I was excited to hear about the Veganism of Color: Virtual Conference coming up in September 2019. So I figured I’d spread the word and encourage people to explore the important work that the organizers are doing.
To register for Day One, click here. To register for Day Two, click here.
Day One includes talks from the speakers listed below. Day Two is a Q&A Panel discussion with the same speakers.
I love that the conference is free and will be as accessible as possible to people around the world. At the same time, those of us who have the means might consider making a donation to Chilis On Wheels, or purchasing a book from Sanctuary Publishers (who are jointly hosting the conference).
For more information on both of these organizations, see below.
Some of the speakers I have heard of before (Starr Baker, Margaret Robinson), but most of them are new to me and I’m looking forward to knowing more about them.
Doreen Akiyo Nartey, ChildFreeAfrican.com
Veganism, Sustainable Development, and the North/South Divide
This talk will raise questions about the international development and the role of privilege in defining the responsibilities of vegan activists of color in helping to spread consistent anti-oppression around the world.
Starr Baker, Black Feminist Vegan/Fuel the People
Food Justice, Community, and Advocacy
This talk will discuss key elements of community-led food justice activism, including helpful insight on building Black/Brown vegan community, organizing vegan food justice efforts, and adding to or learning from the ones that already exist.
A Dalit’s Perspective: Casteism and Speciesism
This talk will discuss the interconnections of casteism and speciesism, including casteisms’ dependence on nonhuman animal exploitation to justify both human and nonhuman oppression (a term coined casteist speciesism).
Margaret Robinson, Academic Scholar/Lennox Island First Nation member
Decolonizing Body, Mind, and Spirit
This talk will examine how approaching veganism from an Indigenous (L’nu/Mi’kmaw) perspective can help undo colonial damage and support food sovereignty.
LoriKim Alexander, co-director of Black Cuse Pride
Black Queer Vegan Liberation
This talk will focus on the intersections of being Black, queer, and vegan while working towards liberation for both humans and nonhumans.
As you can see, there is much food for thought on the conference agenda. I think that anyone who is interested in race and social justice will get a lot out of it, so please don’t be dissuaded from attending if you’re not a vegan. I hope to ‘see’ you there, and in the meantime here is a little more information about the conference hosts.
As I’ve mentioned before, in the run up to and aftermath of the 2016 Presidential Election, I all but stopped reading. With everything happening in the country and so many urgent issues to fight and focus on, I found that I didn’t have the attention span or the mental and emotional energy to sit down and read.
While I was unable to lose myself in a novel or even a short story, my eventual way back into reading was through non-fiction, specifically works that explored issues of race and social justice.
Soon after I became vegan, I sought out vegans of color in order to deepen my understanding of the interconnectedness of various forms of oppression.
As a feminist with a Master in Gender & Women’s Studies, I recognized parallels between patriarchy and the systemic structures and binary thought-processes that enable animal oppression. As a women who has experienced discrimination and levels of violence from men, I was comfortable making certain comparisons and analogies between the oppression of women and the oppression of animals.
Yet, as a white woman who has a long way to go in interrogating and dismantling my own participation in the perpetuation of white supremacy, I was confused and deeply uncomfortable at the idea of talking about the oppression of animals and the oppression of people of color in the same conversation. Intuitively I feel that all forms of oppression stem from patriarchy and white supremacy, but I don’t have the knowledge, language or experience to speak about this hugely complex and painful issue and, frankly, I think it’s better that I simply listen rather than speak.
Needless to say, I have a lot to learn and synthesize on this topic. Some of the many books I’ll be reading and contemplating in the coming weeks are all published by Sanctuary Publishers, namely:
“Countless folks aren’t critical enough about the interconnectedness of oppression and how it impacts marginalized communities as well as other animals (i.e. sexism, racism, classism, etc., which are greatly amplified under capitalism). “Veganism in an Oppressive World” is a must read for anyone committed to doing serious work around the dismantling of speciesism and all other systems of oppression that are inherently at odds with life.”
-Kevin Tillman, Vegan Hip Hop Movement
Chilis on Wheels
I first heard about Chilis on Wheels when Million Dollar Vegan donated $100,000 to the non-profit so that they could provide food and support survivors of Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico.
Through services such as meal shares, food demos, clothing drives, and mentorship, Chilis on Wheels work in areas all around the USA to help make veganism accessible to communities in need. They provide networks of support and build strong empowered communities within the areas that they serve.
When I first started reading A Line Made By Walkingby Sara Baume, I smiled grimly. Like the novel’s protagonist, Frankie, and indeed like the author herself, I too take pictures of dead little creatures. We are never as unique or exceptional as we think we are, a fact that Frankie–an aspiring and, in her mind, failed artist–is keenly, excruciatingly grappling with in this compelling and complex second novel by Baume.
Or should I say, Sara. It feels unnatural and somewhat disingenuous to call her Baume, considering I developed a friendship of sorts with Sara after she won a short story competition that I had also entered. Though we have never met in person, she sent me some kind words about my story (and, a few years later, selected it to read in a podcast, which was a lovely surprise a couple of years ago), and since then we have struck up an intermittent correspondence, exchanging some long emails, physical letters, postcards and little gifts over the years (most marvelously a tiny clay dog made by Sara and fashioned after ‘One Eye,’ the half-blind dog in her wonderful debut Spill Simmer Falter Wither).
In spite of our friendship, and the fact that Sara is an incredible writer, it’s taken me almost two years to finally finish A Line Made By Walking. I’ve attempted it several times, but it was never, seemingly, the right time. While there is some comfort in characters whose lives, experiences, fears and anxieties are similar to our own, I found I couldn’t deal with Frankie when I was engulfed in my own periods of depression, or those moments when, in spite of my many sources of ordinary happinesses and privilege, I feel like my life is so very far from what I want it to be, professionally (for want of a better word).
If young Frankie’s life is a failure, then what is mine?
As I head into the final two years of my thirties, it is somewhat difficult to sympathize with a 26-year old, whose post-college adult life has barely begun, grieving the loss of a life that they’ve always expected for themselves, but didn’t quite get. If young Frankie’s life is a failure then what is mine? I am much older than she is, with less time for (though perhaps more openness to) recovering what I’ve lost or let slip away, and salvaging, creatively, what’s left of the life ahead of me.
Ability and desire aside, there were times when I initially started reading this book when I wondered if it was time for me, as well as Frankie, to abandon my artistic ambitions, accept the loss of the writer’s life that I thought would be mine, to not only accept that I am average but to “stop making this acceptance of my averageness into a bereavement,” and start churning the intellect I have left into simply living.
Frankie’s existential crisis, mirroring so much my own, was by turns either too painful or too irritating to be around. This is not a criticism of the novel nor of the author’s rendering of her protagonist; rather, the opposite. The character is perfectly and complexly drawn. She’s a real person who, as the poet says, contains multitudes and is a mass of contradictions. I see so much of myself in Frankie, both her best parts and her worst, from her intelligence, humor, sensitivity, attentiveness to the natural world and the ‘small’ things that most people don’t seem to notice, to her awkwardness, selfishness, ingratitude, self-righteousness and bitterness.
Granted, I think (hope) that I have identified and moved beyond so many of these less than desirable or charitable character traits. When I say I recognize myself in Frankie, I mean that I recognize my 26-year old self in Frankie’s 26-year old self. I was initially infuriated and appalled by her self-absorption, lack of appreciation or awareness of her white middle-class privilege, tossing the book back on my bedside table and abandoning it again and again. Then I realized that my disgust was a reaction to the recognition that I, too, was much like Frankie when I was that age, and still am in my worst unchecked moments.
If I was able to forgive myself for my flaws, then surely I could extend the same compassion and empathy for a fictionalized mirror of myself, too?
If I was able to forgive myself for my flaws, then surely I could extend the same compassion and empathy for a fictionalized mirror of myself, too? After two years of false starts and failed attempts, I was at last able to return to and finish the novel uninterrupted and (mostly) uncritically of Frankie, and I’m very glad I did.
As I’ve said, there are several reasons why it was never quite a good time to read or finish reading A Line Made By Walking. When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. So, too, the reader and the novel.
Too, the same book can mean different things to the same reader at different times. If I had read it immediately and completely upon its release two years ago, I doubt I would have ever picked it up again. (Not because it’s undeserving of a re-read, only because I’m a slow reader and it’s amazing I finish any novel lately, let alone find the time to read it twice; though, in fact, I did return to many of its pages again and again.)
As E.L. Doctorow said, “any book that you pick up as a reader is a printed circuit for your own life to flow through,” and it just so happened that I came back to the book at a time when I, like Frankie, had a heightened awareness of animals and their place and presence in my life. Had I read it two years or even a year before, I doubt I would have paid a slight bit of notice to what is now, to me, the most striking and moving aspect of the work.
After this perhaps overly long ‘preamble,’ what follows below is not so much a book review but a perhaps overly long account of what I discovered in the novel when I finally stopped seeing myself in Frankie and, instead, started looking at, and paying attention to, what Frankie was seeing in the world around her.
Pay Attention To The Nothings And Appreciate Them
Most readings have, understandably, focused on the various forms of human suffering explored in the novel. Following a nervous breakdown, 26-year old Frankie packs her things and leaves Dublin, moving initially into her childhood home with her parents, and then into her deceased grandmother’s cottage where she grapples with that bereavement as well as the loss of her own artistic life and sense of self.
As other reviewers have discussed in detail, this is also a novel about Art: what it is for, why it is made, how to interpret it, its value and importance. Structurally, the novel is punctuated by Frankie “testing” herself on works of art (more than 75 all told, usually from conceptual artists) that reflect upon, and deepen our understanding of, her emotional and psychological state of mind.
“Works about Flight, I test myself,” “Works about Zoos, I test myself,” “Works about Lower, Slower Views, I test myself,” she says, considering works by Yves Klein, Peter Friedl, and Richard Long, whose 1967 documented action, ‘A Line Made By Walking,’ inspired the title for the novel. “He specializes in barely-there-art,” muses Frankie about Long. “Pieces which take up as little space in the world as possible. And which do as little damage.”
Art and grief and mental illness. These are the most salient aspects of the novel, in that they are the most noticeable or most notable to most readers. However, as far as I could find, nobody has engaged with what is, for me, the most striking and meaningful aspect of the novel. For all its layers of grief, death and existential anguish, almost every page of A Line Made By Walking is absolutely teeming with life: specifically, animal life.
For all its layers of grief, death and existential anguish, almost every page of A Line Made By Walking is absolutely teeming with life: specifically, animal life.
Contrasting Baume’s second novel with her debut, which tells the tale of a lonely man’s relationship with his one-eyed dog, a review in The Guardian says: “Now she’s written about a loner again, this time giving her heroine a richer, more peopled interior life.”
It’s true: compared to her first novel, there are more humans in this second book–her parents, her doctor, her friends up in Dublin–but even when she’s feeling lost and lonely, pottering around her grandmother’s home in isolation from other human beings, Frankie is never quite alone. “All on my own,” she says. “Except for the creatures.”
“All on my own. Except for the creatures.”
Most overtly, each of the novel’s ten chapters is named for a different animal that Frankie encounters: Robin, Rabbit, Rat, Mouse, Rook, Fox, Frog, Hare, Hedgehog, Badger. These animals are a focal point, revealing something about the character either to herself or, more often, to the reader.
Starting with a dead robin (“It would speak to me in its language and I would speak back in mine”), she begins to make a photographic record of other dead animals (“They are being killed with me; they are being killed for me”) in an attempt to revive the decaying artist within her, but whose images nonetheless reflect her own sense of disintegration–a disintegration she largely attributes to a scene in a Wernor Herzog documentary in which a penguin breaks away from the group and walks away, towards certain death, in the opposite direction.
“Was it from the deranged penguin that the huge and crushing sadness came? His pointed tail dragging the snow. His useless wings thrashing. Falling on his front. Pushing himself on again. Waddling, stumbling, waddling.”
Yet these animals are just a handful of those that appear in the novel. Frankie may be devoid of human company, but she is surrounded by living, breathing beings who, along with herself, are struggling with the precarity of life and ever-present death.
Animals, birds, and other little creatures appear on almost every page, nestled into the folds of the novel, like the spindly spiders nestled into the folds of her curtains, making scuffling sounds in the dead of night.
From tiny cows in distant fields to normal-sized cows up close, memories of pets of yore (gerbils, goldfish, cats semi-wild and always fluffy), to city pigeons, and swans huddled next to a wide pond, their necks folded down like deckchairs. From childhood nightmares of gnawing red-eyed rodents, to a blur of racecourses and llama farms on a bus journey home. From a garden filled with quarreling butterflies to a merlin soaring overhead chasing a sparrow, A Line Made By Walking is laden with the lives of all creatures great and small.
A Line Made By Walking is laden with the lives of all creatures great and small.
As well as actual living animals, a notable number of objects that furnish her home and surroundings are also animals: the ceramic dolphin in her grandmother’s house, her mother’s eco-friendly ladybird-printed cotton tote, or a pretty porcelain plate hand painted with a scene of geese and a maiden carrying a wicker basket (a maiden, Frankie’s sister suspects is probably force-feeding them as they’re a foie gras flock).
Objects that don’t depict animals have nonetheless been touched by animals–the greasy, ineradicable black stain where her grandmother’s dog used to scratch his back, the reek of him that still permeates the cottage though he is gone now too, having followed the old woman, grief-stricken, to the grave.
Even those objects and physical materials that don’t directly depict an animal are given animal qualities or compared to an animal, like the carpet in her grungy bedsit that Frankie digs her fingers into it as if it was “a short-coated pet.” In her grandmother’s garden, along with a ceramic hippo and two bird tables is “a bench in the shape of a weird animal, buckled planks held in place by wrought-iron legs which taper into wrought-iron paws–too large for a cat and too small for a lion–and so my grandmother’s bench must be a lynx.”
“The white strata are bunching into clouds. The bunches are competing with each other to imitate animals. A sheep, a platypus, a sheep, a tortoise. A sheep, a sheep, a sheep. The leaves are breaking out, obscuring the white strata, the sky animals, the irregular spaces of cerulean between everything.”
Later in the novel, the same sky–after a storm has passed and the clouds have cleared–is “a blanket lifted from a birdcage,” and we, the metaphor implies, are as caged as anyone on this earth.
What are we to make of this?
On the one hand, there are simply too many animal-related mentions, appearances and asides for this to mean nothing, but what it does mean, or might mean, is open to interpretation. I have no idea if the proliferation of animal life was intentional and intended to communicate something specific, or an element that emerged unconsciously outside the author’s awareness in the moment.
What I do know is that if I’d read it a couple of years ago, I probably would not have noticed this now very obvious aspect of the novel. The fact that the reviews I’ve read don’t mention what can only be described as a saturation of direct references or indirect allusions to animals is both completely astounding and perfectly unsurprising.
Mirroring our general disregard for animals and the supremacy and prioritization of human life in the ‘real world,’ the typical reader (including my former self) will prioritize the human aspects of the novel–mental illness, knowing what you want to be when you grow up, the complexity of familial relationships–and gloss over or completely fail to see the saturation of animal references on almost every page of the book.
Teaching her how to meditate, her Buddhist aunt Beth tells Frankie it’s important to “pay attention to the nothings and appreciate them.” In the days following their meeting, Frankie starts to notice things she never has before–the sensation of her clothes against her skin, the tiny trembles of her body, a lifetime of accumulated litter and plastic at the bottom of a hill. Frankie may think she has just begun noticing the small things, but she has been doing this all along, paying attention to and appreciating the nothings of this world.
Animals are our under-appreciated, disregarded nothings.
For animals are our under-appreciated, disregarded nothings.
In a brief aside about dust mites, invisible to the human eye, Frankie says, “They are everywhere, yet they are nothing,” but the same could be said about almost any animal or living creature in this world. And because humanity in general thinks nothing much of slugs and bugs and frogs and birds, we might not even be aware, as we are reading, that our attention is being drawn to the nothings, or that we are being invited to–or at the very least being presented with an opportunity to–pay attention and appreciate them in our own lives and houses and gardens and skies and parks and beaches, too.
Ursula K Le Guin said:
“Skill in living, awareness of belonging to the world, delight in being part of the world, always tends to involve knowing our kinship as animals with animals. Darwin first gave that knowledge a scientific basis. And now, both poets and scientists are extending the rational aspect of our sense of relationship to creatures without nervous systems and to non-living beings — our fellowship as creatures with other creatures, things with other things.
Though most reviews remark upon Frankie’s artistic photograph-series of dead animals, I found the descriptions and observations about living creatures far more interesting than the dead ones (animals are so much better–and much better off–when they’re alive, I think). Often, her photographing of dead animals feels cursory or rushed (spot a dead hedgehog on the side of a ditch, hop off her bicycle, snap, click, back on the bike) in contrast to her everyday noticings and interactions with the living.
Frankie might seem to be obsessed with death, and it is death which is the focus of her art, but in ‘real life,’ the ordinary, day-to-day life that she distinguishes from Art, her attention unwittingly falls upon life, from blades of grass to a lone goose honking overhead. A Line Made By Walking is full of fascination, reverence and wonder for animal life and the natural world. However, this isn’t to say that the novel is free of the assumptions and ideologies that are actively harming animals in the real world.
Works About Killing Animals, I Test Myself
Those of you who have read this far might be confused by or disagree with my statement that animals are our under-appreciated, disregarded nothings, and in some ways you’re right.
Most everyone has a degree of reverence for nature–the sparrows and butterflies of the air, the deer and owls of the woodlands. And, like me, most readers will likely shed a tear or two for Joe, Frankie’s grandmother’s arthritic golden retriever who, after her death, lies on the floor in the exact spot he’d last seen her and slowly withers away with grief.
But what about the other animals? What reverence, what respect, what wonder for the birds and animals on our plates? While the proliferation of animals in the novel passes without remark in most reviews, even more hidden and unnoticed is the accepted ideology that there are different rules for different animals that must not be muddled.
Thinking about how her mother buys daffodils from the supermarket while refusing to pick the daffodils that overflow in their garden, Frankie says:
“According to ritual, there are outdoor flowers and indoor flowers in the same way as there are wild animals and pet animals, free fish and farmed fish, garden vegetables and shop vegetables; they must not be muddled. I stare out at the daffodil farm. I think how strange it is to imagine the indoor flowers un-bunched and outside, almost as strange as it is to picture all the mammoths daintily plucking them.”
In line with our carnist belief system that conditions people to eat certain animals, the novel reinforces the idea that some animals are to be loved and cared for, while others of equal intelligence, sentience and feeling are to be slaughtered and suffer for our tastebuds.
Similarly, of all the pets she and her sister were allowed to have as children, their mother never allowed them to keep a bird, reasoning that a caged gerbil can still run and jump and dig, but a caged bird can’t still fly. In this highly invisible and violent belief system, some animals deserve their freedom, while it’s perfectly natural, perfectly normal, to encage and enslave others. Some animals are worthy of our attention and others are not.
“Every time I think I see a better sort of bird to sight–a kestrel, a buzzard, a glossy ibis–it turns out to be just another jackdaw, or magpie, or rook. So why wasn’t I taught, in Junior Infants, that crows have crow babies in springtime too, just like the small and beautiful and stupid birds.”
For a novel that is in some ways an homage to animals, A Line Made By Walking illustrates the behavioral hypocrisies and inconsistencies of those of us who think of ourselves as animal lovers. According to our completely arbitrary rules and rituals, animals must not be muddled.
In “Works about Killing Animals,” Frankie describes a performance by Hermann Nitsch, which involves animal sacrifice, the drinking of blood and the eating of entrails. Organized in the style of pagan ritual, the point of the performance (according to Frankie) is how mankind has forgotten its inborn proclivity to violence and slaughter. Instead, she says, drolly, critically, “we are all too busy washing our hair, our car. Plucking our guitar strings, our eyebrows.”
On the one hand, Frankie is correctly highlighting mankind’s mindless disconnect. But on the other hand, she equally mindlessly joins her family in an Easter dinner celebration that is centered around violence and slaughter.
“Blown, painted, fractured eggs. A sponge cake with primroses glued into the icing. Chickens made out of pipe-cleaners and a real one in the oven. Headless, footless, oozing ambrosial juices as it roasts.”
Frankie calls out the dumb masses for plucking on their guitar strings and plucking their eyebrows, but apparently sees no issue in savoring the flesh of actual victims of violence, nor does she make mention of who plucked the feathers from the chicken’s slaughtered body that’s roasting in the oven for Easter dinner or any old weeknight.
Like those of us who have forgotten mankind’s proclivity for violence and slaughter, Frankie (like all of us) is equally removed from the reality that the leg and breast on her dinner plate belonged to a chicken that was as alive and real and feeling as Joe, or the wise robin she thinks of as her guardian angel. That brutal, barbaric reality belongs to someone else: to those invisibilized humans who pluck the chicken’s feathers and soften the pig’s skin in scalding water before gassing them in an oven and slitting their throat; to those people who perform our violence for us, so that we don’t have to see, and that enable us to forget; to those people who are often animalized in order to dehumanize and strip them of value, too.
The “mammoths” she refers to in the passage above are the “heavyset, hazelnut-skinned” Brazilian farmworkers who arrived during Ireland’s economic boom times to work in the meat factories. “But now there are too many Brazilians and not enough beef, or at least, not enough demand for it,” so it is the daffodil farmer to whom these “mammoth,” silent men must “prostitute” themselves, according to Frankie.
Thinking of the daffodils, she tests herself on “Works about Flowers,” selecting Anya Gallaccio’s preserve ‘beauty,’which displays two thousand red blooms pressed between glass. The artist chose the gerber-daisy hybrid because they are bio-technologically mass-produced to meet the demands of the global market. “So many people covet their cut stems,” says Frankie, “the Earth can’t keep up.”
The same can be said of the chickens and pigs and cows and sheep, whose flesh we eat and milk we drink. Animal agriculture is a leading cause of climate change, deforestation, water scarcity and pollution, loss of biodiversity and habitat for wild animals, birds, pollinators and other lifeforms essential not only to our survival, but whose lives and existence have meaning regardless of their necessity or not to humankind. And yet. So many people covet their cut throats, the Earth can’t keep up.
So many people covet their cut throats, the Earth can’t keep up.
Later in the book Frankie tests herself on “Works about Goldfish,” describing Maro Evaristti’s installation, Helena, in which ten food blenders, each containing a measure of water and a single goldfish, presented audience members with an “opportunity to press the button and mince the goldfish, or not.”
Frankie notes that the director of the gallery was sued on the grounds of animal cruelty and, in a retrospective more than a decade later, Evarissti used already-dead goldfish preserved in clear jelly: “Goldfish killed in a private place, by some other means,” notes Frankie.
A court ruled that liquidizing goldfish is not a crime, in the same way that male chicks, having no commercial value, are routinely–and legally–ground up in an industrial blender called a macerator. Day-old baby chicks, killed in an unseen, private place that most of us don’t know about, at least I didn’t until a couple of year’s ago.
There were so many things I didn’t know or care to question until only very recently. Like I said way back at the beginning, I finally finished this novel during a time when I was thinking about animals and their place and presence in my life or–to be more accurate–their place and presence on my plate and in my body. It turns out that most everything I was ever told or ever willingly, happily believed about the food on my plate was simply not true.
“Did it do me any good, early in life, to believe so many things which were not true? Or did it damage me? Pouring a foundation of disappointment, of uncertainty.” Here, Frankie is talking about Santa, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and the idea that she would or could be an artist, but when I read this line I was thinking about all the other things I’ve discovered are not true: from the myth of ‘humane’ meat to the myth of slaughter-free dairy.
And the answer is, yes: it damaged me. But more than that, it damaged and hurt the animals who pay the price of the little white lies we’ve all been taught to tell ourselves.
Legal or not, the fact remains that every day we pay someone else to do what we could never do ourselves. Most of us could no more press the button on a blender with a goldfish inside it than we could toss a baby chick into a grinder or slit the throat of a cow. And yet we are complicit in violence, misery and cruelty every time we pay for a ‘product’ that once was the body of a living, breathing animal. Is it really all that different from pushing the button or raising the knife ourselves?
Frankie is viscerally aware of the thin line that separates us from those who hold the knife or the captive bolt. Driving down a country road she unthinkingly accelerates when she comes upon a “dozy pigeon.” She cautiously hopes that the bird’s death was no more than a tragic miscalculation, but she isn’t so sure:
“I’d like to believe, as everyone does, that I am innately good; innately wired to do good. But maybe I innately wanted to see the pigeon burst against my windscreen, a miniature piñata.”
Afterwards, she refuses to clean her car and leaves the blood and shit where it is as a reminder of her instinctive brutality, as a caution.
Shortly afterwards she creates some ground rules for her art project. She’s not allowed to photograph creatures she has killed herself, and she cannot photograph pets, only wild animals, so that the project “can be about the immense poignancy of how, in the course of ordinary life, we only get to look closely at the sublime once it has dropped to the ditch, once the maggots have already arrived at work.”
I think of this sentence often, at this particular, precarious moment in time when so many creatures–including ourselves–are threatened with extinction or great harm. How we can only see the magnificence and glory of life once it has been lost.
The robin that Frankie photographs at the beginning of the novel isn’t the first that has happened across her path–it’s simply the first she has thought to take a picture of. It wasn’t the first, and it won’t be the last, and whether we note their passing or not makes their lives and their deaths no less real to them.
“The tree which falls without any human hearing still falls, as the creatures who die without being found by a human still die.”
The implication here, I think, is that if one of these lives is important and worth recording or marking in some way, then all of them are, though the novel itself doesn’t quite live up to this sentiment.
All animals’ lives have inherent value. All of them suffer. All of them feel pain and fear. And all of them have a will to live.
Frankie’s mother is wrong when she says that different animals shouldn’t be muddled. It’s our manmade rules about whose life has value and whose doesn’t that is muddled, and I think that Frankie knows this or is on her way to knowing this, as I think that we all know this or are on our way to knowing this.
About the Book
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; First American Edition, 2017.
Have you ever fallen in love and, if so, would you be able to tell me exactly, if I were to inquire, how it had happened?
It’s been more than a year and I still don’t know–I couldn’t tell you–how I became a vegan.
I still don’t know so many things.
I like to believe that I am an autonomous protagonist in my life, that I make conscious and purposeful decisions, and act with at least a degree of intentionality at all times. But there are certain experiences, events and transformations that feel less like decisions or conscious choices and more like something that happened to me, almost against my will or awareness in the moment.
It seems as though the most momentous, meaningful, life-altering experiences are something that happen to us, rather than something we intentionally, preemptively or methodically set about to make happen.
The most momentous, meaningful, life-altering experiences are something that happen to us, rather than something we intentionally or methodically set about to make happen.
I fell in love with the man who would become my husband instantly and overwhelmingly, but it was in no way a conscious, deliberate or particularly informed decision. (I wonder, even, if there’s a correlation between falling in love and an absence of what will inevitably become the most critical and meaningful information about a person in your actual, lived, life together.)
I know why I love him and can list every wonderful thing about him, but I couldn’t tell you how it happened. Though studies show that a heady combination of chemical reactions between pair-bonding endorphins, and socially bureaucratic rules and conventions, were largely at play when I first met Ian, I didn’t experience it that way from moment to moment. Though somebody, somewhere, can no doubt provide a logical and fact-based account of what happened, I personally can offer no such explanation. To me, it just
I don’t know how.
Similarly, I didn’t choose to be a writer, but rather feel as though writing is something that chose me. Though I have regrettably spent the vast majority of my life not writing–and have even actively tried to disentangle my sense of self as being a writer because it hurts so much to realize that you’re not actually being the person you claim to be–I cannot remember a time when I have not identified and moved through the world with the deep sense that I simply am a writer.
Becoming a writer was not an active (or, again, a particularly informed) decision. Rather, it’s something that must have come into being and taken root within me–passively, invisibly–at some point in my childhood or early teenage years. I wonder, sometimes, if I was simply born this way, as though being a writer is less a professional decision and more akin to sexual or gender identity that just is.
Though being a writer (or indeed being married or being a vegan) is something that I must choose and choose and choose again on an ongoing basis, I don’t remember there being an original moment of first choosing it all those years ago. It just
I don’t know how.
I still don’t know so many things.
I don’t even know if it has, in fact, been more than a year since I became a vegan.
All love stories are tales of beginnings.
“All love stories are tales of beginnings,” says the poet and essayist, Meghan O’Rourke. “When we talk about falling in love, we go to the beginning, to pinpoint the moment of freefall.”
Nobody ever asks, “how did you fall in love?” It’s too large and endless a question. Instead, we ask, “how did you guys meet?” By which we mean, when? By which we mean, where? By which we mean: Tell me a story. Transform amorphous, ineffable experience into a narrative that begins Once upon a time….
When it comes to becoming vegan, however, I don’t know when or where to count back to.
Or forward from….
It occurs to me, just now, that I was born a vegan, nursing only on my mother’s milk, which she longed and consented to give to me. I never thought of it that way before just now.
And now a part of a poem, unbidden, comes to mind–‘Trances Of The Blast,’ by Mary Ruefle:
At one time Now it is another time How near we were to having thoughts
That’s sort of what it’s like. Becoming a vegan. Becoming a completely different person.
At one time Now it is another time
Except it’s not as distinct and definitive as that. At least it wasn’t for me. Some people hear the truth, open their eyes, and become vegan overnight, but for me it wasn’t like that.
Like falling in love, I became vegan the way a character in a Hemingway novel became bankrupt: “gradually and then suddenly.” Incrementally. Imperceptibly. Slowly at first, then all at once.
At one time Now it is another time At one time Now it is another time
At one time
Now it is another time
At one time
Now it is another time
With long pauses
and blank spaces
where I was so near
How near we are today.
That’s the next line in the poem:
How near we were to having thoughts How near we are today
But was I really born a vegan?
A baby’s palate and food memories are shaped before birth. Before we can speak, before we can think, before we are ever pushed blinking and screaming into the system, we are floating in it. In the womb, we are buoyed by and gulp down amniotic fluid, flavored by the food and drinks consumed by our mother, be it broccoli, vanilla, tangerines, or chocolate.
Before we can speak, before we can think, before we are ever pushed blinking and screaming into the system, we are floating in it.
Now (another time) she can’t stand the smell of the stuff but, when she was pregnant with me (at one time), my mother craved Bovril, a thick and salty meat extract paste that can be added to soups and stews, spread on toast, or diluted with hot water, which is what my mother did, apparently drinking buckets of the coffee/tea alternative that then passed through to me without my awareness or comprehension.
So it began. And so it continued in one insidious way after another, spoonfed the system without my awareness or comprehension. I wasn’t born a vegan, romantic and utopian as the idea may briefly have been. Though quite innocent and without a conscious shred of malice or cruelty, I was nonetheless created and came into being within a system of violence that was as soothing and safe-seeming as the warm waters I floated in, as natural and delicious as my mother’s milk, as invisible and reflexive as those first deep gulps of oxygen.
Believe me, I don’t particularly want to, but these are the kinds of things I think about now, as I struggle to figure out the system behind and beneath it all. Because the real question–the thing that keeps me up at night, every night–isn’t how I personally, individually became a vegan, but how and why all us of are born and bred into a system of suffering, normalized violence and inexcusable exploitation of living, breathing beings.
Living, breathing beings who–just like me–are created and born into this world as tiny babies to the very same system of violence. When my mother weaned me from her own breast, and for decades later, I drank the milk of a mother whose baby had been taken from her and either slaughtered at just a few weeks old, if male, or plugged back into the same relentless cycle of breeding, birthing, and stealing that is the dairy industry, if female. It keeps me awake at night. It keeps me awake.
But it’s not the night right now. I’ll save those thoughts and questions for another time and, while it’s still light out and the sun is singing through western windows, I’ll think instead about falling in love.
Though science confirms that falling in love is a largely chemical affair, and definitely not something as silly and unsubstantiated as destiny, romantic love often has a sense of destiny about it (unlike our relationships with family and friends–though I do have one or two friendships that feel nothing less than fated, no matter what scientists might say).
On the one hand, we experience falling in love as spontaneous and surprising–we’re often caught off guard and feel out of control when we realize we’re falling so hard for this person–yet, at the same time, there’s a sense of calm inevitability about it, as though this was meant to happen, or that everything that has come before now–both the good and the bad, all of it–has been leading us to this point and person in time.
We experience falling in love as spontaneous and surprising, but at the same time there’s a sense of calm inevitability about it.
Like falling in love, becoming vegan has the same sense of inevitability. It might not be true to say that I was born a vegan, and in fact I tremble knowing that it was statistically more likely that I would not open my mind and heart to reality, I do believe that I was born with the same compassion and kindness that I have finally, thankfully, learned to extend to every animal that I share this horrible, wonderful planet with.
And though I don’t believe in destiny as such, I still have this sense that I’ve become the person that I was always supposed to be before I wandered–if not against my will but certainly against my awareness–and became separated from my true, compassionate and justice-minded self that has always burned so strong inside me.
When I think about the harm and suffering I’ve played a part in in my almost four decades on this planet, I wish I’d gotten here so much sooner, but I try not to dwell on who I’ve been and instead feel thankful for who I’m becoming and, frankly, amazed and relieved that I’ve somehow learned something on this earth that I was meant to learn or put here to learn. Destined or not, everything that has come before now has lead me–slowly, then all at once–to this point and person in time, and for that I am so eternally grateful and filled with nothing less than pure love.
One of my favorite blogs is The [Blank] Garden, a reading journal slash book review website. Almost every review (or what its creator, Juliana Brina, wonderfully describes as “efforts of affection”) is written as a letter to the author of the novel or story in question, which I adore and, as a longtime letter-writer, I wish I’d thought of myself.
My reading life is a conversation made in silence with writers I most probably will never meet. I see the books I read (and the posts I write about them) as a letter exchange. You are invited to open these letters I send to the void. Cor ad cor loquitur.
I highly recommend checking her out, and an excellent place to begin would be her wonderful post on the subject of whether or not the indie book blog is dead: And it seemed right, I mean rite, to me. (Spoiler alert: it is not.)
Recently, Juliana launched a series of posts–Know Thy Shelf–documenting her eclectic and enviable bookshelves. She also invited others to join her in posting a picture of their bookshelf, or part of their bookshelf, and answering (and, in one case, asking) the following questions:
(1) Book from this shelf you would save in an emergency.
(2) Book that has been in this shelf for the longest time.
(3) Newest edition to this shelf.
(4) Book from this shelf you are most excited to read or re-read.
(5) Any poetry books?
(6) Any non-fiction books?
(7) Most read author in this shelf?
(8) What does this shelf tell you about me as a reader?
We were two years in our new home before we finally got around to building some bookshelves and getting at least some of our collection out of cardboard boxes. A domino like line of books still snakes around the perimeter of our bedroom floor, and there are days when it seems as though the beige carpet is growing up around them like sun bleached blades of grass.
I love the combination of salvaged wood and industrial piping that Ian used to build these shelves into a small alcove between the kitchen and the living room. We’re still two shelves shy of making this the full-length bookshelf of my imagination (we’re good at starting projects in this house, but not so great at the finishing touches), and we’ll need at least two more book cases of the same size to house all the books that we own between us.
I love bookshelves as much for their aesthetic quality as I do for the actual books themselves, and in this rickety and drafty house of ours they have the added benefit of providing a smidgen more insulation in the winter time. I’m a compulsive book buyer so it’s unlikely that I’ll ever get around to reading every book I bring into this house, but simply being surrounded by them is pleasure enough for me most days. In the dreariest days of Oregon’s winter, they are the most colorful and promising things to be seen for miles around. And, if nothing else, they make wonderful look-out posts for the cats!
For my first ‘Know Thy Shelf’ post, here’s a close-up of one of the shelves.
(For those of you who can’t bear the secrecy, the books that are hidden by the candlestick are Truth & Beauty by Ann Patchett, which I have not yet read, and Final del Juego by Julio Cortázar, which I would like to read but my Spanish is nowhere near as good as my husband’s so I will need to get my hands on an English translation.)
And here are my answers to the questions posed by The [Blank] Garden:
(1) Book from this shelf you would save in an emergency:
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.
(2) Book that has been in this shelf for the longest time:
(4) Book from this shelf you are most excited to read or re-read:
To read: Notable American Women by Ben Marcus. To re-read: Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison.
(5) Any poetry books?
Apart from Leaves of Grass which I already mentioned, American Primitive by Mary Oliver, and the selection of Aristotle’s most important works contains his book on The Art of Poetry among other delights.
(6) Any non-fiction books?
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.
(7) Most read author in this shelf?
And, lastly, a question for you, should you have the inclination to answer:
(8) What does this shelf tell you about me as a reader?
I love snooping around other people’s bookshelves; it’s one of the first things I do when I walk into someone’s home. I’m not sure what this slice of my bookshelf tells you about me as a reader, but taking a fresh look at something I see every day is telling me that I need to shut down my laptop for the afternoon and open up a book instead.
A few years ago I started writing my regular ‘Ragtag & Sundry’ posts on a Sunday afternoon–an enthusiastic summary, essentially, of the most interesting, weird and worthwhile ways I procrastinated on the world wide web that week.
As I’ve mentioned a couple of times this month, I’m procrastinating on writing a particular blog post that I want to write. Increasingly, it’s becoming clear that this one post could probably be five to ten interrelated posts, and I’ve been figuring out how to say what I want to say without being either overly longwinded or neglecting to do the topic (or indeed myself, as a writer) justice.
So, as yet another week goes by when I haven’t finished writing the post that prompted me to start up my old blog again, I figured I’d fall back on the old faithful Ragtag & Sundry posts and share a couple of things I found interesting or worthwhile of late.
A passionate procrastinator, one of my favorite ways to procrastinate is to read about procrastination–what it is, why we do it, and how to prevent or overcome it.
Always late to the party, I recently ‘discovered’ the delightful Wait But Why website, and I love their clever yet entertaining take on the underlying psychology of procrastination (aka the action of ruining your life for no apparent reason), and how to beat it by changing the story you tell yourself about it.
Storylines are rewritten one page at a time, says the author. Aim for slow, steady progress, adding:
“[The] key isn’t to be perfect, but to simply improve. The author who writes one page a day has written a book after a year. The procrastinator who gets slightly better every week is a totally changed person a year later.”
Perfectionism is definitely at the heart of my procrastination, particularly when it comes to writing about things I deeply care about. Like I say, I want to do justice to the topic of the post I’m writing, and I feel an anxious need to get it just right. I’m nervous that some of the things I say might alienate people; or I find myself searching for small flaws or inconsistencies in my argument, as though a single mistake or inaccuracy in my post will wind up doing more harm than good.
Afraid of being misunderstood or caught out somehow, my post (as it’s currently written) is chock a block with qualifying remarks and ‘in order to understand this, you should probably know this‘ or ‘when I say this I don’t mean to imply that‘ kinds of sentences. In short, the post is riddled with outsized anxieties and apprehensions, and I need to edit it from a more peaceful place of self-assurance and courage.
This piece in the New York Times–Why You Procrastinate (It Has Nothing To Do With Self-Control–resonated with me a lot, therefore. Writing against the pervasive idea that procrastination is laziness or a simple time-management issue, the article instead presents procrastination as a complex and irrational form of self-harm that is governed by our inability to manage negative emotions around a task.
“Procrastination isn’t a unique character flaw or a mysterious curse on your ability to manage time, but a way of coping with challenging emotions and negative moods induced by certain tasks — boredom, anxiety, insecurity, frustration, resentment, self-doubt and beyond.”
In short: procrastination is not a time management problem, it is an emotion regulation problem–a concept that felt intuitively true as soon as I read it, as well as more deeply and holistically beneficial than the usual theories and strategies I come across.
One strategy cited in the NY Times piece is to forgive yourself in the moments that you procrastinate. In a 2010 study, researchers found that self-forgiveness for procrastination can reduce further instances of procrastination, and that self-forgiveness supported productivity by allowing individuals to move past their maladaptive behavior and focus on a task or upcoming event “without the burden of past acts.”
Another tactic is the related practice of self-compassion, which the authors describe as treating ourselves with kindness and understanding in instances of pain or failure rather than being harshly self-critical. Practicing self-compassion connects us to our common humanity, allowing us to perceive our experiences as part of the larger human experience rather than seeing them as separating and isolating. Self-compassion entails being mindful–“holding painful thoughts and feelings in balanced awareness rather than over-identifying with them.”
The (not necessarily) simple act of identifying and naming my aforementioned anxieties and apprehensions around my post is already hugely helpful and has given me a more balanced perspective about the whole thing. Not only am I putting far too much pressure on myself to write the “perfect post,” I’m also creating unrealistic expectations about the effect the post will have on people.
It’s one thing talking about something with a close friend or family member who knows, loves, and understands you; it’s another thing to share your heart and inner world with people you’ve never met
I care so much about the issue I’m writing about, I have to remind myself that the majority of people don’t see things the same way, and I’m already preparing myself for the likelihood that people will either not care or be outright dismissive or aggressively defensive about it. It’s one thing talking about something with a close friend or family member who knows, loves, and understands you; it’s another thing to share your heart and inner world with people you’ve never met, especially in a world where we behave and respond to each other online in ways that we would never do face-to-face.
I’ve also been feeling self-conscious and somewhat foolish that I returned to blogging with a specific goal in mind but I haven’t yet articulated that goal or made my purpose clear. I’m frustrated at myself and impatient to get going with the real reason I wanted to begin my blog again. From anxiety and ambivalence to fear and foolishness, reticence and impatience, a plain old blog post can provoke a whole lotta feelings! Some self-compassion is definitely the order of the day.
Ironically, compassion is at the heart of the post I’m writing, and will form the foundation or guiding force of this blog in general, so for today at least I forgive myself for not being quite finished with the post I’m working on, and will walk into a new week with a little more kindness and understanding of, and for, myself. I may not yet have written the post I set out to write a month ago, but in the course of procrastinating around it, I made some useful connections regarding my underlying thought-processes and fears about it, so this “wasted” time has not been entirely in vain after all.
I love Orion Magazine, and one of my favorite features is The Place Where You Live project, which provides readers with space to record their ideas about “place.”
Anyone can submit an entry, which I love. You don’t need to identify as a “real” writer, and–whoever you are–I highly encourage you to give it a go if you should feel so inclined.
“What connects you to your place? What history does it hold for you? What are your hopes and fears for it?”
When I wrote for it (quite a few years ago now), I liked the challenge of being limited to 350 words or less. I tend towards long-form writing (which is why it’s taking me a little longer to publish that “bigger” post I talked about last week), so I love the challenge of working within more constrained parameters.
Occasionally, some entries are selected for inclusion in future editions of Orion’s print magazine. Needless to say, I was delighted when my little piece was chosen to appear in their September/October 2014 issue, but today when I went searching for it to include in a copywriting job application, I discovered that there’s no longer a link for it online, which makes sense after so many years.
I have a print copy, but our scanner is on the blink. Luckily, I came across a website with a PDF of that issue. I include it here for no other reason than to make sure it doesn’t disappear again!
I hadn’t thought much about this essay in years. Six months after it was published, Ian and I found a few acres of woodland with a gentle creek and a wood stove, I learned how to plant snow peas and lots of other vegetables, and his parents brought their beehives to live with us when they moved from their home on the Oregon coast to the same condo in the city that we used to live in!
I love this memory of a time when a home just like ours was nothing but wishes and shapes in a concrete ceiling. But, after four years in the Willamette Valley, it’s high time I try to capture this (not so) new place where I live. Right this moment, I can’t imagine how I’ll manage it in such few words, but that’s the great puzzle of writing. This place has changed my life in so many unimaginable ways; it’s been my greatest joy and my greatest challenge. I’m not quite the same person who moved here, but I’m still the person who lies on the floor looking for patterns and things that look like other things.
More than two years have passed since I wrote my last post. I have always been an inconsistent and ambivalent blogger, in no small part because “blogger” is an inelegant, philistine, and silly-sounding word, and I will come up with the most trivial and haughty of excuses to not write.
Other excuses are less snobbish and more tender to the touch. Like many people, I have an acute case of imposter syndrome. When the internet is teeming with people more knowledgeable, more experienced, more original, more talented, and more authoritative than me, it’s hard to rationalize time spent scratching and poking at the keyboard with my witchy pointer fingers.
What do I have to offer? What do I have to say? So and so is already doing it better. I don’t really know anything that I didn’t learn from somebody else. Why would anyone care about or take the time out of their already saturated and over-stimulated life to listen to my thoughts and perspectives?
Etcetera, etcetera. Ad nauseam. Retch.
Still. In the past few weeks, I’ve felt the need to create some rituals and regular practices for myself. Nothing too Satanic, at least not yet. It’s just, I’ve been feeling (as I recurringly do) a little lost and directionless and, though it’s not very sexy, I’ve come to see that I thrive within routine and structure, do best with a list of doable things to be done on any given day.
A return to “blogging” may be unwise, uncouth, uncharacteristic, and largely unjustifiable from a “good use of one’s time” perspective, but it’s certainly doable, and in various ways that’s the criteria I’m working with right now.
A year ago this month, the company I worked for went out of business and I was suddenly, though not surprisingly, laid off from the pays-the-bills job I’d been whining about (while increasingly thankful for) for the previous five years.
Since then, I’ve been proofreading, copywriting, and (bizarrely) ghostwriting from home and, while I wouldn’t describe it as meaningful or creatively stimulating writing, I have learned a lot about writing and feel…not so much as though I’m moving forward professionally…but that I’m not moving backward or away from where I want to be, which I have done for so many of my thirty-eight years on this planet.
One of the more difficult lessons I’m (still) learning is around discipline and time-management. The client that I’m working for is flexible and doesn’t impose super strict deadlines. In the absence of a traditional boss or manager, I fall into periods of procrastination about the best way to proceed with a chapter, or find myself nitpicking over straightforward paragraphs, the work expanding to fill the available time for its completion and all that. It’s not that I lack a work ethic. It’s more that I’m allowing work to seep into my life and take up more time than it really needs to.
In short, though I feel I’m making significant strides in other ways, in the past few weeks I’ve fallen into an all-too-familiar pattern of working, eating, sleeping, and watching the occasional movie or TV show, and I need some things to do outside of freelancing (and gardening now that spring is finally here) that feel focused and purposeful. And yet, while there are so many many higher things that I want to do, or say I want to do, for some reason I don’t or can’t or simply shan’t do them.
This is, literally, the story of my life and the next thing that I’m going to set my sights on changing. Returning to my chronically neglected novel, and looking for more fulfilling work, will be the most significant change that I make; and returning to this blog will, I hope, also be a smaller part of that change.
And yet (surprise, surprise), I’ve been procrastinating about what to post for my first post. Or, to be more accurate, while I know, vaguely, what I want to write about, I’ve been procrastinating about the best way to do it, and am somewhat questioning why I feel the need to write about what I want to write about in the first place.
Two years is a long time. I feel as though some explanation is owed: a reason for my absence, or an account of what I’ve been up to, something to bridge the gap between then and now, and create a semblance of continuity. For some reason, I feel that nothing I will write or say in the future will make any sense unless you have an idea of what’s been going on with me the past two years. Which is an insufferably narcissistic, self-indulgent sentiment, salvaged only by the fact that there’s a good chance nobody will actually ever read this or any other post.
With that in mind, perhaps it’s best to postpone the “bigger” post I’ve been procrastinating on, and pause before diving headlong into details of my life or expanding, this second, on particular thoughts and topics. For now, I guess it’s enough to say that the last four (and especially the last two) years has been a period of challenge and great change. In some ways, nothing or very little is all that different; yet in other ways, everything has changed and I am not the person that I was four or even two years ago; and yet in still other ways, I feel as though I have never been more myself or that I’m finally, actually, the person that I’ve always been, this entire time.
Weird stuff. Contradictory. Dissonant. Tough to put into words and, no doubt, when I finally do get around to sharing the particular story I have in mind, it will be very anticlimactic and unremarkable to most readers.
For me, however, the transformation (for want of a better word) has been the most important of my life and opened up my world in the most marvelous and demanding ways. For maybe the first time in my life, I feel passionate and purposeful and, in spite of my previously mentioned misgivings, that not only do I have something to say but that I have a responsibility to use and raise my voice, regardless of whether others are doing it similarly and better or, indeed, whether anybody out there is listening or not.
For maybe the first time in my life, I feel passionate and purposeful and, in spite of my previously mentioned misgivings, that not only do I have something to say but that I have a responsibility to use and raise my voice, regardless of whether others are doing it similarly and better or, indeed, whether anybody out there is listening or not.
Perhaps that’s a good place to end this “begin again” post. I promise I won’t always write so obliquely. I’m not trying to be mysterious or confusing or evasive…at least not on purpose. It’s just hard for me to know quite where to begin when it’s been so long since I’ve written anything here, and when I’m conscious that I’m largely communicating with myself right now! In my next post, I’ll try to speak more plainly. But for now, after weeks and weeks of procrastinating about this post, I’m going to stop over-thinking it and simply press Publish.
On Sunday afternoon, I joined a hundred or so women in Alberta Abbey in Northeast Portland. What began as an invitation to a small gathering in a friend’s living-room had expanded, within a week, into this bigger, sprawling, holy-seeming space with a stage and a ballroom, a balcony and curtained side-rooms, where we broke out into smaller groups to talk and listen and think and feel and share and organize.
A common cause connected us but, within that cause, our various and differing concerns and motivations nested like so many matryoshka dolls within the single, steeple-roofed space and, indeed, within our very selves. I helped at the check-in table and explained that, for logistical reasons, and to facilitate focused and meaningful conversation, everyone would have to select a single topic to participate in that day: Education, Gun Control, Immigration, LGBTQ rights, Healthcare and Reproductive Rights, and Energy and the Environment.
Their faces said it all as their pens hovered over the sign-up sheets. How to choose? Where to begin? How to prioritize when there is so much at stake and everything, everything, is so vital and urgent and cannot, cannot, wait?
Those who know me know that, these past couple of years, I have been grappling with Time: the ways in which I squander it and how, knowing those ways, will I live my days from here? Few would argue that ‘activism’ is a poor use of one’s time but, accepting that we cannot do everything there is to do, how do we decide what our activism will be and look like, how do we choose what to do, where do we place our time and energy, to which people, and in which place?
In which place?
I am not from here.
I am a Permanent Resident of the United States, though the cynic or Buddhist in me smiles whenever I hear the word ‘permanent’ or ‘united’. I sometimes think of myself as an Alien, feeling, as I often do, as though I am living on a strange planet, trying in vain and in pain and in anger and frustration to understand.
I was born and raised in Dublin. I am Irish. European. I am white. A few weeks ago, an older white woman engaged me on the bus. She was planning on voting for Trump and spoke at length about “those immigrants” and “those people”. I didn’t say much. I live in a progressive, tolerant, loving, echo chamber and was, frankly, fascinated to be talking to one of “those people,” but eventually I must have said something because she noticed my accent and asked me where I’m from. “I’m Irish,” I said. “Ohhhhh!” she said, her face lighting up the way people often do here when they hear that. “Yes,” I said, “I’m an immigrant.”
The woman’s smile faded and her eyes flickered in recognition at the trap I’d laid for her, a trap she stammered and stuttered her way out of, or tried to. A Latino man to our left smiled. It was a sweetish moment, in the moment, but I wonder now what he was smiling at. The old white woman and her racism and inconsistent thinking. Or the younger white woman and her cleverness and privilege. Both he and I know that I am not and never will be an ‘Immigrant’, and all that word implies.
In the days following the election results, unlike so many citizens, so many Americans, this pale alien could walk freely down the street and nobody was telling me to go home or that my time here was up. Unlike so many Americans, I was not harassed or intimidated or violently assaulted. Nobody looks at my face, my skin, my body and wants to end it, wills or wishes me out of existence. I get to make wry comments about permanence and the phrasing of my status but my status remains unquestioned and intact. I can play at being E.T., pointing my finger and saying, “America. Beeeee goooooood,” and pretend that I’m outside it all when, in fact, I am terribly within it and blend in all too well.
I get to say who and what I am. I have at least a dozen identities at my disposal. We all contain multitudes, but I get to live them and can be this thing before breakfast and this other thing after lunch and who will I be tomorrow and what will I do and where will I go?
I thought about it. I hunted out my Irish passport, put it in a safe spot.
It is an option, and it comforts me to know I have a place to run away to but then I think of Virginia Woolf and her words in the essay, Three Guineas.
“As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world.”
Woolf was writing about the connection between patriarchy, war and fascism, and a patriotism that fights and kills for rights and freedoms that she, as a women, had not shared and probably would never share. But when I read it now in this globalized, highly interconnected world, it takes on another meaning and I see that there is no place to run to: that there is a link between America and that little Syrian boy and his face in the sand on a beach in Turkey; that there is a farmer in Aberdeenshire, Scotland who is under threat of being forcibly removed from his land to make way for the Orange Man’s luxury golf resort; that rising seas and famine and drought will come for all of us; that there is no place on earth that is untouched by the same forces of hatred and injustice and denial that we face in this place.
So, no. No going home. Going home is not an option because wherever I am, I am already there. And there is work to do inside of myself and right outside my front door.
I have a new story in The Stinging Fly. It’s about woodturners, sort of.
I haven’t done too much woodworking lately, not since last Spring when I finished my blanket chest. Our place is so small, there’s only so much room for another box, bowl, or coffee table. But some things from the past few years filtered into my story.
Like the woodpile at Ian’s parents’ home on the Oregon coast; the chalky cedary smell of woodshops; time spent in slow and patient purpose; bark, burl, rings; a little bowl I turned from some sweet-smelling apple; a tin helmet I saw when wandering around Portland one day; and this fog that won’t lift and makes me wonder is the world out there at all.
The Spring issue of The Stinging Fly looks beautiful, as ever, is available to order online, and will be in (Irish) bookshops very soon.
(My dream was that I was a sardine in a bait ball and you were a hammerhead, a great one.)
(My dream was that I was the last hermit crab and you were an old marmalade jar.)
(My dream was I was wandering in a narrow gorge with so very high cliff walls. Other people were also wandering in the gorge, but we did not speak to one another. I stood on the edge of a thin and silvery stream as a large iceberg sailed quietly by then stopped, stuck. Unable to pass, the once shallow water rose and rose and rose around the iceberg, still quiet, all was quiet. We, all of us, stood there and watched (the rising water, the so very high cliff walls). I don’t know what the other people were thinking or, if like me, they were both frightened and composed, patient, accepting. We did not speak to one another.)
(I woke up to pee and couldn’t get back into this one great dream.)
(My dream was just me roaring and shouting at her. At him. At them.)
(My dream is often a vast, silent wave. Nothing can prevent it.)
(My dream was my cat had a British accent.)
(My dream was I was a girl, dancing on my daddy’s shoes, holding on to the loops where his belt should go but when I looked up it was our old friend, Dave Franklin. He looked down surprised but happy to see me, said “Hi!”)