“the balance tipped definitively from ‘government aid should not replace social connections’ to ‘to hell with others and their problems.’ Or, as the cowboy sings to the calf, ‘It’s your misfortune/ And none of my own.’”
-Rebecca Solnit
Oh Rebecca, it doesn’t have to be that way, does it? It isn’t that way for so many of us, who haven’t been able to get on with our lives and tune out the noise of bombs dropping in Gaza.
I’m a bit behind here, folks. My conception of a writer is someone who serves up hot takes like fresh flapjacks off the stove, ready for consumption. I should be cooking up a hot take on Arizona’s new abortion ban and the slow witling away of our human rights, but as a working nurse, I couldn’t make it happen. I am still digesting my last meal. You will get the boiled-over-oatmeal-now-caked-to-the-stovetop version.
I’ve been writing in my head my entire life. This is a new practice for me, trying to wrestle the daily hurricane of thoughts and the web of connections between them onto the page. These days, my internal landscape is occupied by monosyllabic, expletive-ridden loops. I believe I promised a more lighthearted post this month, and I do have some beautiful springtime shots to share. But the sharp contrast between our political hellscape and the raw fecundity of spring in Oregon feels difficult to reconcile this week.
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Events like the flour massacre and the self-immolation of Airforce service member Aaron Bushnell have shaken me. This month we cross the dubious threshold of six months that the United States has stood by and allowed the government of Israel to commit genocide against the Palestinian people and supported that genocide with weapons paid for by American taxpayers.
I wish that I had said more, done more, and started earlier. When, two days after the Hamas attacks, I heard over the radio Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant say, “we are fighting human animals, and we are acting accordingly” I knew in my bones that what was coming would be horrible. Who would expect restraint when the high-level officials were referring to their adversaries as “animals?” It brings to mind that old adage, when someone tells you who they are, believe them.
I knew that Israel was preparing to wage all-out war against a civilian population; they gave every indication. And yet I held my tongue. I began contacting my representatives and signing petitions, but I kept my lips sealed. I am honestly not sure if it was days or weeks that passed before I started speaking publicly, which these days is largely on social media. Some of you are still waiting, and I ask you to consider, why? Personally, I feared that my Jewish friends would not understand the nuances of my position, following the brutal Hamas attacks.
I wanted to speak out, but I also feared retribution. I had learned from the past, having been torn limb to limb after posting other ‘controversial’ opinions. I watched, and I waited. I bided my time as a critical mass of friends, media coverage, and public figures formed. I waited for a herd that might safely shelter my public persona. It felt like an eternity. Years pressed into days, and in that time-warp I became aware of a cowardice within myself. I owe every last Palestinian, adult and child, an apology. And having witnessed my own moral death, I can only hope I will resurrect with more courage than before.
I have appreciated very much the ongoing analysis from Lakota singer and activist Frank Waln, who makes the connection between settler colonialism in the Americas and the middle east. In this October 27th Instagram video, he shares his own experience visiting Palestine with Dream Defenders. Waln draws a parallel between manifest destiny against his own native people and Zionism, both “a god-given right, an otherworldly right, to colonize a land.”
I had the privilege to meet Frank back in the winter of 2017. I had convinced him to come give a free concert at Todd County Middle School, in Mission, South Dakota— his home reservation. I had been serving there as a teacher for a year and a half through the Teach for America program. His work had lit up my students like no other poetry or prose I’d put on their desks, and I saw an opening for some real engagement. It didn’t take much convincing. One email to Frank’s manager and the wheels were in motion. When Frank arrived at the school, he hosted a workshop for six students interested in music production. Talking with Frank and his mother, Mary Waln, Frank didn’t mince words. “Imagine a Holocaust camp,” he began…my mind wandered into WWII movies…“now imagine the survivors never got to leave, and you’ve got the Rez.”
I was impressed by the way he connected with the students. Shy at first, as Lakota students typically are, they slowly opened up, circled around the mic and sang with Frank’s encouragement. At our all-school assembly concert, Waln leveraged his own story of redemption through music and the Lakota way to inspire students. He pulled his own mother up on stage and serenaded her with a fan favorite, My Stone. To say it was moving would underplay the impact it had on every single person in that gymnasium.
Fast-forward to a recent meeting I attended with other social-justice minded folks, where we were discussing the ‘land back’ movement and the idea of paying ‘land rent’ to local tribes. When the topic of discussion was announced, I cringed, waiting for my least favorite event in any predominantly white space: the land acknowledgement. To my surprise, we read through an article from the Native Governance Center instead, which I highly suggest you take a peak at: Beyond Land Acknowledgment: A Guide.
After reading the article, I wondered if this idea was circulating in the zeitgeist or no, and I found a 2021 article from The Atlantic that takes up the issue: ‘Land Acknowledgments’ Are Just Moral Exhibitionism. The article starts out well enough, detailing the ways that land acknowledgements lack context and fail to meaningfully atone for colonization and genocide. But author Graeme Wood takes an excruciatingly racist turn. He randomly attacks the blood quantum of a local indigenous leader, playing into convenient tropes of a chief being ‘half-Indian.’ Read: not really Indian, not worthy of acknowledgement, not worthy of reparations.
I am excited by the idea of land rent. Why shouldn’t I send the local Chinook tribe a monthly donation given that I am occupying land that was historically theirs? I was somewhat surprised to hear vocal opposition brought up in an otherwise liberal group: There are other vulnerable populations in my community... I don’t even know any native people…Does money help? I need to set the record straight. The fact that native folks are missing, relocated, or invisible in your community is by design. It is no accident that native peoples live in remote areas of the United States, often hundreds or thousands of miles from their original homelands.
Think back on historical events like the Trail of Tears, the Indian Removal Act, and other US policies of genocide and assimilation, and you will realize that the current state of affairs is no accident, it is policy working as it was intended. The fact that there aren’t large, visible populations of natives in your city is the point. It appears to be so challenging for white people to look at land theft, genocide, and slavery in the face, even as we continue to perpetuate these practices. Ahem, Gaza.
And yes, money helps. If you don’t want to donate directly to a tribe, I suggest finding a local program, like a Boys and Girls Club located on a reservation or in a native community. This is a highly efficient use of your giving budget. The Club on Rosebud Reservation in Mission, South Dakota, is one of the best organizations I’ve ever had the opportunity to work with.
I wish we could talk about this over a pot of tea and hold each other. I am filled with grief by the ways in which we shrink in the online space. I feel so fragmented and isolated from my community most days, and I fear that leaning into Substack could draw me further into a cave. It will flatten my humanity, rob my opinions of nuance. With few comments on these posts, the dialogue becomes a de facto monologue. I struggle to know if it is an effective soap box or merely an echo chamber.
For those in my life personally, let me remind you that this does not replace gathering, letters, post cards, coffee dates, and phone calls! There is only one friend in my life with whom I maintain written correspondence and that feels like a crying shame. In an era in which posts are fashioned to maximizes likes, shares, retweets and restacks, it is interesting to see what writing we produce for an audience of one—and what an act of true friendship and intimacy. I need you all to keep going. I need your hugs and your shoulders that I leave wet and snotty so that I can continue to pull scrubs onto my tired body each week, amidst this chaos.
Thank heavens it is spring.
Jess’ Favorites:
Article: Abortion in the US: 9 ways abortion bans negatively affect everyone - Vox
The Other Shore: documentary about the life of legendary swimmer Diana Nyad. Nyad, the film, is a thrilling reenactment, but doesn’t beat the raw footage. No surprise there.
To Kill a Tiger: Indian family stands by their daughter after a gang rape and seeks justice, battling external and internalized stigma.
This content is free, but you can always buy me a coffee. Cheers!
Thankyou for your courage. It’s hard to speak truth. And you are correct, we are literally paying for this madness. Which brings up another unpopular topic: elections. If we vote for Biden or Trump or Kennedy… we, WE are to blame. It means we willing are chooses men who are ok with genocide. There is no way around this. Thus the only option is Cornel West. We have to get real about this and act accordingly.