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On Not Punching Nazis: A Meditation from Personal Experience

August 15th, 2017

If you know me, likely you’ve heard this story. I’ve told it a lot. Yes, despite occasional vows to the contrary, I am finally writing it down. This seemed like the moment. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Maybe now that I have, I can stop.

This is the story of that time I didn’t punch a Nazi in the face, and its consequences.

I joined chess club late in my freshman year of high school. The team captain was only a year older, a pale, skinny, intimidatingly brilliant, terminally aloof kid named Britt Greenbaum. Initially he refused to even play against me. Until I formally tried out for the team, I wasn’t worth his time. Even then, he took pains to make it clear he didn’t consider me a worthy opponent. He played the whole, painfully brief game with headphones on and his walkman turned up loud, barely looking at the board, making split-second moves.

In three years, I never saw him lose a game. My senior year, after he graduated and I took over as captain, kids at chess meets in neighboring towns would shake in their sneakers when they saw us coming. “Is Greenbaum still with you?”

I found out he was a white supremacist in my sophomore year, when we shared a free period. (Britt Greenbaum, Nazi. His dad was Jewish; he hated his dad.) He came up to me in the library, his sidekick, a Pakistani kid smaller than he was whose name has escaped me because I never heard him say a word except to agree with Britt, at his heels. No doubt he’d noticed I was reading one of Zelazny’s Amber novels, in which flamboyantly dressed, flamboyantly heterosexual white dudes battle for the secret order of the universe and no people of color appear anywhere. (At the time, this was invisible to me–practically all the SF and fantasy I’d read fit that description.) I had my discman; politely, I took off my headphones. He asked what I was listening to: Queen’s A Kind of Magic. “Princes of the Universe is a great song,” he said, as enthusiastically as I’d heard him say anything. Princes of the Universe: the theme from Highlander, those movies about a secret order of white dudes battling for ultimate power over the human race. (Yes, he was about to employ the music of a band called Queen fronted by a guy named Farrokh Bulsara as a springboard for his argument for a white master race.)

As the above is in this day and age perhaps no longer enough to indicate, I was an outsider, a weird kid without a lot of friends. So was he. A reasonable guess, from his perspective, that I might be wondering why women and power weren’t falling into my lap they way they did for Connor MacLeod and Corwin of Amber, harboring a grudge against the world he could exploit to mold me to his will. So he launched into the spiel: about how white men had valiantly made everything good in this world despite the tenacious resistance of everybody who wasn’t. About the white man’s burden specifically, it being our responsibility to keep everybody else on the right path. About the secret conspiracy of Jews. Thinking back, it all was incredibly, painfully obvious. At the time, I’d never heard it before, but still it took less than a minute for me to start arguing.

In even less time, he shrugged his disinterest and took off with his posse of one. He never bothered me about it again.

I don’t know how many other kids he tried this on. Not many, I suspect. Nobody I’ve asked since. My high school wasn’t exactly the ideal breeding ground for Nazism. Tiny graduating classes, rich kids of educated parents, a fair number of them Jewish, fewer Indian and Pakistani, fewer Latinx, Chinese. A handful of Black kids who took a Metco bus in from Boston every morning. Plus, we’d all already been through a Holocaust unit in seventh grade social studies. We’d read Elie Wiesel’s Night and looked at pictures of concentration camps. We’d been taught about the Third Wave, this terrifying experiment a history teacher in California performed on his students, subtly indoctrinating them in fascist principles to demonstrate how easy it was. Did kids in other places learn that stuff? I’d always thought so. What did I know, entrenched in white privilege? As a result, without many obviously vulnerable targets around for him to oppress or try to delude, it was easy not to worry about the presence of this tactically brilliant, socially isolated baby fascist in our midst. Britt wasn’t an idiot: he had to be incredibly careful what he said to who, or he’d get the shit kicked out of him.

He did, in fact, get the shit kicked out of him, in the summer before my senior year. He’d made sure everybody knew he had a double black belt in taekwondo, but he was a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, fat lot of good it was going to do against six jocks worked up into a righteous anger. When I found out about it I felt bad for him, honestly. A couple of those jocks had bullied me too, back before I figured out how to operate under their very limited radar. Which also gave me an excuse to think he wasn’t as smart as his chess record would otherwise indicate. It certainly seemed to confirm he never posed much of a threat.

I’m afraid I was wrong about that.

I know what happened to Britt Greenbaum after high school only from the internet.

He changed his name legally to Davis Hawke.

He went to a small, private Christian college in the rural South, where he joined a campus white supremacist group and climbed precipitously through the ranks, eventually breaking off and founding his own organization, until some of his fellow neo-Nazis figured out his real name and his Jewish ancestry and kicked him out. He dropped out of school.

He then became a major figure in the early days of the spam email wars. He supposedly made millions selling penile enhancement products to the sad and gullible. Apparently the FBI monitored him for awhile, afraid he was going to interfere in the 2004 elections. AOL sued him on behalf of its subscribers and won $12.8 million dollars in damages, which they never collected, because he disappeared. Last I heard, AOL was getting ready to dig up his parents’ lawn looking for gold bullion, and Britt had purportedly fled to South America, where I imagine him whiling away his days shooting coke, playing chess, trolling 4chan for the lulz, and paying people to pretend like they’re his friends.

I’m not trying to promote conspiracy theories here, I’m not interested in blaming Britt for Trump or for Charlottesville. Fuck I really hope he’s not the secret mastermind behind all of it. For years I have tried not to think much about him. Suddenly I can’t help it. I lie awake at night thinking about him. Hence this post. I’m just trying to get it out of my head, to find something to take away from it that doesn’t leave me feeling helpless and fatalistic.

Since Charlottesville, I’ve been asking myself what I would do differently if he reappeared in my life, as Davis Hawke or whoever, and tried to recruit me now. The difference between a sad, powerless white supremacist laughingstock in 1995, a rich, morally bankrupt asshole exploiter of his fellow sadsacks in 2003, and a terrifying wielder of paranoid, nationalist hate in 2017, it’s been pointed out to me, is the internet. In 1995, he was alone, except for one deluded toady. He had to change his name, hide his heritage, pick up and move hundreds of miles to find people who agreed with him, who’d listen to him. In 2017, identity doesn’t matter. Geographic limitations don’t matter. With a thousand gibbering anonymous redditors at his back, suddenly he’s a fucking internet boogeyman.

Back then, I had a chance to punch Britt Greenbaum in the face. Instead, out of cowardice or naïveté, a failure to understand or engage with the threat someone of his intelligence and hateful agenda posed to the world, I argued with him civilly for a minute before he lost interest, wandered away and kept on being an asshole.

And it’s only now that he scares me.

So what if it happened again? Would I punch him in the face?

I don’t think it would have helped. I don’t think it would have changed his mind, then or now. After all, he did get the shit kicked out of him, and he stayed an asshole, arguably became an even bigger asshole. I don’t think punching him in the face would even make me feel better. In fact, I’d feel worse. Because I’d be afraid I’d given him fuel for his misanthropy and rage and superiority complex. I’d be afraid he’d read it as follows: Once again DeLuca demonstrates his inability to contend with me at my own level, what a fucking waste of time.

Given another chance, I guess I’d rather try to play at his level. Maybe I could hatch some plot against him. Trying to outsmart him, to…use the internet against him, somehow? Fool him into banking on inherent human selfishness in such a way as to reveal the inherent human capacity for empathy, thereby undoing him forever? But that sounds like a Star Trek plot. A fairy tale, in other words. I’m pretty sure what would really happen, based on experience: he’d wipe the floor with me, because he’s capable of deliberate, premeditated evil and I’m not, because he’s a hell of a lot better at tactics.

But I guess Britt himself isn’t the point. None of my experience of him is relevant to this, to how I’m feeling right now, except that he’s the white supremacist I know, and I can put his face on the awfulness I’m seeing and try to understand it through him. Only I can’t. it’s not like I could predict his actions anyway, it’s not like I ever understood him. I can’t extrapolate from any of this to what is to be done, except maybe in the broadest and simplest of terms. Because I’m not actually pitting myself against a hypothetical Nazi supergenius boogeyman, a Red Skull, but rather against a great unwashed of faceless, generic, socially ostracized, downtrodden, hateful wimps. Who I couldn’t punch in the face anyway except metaphorically, by posting pictures of Captain America (non-Nazi edition) punching Red Skull in the face on the internet, to even less effect than actually punching anybody ever.

If that makes anybody feel better, fine. But it’s not working that way for me.

Individually, white supremacists are pitiful–not worthy of empathy or sympathy, but pathetic, tiny of mind, tiny of heart, miserable little self-pitying shits. I don’t think anybody could come to those beliefs from other than a very sad and lonely place. As such, I think it’s not worth punching them–not until they’re in a position of power, anyway. Are you an Indiana Jones, and will punching this Nazi prevent him from gaining access to a divine weapon of mass destruction? Then punch him. Will it, on the other hand, only make his jaw hurt, and you feel a little better for a minute, and then worse because you’ve been reduced to his level? Then maybe don’t punch him.

The trouble is, whiteness is already a position of power, affording thousands of ways to hurt people even without malicious intent. Ways I completely failed to accommodate for or anticipate back when I was given the opportunity to punch Britt in 1995. I never saw or heard of him threatening or oppressing anyone, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. If I’d been standing there when he did, and punching him might stop him, that one time, I’d like to think I’d have fucking punched him. But I don’t get to second-guess, I don’t get to go back. I get to go forward. I don’t get to make the decision whether or not to punch Britt or anyone in the face until the opportunity presents itself. This is what I have to keep reminding myself.

I don’t want to punch Britt in the face; what I want is to get way the hell out in front of ever needing to punch him or those like him and prevent them from coming into existence in the first place. I want to go back in time and kill Hitler. But failing that, I want to take what action I can, now, to prevent people around me from turning into new Britts and Hitlers. Which means talking about it. Talking about fascism, talking about Nazis and what they did and what happened to them and what’s happening now. Trying to get kids in school to read Night and Anne Frank’s diary and read history, and talk about it, and pay attention to the world and employ critical thinking skills to figure out what’s the same and what’s different, and not to oversimplify any of it down to matters of good vs. evil, to fairytales. It’s not that simple, it’s never that simple. People are still people, not faceless fascist boogeymen, and it’s my responsibility to treat them as such. Britt Greenbaum and everybody else. It’s frustrating, it isn’t easy, but that’s what there is, that’s what I get. I get to go forward.

And eventually, if I keep at it, I feel better.

   Angry | 2 Comments »

Decay

November 2nd, 2016

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It’s funny how things come around.

Many years ago now, fresh off the nihilistic high of selling a series of brutal sixgun-and-sorcery stories about centaurs conquering the West to Beneath Ceaseless Skies, I got the idea for something even darker and more sardonic, a story about horribly downtrodden, poor and desperate human beings, trapped by oppression and circumstance, using the most awful means at their disposal to grasp at a shred of personal agency and self-determination. And I did it. It didn’t make me feel particularly good about myself, but I wrote it. “Decay”, it’s called. This was not like anything else I’d written nor am likely to again. It’s an incredibly dark, bitter story. No, not like chocolate. Let me be completely honest: I wrote a story about shit. Maybe the only shred of lightness about it is a thread of humor so black it’s practically psychedelic.

But, I thought, it’s powerful. So I shopped it around.

And it got rejected. A lot. A few times, for months, years, I pulled it from circulation, thinking this is just too awful, too disgusting, nobody was going to buy it and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to see it in print. But every once in awhile, I’d get in a dark mood and send it out again.

Fast forward to twenty sixteen. Andrew Fuller of Three-Lobed Burning Eye has decided to take a chance on it. And I do think he’s taking a risk; I told him so. He seemed convinced–more convinced than I was. I admire him for that. Me, I even thought about taking my name off it.

So now in this, the first week of November, just when a lot of people are looking forward with dread to the awful, disgusting, unconscionable thing that just might actually happen one week from today, “Decay” is out in the world.

And I went and read the story again, just to remind myself of what I’d committed to. And suddenly, astonishingly, it seems like there just might be a redeeming message in there somewhere after all. I’m thinking in this context, maybe that blacker-than-black sense of humor might actually look brighter than I thought.

There’s a place for catharsis.

Or, to think of it another way: if it’s a choice between helplessness and taking the only other option available to stop the world from turning to shit…as for some of us it seems to be….

   Angry, Horror, Monumental Metaphor, Realities | 1 Comment »

This Changes Everything

February 29th, 2016

My review of This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs the Climate, by Naomi Klein.

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Around two-thirds of it I found to be an exhaustive litany of depressing information with which I was already familiar. Capitalism is a bankrupt mythology no more rational than an organized religion and with even more inertia and power. Capitalism is the force that puts fingers in the ears of politicians regarding the obvious and immanent threat of extracting and burning any more fossil fuels than we’ve already extracted and burned. Corporate greenwashing is a hell of a pervasive thing. Oil companies are fucking evil. International climate initiatives have been toothless windbaggery for more than thirty years. International environmentalist organizations, by virtue of their size and need for funding, end up in the pockets of those same corporations, helping with the greenwashing, in some cases even helping with the fossil fuel extraction and burning. Geoengineering is a reckless, shortsighted, stupid idea. The technology to save us (solar) already exists, but the fingers-in-ears, hands-over-eyes capitalist mindset that controls all the money will continue to cock-block its implementation right up until it doesn’t matter anymore.

The depth and focus with which she runs through this litany is impressive and not without value in itself. Reading it I found myself looking back on my past environmentalist actions (solar panels, electric car, permaculture, LCRW 33) and deeming them pathetically inadequate. I found myself looking back at those environmentalist projects I’d left hanging (convincing my family to divest from fossil fuels, starting a nano-nonprofit) and feeling newly motivated to take them up again.

I was a little disappointed to find the book had been written in 2014 and not this instant, now. It indicts the Kyoto protocols, but doesn’t cover the Paris climate agreement. There’s a chapter called No Messiahs: The Green Billionaires Won’t Save Us, but it devotes itself to the ways in which Richard Branson has failed to live up to the promise he made in 2006 to be our Climate Savior™ rather than speculating about whether Elon Musk will fail equally spectacularly at same (luckily, I have the internet for that).

The real value of the book, though, I found in that remaining third, where Klein starts talking about WHAT IS TO BE DONE. The glib answer is revolution. The harder, unavoidable answer is widespread, individual, overwhelming personal commitment, fighting the hard legislative and activist fight, town by town, street by street, taking hard losses every step of the way but gritting through it because it’s that fucking important. The people on whose shoulders the solution squarely rests, unfair though it undeniably is, are the people who are being most hurt. Indigenous peoples whose livelihood is tied to the land. People whose drinking water has been fracked into flammability or poisoned by austerity corner-cutting. People who have to wear masks to go outside. Citizens of low-lying island nations about to disappear. Ranchers and farmers along the paths of pipelines. People who look out their windows every day and see and acknowledge the incredible, beautiful natural resources that will be destroyed if capitalism is allowed to keep on as it has. I count myself among that latter group. And I daresay if you’ve read this far, you do too.

And that’s the thing about Klein’s book, as it turns out: it’s not trying to convince anybody of anything they didn’t already believe. I doubt anybody not on the environmentalist bandwagon could even manage to get through it. What it’s trying to do is galvanize those of us who do believe, to show us the facts, in exhaustive detail, and point to the painfully obvious conclusion some of us (yes, even me) are still shying away from: that it’s time to go all-in. Foot-dragging is not getting it done. Switching to reusable grocery bags is not getting it done. Giving money once a year to the NRDF is not getting it done. Waiting and hoping for the market to correct itself is sure as hell not getting it done.

We have maybe 35 years to get off fossil fuels completely or it isn’t going to matter anymore.

In the past, when something has gotten me this worked up about it, I have exhorted people to DO SOMETHING. I realize that’s no good anymore. It’s time to DO EVERYTHING YOU CAN.

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About Those Solar Panels Now

November 2nd, 2015

Remember those solar panels I was all excited about back in January?

Remember those solar panels I was all excited about back in January?

I’ve had them up on my roof putting out clean energy for almost a year now. Eleven months ago today, I generated my first watt, and I’ve been meaning to post about it ever since. The trouble is, for the entirety of those eleven months, until this very morning, I was locked in bureaucratic battle with the electric company to get them inspected, signed off on and correctly wired into the billing system so I could actually benefit by them. That was frustrating. It was Kafkaesque. And it didn’t seem worth posting about until I actually had something to celebrate.

My first day's worth of power - Dec. 30, 2014

My first day’s worth of power – Dec. 30, 2014

Now, finally, I do. Here, then, is a bit of a roundup. This is the laughably short version. More to come, maybe, if you’re interested in the nitty gritty.

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LCRW 33 Contents

June 25th, 2015

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It is done! And I am very happy.

fiction

Carmen Maria Machado, “I Bury Myself”
Alena McNamara, “Starling Road”
Giselle Leeb, “Ape Songs”
Michelle Vider, “For Me, Seek the Sun”
Deborah Walker, “Medea”
D. K. McCutchen, “Jellyfish Dreaming”
Sofia Samatar, “Request for an Extension on the Clarity”
M. E. Garber, “Putting Down Roots”
Eric Gregory, “The March Wind”

nonfiction

Christopher Brown, “Winter in the Feral City”
Nicole Kimberling, “Cook Like a Hobo”

poetry

Leslie Wightman, “The Sanctity of Nature”
Ingrid Steblea, “Another Afternoon in the Garden”
Kelda Crich, “Child Without Summer”
Peter Jay Shippy, “Singing Beach”

art

Kevin Huizenga
Dmitry Borshch
Steve Logan

What a mind-altering thing this has been for me. You know how, in this modern age, you look at social media and you only see what you want to see, from people you agree with, or at the most, you see stuff people you agree with are making fun of or eviscerating? Because that’s how the algorithms are designed to work, they’re these feedback loops trying as hard as they can to keep you coming back. Or maybe you look at TV, but your preferred stations and talking heads are doing basically the same thing, they’re narrowing down, they’re telling you what they want you to hear and only that. And of course, because everybody’s competing with everybody else for that privilege and for your attention, they simplify, dumb down, hyperbolize. And okay, maybe you go out into the world and interact with actual people, but disagreeing over drinks or a game of croquet just isn’t polite conversation, you don’t want to hear it from them any more than they want to hear it from you. Life as a process of polarization. It’s the virgin forest and the oil refinery and nothing in between.

Well, reading submissions for this issue has been the opposite of all that. It’s been open and organic and worldview-shakingly diverse, and it has been a balm. I feel like I’m seeing this thing, us and the world, in so much more relief and nuance than I ever was before.

I don’t know if it’ll feel the same for all of you who read it; you’re not vested in it in quite the same way; you’re not seeing yourself in it like I am. Seeing myself in the work of 250 or so writers, poets and artists, picking out the best of those, the ones that touch and cut at me and break me open. And then reading them all again, being forced by practicality and circumstance to pick out even fewer, then fewer still. And then arranging those in order, not unlike the way one arranges the scenes in a story, for all these other people to take in. What a thing.

Maybe it won’t be the same for you when you read it. But I hope it will. Because we all need that.

The issue will be out in print and ebook form in time for Readercon, at which there will with any luck be a small group reading from those contributors who happen to be in town. Later there will be a podcast episode. More about all that later. In the meantime, why not subscribe to Lady Churchill’s, get your copy and some delicious chocolate in the bargain.

A happy if belated solstice to you all.

   Angry, Environmentalism, HM, LCRW 33 | No Comments »

The Cairn War

May 1st, 2015

In my local woods, there are cairns: rock towers, more or less precariously or painstakingly balanced, maintained by passing hikers. I’m one of those maintainers. The others, if I had to guess, are a hippie couple I’ve passed once or twice on the trail, long hair, long beard, hemp clothes. I was like them once.

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The cairns follow a cycle, or so I subjectively perceive. Like the woods, they change with the seasons. They grow slowly, if at all, through most of the year. If a storm or a careless mountain biker knocks a stone awry, we maintainers will replace it. But come the end of winter there’s always an explosion of effort. I think this has to do with the melting snow, the thawing, the anticipation. There’s not much to do in the woods at the end of winter except slip on an ice patch and fall in the mud. And raise cairns. So: around March, I find new stone towers appearing where none were before. Who’s doing this, I wonder. What does it mean?

I’ve known about cairns forever. In the northeast they’re more common–if for no other reason, then because there are more rocks. Glacial processes, treeless mountain ridges over which the AT passes and there’s no place to paint the white blaze where it will stick up out of the snow, there’s always rocks. It’s practical. Less so in Michigan, where there’s nothing above treeline and you might actually have to walk ten paces to find a rock bigger than a fist.

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I didn’t become aware of cairning as an ancient human cultural institution, a ritual practice, until steph explained it to me at one of her solstice parties in Western Mass.

When Spring comes to my local woods, somebody knocks down all the cairns. Every year. The new ones and the old ones. Because I’m a lonely pseudopagan in a christian country, because I’m cynical, I assume this is an act of malice. I assume the hunters who spend all winter filling my woods with shotgun casings and beer cans for me to clean up look at my (our) cairns and see paganism, see some kind of threat. I have no evidence for this. But because I spend so much time spoiling for a fight about how yes, climate change is real and no, god didn’t give us dominion over nature so we could pave it, that’s what I see. And for a little while, it makes me sad.

Then I remember that building and rebuilding the cairns is part of the point. It’s a process, an interaction. Nothing lasts forever. We tend our gardens, they tend us. And we tend each other. As steph says:

We have created physical evidence of passing this way; and less tangibly we have left our marks upon each other – bits of spirit inspiring compelling turning and calling us on, always with the invitation to return.

So I rebuild them.

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Happy May Day.

   Angry, Environmentalism, Religion | No Comments »

Gene Wolfe

August 13th, 2014

All of us from that time grew up with the feeling that you shouldn’t waste anything: you don’t waste rags, because rags can be useful.

–Gene Wolfe on the Depression, from this excellent interview shared with me by Justin Howe, reader of everything. Not a new sentiment–my grandparents were living evidence of this–but a universal one. Perennial. I can only hope the kids of the next generation grow up with this inscribed on their hearts/souls/skulls. Those of the current one certainly didn’t. Lately it seems chances are high it’s going to kill us.

   Angry, Environmentalism, HM | No Comments »

Is it time yet?

April 22nd, 2014

Is it time?
Okay, yes, this is just me measuring soil temperature to see if it’s time to hunt morels (not yet!) but I think it gets the point across.

Wikipedia says Earth Day is celebrated in 192 countries. Where? By who?

This week’s Cosmos episode was about how we probably would have all died of lead poisoning if somebody hadn’t convinced the corporations…or wait, not convinced…forced the corporations to accept that the absurd lead levels in the atmosphere were their fault and were likely to kill everybody if things went on as they were. Fascinating. It took 20 years between when Clair Patterson pointed this out and when enough people accepted it to actually do something. That happened in 1984, when I was five. This–2014–was the first I’d heard of it.

Why is this not a common cautionary tale, like the bomb?

Seems to me the science about global warming has been in since at least 1991. If we consider Wallace Smith Broecker to be global warming’s Clair Patterson, the science has been in since 1975. When I was negative five. Which would make the year we were supposed to have done something about it 1995.

How long is it going to fucking take?

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A Penance in Verapaz

January 30th, 2014

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Volcán Agua from the Hill of the Cross overlooking Antigua, Guatemala

Verapaz means “true peace”. The neighboring Guatemalan departments of Alta and Baja Verapaz are so named because of the warlike Achí Maya, who like the Apache in the US stubbornly refused to be conquered until long after the rest of the country. When they finally did submit, it was because of the spread of religion, not the sword.

This is a story of breakdown and redemption, in which I strive again and again to interrogate and dismantle my assumptions only to find more awaiting beneath, until finally, mental and physical resources spent, I give up hope, only to be lifted up and saved by human kindness.

Before the dawn of January 25th in the mountainous jungle town of Lanquín, Alta Verapaz, I cursed out a small crowd of self-important American adventure tourists packed into a rickety minibus bound for Antigua. That evening, I danced goofily (the only way I know how) with a small crowd of teenage Achí Mayan girls to a marimba band at a saint’s day fair in the desert valley town of Rabinal, Baja Verapaz, then fell asleep on a cardboard pallet on their kitchen floor long past midnight on the 26th. These were serious breaches of character for me. I get angry, but I never vent it at other people no matter what kind of assholes they are; I bottle it up, then expel it into exertion or prose. I dance in public only under duress or the influence of strong drink, and I open up to people under more or less the same circumstances.

Understanding the cause of these transgressions perhaps requires a little backstory.

I’ve read much on the subject of Guatemala; I’ve written stories, blog posts; I’m working on a novel. I don’t consider myself any kind of authority. I’m a hobbyist, a tourist. But I try. I love Guatemala, and I want to do it justice, to treat its people and culture with empathy and respect. This is where the assumptions come in: privilege, whiteness, entitlement. I’m trying to see through these things to the truth, trying to understand what it is to be born to the opposite of those things in a place I love because of them.

At the end of this, my fourth and latest visit, I’d planned three days to myself. This concept was anathema to the white kids on the minibus, who with shrill laughter equated the notion of an afternoon alone even in Antigua, a city full of English-speakers, to waking nightmare. For me, though, those three days alone were a promise of release, a getting back to myself. Disinclined though I’d normally be to resort to Christian metaphor—particularly since the motivations in question include no small pagan influence—I thought of it as a penance. Penance for the cushy, full-bellied vacationing I’d done with my family up to this point; penance for the cushy, full-bellied living I’d been doing at home.

What I sap I am, I know. And this is long. So I’ll forgive you for not clicking….

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   Angry, Guatemala, Monumental Metaphor, Religion, Travel | 2 Comments »

Sleeping Bear

May 29th, 2013

Sleeping Bear Dunes

I spent the weekend at Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore and have returned with the resurgent impression that it would be more fulfilling and about a million times more effective if I laid off writing fiction and computer code and became an angry environmentalist full time. At this moment I literally would rather sit around watching my garden grow than struggle with some story that progresses at an equally glacial pace towards far less bountiful fruition. Nothing I make will be as beautiful as that which no hand hath made. Were all I’ve made to disappear, who would care?

This is not meant to be bleak or mopy. On the contrary. Thank God there is still something other than the internet.

   Angry, Environmentalism, Mountains, Summer, Transcendentalism | No Comments »

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