GRAND CANYON

Dawn on the S rim of the Grand Canyon (8645178272).jpg

There is a scene early in Grand Canyon (1991) where the car of an immigration lawyer, Mack (played by Kevin Klein) dies in a neighborhood he doesn’t know. He calls for a tow, but in the meantime a group of young men begin harassing him. Danny Glover’s character, Simon, shows up and calmly begins his job, asking about the car, hooking it up to his truck. Then he takes aside Rocstar, the leader of the young men. “Am I talking to the right man?” Skip ahead in the video to about minute 4 to find the scene. The really good part begins with Simon saying, “Man . . .”

Simon : I’ve gotta ask you for a favor. Let me go my way here. This truck’s my responsibility, and now that the car’s hooked up to it, it’s my responsibility too.

Rocstar : Do you think I’m stupid? Just answer that question first.

Simon : Look, I don’t know nothing about you; you don’t know nothing about me. I don’t know if you’re stupid, or some kind of genius. All I know is that I need to get out of here, and you got the gun. So I’m asking you, for the second time, let me go my way here.

Rocstar : I’m gonna grant you that favor, and I’m gonna expect you to remember it if we ever meet again. But tell me this, are you asking me as a sign of respect, or are you asking because I’ve got the gun?

Simon : Man, the world ain’t supposed to work like this. I mean, maybe you don’t know that yet. I’m supposed to be able to do my job without having to ask you if I can. That dude is supposed to be able to wait with his car without you ripping him off. Everything is supposed to be different than it is.

Rocstar : So what’s your answer?

Simon : You ain’t got the gun, we ain’t having this conversation.

Rocstar : That’s what I thought: no gun, no respect. That’s why I always got the gun.

It’s a great film, truly, but if you haven’t ever watched it or haven’t watched it recently, you might assume the story is dated. Stop for a moment, and consider the metaphor working here. [Or better, consider it an analogy, and also be sure to read the first comment below.] A weak person demands respect. Imagine Kim Jong Un is playing the part of Rocstar. A weak actor in a powerful world, striding to bully his way into respect.  His position on the world stage makes more sense. [It’s far from moral, but understandable.]

That works, doesn’t it?

Now go the next step. Trump as Rocstar, accustomed to having what he wants by pushing others around? Maybe, except like Kim Jong Un he’s never had to reach for power, it has always belonged to him, a self-promoting, entitled person from the day he was born.

Try this: Maybe see how the concept of leverage and threats plays out with the abuse of any power, with the assumption that a right to act is automatic when there is the capacity to act. I can, therefore I should?

Surely not.

The way I see the lesson: The world is not supposed to work this way. Power is not supposed to trump liberty and justice for all. We are supposed to be better than that. Because we have the strength does not mean it’s moral to bully others. Just because we can.

Or, as my husband likes to joke: Didn’t you ever go to Sunday school? Or Temple, or the Mosque, or to your room for failing to listen to your parents explain why you should be forgiving and kind to others.

Surely someone taught us better?

I hear the voices saying, no, they didn’t. Some people do not operate that way and that’s why the rest of us cannot either. I think we might be wrong there too. We were all taught to behave ethically, only some of us find that inconvenient. Some of us did not listen at all. Some of us even believe our reasons or excuses for our deplorable actions. We get away with things we shouldn’t and then decide that getting away with evil makes it okay.

Getting away with it does not make it right.

The Grand Canyon is bigger than we are, grander in every way. Grand beyond our capacity to comprehend. It was born long before we were and should live long after we are gone. It should humble us, engulf our egos, and allow us to regain perspective.

HEDGE

fullsizeoutput_fcb

Yesterday, someone—I hope it was a visiter and not a local person—ripped the wild seasonal succulents out of the rocks bordering the sand. Ripped them all right out of the ground! The devastation began a hundred feet south of our path and continued north for hundreds of feet north. These people left a long line of plants littering the shore, tore them out by their roots just because they could. Like the party who started a fire of drift logs and abandoned it to smoke and smolder all night long. Like the people staying north of us who managed to drop their kite all the way over our house and into our courtyard (not the first time), and woke me with loud laughter at nearly eleven the other night. They seem like nice people, but they’re on vacation.

There is a hedge in front of our house, what we call the “front” because the ocean is too vast to be anyone’s backyard. The hedge is mostly salal that grows wild. The local rose, which is thorny and has dark pink flowers the size of quarters, is native too. The cultivar montbrecia, which will pop out in racemes of brilliant orange flowers any minute now, is a thriving but benign volunteer. The same cannot be said for English ivy that threatens to take over the world. My step-grandmother may or may not be responsible for starting ivy on its aggressive path in our hedge. I recall a two-inch pot of decorative ivy. Yes, she might have planted that in her garden as a ground cover. Many people did in the 60s. It was already thriving all over local beach gardens. We religiously remove it from the courtyard and fight to a truce in the hedge.

By contrast, I give Genevieve credit for planting honeysuckle, which has spread but without strangling any other plant. And it smells better than ivy, though its foliage is not such a stunning, healthy green.

The salal was not invited or planted. It belongs here. It grows in the forest and along the beachfront except where it has been pushed out by invasive ivy or deliberately planted rugosa roses. White or carmine pink. The salal has stiff, leathery foliage used by florists, and berries I use in muffins. I like that I had nothing to do with it, that I need not water or spray or tend it in any way. It is what it is.

Today is the 50th anniversary of Stonewall, the night gay people stood their ground and refused to be passively bullied any more, the night they began a movement. Some call it a riot or a rebellion or an uprising. Stonewall works for me. Gay Pride.

Gary’s co-worker Chris took his draft physical the day after Gary earlier that same year, 1969. Both Chris and Gary failed the physical, Gary for his eyesight. They compared notes at the Book Store, and Gary asked how Chris had managed to flunk his physical. “I told them I was gay.” Oh, right.

When Gary went to Chris’s house to listen to Ziggy Stardust, he knew Chris was gay but he didn’t want to “try something new.” Chris took no for an answer and they remained friends. That’s usually how it goes. I’ve been hit on, so gently that I only figured it out later, and I’ve had gay and lesbian friends going all the way back pretty much forever. I knew who they were and who they were interested in sexually at least from my junior year of high school, but it was never an issue. Like someone being married or in a relationship: It only matters if you are romantically interested in the person. Mostly I failed to pay much attention. What possible difference could it make to me that the girl, who had done me a kindness when we were both six year old, liked girls? Barb was my friend and I valued her for her friendship. I miss her still.

fullsizeoutput_fca

The salal berries I use in whole wheat muffins and the wild huckleberries I use in butter cake are among the best things I know to bake. Published recipes suggest that blueberries can be substituted for these NW berries. Perhaps. Perhaps if they were wild and smaller berries I would love them. Perhaps if I could not get the real thing the substitute would be good enough. If I lived in Maine, it would make sense to me. But I live in Oregon and I am pretty sure that what grows here without my help or interference is the best of all.

We are all visitors here. Letting things be is the theme for today. Allow the natural to thrive and you owe it nothing more, no anger or resentment, no ripping up just because you have that power. A pact of noninterference because we all inconvenience and irritate sometimes. At least allow what lives to thrive. Enjoy it or ignore it, as you choose.

DAWN

IMG_2210

Last night someone was blasting (illegal) fireworks at 10pm. Explosions in the dark—oh what fun . . . for someone. A month or so ago visitors complained to us about construction noise from a remodel across the street from their rental that prevented them from sleeping in past 8:30am. We smiled and exchanged looks. This has become one of our favorite examples of absurdity on the part of people who live in bubbles of their own making.

People complain about the dawn chorus but play their stereos on full blast all afternoon. It’s the same with tourists stepping off curbs in the middle of the block in Cannon Beach without even checking traffic first. They are affluent white people, of course. They are on vacation and everything must be perfect for them.

It’s happening in France too. The New York Times today reports about a French rooster in a favorite vacation spot that bothers vacationers. A fisherman has been asked to replace his hedge with a concrete wall because the birds living in the hedge are noisy and wake vacationers. People move to the country to get away from smog, traffic, and sirens and then object to the sounds, smells, and other inconveniences of country life. They have learned to shut out much of what might bother me about city living, and whine about what I actually enjoy.

My husband opens our bedroom window early each morning specifically so that we can listen to the dawn chorus. We had already been in bed for some time when the fireworks started up last night. Some beachfront homes sport enormous spotlights that shine on the beach (which in Oregon is a public park) because they thinks “it’s beautiful.” But if they wanted to look at the water, they had hours of daylight to admire the view. Instead they really look for a few minutes and then forget to turn off the lights, which shine all night and do damage to wildlife. All because we are afraid of the dark, afraid of wild creatures and of going to sleep when night arrive, of sounds and smells of nature. Even time.

The Grand Canyon is now a Dark Sky Park. “The designation places the Grand Canyon into esteemed company with more than 60 dark sky parks, communities, and reserves in the United States.” Light pollution on our planet is a very real problem. Years ago I wrote a snarky essay as a model for students about how offensive I found lighting when I wanted to run by moonlight. I discovered my personal objection was really beside the point. Lighting creates a host of problems for human beings and animals, birds and general health. We converted our outdoor lighting long ago to avoid lighting the sky when nature is dark. We never leave our lights on all night and not only for that reason. It might be safer in the dark, and it it is certainly healthier. Numbers on the clock have become more important to human beings than actual time. Despite the fact that “noon” means that time when the sun is at its zenith, some people want so-called Daylight Saving Time to run year around, with “noon” at 11am. If people wanted more hours of daylight, they have only to wake with the sun.

Are all these disconnects from the realities of nature a matter of privilege or modernity or just plain stupid?

Instead of resetting clocks, shutting up nature, and sleeping hours past dawn, perhaps it’s time to rethink this absurd denial of nature. Turn off the electric lights. Hear the birds. Understand that we live on a planet not merely in manufactured spaces. Birds sing. A raccoon crossed our yard this morning and they run across our roof at night. A weasel lives in the hedge, and pet rabbits and dogs should not be turned out “to run” in the wild. Baby seals are left to rest on the beach by their mothers and do not need to be rescued. Storm-battered waterfowl will die or survive without assistance.

Allow the wild to be what it is. Live with it.

DRONES

When I was a girl, my dad built gliders and small free-flight model planes. We joined other enthusiasts and took them far out in the country to a grassy field. Some people had remote control and could turn their craft, the chassis a foot or a bit longer. My dad’s went up and then came down. Sometimes this meant a long run to collect them. Everyone flew their balsa wood and silk span planes until they were battered past flight. We took our models home and my dad would splice and repair, adjust balance, tune the tiny engine, spread new paint—orange because it showed up well in the grass.

They were noisy and useless, but far from crowds, never a threat to safety or privacy. Adult toys requiring careful design and skill to fly.

More recently, a drone flew by our front yard, which fronts the beach. The drone paused briefly at eye level, twenty feet from where my husband and I sat in chairs in our yard. Technically, perhaps, its flightpath was perfectly legal.

We flipped the drone off. It was an instantaneous and shared choice. (And not something I am inclined to do. We both laughed.) The device had moved on but turned back immediately and hovered for a long moment, confirming our suspicion that it carried a camera, watching and perhaps filming us.

If I’d had a pellet gun that day and the skill, would I have been tempted to shoot down that spying drone just past my hedge?

You bet.

 

SPRING

We have been busy this morning: I baked a pie, Gary did laundry, we picked up the mail, I read aloud, but first thing this morning we enjoyed a nearly a three-hour walk. We walked from spring right into summer at 8:54AM. Today is the first day of summer and the morning sky showed cobblestones overhead, mist along the shore.

IMG_4419.jpg

The seagulls do not mind us much—so long as we walk in some direction other than straight at them, so long as we do not stare, and so long as Gary does not tease them by making claws of his fingers and muttering Kitty-kitty-kitty. We do not like disturbing them at their rest.

The black oystercatchers who nest at Hug Point did not mind us either today. They glanced at us, but seemed not to mind and continued foraging for sand crabs (?) and mollusks. We assumed their babies must be out of the nest, but then a walker with a dog came along and they went into their act of distraction. Not here! Not here! they seem to cry. They raised their wings and danced all around.

IMG_4426.jpg

Hug Point is so-called because in my mother’s childhood and before travelers used the sand to get to our beach, hugging this headland. The highway didn’t come through until the 30s. A path was partially blasted around Hug Point, concrete poured to make it navigable by car, while the horse-drawn milk wagon went right through the creek and tide pools.

IMG_4441

There are still traces of concrete at Hug Point (you can see a bit in the foreground below), but much of that old roadway is worn away. When we decide to “walk long” we mean walking north around this headland.

Limpets and barnacles on the sandstone, shown here. Anemones and gooseneck barnacles and chitons too.

IMG_4439.jpg

On the way home, Gary wanted a photo of thumbs-up in front of a rock that seems to have the same attitude.

IMG_4423.jpg

LET THERE BE JOY

Academy of American Poets
75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901
New York, NY 10038
info@poets.org

Dear Friend,

Please join us in congratulating our Chancellor Joy Harjo on being named our nation’s newest Poet Laureate! Harjo was elected an Academy Chancellor earlier this year and received the Academy’s Wallace Stevens Award for proven mastery in the art of poetry in 2015.

As a poet, a teacher, and a literary leader Joy Harjo has touched many lives and many communities. She now has what is one of the largest platforms a poet can aspire to and it is a well-deserved honor. We’re thrilled for Joy and for the nation on this historic appointment.

We’ve enjoyed wonderful partnerships with our Poets Laureate. Since the position was created in 1937—a year after our organization was incorporated—more than half of the poets in this esteemed role have been Academy Chancellors. We look forward to continuing our tradition of celebrating our nation’s Poet Laureate and supporting Joy however we might.

Read this special Q&A with Joy about her new role.

Learn more about Joy Harjo.

Read poems by Joy Harjo.

Sincerely,

PERSONAL

IMG_4373

It was probably 1973 and Gary and I were managing the apartment building while we were students at the University of Washington. I was just twenty years old when we had dinner with the owners of a cat we liked, Slump. Slump’s people were educated and had traveled and in the course of the meal I began talking about an horrifying situation, a news story about abuse of women in an Eastern European country. Gary recalls this and also Tom’s response: “What do you care? You don’t know those women.”

Mitch McConnell does not understand why Jon Stewart is so upset about the failure of Congress to make adequate provisions for First Responders who were exposed to toxic substances while protecting and rescuing people, and later bodies, from the Two Towers after 911. He didn’t get why Stewart was “all bent out of shape” about caring for these sick and dying men and women. (You might recall that First Responders were assured they were in no danger from toxins, which was later revealed to be a lie from the Bush administration.)

“I want to make it clear that this has never been dealt with compassionately by Senator McConnell,” the former Daily Show host said. “He has always held out until the very last minute and only then, under intense lobbying and public shaming has he even deigned to move on it.”

Why, McConnell wonders, does Stewart care so much?

Why should anyone care about anything that does not directly impact them?

I would like to think most Americans would be as confused (if not downright horrified) as Stewart feels. Compassion is not dealt out evenly, but a complete lack of it is puzzling to me. We are seeing it a lot lately, these men and women who have so recently entered politics, this current regime devoted only to power and position.

But still. As you do unto the least of these . . . why is that so mystifying?

FIRST RESPONDERS

jon-stewart-dc3-ht-usatoday-ml-190611_hpEmbed_7x6_992.jpg

“Behind me, a filled room of 9/11 first responders, and in front of me, a nearly empty Congress,” Stewart said.

John Stewart spoke to many empty seats in a House Committee about the needs of first responders. All these years later and the men and women who responded “in five seconds” to a disaster: “I’m awfully tired of hearing that it’s a 9/11 New York issue. Al-Qaeda didn’t shout death to Tribeca. They attacked America, and these men and women … brought our country back,” and are still having to beg for relief.

“I’m sorry if I sound angry and undiplomatic, but I’m angry, and you should be, too, and they’re all angry as well and they have every justification to be that way.”

Watch the PBS News Hour video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=10&v=HT5FTrIZN-E

Stewart alludes to a Senator who has held up funding as a political tool? That’s Mitch McConnell.

Truth to power.

CLOSING

fullsizeoutput_f6a

I discovered yesterday that Tin House is closing after this month’s issue. I already knew about Glimmer Train, Shimmer, and the end of Apex except as a publisher of books. These were all excellent publications. The New York Times is only writing about Tin House, because the founding editors are in New York?

Sometimes I really do wish there were a newspaper on this coast I could subscribe to.

Penguin has reissued No-No Boy by John Okada. It’s an important novel that I read for a graduate class on Asian-American literature taught by a San Francisco University professor in a class at Portland State. Despite the fact that the novel was already reissued (the copy I read with an introduction by Lawson Inada), Penguin has chosen to completely ignore previous copyright and to claim the novel is in the public domain.

Sometimes I wish New York(City)ers were not such “a bunch of hustling people all squeezed up together being ‘Eastern!’ “—Lorraine Hansberry’s character Walter Lee Younger in A Raisin in the Sun.

A New York editor reportedly complained about a West Coast novel because it “has all these trees.” City people.

Reading the editor’s description of their literary journal, I found two women’s names in the list of authors they were proud to have published. Both names were misspelled. Ursula K. Le Guin. (She always included the K. and Le Guin is two words, not one.) The first woman to publish science fiction under her own name was Clare, without the I, Clare Winger Harris, not Claire.

And don’t get me started on the lay/lie issue in print publications—everybody has trouble getting that right, it seems, but some of us take the trouble to doublecheck this obvious trip.

Yes, peevish today, on a minor note, and despite the fact that my own line-editing is never perfect.

I am rereading Wild Life by Molly Gloss.