Do you ever feel that any words you can come up with to respond to something are empty and pointless, and only actual in-person -- in fact, lifelong; in fact, generations-long -- radical hospitality, and generosity, would do? This is one of those times. And I wouldn't fight you over any of it.
Your poem is a beautiful question we should ask every day. And it distills all that you say here. Your ancestor article, as well. Your act is meaningful, and not only to you. People like to throw around the word “performative,” but most of what we take as normal is performative.
But focusing on the heart of this post: colonizers have fucked up a lot of things, but perhaps the worst, long-term, is hijacking the term “communism.” The Big C communists in China and Russia really fucked over the concept of a community helping those in need, didn’t it? Maybe the right term is communitarianism, but it doesn’t matter; any time one brings up alternatives to capitalism, the strawman argument is that “look at China/Russia/Venezuela! (Not Cuba, they seem to be doing all right, ignore them) is that what you want?” And no, that’s not what anyone wants really. We want something like what existed all over the place before capitalists murdered people who took care of each other, and stole the Commons and made it into private property. So yeah, you want the land back? Fine by me. I just read that 95% of Texas is privately owned. Some try to be stewards, but they are landowners first, with the feudal connotation that implies. There’s a lot to talk about, I’m not sure my comment can encapsulate it as well as your post and poem have, but I am glad you wrote all this and I’ll be sharing it.
Joy Harjo wrote my favorite poem, Perhaps The World Ends Here. It’s my dearest bit of scripture, really. I love thinking about radical hospitality within the context of a theology of the table. Which is just another way to say a theology of sustenance. Your lovely poem captured the feel of it so well. Thanks for sharing it.
I love all of this. I originally picked this up, realized that I was operating at a deficit and didn't have anything to give the words, and then set it back down. I'm glad I came back to your words, and thank you for them.
As best as I can tell, the term "Irish Exit" is an Americanism that is basically some dicta applied to the only way I've ever known to leave a gathering. I don't think that it's derogatory? Either way, I'm like 1/32nd Irish so feel free to say "it's cool, I got an Irish-ish friend" and use it in good health.
I have a lot to say but i want to read the links and poems first and they are too small on my phone. But Irish exit isn't offensive. I'm Irish. We do that, sneak out with no goodbye My Italian side usually prevails... The Italian exit takes 3 hours because we hug EVERYBODY keep finding stuff to talk about at the stairs, the door, the driveway... More later. But great post. Thank you.
So beautiful that poem. Radical hospitality--and what a gift that is, alongside history that is so recent it makes my head spin. The celebration looked beautiful too, so many people sharing in that history, defying it. It makes me feel hopeful at the same time that I rage. So glad you shared all of this today.
You've probably seen these, but here are newspaper clippings of Métis Removal from Missoula by the Anaconda Standard and the Missoulian in July 1896. It's kind of hard to stomach - the verbiage was laced with blunt racism.
This writing was very beautiful, I wanted to comment when I first read it but I couldn't find words. Your poem brought me back to my mind from childhood, I had a long ride over country roads and I would just watch the woods go by mile after mile and wondering over and over to myself, "who made the trees?" It seemed just natural to my child mind, the radical hospitality of this life experience we are having on this earth, was just right there, to be seen and felt. And yet it was so easy to lose that awareness over time. Now, aging, it it easier again to feel it. I'm a cliche I guess.
Anyway, this writing/sharing - the sounds of the firewood gathering, your poem, the other poems, the way you explained the invisibility/silence regarding Métis cultural history in the US at least as compared with Canada. It was a radical hospitality to me and I thank you for it.
Regarding your intro re: IPD: I grew up on the east coast in the 70s and 80s and was thus taught the history of the Revolutionary War, colonists, and the Constitution up the wazoo. Native peoples were taught as well, but this consisted mostly of illustrations of their houses and clothing and all the "treaties" they signed. Maybe a 3 or 4 day series of lessons per year. Indigenous people were never a constant in my day-to-day consciousness; a lack of education is only one of the reasons for this but in the end I'm really the only one to blame because all the info is available. But here's the thing -- since I've been reading your writing, I do think of indigenous people every day. Every day. All the time. I think of actions and consequences, injustices and losses, and ways of knowing that as a White person I'll never fully understand. I can't get away from any of it. It's all in my face constantly now that I can see it. I spend a lot of time asking myself "How did I not know this?" Anyway, thank you Mr. Crabby Pants. Not that it's your job to open my eyes, but you did, and I'm very grateful.
Do you ever feel that any words you can come up with to respond to something are empty and pointless, and only actual in-person -- in fact, lifelong; in fact, generations-long -- radical hospitality, and generosity, would do? This is one of those times. And I wouldn't fight you over any of it.
Your poem is a beautiful question we should ask every day. And it distills all that you say here. Your ancestor article, as well. Your act is meaningful, and not only to you. People like to throw around the word “performative,” but most of what we take as normal is performative.
But focusing on the heart of this post: colonizers have fucked up a lot of things, but perhaps the worst, long-term, is hijacking the term “communism.” The Big C communists in China and Russia really fucked over the concept of a community helping those in need, didn’t it? Maybe the right term is communitarianism, but it doesn’t matter; any time one brings up alternatives to capitalism, the strawman argument is that “look at China/Russia/Venezuela! (Not Cuba, they seem to be doing all right, ignore them) is that what you want?” And no, that’s not what anyone wants really. We want something like what existed all over the place before capitalists murdered people who took care of each other, and stole the Commons and made it into private property. So yeah, you want the land back? Fine by me. I just read that 95% of Texas is privately owned. Some try to be stewards, but they are landowners first, with the feudal connotation that implies. There’s a lot to talk about, I’m not sure my comment can encapsulate it as well as your post and poem have, but I am glad you wrote all this and I’ll be sharing it.
Joy Harjo wrote my favorite poem, Perhaps The World Ends Here. It’s my dearest bit of scripture, really. I love thinking about radical hospitality within the context of a theology of the table. Which is just another way to say a theology of sustenance. Your lovely poem captured the feel of it so well. Thanks for sharing it.
I love all of this. I originally picked this up, realized that I was operating at a deficit and didn't have anything to give the words, and then set it back down. I'm glad I came back to your words, and thank you for them.
As best as I can tell, the term "Irish Exit" is an Americanism that is basically some dicta applied to the only way I've ever known to leave a gathering. I don't think that it's derogatory? Either way, I'm like 1/32nd Irish so feel free to say "it's cool, I got an Irish-ish friend" and use it in good health.
This is gorgeous Chris. And I might have yelped "Ooh look! It's Chris!" when I saw the photos online this morning ....
I have a lot to say but i want to read the links and poems first and they are too small on my phone. But Irish exit isn't offensive. I'm Irish. We do that, sneak out with no goodbye My Italian side usually prevails... The Italian exit takes 3 hours because we hug EVERYBODY keep finding stuff to talk about at the stairs, the door, the driveway... More later. But great post. Thank you.
So beautiful that poem. Radical hospitality--and what a gift that is, alongside history that is so recent it makes my head spin. The celebration looked beautiful too, so many people sharing in that history, defying it. It makes me feel hopeful at the same time that I rage. So glad you shared all of this today.
You've probably seen these, but here are newspaper clippings of Métis Removal from Missoula by the Anaconda Standard and the Missoulian in July 1896. It's kind of hard to stomach - the verbiage was laced with blunt racism.
https://www.newspapers.com/clip/97204156/forced-metis-removal-from-fort-missoula/
https://www.newspapers.com/clip/111200755/plains-mtis-removal/
https://www.newspapers.com/clip/99071402/metis-removal-missoula-area/
This writing was very beautiful, I wanted to comment when I first read it but I couldn't find words. Your poem brought me back to my mind from childhood, I had a long ride over country roads and I would just watch the woods go by mile after mile and wondering over and over to myself, "who made the trees?" It seemed just natural to my child mind, the radical hospitality of this life experience we are having on this earth, was just right there, to be seen and felt. And yet it was so easy to lose that awareness over time. Now, aging, it it easier again to feel it. I'm a cliche I guess.
Anyway, this writing/sharing - the sounds of the firewood gathering, your poem, the other poems, the way you explained the invisibility/silence regarding Métis cultural history in the US at least as compared with Canada. It was a radical hospitality to me and I thank you for it.
Regarding your intro re: IPD: I grew up on the east coast in the 70s and 80s and was thus taught the history of the Revolutionary War, colonists, and the Constitution up the wazoo. Native peoples were taught as well, but this consisted mostly of illustrations of their houses and clothing and all the "treaties" they signed. Maybe a 3 or 4 day series of lessons per year. Indigenous people were never a constant in my day-to-day consciousness; a lack of education is only one of the reasons for this but in the end I'm really the only one to blame because all the info is available. But here's the thing -- since I've been reading your writing, I do think of indigenous people every day. Every day. All the time. I think of actions and consequences, injustices and losses, and ways of knowing that as a White person I'll never fully understand. I can't get away from any of it. It's all in my face constantly now that I can see it. I spend a lot of time asking myself "How did I not know this?" Anyway, thank you Mr. Crabby Pants. Not that it's your job to open my eyes, but you did, and I'm very grateful.
good poem, chris.
thanks.