partly that I loathe the moment when I first turn on my phone in the morning, but the pandemic has added another layer: the formlessness of the days. I’ve worked freelance from home for over twenty years, so that wasn’t an adjustment, but now my spouse, who has spent our twenty-year-plus marriage traveling more than half the year, is also home all the time mostly on conference calls, and our kids are homeschooling. The days have this godawful sameness that feels like it should be wonderfully malleable but somehow isn’t. It’s just formless, even with a routine to keep the days running. Forget meditation and mindfulness, it’s a struggle for me not to slide into living on beer and potato chips.

Trying to meditate with an app that’s loaded with hundreds of choose-your-own pre-recorded guided meditations feels weirdly horrifying. There’s a yawning maliciousness to it that grins at the meaninglessness of it all.

So I haven’t been meditating. I could do it without using an app but realized early on that I should have formed a robust practice years ago if I wanted to be able to keep meditating in this situation. My “practice” is haphazard at best. I have better luck with yoga or walking in the woods, or just walking out of the house, but even that’s a struggle—I hadn’t realized how much I rely on walking my kids to school to start my days. (I also miss being alone so, so much.)

An essay titled “Mindfulness is useless in a pandemic,” from 1843 Magazine (a publication of The Economist; it looks like it might be need a login but not a subscription to read) popped up on my Curio app last week. I’m not sure the arguments all made sense to me, but the point that expectation of future events is vital to survival and part of our evolution is well taken: “The pandemic has reminded us that the joy we take in planning is as valid as the event itself. . . . When the present is crushing, and when lives and economies are being ruined, our imagination offers us a welcome escape.” It was nice to hear that I’m not alone in a current aversion to mindfulness.

For some reason, right now the Headspace app makes me feel like I’m being dragged into a Black Mirror episode; and meditating on my own, without a guide, makes me feel like walking to Canada. Instead of trying to do meditation each day, I’ve been grateful for the reset from Pondercast, where host Laurie Brown has been doing a twenty-minute guided meditation each Monday and a grounding thought on Fridays. Each one is new and explorative.

Maybe it helps to be reminded that, if you have someone guiding your meditation, they’re not just sitting out the pandemic on a higher plane of perfect mindfulness or with the comfortable safety of a Silicon Valley executive’s income. They’re trying to walk through this year, too. The Pondercast meditations keep me anchored in time, reminding me that Earth is still moving and me along with it, and that every day is unique even if it all feels the same, and that however we find or form silence for ourselves, it’s likewise unique. As my flatmate wordlessly taught me all those years ago, every half-hour of silence can be its own world to explore.

In memorium

“We cannot hope to create a sustainable culture with any but sustainable souls.”
—Derrick Jensen quoting a friend in Endgame, volume 2

A few days ago I intentionally caused the death of another living being. (I won’t be graphic but stop reading if you’d rather not hear about this.) I am of the belief that we cause the deaths of other living beings every moment that we’re alive, but it feels different to do it with intention.

The hunting community in general refers to this act as “harvesting.” People “harvest” elk, deer, moose, and all sorts of other animals. I have a strong reaction against this word applied to animals that I’ve spent many hours observing and whose world I’ve tried to understand. Which makes me wonder if “harvest” is too life-denying for other things too, like carrots and kale and wheat. Certainly for trees. Collect? Gather? It’s always death-causing, no matter how we refer to the action. I pick kale and cause its death. I kill it in order to care for others, to live. Same for the deer I shot last week.

All of those words sound brutal. But after three years and countless hours I haven’t yet found hunting to be brutal. I find industrial agriculture brutal, whether of cows or of kale, but those long hours spent slow-walking in the woods, smelling snow, looking for signs, being scolded by squirrels and becoming weirdly obsessed with crows and the liquid call that I didn’t know they possessed—the end purpose of all of it is, yes, final, but the process is an act of building relationship. Even this particular endpoint, which involved a friend’s field rather than public woods, was integral with that community ecosystem, as the friend was the person who’s spent an enormous amount of time teaching and guiding me in this lifeway.

I know it doesn’t sound like it. It sounds like . . . something else. Hatred maybe. Cold-heartedness.

To depend entirely on your local ecosystem for your food (which, to be clear, I don’t, though as far as protein goes we’re pretty close) requires you to both know that ecosystem and to care for it. Derrick Jensen, quoted above, has said that, though you can’t help taking from the world in order to live, what that obligates you to is not guilt but care. I believe he said it initially of salmon, that if he takes a salmon from the river near him, it obligates him to care for the rest of that salmon’s community, including the water and the wider ecosystem on which it survives.

Reciprocity is clarifying; it gives purpose and meaning. When I look inside my freezer now it feels good in a complex kind of way. Good to provide for my family but good also because I have a clear vision of where my obligations lie: with caring for what it is in this world, especially where I live, that allowed that animal to flourish.

We

“Misanthropy is not the same thing as having a conscience.”
—Stephen Jenkinson, Dark Roads

One of the wrinkles I kept tripping up on when writing my book was the word “we”: “We as a society made the choice to do X” or “We were persuaded we wanted Y.” Did we? Is there a “we”? I kept trying to excise it. A search of an electronic version would probably find I failed miserably. And I can’t stop thinking about it every time I write anything now, tripping over it constantly. It reminds me of that step at a New York City subway stop that people stumble over all the time because it’s a teensy bit taller than all the others.

Sometimes I wonder if “we” is the most misleading word in the English language. In any language? In Russian, the word mir means “peace.” It also means “community,” but community is very specific—not a vague sense of neighborhood solidarity, but an ancient system of life in which resources, including tools, were shared and land occasionally redistributed as families grew and shrank. The mir was a robust system of communal living that didn’t erase the individual but neither did it elevate the individual above the health of the community.

In Sand Talk, Tyson Yunkaporta uses the word “us-two.” He calls it “dual first person,” and I can’t tell whether it’s meant to be “we” as in him and the person he’s walking with, or a plural “me.” There is no equivalent in English, he says, which is probably why I don’t understand it.

What does “we” mean anyway?

—-

The photo above is of a gate leading into state-owned land where I spend a lot of time. Someone spent considerable energy ramming it with a truck. My friend and hunting mentor says it was a truck with double wheels at the back—he came upon the tracks fresh in the snow shortly after it had happened. He guesses it was a drunk kid. He’s more generous than I am, and less triggered by anger and perceived unfairness. All I see is a disregard for shared space, disrespect for land, dislike of being told you can’t drive wherever you please.

Someone really did a number on that gate. But if we related to the planet as we ought, would there be a gate there at all? Would we even need to close off some spaces so we don’t utterly ruin them?

(Here I go with “we” again.)

—-

One of my chronic irritants these days is that nearly everyone I know is complaining about all the influxes of people moving to Montana. Housing here is cheaper than the Bay Area or Seattle; we don’t get hurricanes like Houston does; teleworking has made living in far-flung and less expensive places easier. Right-wing people talk about how the state will be ruined by all the newcomers from California, somehow equating “California” with “liberal,” though the transplants I meet are almost always conservative Californians tired of living in a state that they have little hope of shifting away from progressive policies. (Given some of the ballot initiatives that failed there recently and the seeming immortality of Prop 13, I question how progressive the state is on a practical level.)

We’re going to be ruined by liberals. We’re going to be ruined by conservatives. We’re going to be ruined by people who don’t understand the value of public lands.

We, we, we. Every single person who’s made this complaint in my hearing is white. I keep trying to find gentle ways to ask: How do you think the Blackfeet felt when my great-great-grandfather built a dugout and claimed his homestead acreage? How do you think the Salish people felt when they were forced to relocate from the Bitterroot Valley to the Flathead Valley, and then later forced to open that land up to white settlement, resulting in private property, ubiquitous fencing, and the loss of a carefully built-up and free-roaming buffalo herd?

We (we who?!) can try to fool and grumble ourselves into thinking otherwise but migration is a human trait. Hominin species have roamed this planet since before Homo sapiens were around and it’ll keep happening whether we like it or not, whether people can telework or not, whether there’s affordable housing or not, whether someone builds a border wall or not. People wander the planet. People will wander the planet. How we treat one another when we arrive or when they arrive is what makes the difference, not the arriving itself (well, the treatment and also any diseases people carry and spread).

I fear losing everything I love, too. I fear the hills covered with houses and forests gated off for wealthy homeowners and Montana’s stream access laws overturned. I fear the erosion of all that I value. I am a “we.” My family has also been a “them,” many branches of it and more than once.

I want to fold all these new people into the land, show them how to respect it, how to let it shape them. I want to do that, though I don’t know how, don’t even know the ways in which it’s shaped me.

We have a lot of history in front of us.

—-

Some stuff to read or listen to:

• I’m in the midst of Jane Brox’s book Silence. Although I wish it had less about old penitentiaries (depressing) and more about, say, being alone in nature, I can’t help loving it. Reading her book Brilliant (about the history of artificial light) was an experience I can’t forget, it was so full of things to learn but also poetry. One of those books that takes you by the hand and leads you somewhere beautiful with love and joy. She’s that kind of writer.

• MIT Technology Review’s podcast In Machines We Trust on how citizens are using facial recognition software to identify police, especially when law enforcement chooses not to wear name tags or other identification.

• “Come the Romans,” an excerpt from Stephen Jenkinson’s new two-part album Dark Roads/Rough Gods (from which I got the quote up top). We’re stuck with the legacy of Rome, and here’s how it started: “We can kill you right now, and you can die as an honorable pagan. . . . Or you can join us. . . . as honorary and immediate Roman citizens, now soldiers, and we’re going to ship you to the edge of the known universe, and beyond, and you will become the Roman Empire.”

• Amy Westervelt, whose podcast Drilled should probably be required listening for understanding “how we got here” when it comes to fossil fuels and climate change, on the At a Distance podcast talking about language, enabling, manipulation, and the fraught territory between forgiveness and justice.

• I was unexpectedly hooked by this episode of Backcountry Hunters & Anglers Podcast & Blast with Hal Herring interviewing Betsy Gaines Quammen about her book American Zion and how the genesis of the Mormon Church drives the anti-public lands narrative for people like the Bundy family.

• The American Scholar’s podcast Smarty Pants on the East German 1970s-80s punk scene and how its role in resistance eventually helped bring down the Berlin Wall. (I’m not a music aficionado but my college roommate introduced me to the Ramones our first week of college and I’ve been hooked on punk ever since. Also this reminded me of my dad’s stories of him and his friends secretly and illegally copying and distributing Beatles and Jimi Hendrix albums in 1960s Soviet Russia.)

• FUN! Blackish’s second election episode pretty much sums up what’s wrong with the American election process (hint: money). I’m guessing they did an animated episode due to Covid? Not sure.

Wurtz Cabin, U.S. Forest Service

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I think a lot about homesteaders. The prevailing themes of my childhood were having a father from the Soviet Union, and being descended from Montana pioneers who’d homesteaded land that my grandfather’s cousin still ranched until his death a few years ago (his son now runs it). Being proud of all of it was expected, even when the other kids ran around at recess time calling me a commie and saying my dad was a spy.

How I think about homesteaders, including my own ancestors, has changed drastically over the last several years (how current generations think about immigrants from Russia has also changed drastically). My mother’s great-grandparents and their many sons were intrepid and hard-working, intelligent and forward-thinking. They would have had to be—the Homestead Act of 1862 granted land to settlers only if they could “prove up” within five years, and barely half of the people who settled land under the Act managed to do so. In Montana, 35% of acreage was “transferred successfully” to homesteaders (what “successful” is meant to imply I’m not certain, unless it’s the simple acknowledgment that land where people had supported themselves for thousands of years had been snatched away and turned into private property for white settlers), but the history of homesteading is rife with stories of crop failures, hunger, loneliness, unbearable winters, and giving up and moving on. This was not a land that was ever meant to be used for intensive agriculture, or cattle, or wheat, and many people couldn’t hold out.

Growing up in Montana in the 1980s, I was taught the state’s, and my own family’s, history as if the land had been sitting here empty waiting for people to live on it until 1870 or so. Almost everywhere I turn this teaching is still, frustratingly, the norm.

We stayed at a U.S. Forest Service cabin recently. It’s a restored cabin originally built by homesteaders in the early 1900s, and while I was impressed by their fortitude and dedication (and heart-rent by the very tragic story of losing two of their children), the silence of the land’s story before the husband and wife came over the mountains to build a cabin and try to farm was unsettling. It’s exactly in line with how I learned history as a child: a gloss of noble patriotism and self-sacrificing pioneers who built lives without, it’s implied, harming anyone else, while trying to maintain the pretense that pre-settler history didn’t exist.

The fact that my children’s generation are the first I’ve seen to be taught something even slightly different, that my son came home from 5th grade one day and said, “Columbus was a jerk” (which instantly made me fall in love with his teacher and also worry about the backlash other parents might subject her to), makes me want to cry and not stop. The fact that so many in our society—tens of millions of people—are determined to stick to the varnished, paper-thin story of American exceptionalism, the fact that they’re threatened by efforts to teach real history, is something beyond exhausting. I’m not sure what the word for it is. It’s as if there’s a deep psychological terror that goes back more generations than anybody can remember, as if telling and learning this history threatens people out of existence. I don’t fully understand what they’re so scared of, not at a deep level. Of shame? Of having everything taken away from them? Of being treated like European settlers treated everyone else all over the world? What is so frightening about acknowledging the truth and vowing to make the future something different?

People keep giving me answers, whether it’s things I read online or in-person conversations, but I’m not sure anyone really knows. I’m told it’s loss of status, of identity, of power, of a place in the world. Of hierarchy? Of meaning? My skin color signals that I’m white, and not only am I descended from homesteaders who made their lives on land violently taken from other people, but the other half of my mother’s line came to this continent in the 1600s and later had a significant role in governing the lands encompassed by the Louisiana Purchase. I can be curious about, and sometimes even proud of, those forebears (or some of them) while also trying to crawl deeper into that uncomfortable space of knowing how they, and I, benefited from genocide and forced relocation and theft. It’s a shitty thing, but pretending it didn’t happen doesn’t make it less shitty.

I don’t feel scared of looking at this history through a vastly different lens from what I was taught growing up. Maybe I’m not looking deeply enough (partly because I don’t have access to most of the stories—weirdly, for someone who’s been writing stories since she was a little kid, most of my ancestors weren’t people who wrote things down). It’s like there’s a vast, shapeless darkness at the center of all of this, something that people are so terrified of that they can’t even look at it straight. What is it about this fear that I’m not getting? What about all the other white people who aren’t afraid of it, or at least don’t act like they are? Are we all broken white people? Are white and white-passing people meant to have a genetic predisposition to denying past and current injustices and our own role in them? It makes no sense to me, but like the shitty history, its shittiness doesn’t decrease by pretending it doesn’t exist.

There’s this homestead cabin. It’s an amazing place to stay and I wish we could have stayed longer because it was beautiful and such a gift to get away from the hectic pace of everything, especially the internet. But I also wish that the Forest Service had some mechanism for telling the stories of the cabin’s footprint in a longer history, of what the land was and who lived on it before it became part of the National Forest Service, and what was done to those people that makes it “public” land. Maybe that’s a small achievable goal in the near future, to make sure those stories are included.

Pretending that dispossession and genocide didn’t happen in this entire region feels like walking on Astroturf instead of soil, as if you can’t really get to know the place at all because there’s a barrier between you and the stories it holds. Knowing the reality wouldn’t change how wonderful the place is to visit, or people’s ability to stay there and recuperate their spirits from the relentless pressures of modern life.

The fear over being given knowledge and stories that might complicate but certainly will enrich all of our lives is something I’ve been trying very hard to understand, but it remains incomprehensible to me. I’ll keep trying, and in the meantime am going to check out a few more of these cabins, with deep gratitude to the friend who stays at them habitually, encouraged me to go, and taught me to appreciate the slice of history behind each place.

I am grateful for all of these places, for the people who’ve lived with them before they became “America,” and what they provide for all of us. I feel privileged to visit them. Maybe that’s all I can say right now.