We walked alone together on Thanksgiving Day around Seattle’s Lake Union in an annual community walk dedicated to the last two of the Duwamish people to live on their traditional tribal lands near Lake Union—Cheshiahud and his wife Tleebuleetsa. For our pandemic times I adapted this tradition by encouraging friends to walk solo or in small groups and by inviting friends from around the country to join in. At least seventy-eight people helped make this a grand, dispersed-unity, Thanksgiving Mask-arade. It felt like a huge cross-lake, cross-city, cross-country hug.
Email notes and photos indicate that at least twenty-eight of us walked along or around Lake Union, and at least sixty-nine others walked somewhere else: in the city (Queen Anne Hill, First Hill, Capitol Hill, Green Lake), in Washington State (Tacoma, Chuckanut, Port Townsend), or in places across the country (New York, North Carolina, Minnesota, California, and more). Altogether and nearly one hundred strong, we walked with eight dogs and two babes in strollers. We used walking sticks and a scooter. We walked through trees, over bridges, up stairs, along lakes and rivers, over hills, through an historic fort, along a sunny beach, and in the snow. We passed goats, people in funny hats, amazing fungi, a slug, one Christmas yard display, and a rainbow over Lake Washington. We walked in the daytime, at night, and at dusk with a full moon. A few of us even ran into each other, spotted by our bright yellow or orange attire.
My long-time friend, Norie Sato, made the circuit around Lake Union with me. Norie was the first person to accompany me on my annual Thanksgiving walk around the lake after I’d been doing it solo for a few years. During that walk she also gave me the news that the City of Seattle had recently designated a path around the lake as the Cheshiahud Loop Trail. Directional signs began to show up shortly after that. The walk with her that day inspired my invitation to other friends to join in what, since 2010, has been an annual tradition. Below is Norie at the entrance to Good Turn Park on the northeast side of the lake. It’s one of many street-end parks created by the City all around the lake. It’s a regular stopping point on our annual walk. And below that you’ll see Norie standing with the Dunn Lumber mural at the north end of the lake near Gasworks Park where we started.
Next I offer proof that we were, indeed, on the Cheshiahud Loop Trail. I’m wearing a yellow rain slicker that had been folded up with my winter things, not worn for years, proof of my pack-rat leanings. As I unfolded it this year I discovered it came from a much-loved site-based artwork by artist Susan MacLeod sponsored by and/or in the late 1970s on the sports field at Seattle University. The memories added to my gratitude for the day.
Following are photographs and notes I received from walkers after they finished walking. First are the Lake Union walkers. Their photos are evidence of Lake Union’s history as a working waterfront, long established as such in the city’s zoning code. After that are the friends who walked in their own neighborhoods or other favorite places around the city, state, and country. Altogether, we covered a lot of territory!
LAKE UNION MASK-ARADE WALKERS
“A tale of 4 bridges…The only orange thing I have is a cotton scarf that I got during Bear Training Level I for Seasonal Employees, while I was artist in residence in Glacier National Park… and indeed, we saw no grizzly bears walking around Lake Union : – ) – nor anyone else in orange : – ( ”
— Suze Woolf & Steve Price, champs who not only walked the entire route, but created an excellent visual story of it all.
“Missed you but we did it (well, part of it…) Here we are at our starting and finishing place, MOHAI parking lot.”
— Paul Taub & Susan Peterson
“Here’s a couple of photos. We really enjoyed the walk! We stopped at Good Turn Park so we could get home to make a Thanksgiving dinner. I designed Good Turn Park in the 90’s. But it has fallen into disrepair and weeds. The Parks Dept. refuses to maintain it because it’s on SDOT property.Neighbors tried maintaining it for years but they lost their leader about ten years ago. The crazy bench seat I was on is down by the beach at Good Turn at the foot of the big redwood that someone planted when the park was new. The ceramic tiled bench was near Pete’s store.
“We met Paul de Barros and Sue Dickson along the way. Very nice little chat. Paul and Sue forgot about wearing yellow or orange. Piper and I made up for them!”
— Tom Zachary & Piper Greenwood, Seattle
A number of people ran into each other and sent me criss-crossing photos. Their comments and photos follow.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Anne. Well, I thought I could catch you and Norie before finishing my lap but then I ran into Piper and Tom, and we talked for a bit. I sure noticed every orange and yellow accessory along the way, this year!”
— Catharina Manchanda
“Happily saw Chiyo, Mark, and Catharina toward the end of my walk! Thank you for the inspiration, Anne. It’s a walk I’m going to take more often than Thanksgiving. I hope your walk was a fine one.”
— Barbara Johns, who sent more photos in a second message which appear as the last entry from Lake Union Walkers.
“We enjoyed our first Thanksgiving walk with you. Here are some favorite moments.”
— Chiyo Ishikawa & Mark Calderon
“I was so grateful to find this unlocked port-a-potty at just the right time!”
— Mark Calderon
The first Mask-arade person Norie and I saw on our circumambulation of the lake was Debra Ross, seen here at Good Turn Park. It was great to see her.
Six close friends walked the lake together: Liz Brown, Suzy Schneider, Ellen Sollod, and Gene & Bill McMahon and their daughter Becky. Comments and photos follow.
“Here [the first photo below] is where we had to turn around…new construction and repairs predominant in this.”
— Ellen Sollod
“More beautiful trees at Green Lake but all in all a visually stimulating walk. I’m always on the lookout for trees but still have not identified that unusual one [final photo in the group]. Thank you Anne for your grand plan…we did eventually encounter more of your fellow walkers! Sorry we missed you and Norie! Enjoy your Thanksgiving dinners tonight!”
— Gene McMahon
“Rowan and I are going to Spokane for Thxgiving this year, so I did my Lake Union walk over the weekend [11/21/20]. Photo with yellow backpack strap attached. 🙂 ”
— Bonnie Swift
“On my way I remembered about the yellow. So first I found a scrap of old construction tape and tied that in my jacket. Later I added a yellow leaf. But I didn’t see any yellow in people except one guy in a bike who was wearing a yellow vest. I walked a little more than half the distance. This was a lot of fun thank you. I hope you’ll buy my novel The Aftermath from Amazon or Adelaide if you want an ebook!”
— Lyn Coffin
“This is just a short little note of thanks. This walk was the perfect holiday activity for my family; my mom, stepfather, two dogs and I walked the lake last Thursday in place of gathering for dinner. We so loved being outside encountering many familiar and friendly faces along the route. Thank you for organizing this and finding a creative and spirited way to make it happen, even during a pandemic. Yours fondly.”
— Sarah Traver, Seattle
“Thanks for the ‘MASK-querade’ walk. Sorry we didn’t run into you. We did the whole durn thing, clockwise from the MOHAI lot. We did hear from Tom and Piper along the way that you were up ahead but I guess you finished before we did. Man, my feet hurt when i got home!”
— Paul de Barros & Sue Dickson (photo by Tom Zachary & Piper Greenwood)
“Thank you so much for encouraging the walk. We did a semi loop this year. We saw Chiyo and Mark along the trail. Recognized more by their yellow and orange. Great idea because masks obscure everyone. So many joggers in black out.
“Love to you on this day and remembering the Duwamish peoples past and present.”
— Saya Moriyasu & Jeff McGrath, Seattle
“I made a short visual journal, shortened further here, to send my Midwest siblings in advance of Thanksgiving day calls and remembering the Seattle get-together we missed last summer. Familiar sites to all who’ve made the walk, this one ending with my meeting friends. For your viewing pleasure! ”
— Barbara Johns, from her second message. Her photo journey around the lake is a nice complement to the one Suze and Steve offered at the start.
MASK-ARADE WALKERS FROM NEAR & FAR
“Picture from my remote walking – Elliott Bay and Goats walking!”
— Edie Adams, Queen Anne Hill, Seattle
“Happy Ongoing Thanksgiving, Anne. I did not walk on Thanksgiving because it poured drenching rain here all day long. Instead Arty, pictured below in his puppy-cave, and I spent the day in our cozy house with great company on zoom. My dinner wore the day’s colors. And nature provided her own the next day for a walk in Dartmouth, the town next door to New Bedford, on a new property owned by the land conservation and walking trail provider, Dartmouth Natural Resources Trust.
“I trust you are receiving many of these delayed transmittals of Thanksgiving 2020. It was wonderful to read yours and remember the circumnavigations I’ve joined you for in past years. It is sweet to think of your emissaries all over taking the Cheshiahud Loop to other parts of the world, as well as to imagine joining you again to trek the original around Lake Union some year soon.”
— Rebecca Barnes with friends, New Bedford, Massachusetts
“Three photos from my Thanksgiving walk today, Anne. Not at Lake Union unfortunately, but still sweet. I hope you had an excellent walk with Norie.”
— John Boylan, Seattle
“Seattle U, between dinner and pumpkin pie. The Ent.”
— Jan and Doug Bradley, First Hill, Seattle
“I probably missed the deadline but I wanted you to know that I joined you in spirit on Thanksgiving as I walked to a park in Shoreline honoring the Duwamish peoples.”
— Brian Branagan, Shoreline
“Long Island City with Manhattan in view over East River w Andru, Howard, James, Ray & Wendy 11/26/20. It gets dark early lately! ”
Sent a day or so later, but still in response to the Mask-arade posts:
“oops meant to send! thanks for letting us be unity too — we were in the park where Bernie & AOC spoke in 2019 -– it was so fab, 25K people & love fest.
“just went to our little park, 3 bands playing at once with the ping pong table, hearing it all, golden gingkoes and cheerful people – very sweet. first time to play pingpong & go to a zoom meeting at the same time…only one dog stole our ball briefly”
— Wendy Brawer, Ray Sage, and friends, Brooklyn, New York
“Here’s our photo from our walk! We kept it socially-distanced and it was just me and my pup, P! We walked around Highland Park in LA today, about 4 miles 🙂 ”
— Jess Capó, Los Angeles
“Love the notion of a collective meander of grace and gratefulness. Here is the view of my late late walk along the shore of Crown Harbor off of Alameda Island, CA.”
— Bill Cleveland
“This is woody, michael, jeanne, Louca and me at green lake starting at 11am today. Thanks for the inspiration! The folks in funny hats were along the route – a friendly flock!Happy thanksgiving 🐿 ”
— Rebecca Cummins with Woody Sullivan and Michael Swain & Jeanne Foss with their son Louca, Green Lake, Seattle
“Lake Union” walk…Well I’m afraid to say we cheated a bit. We were just about to leave the house and go out to Lake Union, when it started to pour, so we waited – and then realized that there was no way we could do the full loop and get the food in the oven in time. So we instead did a walk on Capitol Hill. But we did think of you and we did wear yellow jackets. Happy Thanksgiving!”
— Richard Farr and Kerry Fitz-Gerald, Capitol Hill, Seattle
Here are a couple of photos from Ross Focke & Beth Benjamin: Beth at Beth Johnson’s pastures and Ross & Luke on the beach.
— Ross Focke, Beth Benjamin, and their dog Luke, Claremont, California
“We have had a fun weekend and with cherishing the time with Heather and Eric, have not had a chance to sit down and send this off. Confession, we took our walk on Friday. Mark and I were pretty busy on Thursday getting everything ready.
I am thankful for being able to share Thanksgiving weekend with my favorites, Mark, Heather and Eric. I am also thankful that the magical Fort Worden, where this photo was taken, is practically in our backyard. And thankful that I can share and be a part of this community, looking forward to seeing the photos on the website. Hope you had a wonderful walk on Thanksgiving!”
— Kathy Fridstein, Mark Manley, Heather Manley, Eric Manley, Port Townsend, Washington
“We will walk a bit outside of La Conner with your walk in mind.”
— Cathy Hillenbrand & Joseph Hudson, Seattle (La Conner is a small town in Skagit County, Washington)
“Weisbecker/Law/Louie/Matumona Family masked walk
Our walk to Sunset View Park today.
— Carolyn Law & Andy Weisbecker, Beth Louie & Jake Weisbecker with their daughter Bellamy Gabriella Weisbecker, Hélène Matumona & Lucas Weisbecker with their son Loreto Jabulani Weisbecker, Greenwood/Sunset View Park, Seattle. This family definitely gets the prize for the largest family to participate in the 2020 Mask-arade!
“Hope you’re having a great day. Here we are scooting on Lake Washington.”
— Margie and Brian Livingston, Lake Washington, Seattle
“Here we are on our Thanksgiving walk in St Paul about to head up the steps in the background!”
— Sarah Lutman & Rob Rudolph, Saint Paul, Minnesota
“1 Out our front window a few days before Thanksgiving…….now all melted.
2 Me back home wearing my “Anne Focke Walk” yellow.
Nice to talk with you.
— Peter Mahler, Madison, Wisconsin, who, in a first for a Thanksgiving Lake Union walk, engaged me in a Facetime call while I walked over the University Bridge.
“Anne, Happy Thanksgiving to you! Tom and I always take a walk on Thanksgiving and today turned out to be a very pretty day… we see the Linville Gorge on the front end of our walk and the Black Mountains in the distance midway through the walk. Your lake walk with friends is a great idea…we are celebrating all we have to be thankful for with you today.”
And a little later:
“I didn’t tell you where we are or what we are thankful for…and we aren’t wearing masks because we are the only ones on this property…We started our walk at home with the Linville Gorge behind us along with farms beside the Blue Ridge Parkway and midway through a neighboring farm we have the Black Mountains behind us. We have so much to be thankful for…valuable friendships, good health, creative lives, precious freedoms, and an incoming commitment to addressing social justice inequities.”
— Jean McLaughlin & Tom Spleth, Little Switzerland, North Carolina
“Good Morning Anne!
“I trust your Mask-a-raid went off like clockwork. We took an early morning hike in Moran State Park! Looking forward to seeing your photo compilation. ”
— Heather & Greg Oaksen with their son, Eric Oaksen, Orcas Island, Washington
“This is so beautiful, Anne. I’d meant to send pictures earlier. I didn’t find anything yellow to wear (though I chose an orange hat and carried the gingko leaf from our yard to the coast, in tribute to you) but Nathan, Zoe and I did go for a walk on the Santa Monica beach.”
— Claire Peeps with Nathan Birnbaum and their daughter, Zoe, Santa Monica, California
“Happy Thanksgiving +1, Anne. Glad the physically distanced Maskarade went well and you and Norie had fun. Thanks for the invite. Carrie and I and the girls did get out to walk in the hills above Chuckanut Drive. Cheers to you through all pandemic challenges.
P.S. Took the masks off for the pic…”
— Simon & Carrie Pritikin with their daughters Jasmin and Olivia, whose home is in Seattle
“I wish we took pictures to share – we did the Ruston Parkway in Tacoma. Hope you are doing well and having a nice quiet holiday season.”
— Dechie Rapaport with Willie and Gabby, long-time Thanksgiving Lake Union walkers, Tacoma, Washington
“Walked with son, who is now back on The Big Island, on Thanksgiving Day. Walk is along La Jolla waterfront where sea lions love to loll on the beach. I 🤗”
— Yvonne Sanchez, who lives in Seattle but was visiting family in San Diego
“Hope you had a great walk today. Thinking of you from afar as we walked at Kobayashi Park in University Place (next to Tacoma and my new home….Seattle got too expensive). It’s a short walk through the woods and beautiful stream. My guy in the picture is Richard Reynolds.
“Now, on to the last of cooking and finally eating.
“Till we meet in real life again!🧡🍁🧡 ”
— June Sekiguchi and Richard Reynolds, Tacoma, Washington
“Thanksgiving Walk 2020: Aaron, Connor & I walked around the reservoir at Horizon View Park in our town: Lake Forest Park. Didn’t take pics and forgot to post a note, but your walk inspired us, so that’s what we did as part of the Dispersed Unity Mask-arade!!!!”
— Anne Stadler with Aaron Stadler and Connor Fosse Stadler, Lake Forest Park, Washington
“Happy Thanksgiving from Philadelphia! I spent most of the day tucked in at home with my husband and our 10-month-old daughter, but was able to sneak out shortly before sunset for a walk around the neighborhood while the turkey was cooking. Never underestimate the power of a walk, no matter how short! We live in Fishtown, a neighborhood just northeast of Center City and close to the Delaware River – and also close to a historic cemetery with beautiful old Sycamores. This is where I went on this little stroll. Here are a couple of images of the moon rising over its trees, as well as the view leaving our building (the globe light fixtures also reminded me of the moon). I would love to do the route around Lake Union someday… I’ve done a yearly Good Friday walk since 2014, one year circumnavigating Manhattan Island, which feels like the opposite in terms of looking out to the water as a constant versus the Lake Union route looking in. Either way, there’s a pull in that space where water meets land, and discovering all of the inlets and hidden gems.”
— Erin Sweeny, Philadelphia
“Greetings from Rainier Beach, Anne, I joined my family and we walked by Lake Washington, around Genesee. The highlight was seeing this Rainbow!
“On to Hanukkah, the Solstice, Christmas, New Years, and more.”
— Diane Tepfer and family, Rainier Beach, Washington
“Thankful for the wild fungi on parade in a forest near Tacoma on Thanksgiving!
Richard, the Wild Fungi (Fun Guy) in the South Sound”
— Richard Woo, Tacoma
A thousand and one thank-you’s to everyone who walked with us this year! It means so much to hear from all of you. You fill me with hope and thankfulness.
A final image from the east side of the Cheshiahud Loop Trail near the Eastlake Community Garden, a miniature Thanksgiving gathering, hosted by the two turkeys on the porch of the little cottage. They all seemed to be having a good time, and I doubt they dined on a “traditional” Thanksgiving meal.
For victims of state repression, the invitation into politics can be a death sentence. How can marginalized or oppressed groups bring change to systems that are predicated on their destruction? At every scale—from the neighborhood to the city to the nation—the targets of systemic attack must choose how and with whom to make politics in the midst of systems that threaten them.
This is the beginning of the editor’s introduction to a new essay of mine, “Building a Parallel Polis,” recently published by The Polity of Literature, a project of ArtsEverywhere based in Guelph, Canada. The Polity of Literature was developed, as the project description says, “in response to the widespread failure of nation-states to provide citizenship for those who need it most.”
My essay considers two widely-divergent examples of people who succeeded in their efforts to change the systems that held them down. Both are characterized by two broad concepts, one drawn from each: the “parallel polis,” proposed by Czech dissident Václav Benda in 1977 as a tool for resisting—and ultimately overthrowing—the repressive post-War Communist government in Czechoslovakia; and the “dynamics of difference,” one of an integrated set of community democracy principles seen clearly in the practices of Native American tribes in the Humboldt Bay area of California and in their successful efforts to build a tribal health center and to regain stolen land.
I became interested in the parallel polis when a friend mentioned that Benda’s ideas seemed to describe patterns in my own work and suggested I explore the relationship by writing about it. I accepted the challenge and was intrigued by what I discovered about the parallel polis. Writing teaches me a lot. I decided to further understand the parallel polis by writing about it alongside what I already knew of the dynamics of difference through work I’d done in the Humboldt Bay area. This essay is the result. It’s important to stress that, after all I learned from the two stories and the overall concepts they reveal, I believe the reach and importance of both examples are equal.
I also encourage you to read other essays on The Polity of Literature. You’ll find many terrific authors and good, provocative ideas in the sixteen (so far) other essays. The homepage of The Polity of Literature is here. You can follow The Polity of Literature on Instagram @thepolityofliterature
Click here if you’d like to know more about ArtsEverywhere, “a platform for artistic experimentation and exploration of the fault lines of modern society.”
Back in late May this year, Wier Harman, director of Town Hall Seattle, invited me to participate in a benefit event to support independent artists. Given the physical distancing required by the coronavirus, the event would take place online.
Wier proposed a program format where about a dozen people would each record a short video message in response to a shared question. He kept the overall framework simple: “Tomorrow will be better if…” Given the late May timing, the impact of the pandemic shutdown was on his mind. “What happens next?” he asked, “What should we DO now?” His final question was, “If you had one wish for the world, what would it be?”
I quickly said, “I’m in.” Town Hall wanted 350-600 word responses, addressed directly to the camera, pre-recorded from our respective homes. They’d edit them together with a live host and live musical numbers. The deadline was only about a week away. During that week, the killing of George Floyd turned the world upside down again, giving me a few days to reflect and adjust my response.
About a month after his first invitation, Wier wrote to prospective participants again. “In my 15 years here,” he said, “I can’t recall a month as head-snapping and as emotional, AND as steeped in the possibility of transformational change.” He wrote of his struggle to adapt the program in some way to incorporate the scale and impact of the global activism for justice for Black Americans. He noted that the program goals were still to raise money for economically stressed artists and “to inspire our community to imagine a future transformed by collective will.” I just love Wier for the hope I heard in his words. He also acknowledged that some of us might not feel comfortable proceeding.
Then a few days later, after hearing from invitees, Wier wrote again with apologies. They were canceling the event. In the end, he said, “The community of available participants no longer speaks to the breadth of perspectives we hoped could share in responding to this moment.”
All the same, I continue to hold onto the wish I have for the world, inspired in part by Pablo Neruda. So in early August I asked for and received Wier’s blessing to recycle my video by posting it on this site.
One wish for the world
Even though the benefit event didn’t happened, you can still support one of the funds that Town Hall originally identified: the Seattle Artists Relief Fund Amid COVID-19, managed by Langston. You can also learn more about the essential role Town Hall plays in building community in this region here and you can click here to support its work.
During the Culture Wars of the late 1980s and early 1990s, many of my artist friends and I were embroiled in the fight for artistic freedom. Faced with battles over censorship, federal funding, and what was deemed obscene, immoral, or offensive, we fought for an individual artist’s right to free expression. We held these as fundamental rights of an individual in the public arena. We understood artistic expression as a form of speech, speech that was protected by the First Amendment. Reflecting back on the fights of thirty years ago also calls to mind today’s debates around what has been dubbed “cancel culture.”
One day in early 1991 in the midst of the Culture Wars, I hunkered down to edit an essay titled “Artistic Freedom” by Bruce Sievers, scholar of civil society and, at the time, director of the Walter & Elise Haas Fund. I’d just been contracted by an association of arts funders, Grantmakers in the Arts, to be co-editor of its publication. I continued in this role for nearly twenty years, but this was the first article in the first issue I worked on.
Especially coming when it did, the essay engaged me in complicated ideas closely related to my activism. It also presented me with a tangle of ideas that were hard to unravel then and, one notion in particular is a puzzle that, thirty years later, challenges me still. Even though it remains unresolved, I suspect that this intransigent puzzle may among other things offer a response to the cancel culture debates.
In his essay, Sievers reported on a GIA-sponsored symposium held in December 1990 based on controversies surrounding freedom of expression in the arts. A central goal of the gathering was to understand the legal and conceptual foundations of the argument defending artistic freedom. The search for a coherent argument, Sievers said, is filled with ambiguity. “Ambiguities about freedom of expression in the arts mirror deeper ambiguities about the nature of free speech and its historical role in the legal and political life of the United States.”
I’ve come to recognize one of these ambiguities in the often-difficult balance between the right of one person to speak and the right of another not to be targeted by harmful speech. One can damage the rights of the other. Legal scholar (later to become dean of the Yale Law School) and symposium speaker Robert C. Post explained that the modern theory of First Amendment protection for threatening or outrageous speech “only began to be developed in the 1930s and 40s as the Supreme Court grappled with the contradictions between protecting the public arena of free speech and protecting individuals from slander and verbal assault.”
A second complicated idea in all this might be described this way: The existence of a neutral public space for discourse is necessary for the exercise of free speech and also gives the speech meaning by giving it an audience. But the value of holding that space open also has to be defended. And that very defense might suspend someone else’s freedom of speech, someone, for instance, intent on closing down the neutral public space through coercive or irrational means.
Both of these ideas required me to hold two competing values in mind without insisting that only one is true. That’s fine. Life is full of ambiguities. I can handle that.
But then he brought up communities.
Buried in Sievers’ arguments is the thirty-year-old conundrum I’ve wrestled since 1991. It came up for me when he introduced “community” into the picture. My experience in the Culture Wars had established a mental framework for the debate around artistic freedom that consisted essentially of two parts, or two “sides” – the individual artist and the public arena, that is, the rights of individuals within the larger society. References to community complicated my framework. “Community” seemed both larger than an individual and smaller than the whole society.
Community was first mentioned in the essay when Sievers drew from Robert Post’s brief history of Anglo-American law and its control of harmful speech – that is, defamation, blasphemy, sedition, and obscenity. This control, Post said, served specific purposes. For one, “it acknowledged and protected community norms of responsible speech (norms that made a particular community possible), thus supporting a vision of community life.”
“Wait just a minute!” I thought. Particular community? What does that mean? The next passage reinforced my confusion and also triggered my curiosity. (Italicized emphasis is mine.) Post argued that modern First Amendment theory…
“…developed a delicate balance between the principle of preserving public space in which public opinion essential to a democratic society can be freely molded and the opposing principle of defending independent communities in which values also essential to a democratic society (such as respect for the individual) can be cultivated. First Amendment protection of a neutral public space acknowledges the peculiarly U.S. experience of many coexisting communities and allows for the proliferation of ‘multitudes of divergent communities.’ It safeguards a sort of marketplace of ideas among these communities.”
“Multitudes of divergent communities” jostling about in a big neutral public space struck me as a powerful image. I immediately liked the idea of defined clusters of people – that is, communities defined by choice, chance, or coercion – each molding their own particular set of values and practices. And I liked the idea of the public space as one where each community tries to influence or change the opinions and ways of others.
Over the years, I’ve attempted to incorporate “the multitudes of divergent communities” into a mental framework that previously included only individuals and the public. I’ve asked many questions of these notions, most of which I haven’t answered with much satisfaction.
In a neutral public space full of coexisting and divergent communities, what happens to the public space when minds and actions are changed? How is the public space changed? Can, or how can it remain open to all communities? What is “neutrality” anyway, is it even real? What happens when change is coerced or destructive? Do we even have a multitude of divergent communities at this point? And what do we mean today by “community” when we live in a physical world that is dependent on a digital world with a fundamentally changed understanding of public space, in “public” arenas that are owned by large corporations?
Thinking back to the beginning of this train of thought, where is an individual and an individual artist’s expression in this picture? What dynamic goes on among individuals inside a particular community? Does a community allow for a parallel proliferation of the divergent ideas of many different individuals? Does the existence of many different communities offer an individual the chance to move from one community to another? Or to belong to more than one at the same time? What happens to an individual alone in the public arena outside any particular community? Where does that individual belong?
Somewhere in the argument for the value of multitudes of co-existing communities might lie a response to the cancel culture debates, though not a resolution of them (homogeneity is not the goal). Could understanding the value of this multiplicity help us learn to accept the ambiguity and challenge of living among communities with different experiences, different values and practices? Do we need the debates and discomfort to allow minds and hearts to change and to give us the will to create a better-functioning democratic society?
Satisfying answers to these questions still elude me. Simply posing them is about as far as I can go right now. Clearly the conundrum continues, getting both a little more complicated and a little more potent all the time.
The essay, “Artistic Freedom,” is in the GIA Newsletter, Volume 2,1 and can be downloaded here.
This morning I woke with a disorienting sense of despair that’s unusual for me. The world seemed wracked with unsolvable problems and going to hell in so many ways at once that it felt impossible to imagine we’d ever be able work our way forward to a better place. I was at a loss to know what part I could play with the time and tools I have.
After stumbling around for a while, I picked up a short essay I’d written in the spring of 2016. I’d been inspired by an opinion piece published in the New York Times a few days earlier. The column’s author, Jon Grinspan, is an historian at the National Museum of American History who describes the focus of his research as, “politics and youth and comedy and food and booze in 19th and early 20th century America.” He likes any subject, he says, “that makes the past feel human and immediate.” And “immediately” is how fast his piece jerked me out of the little stupor I’d fallen into this morning. Reading his column today reminded me why it caught my attention in the first place. I was buoyed again by what he called “history’s most beautiful lesson: The world we know is not our only option.”
His op ed told the forgotten story of the days in the 1800s when young people voted in droves and were the most engaged demographic in U.S. politics. They “speechified” and rioted in wild elections from the 1830s to 1900. “Reading 16-year-olds’ diaries,” he said, “you can see the way they bundled political involvement with their latest romance, their search for work, and the acne on their foreheads. Public participation soothed private anxiety. Youth politics worked because it was so messy, blending ideology with identity, the fate of the country with ‘fun and frolic’.”
He tells the story in his book, The Virgin Voter: How Young Americans Made Democracy Social, Politics Personal, and Voting Popular in the Nineteenth Century. “Millions of children, youths, and young adults forced their way into the life of their democracy,” he said, “while their democracy forced its way into their personal lives.” What in the 20th century often felt like a weak link in our political system was once the strongest. “Young people did vote,” Grinspan wrote. “They could do so again.”
In our 2018 mid-term elections, young people began to prove Grinspan right. In April 2019, the Washington Post, carried a story with this headline: “Young people actually rocked the vote in 2018, new Census Bureau data reports.” The news piece began, “Voter turnout spiked to a 100-year high in last year’s midterm congressional elections.…turnout rates jumped across nearly all groups, but the shift was particularly notable among young adults.” The number of voters aged 18-29 jumped 16 percentage points since 2014. “Last year’s election marked a clear break from the past two decades of anemic turnout among the youngest citizens.”
Knowing that things have changed in the past assures me that they they can change again. Young voters proved that in 2018. What we see today doesn’t have to be what will be tomorrow.
Grinspan’s insight mirrors Rebecca Solnit’s words about hope. “Hope for me,” she has said, “is deeply tied to the fact that we don’t know what will happen. This gives us grounds to act while being clear that terrible things are happening.… One of the great conundrums is that unless we believe there are possibilities we don’t act, but the possibilities only exist if we seize them.… We’re not talking about a future that’s already written.”
The forgotten past and a future that’s unknown both open up possibilities. We just have to be convinced as we face today’s realities that new options are possible and that it’s up to us to imagine them and act on our commitment to make them happen.
“Come wade through history with me,” I wrote, hoping to entice students to apply for an internship with me. I’d been appointed to be Alum in Residence at the University of Washington School of Art + Art History + Design for the 2016-2017 academic year and had decided that one way to put this opportunity to use would be to get help organizing and inventorying the many boxes of files and ephemera I’d accumulated over the years. During my residency, five remarkable students worked with me.
Of the many projects that produced the boxes filling my storage unit I chose one and carted nine of the sixteen banker boxes of Arts Wire material to my office at the school. Arts Wire, which I founded in 1989, was an early online network for the arts community nationwide – artists, arts organizations, arts funders, state arts agencies, and more. It introduced many arts folks to this “new” communications technology and provided an essential national connection for us during the tumultuous challenges we faced during those years – the culture wars around censorship, the rise of the AIDS crisis, fierce congressional debates about arts funding, and the sometimes contentious rise of “multi-culturalism” (the term of the day).
The students tackled the job with enthusiasm. And they didn’t just inventory the material. As they went through it they also talked about what they found, both among themselves and with me. We considered what the contents meant, whether archives matter, and how what they learned connected with the world we know today. Their interest prompted them to create ancillary projects. Along with two exhibitions, an Instagram feed, and reflective essays, the students decided to produce a podcast series based on interviews with intriguing people they discovered in the files. David Mendoza was on their list.
David is a long-time advocate and activist on behalf of artists and was an important early member of Arts Wire. At about the same time that Arts Wire was gaining momentum, David was leading the charge against censorship as director of the new National Campaign for Freedom of Expression. Three of my interns – Karen Beech, Jessica Capó, and Lizzie Trelawney-Vernon – contacted David and conducted the interview. The hour-long conversation – with David in Bali where he now lives and we in Jessica’s apartment near the university – threaded its way through many of his experiences. His creation, in the 1980s, of a button with a message particularly caught the students’ imagination.
DAVID: I created that pin because I got so tired of people using the word “public” and saying, “I’m against public funding for the arts. I’m against public funding for this, or public support shouldn’t go for that.” At some debate I was in, I said, “Wait a minute! Iam the public!” I pointed to people in the room and said “Youare the public, and youare the public.” The anomalous idea that a public means someone who is not me or not many other people…I just wouldn’t accept that. So I created a pin that said, “I AM THE PUBLIC.” And we distributed it widely. People loved this pin because they knew they were not being included when the word “public” was used.
What public funding for the arts did, what the National Endowment for the Arts did, what the New York State Arts Council and many other arts councils did, was diversify the arts in America. They realized that not just a few major European-based institutions were the arts in America: there were all kinds of others. Just last night I was listening to PBS NewsHour and learned there’s a revival of Zoot Suit, Luis Valdéz’s play that he created with Teatro Campesino in California, which went on to Broadway and a movie. Now it’s being revived again. And once again, it has relevance, to the Chicano community especially. Teatro Campesino was supported by both the California Arts Council and the NEA. People who were known for their private philanthropy gave big money to what they liked. Nothing wrong with that, but there was nobody to give money to Teatro Campesino. That’s what public support for the arts did. And, that’s why we created that pin, “I AM THE PUBLIC.”
Everyone who wore that pin was part of the public. I’m telling you, it was amazing. I remember, for example, a Gay Pride March [in Seattle]. We were marching and had bags of them and were handing them out. People loved this pin! They got its message immediately. Then I’d see it on people all over Seattle.
JESSICA: I just want to chime in… Anne has one of these pins in the office. And when she told me the story about it, it really spoke to me and I tend to tell a lot of people about it. Personally, I am myself Hispanic and a lot of my co-workers are minorities as well, you know, Pakistani, Taiwanese. I mentioned this same pin to them, actually just today. I mentioned it to them in the art context but also in terms of what’s happening today. And they loved it, and they were just, like… YES, this is exactly it.
DAVID: Yes! Maybe your first activism after this podcast could be, just make some. I think it’s a very good thing to revive! They’re not expensive…just reproduce it. Just make it!
JESSICA: It’s so funny, I was just thinking about this today. After mentioning them to my co-workers, it was, wow! I just want to make more and start giving them to people. Just helping them realize they are part of this whole debate. They are the public. “Yeah! I am, and I really should have a bigger say in what’s going on.”
KAREN: It’s an affirmation of our own value. This understanding that, like, wait a second, I’m culpable. I’m responsible. And that means that I also have power and I have agency. That is really important! We so often become isolated in the sense that we think, well, it’s only my opinion. But the point is not that. The point is that my opinion is as valid as the “public’s” opinion, that everybody has an individual opinion, and that, all together, is what creates any group, right? Even on the scale of the country!
DAVID: And remember, you have to always be aware that when you hear someone talk about the “public,” they probably have an idea of it that doesn’t include a lot of people. They’re excluding part of the public.
JESSICA: Yeah, we need to revive this!
DAVID: Yes! I have one in my little treasure storage chest in Seattle. It’s time, it’s time again. We’ve come full circle with what’s happening right now.
AFTERWORD: At one of our weekly meetings a month or so after the podcast recording, the group of interns surprised me with several hundred brand-new pins. You can bet that one way or another, they’ll make sure David gets some of the new ones.
Penny University at Town Hall invites you to join the conversation!
Tackling the Climate Crisis
Thursday, August 22, 2019, 7:30pm
The Town Hall Forum
1119 8th Ave (west entrance)
Doors open at 6:30pm
The latest edition of Penny University asks all of us to imagine ourselves in positions of power to make radical political or economic decisions in response to the climate crisis.
Imagine that some great shock has galvanized the world at last, and made it clear that we must address climate change as an absolute emergency—every moment counts. The UN General Assembly and the Security Council have voted unanimously to convene a Climate Crisis Response Team. You’re on it. You have deep pockets and a blank slate, but very little time. How do you allocate money, attention, time, policy, and legislation? What are your top priorities? How do you trade off between mitigating damage that’s already been done, preventing new damage, and reversing the causes of damage to make it possible for the climate to improve?
Discuss, listen, and learn from one another as we envision a better world!
Edward Wolcher, Town Hall’s curator of lectures, and I created the Penny U conversation series to flip the script on a standard Town Hall event. Instead of presenting the ideas of an expert, Penny U prompts you to become a participant and explore big ideas through community conversation and popular education. This edition of these conversations has also been framed by John Boylan, Tom Corddry, Theresa Earenfight, Carolyn Law, and Warren Wilkins.
The cafe and bar will be open, cafe tables will allow talk in small groups so everyone can be heard, pens and paper will let each table capture highlights, and we’ll wrap up back together in one big conversation.
If you register (red button above), you’ll receive a “Know before you go” message containing additional information, including lists of known solutions. You can also register by going to Town Hall’s website here.
Penny U’s name is borrowed from 18th century London coffeehouses called “penny universities.” For the price of a penny, people got coffee, pamphlets, the latest news and gossip, and lively conversations on politics and science, literature and poetry, commerce and religion. The low cost led to a mingling of people from all walks of life. Anyone of any social class could frequent the coffeehouses, which became associated with equality and civil society. Penny universities became safe havens for political discussion, exchange of ideas, and civil debate. More about Penny U at Town Hall here.
Many thanks to Anita H. Lehman for the picture of ravens in active conversation. You can learn more about her here.
“Well, I guess that one was all wrong, wasn’t it.”
When I was a kid, it seemed like my dad had to go out of town for work every other week. I remember trooping off with my mom and four younger brothers to the San Diego airport to see him off. We’d all stand with our noses to the chain link fence, facing the wind from the propellers as Dad’s plane took off.
Other than knowing that he worked as a physicist who studied sound traveling under water and through the earth, I knew very little about the work that took him away so often. As kids we knew that Dad worked for the military in Washington D.C during the second world war, and we knew that throughout his career with the military he remained a civilian and a scientist. We also learned that he studied explosions (sometimes up close) and that he had something to do with “top secret” projects, including one, we found out later, to test an underwater nuclear explosion in the early 1950s. It’s curious to me now that, back then, I just accepted the secrecy surrounding his work and didn’t feel compelled to learn any more details about it.
Instead, what I remember most about my dad the scientist was the time he spent with us answering our questions and describing how things worked – what the seismograph in the corner of the dining room did, how a polaroid camera worked, how molecules and atoms were like worlds within worlds, and what forces held them all together. He was our own “Mr. Wizard” at the dinner table.1 He loved the process of science – coming up with a theory, testing it, finding it doesn’t work, trying another, maybe another and another, and in time finding the one that’s true. And he got special joy in seeing that click of discovery in our faces when we understood whatever he was explaining at that moment.
Another thing we knew about our dad was that he’d met Albert Einstein. The proof we had was a photograph that I’ve carried in mind since I first saw it. My brother Karl, the one of us who took after Dad and became a physicist, recently tracked down and annotated a copy of the photo for me. Taken in 1931 at Caltech where Dad got his doctorate and where Einstein was an occasional visiting professor, the picture shows a large group of faculty and grad students surrounding Einstein, the unmistakable focus of attention in the center of the front row. Also unmistakable to us was our dad in the third row right behind Einstein.
In 1959, the year I started high school, Dad accepted a position as chair of the Physics department of the then-new Harvey Mudd College. He told me he could no longer work under conditions where top military brass had the final word over technical work, regardless of their scientific knowledge. He stayed with the college until he retired in 1971 and remained active as emeritus professor until he died in 1986.
Recently, another brother, Ted, gave me a transcript of a long interview with Dad. Ted and his wife Vicki are the unofficial historians for our family. Part of a larger project titled, “Harvey Mudd College Oral History Project on the Atomic Age,” the interview was conducted in 1975 by Harvey Mudd and the Claremont Graduate School.2
At the first opportunity, I read all 167 pages of the interview. Not only did I learn more about Dad’s once “top secret” past – hinted at on the first page with a notice, “This manuscript is authorized as ‘open’” – I discovered there was more to the story of Dad and Einstein than just the gathering at Caltech.
Two-thirds of the way into the manuscript, the interviewer asked, “Al, you said you had an additional anecdote to tell about Einstein and the explosion work you had done earlier.” Dad described a time he and a colleague were sent to visit Einstein in his office at Princeton. They spent the better part of the day with him, Dad said. “We met him in the morning, had lunch with him, spent two or three hours in the afternoon, then went back to Washington.”
The interviewer asked, “How was he to converse with?”
Oh, very pleasant. Very easy, no problems. He was a remarkable person. Very retiring. To meet him on the street or talk with him, you wouldn’t have thought of him as someone with the mental power of an Einstein. He was gregarious and very much concerned with social problems, religious problems. He was really a very deeply religious person…sincerely in communication with his creator.
The interviewer then asked, “Why were you sent to meet with Einstein?”
The people at the David Taylor Model Basin [site of much of Dad’s explosion research] brought to my attention the fact that the Bureau of Ships had asked Dr. Einstein to develop a theory of ship damage resulting from non-contact underwater explosions. One of the basic principles that he used to develop his theory was the assumption that steel, under the sudden impact of a shock wave, would break in brittle fracture. Just the way glass breaks.
Now I had some data that indicated this was not strictly true. So the Bureau of Ships asked Dr. Hartmann and me to go out to Princeton and interview Dr. Einstein and give him the information we had.
So we made the trip on the 2nd of August, 1943. This was a very hot day and Einstein greeted us very pleasantly in his office, but he looked awfully hot. If you are familiar with Dr. Einstein’s pictures, there is a halo of white hair around his head, and on this particular day there was no halo. The hair was sticky with sweat and curling around his ears and around the back of his neck. He looked like a very hot and uncomfortable person.
He proceeded to tell us about his theory, and he had worked it out on a blackboard which was right behind his desk. Then, after showing it to us, he asked what the information was that we had. We had brought along some photographs of a bomb in the process of detonation. These were photographs taken at very high speed with a movie camera, and the first two or three frames showed the bomb case expanding like a rubber balloon. Now this is anything but brittle fracture.
Dr. Einstein took one look at that set of photographs and turned around and rubbed off his theory. [Laughter] He said, “Well, I guess that one was all wrong, wasn’t it. Now let’s see what we can do.” And in the process of the next five minutes, he worked out a completely new theory developing it right there on the blackboard, using the deformation of steel at first, followed by brittle fracture, which does occur.
I thought that this was one of the best examples that I have ever heard of the ability of a man, who is truly great, to say, “My theory is no good, I’ve got to start over again,” when someone brings up a fact that is contrary to the theory. Somehow, sure, Einstein is always accepted as a great man because he developed this theory and that. But to think of his ability to just scratch it, wipe the slate clean, and start over again is something that you rarely have an opportunity to see.
My brother Karl added a footnote to this story. Apparently, when Dad went to Princeton that day, he took a copy of Einstein’s textbook. After showing that Einstein’s theory was wrong, Dad asked him to sign the book, as if to honor true greatness, “See, your theory is wrong. Can I have your autograph?” The textbook is on Karl’s bookshelf.
It’s not just scientists who need the ability to say, “Oops, I’d better scratch out that idea and try again.” Can we non-scientists cultivate a similar capacity? Are we willing to shift our views given new circumstances and insights that cast doubt on our theories? The proof of error in our social, economic, and political ideas is seldom as clear-cut as a photograph demonstrating that steel can expand like a balloon. Though more difficult, the ability to acknowledge our errors or misconceptions and make adjustments in our social and political ideas is just as crucial as is the ability to change our scientific theories.
I constantly have to fight a stubborn streak in myself that wants to be right, even when I should probably question it. And that stubbornness is not the way I like to see myself. I want to be open to hearing different, even contradictory information and being flexible enough to revise my ideas and my action. Perhaps I need to cultivate my dad’s sense of delight at the click of discovery – even if the discovery is that I’m wrong – and remember Einstein’s words: “Well, I guess that one was all wrong, wasn’t it. Now, let’s see what we can do.”
“Now let’s see what we can do.”
Watch Mr. Wizard was a TV program for children demonstrating the science behind ordinary things (1951–1965).
The oral history interview was recorded on three different days. This excerpt begins on page 112 of the manuscript, at the beginning of the third day, March 14, 1975. The interviewers were Enid H. Douglass, director Oral History Program, Claremont Graduate School, and John B. Rae, Professor of history, emeritus, Harvey Mudd College of Engineering.
“HISTORY IN THE MAKING. The City of Eureka is the first in the ENTIRE UNITED STATES to return sacred land to an Indigenous People without provocation of the judiciary system. THIS IS PROGRESS.”
Pilar James posted this news on her Facebook page on December 4, 2018. Pilar, a 2017 graduate of Fortuna Union High School, is a member of the Wiyot Tribe and participates in traditional Wiyot dances. On that Tuesday evening, the City Council of Eureka, an old industrial town in Northern California not known for having a liberal past, voted unanimously to begin the transfer of more that 200 acres to the Wiyot Tribe in the Humboldt Bay region in California. Not only is this decision not the result of legal action, the tribe is not being asked to buy the land. It is a transfer. It is the return of sacred land.
Speaking to a packed council chamber that night, Wiyot Tribal Chair Ted Hernandez expressed gratitude to the city for transferring the land, which includes almost all of Indian Island. The island is Wiyot sacred land and was home to two ancient Wiyot villages. For centuries, the Wiyot have considered one of these, Tuluwat, to be the center of the world. It was the site of their annual World Renewal Ceremony, and also, 150 years ago, the site of a horrendous massacre of Wiyot people. Hernandez was asked whether the tribe would develop the land. “We wouldn’t put anything there,” he said. “Why would we disturb the land? It’s been disturbed enough. Our ancestors need to be put to rest. It’s time to heal.” 1
“I’m moved and excited to be a piece of this,” said Eureka City Councilmember Kim Bergel. “I’m grateful that we are at a place in our city and in our world where we can move forward in such a positive direction, such a healing direction in such a divisive time.” 2
Indeed. The news from Eureka offers an inspiring counter to much of what gets covered in the media today. The decision and its significance spread through local media – the Eureka Times-Standard, Lost Coast Outpost, Redwood Times, North Coast Journal, Humboldt State’s KHSU radio, and local television news – but it wasn’t even a blip in the crush of what a friend recently described to me as “the multitude of tributaries framing the unjustness/ugliness/stupidity/etc. of human beings and nations.”
To my mind, the story of the Eureka land transfer is every bit as big as many others that capture our attention. Journalists and researchers should be flying in for interviews to figure out how this happened, and how it happened without rancor, lawsuits, or big pockets of money. If they did fly in, they’d find that the action is part of a long trajectory. The stage was set for this decision by events of even greater consequence that came earlier. The December 2018 decision by the Eureka City Council is the latest chapter in a much longer story of hope that I’ve been following for at least a decade. And its roots reach even further back.
Fed and flanked by rivers – the Mad, Elk, and Eel rivers and the Freshwater and Jacoby creeks – the Humboldt Bay is the second largest protected bay in California. Its complex system of rivers, marshes, and grasses creates a fertile estuary that is home for hundreds of plant, animal, fish, and bird species. The area is also the traditional homeland of many Native American tribes. The coastal mountain range as well as its frequent rain, fog, and mist contribute to the area’s relative isolation. The two largest towns are located on the edge of the bay, the historically conservative Eureka to the south and the more liberal Arcata six miles to the north.
In 2010, my friend Peter Pennekamp, then head of the Humboldt Area Foundation, invited me to work with him on a paper about what he referred to as “living, breathing, on-the-street democracy” as he had begun to see it in this region.3 Behind Peter’s gentle face with its graying goatee and ready grin is a man fiercely committed to equity. He’d come to the foundation in the early 1990s from NPR and before that the National Endowment for the Arts to see if he could learn what beliefs and practices build equality and reinforce democracy at a community level. Scrupulous in not taking credit when he felt credit belonged elsewhere, his aim in the work was to distribute power not acquire it. He wanted to connect lofty aims with real people in a specific place.
The paper Peter and I worked on was written to tell stories of communities in this region who took a strong role in determining their futures and to distill from their stories principles that established conditions for what he and others came to call “community democracy.” One of these principles was the “dynamics of difference.” When we wrote about it, the principle seemed solid, and it stuck firmly in my mind. A year or so ago, though, as I tried to describe it to others, I realized that, in fact, I didn’t know how it worked. The idea it embodied, that working with our differences could bring about positive outcomes and build community democracy, seemed significant, but how the principle actually worked baffled me. Its new language offered the promise of new practices. We desperately need both right now, language that names our differences and practices that help us move beyond the snarls that tangle us up today.
When I talked with Peter recently about “dynamics of difference,” he spoke first of Amos Tripp, a Karuk ceremonial leader and one of the major forces behind the renaissance of Native culture in the region. Amos dedicated himself to working with others to restore Karuk culture and was known for bringing back the Brush Dance, a major cultural accomplishment and contribution not only to the Karuk people but to other tribes in the area.4
Being struck by polio as a child, Peter told me, meant that Amos, whose father was a timber faller, was unable to work in the woods. He subsequently went to college and became an attorney. An obituary published on his death in 2014 in the Lost Coast Outpost referred to him as “a true Indian attorney” who honored both traditional and legal values.2 Tripp, the obituary said, was proud of the legal work he did on behalf of Indian people and was known for accepting payment in many forms – fish, crocheted hats, and deer meat and hides.
A year or so before he died, Amos participated in a workshop on community democracy near the Klamath River that I helped facilitate. He spoke of the inspiration he and others gained from the African American-led Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s. Little might have happened for the tribes in the region and on the river, Amos told us, if the Civil Rights Movement hadn’t given them the confidence that, “we could do it.”
In the late 60s, after years of inadequate health services and the removal of federal assistance, American Indians, as Native people in Humboldt and Del Norte counties identify themselves, came together to build their own health center. United Indian Health Services was incorporated in 1970 with Amos as its first director. Due in large part to Amos’s careful negotiation of an agreement among nine tribes in the region, UIHS was recognized as a tribal organization in 1984.5 The nine tribes continue to be part of the organization. UIHS is “an enormous intertribal success,” Peter said, “and Amos was a holder of that flame.”
The tribes began by building their own health center in the woods near Trinidad, north of Arcata. At first jury-rigged, built on several sites at different times, and put together to meet changing needs, UIHS services were known to no one outside the tribes themselves. Hiding away was nothing new to the tribes. “We survived by isolation,” Amos told Mim Dixon and Pamela Iron, authors of a report sponsored by the National Indian Women’s Health Resource Center.5“In a span of 50 years, 90 percent of the indigenous population of California disappeared,” Amos continued. “The 10 percent who survived did so by running away when someone knocked on the door.” They hid so they would not be murdered, or taken to boarding school, or exposed to deadly diseases. But, he said, “The isolation that allowed people to survive also kept the culture from being passed along.”
The tribes spent almost two decades in the woods, focusing on internal work – relearning and practicing their culture and health traditions, and studying the ways of the white community and the benefits and bureaucracies of American medicine. “We were isolated there,” said Maria Tripp, chair of the UIHS board. “This was our incubation period. In this place that was not so visible, we learned to govern ourselves.”6 They also learned to live their traditional belief that “good health goes beyond that of the individual. It must include the health of the entire community, including its culture, language, art, and traditions.”
Eventually, the tribes reached a point, Peter was told, when they knew enough about how to renew their own culture and improve their own health that they were no longer willing to be considered second-class. The UIHS board, comprised mostly of the women – mothers, daughters, and granddaughters – who started the organization, decided to “come out of the woods.” They felt experienced and strong enough to “move downtown and do so with confidence.” They began to look for a new clinic site.
In 1995, their search led them to a 40-acre dairy farm just south of the Mad River, and the owner was willing to sell. With open space, swale wetlands, and a desirable location at an important intersection of transportation routes, the property allowed the tribes to think about something more than just a building. A “village” of buildings could integrate Native and Western medicine and also be part of a restored natural wetland, prairie, and forest.
Dale Ann Frye Sherman (Yurok) put it this way: “The concept for the Health Village came from the idea that the people of this area, their cultures and their communities and their family life all revolve around rivers… and from the concept that the environment is important, that people aren’t well unless their environment is well also.” UIHS sought advice from environmental scientists who felt confident that the site could include trails, wetlands, a prairie with native grasses and perennials, orchards, and gardens. “Health of the Environment = Health of the People” became a slogan for the project.7
Although the land had been farmed and ranched by white settlers since the 1870s, it was once part of a coastal prairie where the Mad River meandered and where the Wiyot people, one of the nine UIHS tribes, made their homes. As recently as 1850, four Wiyot villages were located along a large bend in the river.8 The UIHS named the consolidated health center Potawot, the Wiyot name for the Mad River.
The first step for the UIHS was obtaining permits from the City of Arcata. This proved more difficult than buying the property. The tribes faced strong opposition. At the first public permit hearings, the lawn in front of Arcata’s city hall was filled with signs reading, “Save the Ag Land, Stop UIHS.” In our report Peter wrote:
As plans for the project proceeded, prejudice crawled out of the woodwork. City permit hearings in 1997 provided a focus for an outpouring of objections from neighbors about the tom-toms they assumed would keep them awake at night and about the casino they believed the project was a ruse for. Most startlingly, they objected to the loss of the land’s “traditional” use for dairy cattle grazing.
In the paper that Peter and I wrote, this is the story he used to illustrate the “dynamics of difference.” Among other things, he says we must first be clear about what the differences are – in this case, differences in notions of what constitutes good health and how to foster it, differences in how agreements are made through Indian traditional values or using the U.S. legal system, different understandings of “traditional use.” The 1997 Potawot hearings brought the “dynamics” of this principle into high focus.
The Wiyot had lived in the Humboldt Bay region for thousands of years.9 The official website of the Wiyot Tribe reports that they lived in permanent villages along the waterways, which also served as travel and trade routes. The annual fish runs of coastal cutthroat trout, steelhead, and coho salmon on the Eel and Mad Rivers enabled them to smoke enough fish for the winter months. Seasonal camps were made on tribal lands and prairies, and the mountains provided berries, acorns, pine nuts, wild game, and basketry materials. Wiyot people actively managed the land, burning for open grasslands, cultivating edible bulbs, and following strict hunting and fishing protocols.
Lucy Diekmann, then a PhD candidate at the University of California, Berkeley, acknowledged the role the tribes played in shaping the land. “Early settlers often commented on the abundant game animals and the ‘natural’ prairies and meadows to be found on the hillsides, which they found suitable for farming.”10 Her 2011 dissertation, “Ecological Restoration for Community Benefit” drew on the experiences of two communities in northwest California, one of which was the American Indian community that formed UIHS.
The first big wave of white settlers came to Humboldt Bay during the California Gold Rush. After the discovery of gold on the Trinity River in 1849, a group of miners, headed for the gold fields, found Humboldt Bay west of the river and established a permanent supply center where Arcata sits now. From 1850 to 1865 the territory of the Wiyot became home to the largest concentration of white Americans in California north of San Francisco. By the spring of 1850, reported an essay by the Historic Sites Society of Arcata, “ships from San Francisco loaded with opportunity-seeking men converged on this large, natural harbor and the small one at Trinidad, bringing European civilization to California’s last frontier.”11
Before the arrival of Europeans, the region had supported a Wiyot population of about 2,000. The Gold Rush proved devastating to them and to other Indian people in the area. Relationships between the Indians and the outsiders became hostile, marked by raids and vigilante justice. The “Indian troubles” culminated in a series of brutal massacres of Indian people in February 1860, the worst of which took place at Tuluwat on Indian Island in Humboldt Bay. The Wiyot tribal website tells what happened:
The Wiyot people had gathered at the traditional site for the annual World Renewal Ceremony, which lasted seven to ten days. At night, the men would replenish supplies, leaving the elders, women, and children sleeping and resting. Under cover of darkness, local men armed with hatchets and knives rowed to the island and brutally murdered nearly all the sleeping Wiyot. Estimates of the dead ranged from 80 to 250 in that night’s series of orchestrated massacres.12
Bret Harte, then assistant editor of the Northern Californianbased in Arcata, wrote a scathing editorial condemning the slayings. After publishing it, his life was threatened and he was forced to flee. In the end, and despite evidence, no charges were filed against the perpetrators. The tribe was decimated, rounded up, and moved to reservations in other parts of the region. After 1860, their population declined to about 200 through disease, slavery, constant relocation, and loss of access to traditional resources. By 1910, their numbers had declined to about 100. But they did not disappear and often tried to return.
Farming by the new inhabitants increased throughout the Gold Rush days, and diking the Arcata Bottom around 1892 set the stage for a commercial dairy industry. Commercial logging got its start, and the college now called Humboldt State University opened in 1913. Timber mills, after declining during the Depression and World War II, became active again after the war in response to the demand for housing. Veterans began moving to the area to work in re-opened mills and in home construction, and to attend the college.13
In our conversations, when Peter described Arcata and its citizens, he used phrases like, “a generally progressive city politically” and “protective of its small-town character.” People joked, he said, that it was “Berkeley North” or “Eugene South” or they called it the “Socialist Republic of Arcata.” He also referred to it as “the liberal college town of Arcata.” Among other contributions to the town, Humboldt State University has a strong, long-standing environmental studies program. In fact, Arcata’s reputation as a progressive place may come partly from its history of local environmental activism: it fought to keep a federal freeway from bisecting the town, stopped an adjoining redwood forest from being clear-cut, started an early recycling program, and took 30-40 acres of industrial brownfields that nobody wanted and turned them into the Arcata Marsh and Wildlife Sanctuary that, at the same time, served as a cost-effective alternative for wastewater treatment.14
Nonetheless, Peter explained, in those days “it remained OK to make racist jokes about Indians even though that would have been completely unacceptable for people of other races.” White society’s increasingly liberal attitudes toward other racial groups did not extend to Indians.
It didn’t help, according to Diekmann, that when the Potawot Village was proposed, “there were no other visible signs of the Indian community in the North Coast’s urbanized area.” Paula “Pimm” Allen (Karuk-Yurok) told her that, at the time, American Indians were seven percent of the population of Humboldt and Del Norte counties. As Allen explained, “This is huge. In most places across the nation, it’s less than one percent. Even with that, other than casinos, there was no Indian presence here, not in any of the major cities or even anywhere. There might be a tribal library hidden somewhere, but there was nothing that said, ‘This is the Indian space.’”
No doubt the “survival by isolation” that Amos spoke of had also played a role in the Indians’ invisibility. Surprisingly, this invisibility was probably reinforced by the town’s history of environmentalism. As Peter noted:
The area was a hotbed for young environmentalists who were driven by images of nature as a pristine landscape, images created by people like photographer Ansel Adams and author John Muir, images of a pure landscape empty of people. For the most part, they had a profound lack of knowledge of the land, and their norms did not include the Native people who had inhabited the land for centuries. They had yet to learn there were people in the picture.
As the population of Arcata grew, the area’s farmland came under pressure. Prior to the 1980s, the conversion of farmland to other uses had been steadily increasing. A General Plan, adopted by the Humboldt County board of supervisors in 1984, provided facts: nearly 100,000 acres of farmland had been converted to residential and commercial subdivisions over the previous several decades. The County’s plan sought to slow down this loss.15
The 40-acre dairy farm that the UIHS hoped to purchase for their new facility was zoned “agriculture exclusive.” For the Potawot project to proceed, the property would need to be rezoned for “planned development.” UIHS had proposed that half the site be zoned for planned development – the health center – and that the other 20 acres be protected in perpetuity through a conservation easement, held by the City, to protect its natural value.
A group of Arcata citizens, dedicated to saving the city’s agricultural lands, had recently organized successfully to prevent a housing development in the Arcata Bottoms, just three miles west of the dairy farm. They were ready to fight again.
In spring 1996 the plan for the Potawot Health Village was presented to the Arcata City Planning Commission and the City Council. At the time, Jerry Simone, who Peter described as “a 5-foot-2-inch fiery Italian,” was the executive director of UIHS. When all hell broke loose in the permit hearings, Simone later reported to Diekmann that one young Arcata citizen jammed a finger into his chest saying, “We’re going to stop you!”
Peter, who‘d been present, told me that at one of the many hearings, Simone in his anger tried to jump up and tell the council exactly what he thought. “But Amos and other Indians quietly but explicitly pushed him down saying, ‘You have to let it go. It doesn’t work to just jump in their faces.’ The Indians had seen it all before. They were totally used to the bigotry of well-intentioned arguments. They had 150 years of experience.” In fact, this was part of the internal work they’d been doing for decades. “They were ready. They knew what they’d face.”
The hearings stretched over 13 months, generating rancor and controversy, provoking news stories and letters to the editor. Some advocates for UIHS sought to show how race relationships over the previous 150 years had changed the landscape in ways that had come to seem normal. Other supporters focused their arguments on the multiple benefits of having a health village integrated with a restoration area. Planning for the conservation easement intensified during the hearings and became an important element in debates about agricultural preservation.
As a central strategy, UIHS launched a major communications and community involvement campaign. An elegant report, A Place of Our Own, published for the dedication of the Potawot Health Village, described the effort.16
Internal strategy meetings were held nearly every Monday morning. The tribes created a brochure featuring the health village concept and information about UIHS. UIHS representatives started giving presentations to City Council members, service clubs, and groups affiliated with Mad River Hospital and the nearby elementary school. The goal was to help local people understand the organization and the dream for the health village. Between December 1996 and July 1997 there were ten separate Planning Commission and City Council meetings. UIHS made certain that its supporters always filled the meeting chambers, each wearing a sticker proclaiming support for the health village. “One glance around the room made it clear that the public was supporting UIHS by about a 95% majority.”
As Pimm Allen said:
When the day came, we filled Arcata City Hall with Indians. I don’t know if that had ever happened before. We had to tell them that sometimes there is an exception to the zoning rules. It wasn’t like there hadn’t been a price paid for that ag land. This is an indigenous community coming back to reclaim the land.
Through patience, organizing, and constantly showing up, the tribes got their story out. Peter elaborated, “Not having had the preparation that the tribes did, the white community had to respond quickly. But, as they heard the story from a Native perspective, they gradually came to understand what the land and its history meant to the Indian people. They began to realize how bigoted their initial responses were. And they were ashamed.”
By the end of the hearings, both Arcata’s City Council and its planning commission unanimously approved the Potawot Health Village and the associated zoning.
Through the long process of meetings and hearings, Laura Kadlecik, the Potawot project manager, reported, “A large percentage of the local community came to know, trust, and appreciate UIHS and their proposed project.”17 The tribes had come out of their isolation. They were no longer invisible.
For such a long time I think we lived our lives separate from the larger community in many ways. And I think this Potawot represents turning the corner – because it shows that we can successfully work with the larger community in these efforts…So, it’s not the end, it’s just the beginning. – Amos Tripp, Karuk leader18
At this point in the Potawot story, what I’d learned about the term “dynamics of difference” from Peter earlier began to become clear again. The best outcomes arise, he wrote in our paper, when we don’t ignore or eliminate our differences but when we work with them. This often means sitting uncomfortably with people who hold very different beliefs. “Tension,” he went on, “between individuals and groups with different experiences, cultures, beliefs, or backgrounds can either be the foe of democracy, keeping hostility high and blocking the path to common ground, or it can be transformed into a powerful source of creativity and innovation and a motivator for action and community improvement.”
To work productively across our divides, Peter told me, we can’t start with the assumption that everything will be rosy if we just sit down and listen to each other, any more than we can start by shoring up our defenses and preparing for battle. We have to identify and clarify our differences, embrace the conflict inherent in the differences, accept the discomfort they cause, and allow productive growth to emerge from there.
When Peter wrote that the “dynamics of difference” could be a transforming force for democracy, it’s important to know that the context for him was community democracy – “grassroots engagement where people uncover, activate, and energize their community’s own assets, take responsibility for their formal and informal decision-making processes, and further their ability to work constructively with conflict and difference.” This is not simply a democracy limited to casting a ballot. It cannot, I believe, be illustrated, as democracy often is, simply by a voting box or an image of raised hands. To be effective, it must also be active and engaged.
As inspiring and hard-won as the Potawot decision was, even this isn’t the whole story. It doesn’t tell of all the ways the differences began to be identified, preparing the ground for the decision beforehand, and it doesn’t tell of all the ways that the differences continued to play out and the reverberations continued to echo in subsequent years.
Many small steps toward understanding were taken over a long period of time while UIHS was still in the woods and before the Potawot hearings. By the time the conflict over the use of the dairy farm land heated up, Indian and white “bridge builders” had already been quietly opening doors and lowering barriers. In a footnote to her dissertation, Lucy Diekmann writes that earlier work done by local American Indians to revitalize their culture gave them a foundation for their activism. She quotes a community member (Yurok-Pit River-Maidu):
I know in other communities the racism and fear are deeply entrenched, whereas here we’ve been fortunate that there have been a couple of generations now of Indian culture bearers, linguists, academics, traditional singers and dancers who have continually shared about their perspective and shared their perspective in many different venues.So [in the Potawot hearings] the fear and racism that was exhibited by a few was overwhelmed by the acceptance and encouragement of many more non-Native people for the project to be here.
Long before the Potawot hearings, these culture bearers were not only strengthening their culture internally, they were sharing their perspective with allies in non-Indian, white communities. One of their first allies was Libby Maynard, co-founder in 1979 and still director of Ink People, a community-based arts organization. Peter said, “She created a place where Indians from multiple tribal cultures could come together under their own leadership and, at their discretion and when it made sense to them, to collaborate with white people.” The Ink People and their engagement with American Indians continues today. This past November (2018), the Ink People hosted From the Source, a recurring exhibition of both traditional and contemporary art that began in 1990 as a collaborative project between the Ink People and UIHS.
When he started at the Humboldt Area Foundation in 1993, Peter observed that the foundation didn’t fund Native people, reasoning that the tribes got lots of support from the federal government. When the foundation board and staff learned how much this misrepresented the truth of Indian lives, he said, “They could see their own prejudice and were embarrassed. We began to bring American Indians into the foundation, and it became a place where intelligent white people and intelligent Indians could work together.”
These smaller, direct and in-person connections illustrate another principle in the community democracy lexicon, “time and convergence.” Different cultures and segments of a community, Peter says, have different clocks. “Widespread, sustainable cultural change happens only when different timeframes come close to alignment and, at critical junctures, converge.” The low-key, fairly quiet efforts of the Indian culture bearers, the Ink People, the Humboldt Area Foundation, and others played an important role in bringing the cultural “clocks” of white and American Indian communities closer in line with each other and helped foster trust between them.
When the hearings were over, the UIHS had to design a large facility and raise capital funds. Attention turned to the massive fundraising task ahead. UIHS had a long history of successful program funding but had never undertaken a major capital campaign. The report produced for the center’s dedication noted a critical aspect of the endeavor:
A fundraising task force was created to guide the effort with help from a local community foundation. The thing that was important in the funding process was achieving our local support. We couldn’t have gone to outside sources of funding without local support, and so [the UIHS] Board and the community provided that initial support.10
In our own paper, Peter wrote, “The Humboldt Area Foundation provided enthusiastic encouragement from the earliest concept phase, support for planning, and space to meet. We were able to partner with then-president of the Ford Foundation, Susan Berresford, who had ties to the area, to help UIHS attract private funders who needed reassurance about what they perceived to be ‘lack of a track record.’” Fundraising efforts were successful and the first major contribution was received in 1998. Groundbreaking ceremonies were held before construction began in 2000. Construction was completed nearly on schedule, and a blessing was held in August 2001, just before the UIHS board held its first meeting at the new facility. By spring 2002, UIHS had settled into its new home.
The health clinic is built to resemble the redwood plank houses of a local Indian village. It is arranged around a circular connecting hallway and a central outdoor Wellness Garden, with all doors oriented to a spring in the center that flows out into the restored wetlands that surround it. The clinic is now a thoroughly modern, full-spectrum health service agency with medical, dental, pharmacy, vision, and behavioral health services. It also incorporates traditional values and customs into daily activities, prominently displays its collection of Native art and basketry, and is now partly powered by solar energy.
Ku’wah-dah-wilth, the name UIHS gave to the restoration area, means “comes back to life” in the Wiyot language and describes the revitalization of the site’s natural resources and the effect this is meant to have on the local Indian community. The restored land has a basket and textile demonstration garden, tree snags that create bird habitat, trails for passers-by to explore, and a community garden that supplies fresh produce for the weekly farmer’s market. The restoration exemplifies the tribes’ cultural philosophy that the health of a community and its environment are integral to the health of an individual.
In addition to the subsequent development of the health village site, knowledge of and trust between Native and white communities in the region has continued to increase. “What was not apparent immediately after the Arcata City Council’s Potawot decision,” Peter wrote in our paper, “was the degree to which the tension and conflict faced there and the public discourse it created would be a springboard for other developments.”
Many events helped increase communication and trust between white and Indian communities. In 2001 the Wiyot Tribe opened new channels of communication by inviting the Humboldt County community to join with them to heal the county for past wrongs. A consortium of local churches responded by hosting a three-day “apology and reconciliation conference.” Over 15 Native American churches and tribes, and 15 Christian churches attended, a total of more than 700 people. The main focus of the conference was to apologize to the Wiyot tribe for the atrocities of the 1860 massacre and the ongoing oppression of the Wiyot tribe.11
Over time, relationships between individual Indian and white people also had opportunities to grow. In about 2003, for instance, Wiyot Tribal Chair Cheryl Seidner and then-mayor of Eureka Peter LaVallee attended leadership trainings together, hosted by the Humboldt Area Foundation. Through these trainings, Seidner and LaVallee had had a chance to develop an understanding of each other’s point of view.11 They could build on this understanding in developing a relationship between the tribe and the council.
Along with other connections and community actions, the growing relationship between the tribe and the council led, in 2004, to the transfer of 40 acres on Indian Island to the Wiyot Tribe by the City of Eureka. Though smaller than the transfer 14 years later, this decision was symbolically and emotionally powerful. To take nothing away from the historic significance of the land transfer in 2018, Eureka became the first city to do this in 2004.
Together the land transfers of 2004 and 2018 mean that the whole of Indian Island, minus a few private residences, is now held by the Wiyot Tribe. Seidner, currently cultural liaison for the Wiyot Tribe, spoke to the Eureka City Council at its December 4, 2018 meeting.
I’ve known about the massacre of 1860 since I was about five or six years old. My parents were very informative, telling us what happened, and also telling us that what happened in 1860, happened in 1860. Those you live with today, they told me, were not responsible… In about 1966-67 we started talking about the island more seriously, and in 1968 we started talking about having the island returned to the Wiyot people.
As she finished speaking, she requested time to sing a song. Two Wiyot tribal members, including the tribal chair, joined her at the dais to sing. By the end of their singing, everyone in the room was standing to show respect. They sang the tribal song, “Coming Home.”
To achieve real progress toward solutions to community problems, Peter told me recently, we have to change our relationships with each other. For the Potawot Health Village, changing the relationships relied on American Indian people having done the internal work that prepared them for the encounter with white society and that gave them the ability to share their history and culture. Their internal work helped them learn to work with their anger, anger they had carried forward through 150 years of near annihilation, racism, and fear.
Changing the relationships also required white policymakers to get up to speed on the difficult history of the region where they lived. They had to understand what it meant to Native people. Residents who were passionate about the environment had to learn to see Native people in the landscapes they cared about. In fundamental ways, white people had to change the way they’d come to understand their identity, history, and place in the land over the last 150 years.
It’s also important to add that the work of building relationships in the Humboldt Bay area remains unfinished. Old tensions remain and new differences and conflicts arise. This work has no easy end.
The big story, the one with the most significant potential consequences, is one of changed relationships. Sadly, I can see why the Eureka City Council’s decision didn’t make for splashy, front-page news. After all, the real change happened incrementally over a span of 50 years in a fairly isolated region. What happened in December 2018 is not a grab-your-attention story of scandal or conflict. Fundamentally, it’s a story about healing. It gives me hope and a sense of possibility.
“Occurrences like these in Arcata and Eureka,” Peter has said, “which often began with confrontation and ended in reconciliation, have led to increased and lasting coordination and communication between tribal, municipal, and county governments as well as between public and private organizations and individuals.” As he also likes to say, change comes at the “speed of trust,” and the development of trust is not linear. It can sometimes develop easily, but more often it comes slowly. It’s about moving forward despite and because of all the ways we differ. We have to work with, not against, the dynamics of our differences.
To write this piece I needed lots of help. I’m especially grateful to Bonnie Swift, my wise and imaginative editor, and to Peter Pennekamp, my primary Humboldt area source and truth checker. I’m also grateful to have worked for two years (2012-2014) with Peter and many others in the development of the Community Democracy Workshop, a valuable way that this work keeps going. Finally, for the time to write this essay, I’m extremely thankful for support from the Jini Dellaccio Project, a sponsored project of Artist Trust.
United Indian Health Services, Potawot Health Village: A Place of Our Own. Documentation, Evaluation and Dissemination, funded by the California Endowment, 2002.
Lucy Ontario Diekmann, Ecological Restoration for Community Benefit: People and Landscapes in Northern California, 1984-2010, doctoral dissertation in Environmental Science, Policy, and Management, University of California, Berkeley, 2011.
Now and then in upcoming months, you’ll see pieces I write tagged with the word “cartwheeling.” The series responds to a cluster of questions I’ve struggled with since the 2016 election. As I’ve puzzled over how I can best contribute in a changed and changing world, I’ve written essays with questions as titles: “What should a concerned citizen do?” “So many ideas, so much to do – what’s next?” and, “What’s my piece of the puzzle? Is resistance enough?” I’ve thought of these as my “puzzle pieces.” The Cartwheeling series is one way I’m answering these questions.
So why cartwheels?
As I’ve tried to figure out my role, I’ve had to accept as given my stubbornly positive disposition. This has been its own kind of stumbling block, which I explore in “Pollyanna?” As I wrote that piece, I realized that the sense of possibility I get from leaping into things feels akin to my 8-year-old granddaughter Livia’s cartwheeling spirit. I can learn from her. Livia can and does cartwheel anywhere, even on the way home from school in the winter while wearing her huge, flowered backpack.
“Cartwheeling” as a rubric works for me. I loved the feeling of doing cartwheels as a kid, though the idea of this 73-year-old trying it now is daunting, if not a little scary. Mentally though, I like the idea of cartwheeling as another way to carry on. After all, you have to turn upside down to do a cartwheel. And to find our way to a better future we need to turn many of our ideas and assumptions upside down, then right side up, and upside down again.
Cartwheeling isn’t just a solo act. It can be an exchange, a conversation. I ran across a news story from Washington DC about a “conversation” between a kid and a cop by cartwheel and backflip. The kid’s challenge came first. The cop followed in kind.
Cartwheeling can be done anywhere, in Westminster Abbey by a joyful clergyman after the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton and in Antarctica by a team of graduate students taking a break from McMurdo Station.
It can also be teamwork. We can learn to double cartwheel and everybody-all-at-once cartwheel.
Cartwheeling is moving by revolving. How many revolutions, or kinds of revolutions, will it take to get there, to get where we want to go? It’s not the fastest or the easiest way, but working together a Canadian team of ten doing cartwheels travelled 31 miles in a single 24-hour period to set a record.
The road can’t just be about efficiency and how fast we’re going. It also has to be about where we’re going and how we get there. The phrase “doing cartwheels,” after all, means to feel good about something. We might even get farther and accomplish more if we know where we’re heading and if we move with spirit and joy in the possibility of finding ways to get out of this mess.
I’ll use the Cartwheeling series to share stories about work done and action taken by friends and others who inspire me and give me hope. I have many examples already; more will come. Two follow here. “Honestly, you have been very patient with me” was originally posted as a comment on my “Pollyanna?” piece. Then, Boting Zhang writes, in “Beneath Partisan Politics,” of her shocked response to the 2016 election. Bo didn’t wait to take action. Born in China and raised with images of America as “Meiguo– the Beautiful Country,” she writes, “the America of my young imagination compelled me to facilitate a year-long conversation across the red-blue divide.” With Between Americans, a conversation that involved 12 people who voted for Clinton and 12 who voted for Trump, she wanted to understand and perhaps help bridge the polarization in this country. What she learned is not what she expected.
In Cartwheeling I’ll look for connecting threads, broad ideas or theories that tie the various stories together and add to their power. I’m finding books and other materials that may help. At the end of 2016, in “A bigger choir – a countervailing force,” I expressed my frustration with the, usually disapproving, expression, “You’re just speaking to the choir.” It’s one of the assumptions we need to turn upside down, a small one perhaps, but for me a beginning. At the time I suggested that instead of being critical of speaking to the choir, “We should work to expand the choir, build connections with other choirs, welcome different voices in our own, and allow for differences since dissonance is a powerful part of music.” I wondered whether we can create a force that incorporates the strengths of both our differences and what we share.
As we start to understand these connections and their potential power, we have to figure out how to move together with them. Cartwheels are all about movement, but backwards cartwheeling is nearly impossible. We can’t go back. We need new ways to understand where we are and, as importantly, we need to imagine how we want to move and where we want to go.