“Let this radicalize you rather than lead you to despair" – Mariame Kaba
A local artist whose work I always find to be spot on, made a linocut print during Covid that declares, “Let this radicalize you.” It was a statement that at other times might have perplexed me, but in that moment, it summed everything I thought 2020-2021 was good for—if had to be good for something. Those 18 months of death and separation and fear and protest and violence were intended to shake us by our collective shoulders: Wake up! The house is on fire!
Our current world is not that different—if you’re paying attention. “It’s like everything is being held to together by tape and spit,” a friend said to me recently over coffee. We were eavesdropping on two older women who were comparing notes on how they were celebrating Christmas; “Do you give checks to the wives, too, or only to your boys?”
My friend looked at me: “It’s like half of us are trapped in the 50s and half of us are in some apocalyptic novel holding our breath to see how it turns out.”
Here in Iowa, it’s not turning out great. The State Legislature is doing its best to keep many of us in a state of perpetual anger and anxiety. Bills have been introduced that would give city councils the right to decide what books go into public libraries. There’s one that would force kids, starting in first grade, to watch an annual video about conception and development that its supporters have bluntly called “anti-abortion education.” There’s a slew of both anti-trans and anti-immigration bills, one of which would prevent undocumented people who live in the state from receiving in-state tuition and another that would require trans people to have special drivers’ licenses.
At the moment, none of these bills have gone through the multiple hoops nbut many people don’t understand the process and are understandably terrified. This week, I met with two Latina activists who were in the midst of organizing events to help their community understand the process by which bills work their way through the state legislature. For people not born here, it’s understandable they’re not familiar with the rules and regs of state government. A lot of us are confused, and nearly all of us could benefit from a revamp of Schoolhouse Rocks. We can shake our heads at the absurdity, write and call our representatives if we’re up to it, and go on with our days. These women and their families cannot. Trans friends and their families cannot. Anyone who cares what books are available cannot.
What struck me in talking to them is that while I try share stories of joyful resistance to inspire action, these women are the tape and spit of their community, keeping together people whose rights are already slim. They have embraced the work of gaging what is a real threat and communicating when to sigh and look the other way because it’s all so absurd versus when to run like hell.
I rarely ever have to run like hell. I can sigh — a lot. I can also choose to pretend I don’t notice. Which returns me to that linocut sign: “Let this radicalize you.” To me, these words are an incantation to not go back to sleep, to resist seeking “normal.” To remain in a similar state of shock and anger and also open heartedness that many of us entered during 2020-2021.
The other night, three loud mysterious booms woke me up at 3 AM. My eyes were open in the murk of my bedroom, my dogs snuffling with irritation as I turned on my phone and sought information—keenly aware of how nearly non-existent the local news system is. Is this it? I wondered, not in a hugely realistic way did I imagine we were being attacked, but it struck me as possible. Just as much as a pandemic struck me as possible. Not because I tend toward conspiracy, but because there’s so much war in the world, why not us?
I speak my frustration to a friend – why do so many people seem half asleep? – and she reminds me of the truth that we can only change when we’re ready. I know this. But good god it’s frustrating. Don’t you just want to walk around and snap your fingers in people’s faces some days?
This week when I visited the preschool where I get to be a guest artist (best gig ever!) helping three- and four-year olds learn about storytelling, I listened to the story of a girl with pale skin and dark curls. Her true tale involved a walkie talkie and a repeated voice that wouldn’t stop. “I wanted it to stop, but it wouldn’t. So my brain made my eyes open, and then I woke up.”
I loved how easy this was in her recollection. She needed to wake up and her brain — which was intriguingly different than her in the story, a sort of floating character — understood this and forced her eyes open.
Oh dear brains, dear humans, dear people who used to be four-year olds, dear all of us who lived through 2020-2021 — please wake up! We need you!
Things I’m Putting in My Head
I really appreciated this week’s Ezra Klein Show conversation about relationships that go beyond what we usually think of as friendship while not being sexual, summed up well by this: “If this is such a significant relationship in my life, why is there no term for it?” I lost one of the dearest people in my life last year, and since she died have found myself seeking an adequate way to describe who she was to me, without success. As I get older, I crave deep, reciprocal relationships built on curiosity, loyalty, and dedication to growth. This conversation asks: What kinds of relationships would you want in your life, if you felt you could ask for them?
I found Chris Jones’ Swine Republic to be one of the more depressing things I’ve read in a long time. It made me very grumpy—just ask my book group! Yet its basic messages about the decimation of Iowa’s land and water is essential for anyone who wants to understand rural America, where their food comes from, and the future of our country’s water. It’s also a lesson in academic freedom since Jones essentially lost his academic job telling the truth against the interests of Big Agriculture.
Here’s a sample: “It’s no secret that the production of Iowa hogs is nothing like it was 40 years ago. In 1980, 65,000 Iowa farmers raised a total of 13 million hogs (about 200 hogs per farmer); by 2002 the number of hogs had increased to 14 million but the farmers raising them had dwindled to 10,000. At any one time, today’s Iowa has about 25 million hogs raised by ~6000 farmers. “
I’m currently watching True Detective. Though I’m thrilled to be spending time with Jodie Foster, it’s not nearly as memorable as the other dark, cold, wintry show I watched recently. Murder at the End of the World has a lot in common with its creators’ previous work, The OA — both by Britt Marling and Zac Batmanglij. The stories are tangled, circular (in multiple ways), involve technology and narcissistic men, and explore genius, and the power of storytelling. Unlike The OA, which tragically got cut midway through its plot, Murder is a story told in its entirety. A gem.
“Every day, think as you wake up, today I am fortunate to be alive, I have a precious human life, I am not going to waste it. I am going to use all my energies to develop myself, to expand my heart out to others; to achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all beings. I am going to have kind thoughts towards others, I am not going to get angry or think badly about others. I am going to benefit others as much as I can.” His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama
Important blog, thank you. I’m afraid to read Swine Republic.