When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through (Part 1)

Source of book: I own this. 

 

First, an introduction to this collection. When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through is a Norton anthology of Native Nations poetry, edited by Joy Harjo. This was one of my purchases with my “mad money,” aka credit card rewards. Although I have lucked out and found a lot of good poetry used at library sales, there are some that have been stubbornly difficult to find at a reasonable price. This book was one of those, so I just went ahead and ordered a new paperback edition. 

The book is divided into five sections, each representing a geographical area of the United States. Within each section, the poems selected are arranged in the chronological order of the poet’s birth. In some cases, these works date to the Colonial era. Most are written in English, but some are in both English and an Indigenous language, either with a translator (in the case of the older ones) or by the author (the usual case with modern poems.) 

 

As is my practice, I am reading one section at a time, rather than trying to experience over 400 pages all at once. I will return to this book from time to time, and blog about each section in turn. The first section is “Northeast and Midwest,” which is pretty self explanatory. I won’t attempt to list all the tribes represented here, but will make a note of the affiliation of the poets I quote. Of necessity (and copyright law), I will not be quoting the entire section, so there will be omissions. I do strongly encourage my poetry-loving readers to buy this book - it is full of goodness and an important part of the American poetic tradition. 

 

***

 

Next up, I thought I might give a little of my own background. I have no known Native American ancestors (although, since one branch of the family has an unknown father, it is possible, I suppose). I make no claim whatsoever to being Native American. That said, I have ongoing connections with a few tribes, and my experiences have given me an appreciation for the rich traditions and culture of our indigenous peoples. 

 

First, during my teens and early twenties, I was involved with a number of volunteer trips to the Navajo reservation. For the most part, these trips were focused on empowering local pastors in their work, through construction of buildings, and distribution of food and clothing. For the most part, our role was not to be the “white saviors” but to give the Navajo pastors the support and resources that they could use to assist their communities. As a result of this, I got to meet and talk with one of the Navajo Code Talkers (since passed on) as well as a number of leaders, musicians, preachers, teens, and kids. I ate fry bread and mutton stew, played tag in the scrub, lived through a crazy thunderstorm, and jammed along with Brush Arbor (not the more famous one, but a group of middle aged guys having fun and making good music.) While I struggle with the colonialist underpinnings of missionary work, I do not regret this part of my youth. I learned a lot, and I still appreciate the “we are here to support you, not tell you what to do” ethos of the work we did. 

 

More recently, I have represented a few Indian Tribes (using the legal term there) in Juvenile Dependency proceedings under the Indian Child Welfare Act for the last 19 years. Working with the Tribes to keep Indian Families (the legal term, again) together. It has been really eye-opening to see how our systems are ill equipped to deal constructively with poverty and addiction, particularly when families are non-white. Working with Native Americans who are doing great work as social workers, addiction counselors, lawyers, judges, and more has been an honor. 

 

Finally, over the last ten years, I have taken the kids to various cultural sites as part of our exploration of national and state parks. I want them to understand the incredible civilization that existed here before colonialists destroyed it, and appreciate the universal human values that tie us to all humanity. 

 

***

 

As one might expect from any poetry collection, the poems cover a range of topics. That said, there are two themes that ran through this section. One is the history of genocide, violence, and continued oppression against Native Americans. This is no surprise, of course. Poetry has always been political, and the “lament” as an art form dates back to the dawn of human history. In my own religious tradition, a shocking number of the Psalms are songs of lament, expressing sorrow, pain, and outrage at the injustice of exile, oppression, and genocide. 

 

The second theme is the connection of indigenous peoples to their land, to their history and heritage, and their resilience in the face of hardship. These poems are often sublime and resonate far beyond any one culture. 

 

The first poem I want to quote is still the one I love the best. It isn’t in any one section, but is the invocation that opens the book. It is now one of my all-time favorite poems. 

 

Prayer for Words

By M. Scott Momaday (Kiowa) 

 

My voice restore for me. — NAVAJO

 

Here is the wind bending the reeds westward,

The patchwork of morning on gray moraine;

 

Had I words I could tell of origin,

Of God’s hands bloody with birth at first light,

Of my thin squeals in the heart of his breath,

Of the taste of being, the bitterness,

And scents of camasroot and chokecherries.

 

And, God, if my mute heart expresses me,

I am the rolling thunder and the bursts

Of torrents upon rock, the whispering

Of old leaves, the silence of deep canyons.

I am the rattle of mortality.

 

I could tell of the splintered sun. I could

Articulate the night sky, had I words.

 

That’s just such a great poem, from the opening image of wind, reeds, morning, and glacial remnants; through the picture of God birthing us, the “taste of being,” the link to plants rooted in earth; to the splintered sun and unspeakable night sky. I feel I have lived this poem in my own way, standing on the bones of the earth in the mountains, watching the parade of the stars, and yearning for a connection to the divine. 

 

Each section is introduced with an essay, but Joy Harjo starts the whole book off (after the invocation) with a tour-de-force. I’ll just quote a bit, but the whole thing was fantastic. 

 

We begin with the land. We emerge from the earth of our mother, and our bodies will be returned to earth. We are the land. We cannot own it, no matter any proclamations by paper state. We are literally the land, a planet. Our spirits inhabit this place. We are not the only ones. We are creators of this place with each other. We mark our existence with our creations. It is poetry that holds the songs of becoming, of change, of dreaming, and it is poetry we turn to when we travel those places of transformation, like birth, coming of age, marriage, accomplishments, and death. We sing our children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren: our human experience in time, into and through existence. 

 

I wish I could quote more, as Harjo goes on to point out that Native Americans are still an afterthought in their own land, because their very existence “means that the mythic storyline of the founding of this country is inaccurate.” Native Americans were wrongly considered to be “savages” because, among other things, theirs was an oral more than a written poetic tradition. As if that were a meaningful moral distinction. 

 

The last page of the essay makes a crucial and often forgotten point: Until the American Indian Religious Freedom Act was passed in 1978 - during my lifetime! - Native American religious, ceremonial, and cultural rites were largely illegal. That is shameful in any country, but particularly in one supposedly devoted to religious freedom. 

 

Moving along to the main body of poems, I thought I would start with a song so old that it has no known author. The song was sung by Gegwejiwebinan, an Ojibwe singer, and recorded by ethnologist Frances Densmore sometime between 1907 and 1909. Densmore then had local interpreters translate the song. In the book, the original in both Ojibwe and English from Densmore’s book is printed followed by a contemporary transliteration of the Ojibwe and a more modern literal translation of the lyric. The differences are fascinating. In the case of the Ojibwe, the breaks between words are different, and the phonetical sounds are interpreted slightly differently. The English too is somewhat different. As always, translation isn’t a science - it is truly an art, and multiple translations can be “true” even though they differ. Here are the English ones:

 

The Water Birds Will Alight

 

[Densmore version - translated by Mary Warren English]

 

Surely

Upon the whole length of my form

The water birds will alight

 

[Literal translation by Margaret Noodin]

 

It is certain they land on me the thunderbirds across my existence

 

Two very different takes on a song. 

 

Margaret Noodin also translates a poem by Jane Johnston Schoolcraft (Bamewawage Zhikaquay, Ojibwe) from the early 1800s. Schoolcraft wrote both English and Ojibwe versions of her poems, with the English ones taking on the typical form of 19th Century English poetry, and are very different from the Ojibwe versions. (This is similar to what Rabindranath Tagore did with Gitanjali) This book prints the Ojibwe version, followed by Noodin’s literalist translation, followed by Schoolcraft’s English versions. 

 

To the Pine Tree

 

[Ojibwe version and Noodin translation]

 

Zhingwaak! Zhingwaak! Ingii-ikid, – Pine! Pine! I said,

Weshki waabamag zhingwaak – The one I see, the pine

Dagoshinaan neyab, endanakiiyaan. – I return back, to my homeland.

Zhingwaak, zhingwaak nos sa! – The pine, the pine my father!

 

Azhigwa gidatisaanan – Already you are colored

Gaagige wezhaawashkozid. – Forever you are green

Mii sa naa azhigwa dagoshinaang – So we already have arrived

Bizindamig ikeyaamban – Listen in that direction

Geget sa, niminwendam – Certainly I am happy

Miinwaa, waabandamaan – And I see

Gii-ayaad awiiya waabandamaan niin – He was there I saw it myself

Zhingwaak, zhingwaak nos sa! – The pine, the pine my father!

Azhigwa gidatisaanan. – Already you are colored.

 

Gaawiin gego, gaa-waabanda’iyan – Nothing, you did show me

Dibishkoo, ezhi-naagwasiinoon – Like that, the way it looks

Zhingwaak wezhaawashkozid – Pine he is green.

Wiin eta gwanaajiwi wi – He is beautiful

Gaagige wezhaawashkozid. – Forever he is the green one.

 

[English version by Schoolcraft]

 

The pine! the pine! I eager cried,

The pine, my father! see it stand,

As first that cherished tree I spied,

Returning to my native land.

The pine! the pine! oh lovely scene!

The pine, that is forever green.

 

Ah beauteous tree! ah happy sight!

That greets me on my native strand

And hails me, with a friend’s delight,

To my own dear bright mother land

Oh ‘tis to me a heart-sweet scene,

The pine—the pine! that’s ever green.

 

Not all the trees of England bright,

Not Erin’s lawns of green and light

Are half so sweet to memory’s eye,

As this dear type of northern sky

Oh ‘tis to me a heart-sweet scene,

The pine—the pine! that ever green.

 

Again, the feel is very different. Whether to prefer Schoolcraft’s own translation or a more literal one is a matter of taste, perhaps. One wonders what Schoolcraft might have done in a later era, when English verse wasn’t as constrained by form. 

 

Another poem on nature that I really loved is by Emily Pauline Johnson (Mohawk) who was both a poet and a popular performer who gave shows in which she addressed the stereotypes of Native and European women, back in the late 1800s and early 1990s. 

 

Marshlands

 

A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,

And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.

 

The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,

Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold.

 

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,

In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

 

The wild goose, homing, seeks a sheltering,

Where rushes grow, and oozing lichens cling.

 

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,

Sail up the silence with the nearing night.

 

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,

Steals twilight and its shadows o’er the swale.

 

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapours creep,

Thick, grey and humid, while the marshes sleep.

 

Next, I want to mention a couple poems that I really loved, but are too long to quote. And also, one is formatted in a way that is difficult to duplicate on Blogger’s platform. Peter Blue Cloud (Mohawk) was quite the artist, working in poetry, painting, sculpture, and carpentry. And that was just what he did on weekends, working as a steelworker, logger, ironworker, ranch hand, and archaeological field worker. That’s quite a life. “The Old Man’s Lazy” is a truly great takedown of the “lazy Indian” stereotype. (It also works well for the “lazy Negro” trope too…) In particular, the “why don’t you fix your fence” thing is awesome. After all, it was the white guy obsessed with finding gold that put up the damn fence…I can’t find a link to this poem, but it’s a good one.

 

The other poem is “Rattle,” and has two parallel poems in opposing columns, as if they were to be sung together. Again, I really wish I could find a version to link. I could definitely see getting some of Blue Cloud’s poetry by itself, as I enjoyed both selections here. 

 

Another modern poem that I liked is by Jim Northrup (Anishinaabe). I was familiar with his name from his plays, although I don’t think I have read one. They most have been mentioned in a literature book from high school or something. 

 

Shrinking Away

 

Survived the war but

was having trouble

surviving the peace

Couldn’t sleep more than two hours

was scared to be without a gun

nightmares, daymares

guilt and remorse

wanted to stay drunk all the time

1966 and the VA said

Vietnam wasn’t a war

They couldn’t help

but did give me a copy

of the yellow pages

picked a shrink off the list

50 bucks an hour

I was making 125 a week

We spent six sessions

establishing rapport

Heard about his military life

his homosexuality

his fights with his mother

and anything else he

wanted to talk about

At this rate, we would have

got to me in 1999

Gave up on that shrink

couldn’t afford him

wasn’t doing me any good

Six weeks later my shrink

killed himself—great

Not only guilt about the war

but new guilt about my dead shrink

If only I had a better job

I could have kept on seeing him

I thought we were making real progress

maybe in another six sessions

I could have helped him

That’s when I realized that

surviving the peace was up to me

 

That’s one wicked bit of satire. 

 

One thing I like about this collection is that it has a good balance of male and female poets - it definitely isn’t the androcentric European norm, to say the least. In the case of the next poet, Chrystos (Menominee), she is a “two-spirit,” which I think is a term that is useful in understanding gender and sexual minorities. This poem of hers is perceptive and disquieting. 

 

The Real Indian Leans Against

 

the pink neon lit window full of plaster of paris

& resin Indians in beadwork for days with fur trim

turkey feathers dyed to look like eagles

abalone & bones

The fake Indians, if mechanically activated

would look better at the Pow Wow than the real one in plain jeans

For Sale       For Sale

with no price tag

One holds a bunch of Cuban rolled cigars

one has a solid red bonnet & bulging eyes ready for war

Another has a headdress from hell

with painted feathers on bird on earth 

would be caught dead in

All around them are plastic inflatable

hot pink palm trees     grinning skulls

shepherd beer steins     chuckling checkbooks

black rhinestone cats

& a blond blow up fuck me doll for horny men

who want a hole that will never talk back

There are certainly more fake Indians

than real ones but this is the u.s.a.

What else can you expect from the land of sell

your grandma      sell our land      sell your ass

You too could have a fake Indian in your parlor

who never talks back

Fly in the face of it

I want a plastic white man

I can blow up again & again

I want turkeys to keep their feathers

& the non-feathered variety to shut up

I want to bury these Indians dressed like cartoons

of our long dead

I want to live

somewhere 

where nobody is sold

 

Another one I had hoped to link, but decided it was too long is “Sweetgrass is Around Her” by Salli M. Kawennotakie Benedict (Awkwesasne Mohawk), a loving tribute to the poet’s great aunt, who wove baskets. I did find a screen shot from another publication, if you want to read it. 

 

I decided I did want to quote this entire poem, even if it is a bit long. Kimberly Laeser (Anishinaabe) served as the Wisconsin Poet Laureate a few years back, and has a rather impressive resume as a writer and teacher. This poem may have my favorite line in the book - it’s brilliant. 

 

Apprenticed to Justice

 

The weight of ashes

from burned-out camps.

Lodges smoulder in fire,

animal hides wither

their mythic images shrinking

pulling in on themselves,

all incinerated

fragments

of breath bone and basket 

rest heavy

sink deep

like wintering frogs.

And no dustbowl wind

can lift

this history

of loss.

 

Now fertilized by generations—

ashes upon ashes,

this old earth erupts.

Medicine voices rise like mists

white buffalo memories

teeth marks on birch bark 

forgotten forms

tremble into wholeness.

 

And the grey weathered stumps,

trees and treaties

cut down

trampled for wealth.

Flat Potlatch plateaus

of ghost forests

raked by bears

soften rot inward

until tiny arrows of green

sprout

rise erect

rootfed

from each crumbling center.

 

Some will never laugh

as easily.

Will hide knives

silver as fish in their boots,

hoard names

as if they could be stolen

as easily as land,

will paper their walls

with maps and broken promises,

scar their flesh

with this badge

heavy as ashes.

 

And this is a poem

for those

apprenticed

from birth.

In the womb

of your mother nation

heartbeats

sound like drums

drums like thunder

thunder like twelve thousand

walking

then ten thousand

then eight

walking away

from stolen homes

from burned out camps

from relatives fallen

as they walked

then crawled

then fell.

 

This is the woodpecker sound

of an old retreat.

It becomes an echo.

an accounting

to be reconciled.

This is the sound

of trees falling in the woods

when they are heard,

of red nations falling

when they are remembered.

This is the sound

we hear

when fist meets flesh

when bullets pop against chests

when memories rattle hollow in stomachs.   

 

And we turn this sound

over and over again

until it becomes

fertile ground

from which we will build

new nations

upon the ashes of our ancestors.

Until it becomes

the rattle of a new revolution

these fingers

drumming on keys.

 

In particular, “And the grey weathered stumps / trees and treaties / cut down / trampled for wealth” is amazing. The exploitation of human beings and the natural world to enrich a few nasty old men is unfortunately the story of the Western Hemisphere. 

 

There is one more nature poem that I wanted to quote. This one is by James Thomas Stevens (Akwesasne Mohawk). 

 

Tonawanda Swamps

 

As it would for a prow, the basin parts with your foot.

Never a marsh, of heron blue

                                                  but the single red feather

from the wing of some black bird, somewhere

a planked path winds above water,

the line of sky above this aching space.

 

Movement against the surface

is the page that accepts no ink.

A line running even

over the alternating depths, organisms, algae,

a rotting leaf.

 

Walk naked before me

carrying a sheaf of sticks.

It's the most honest thing a man can do.

 

As water would to accept you,

I part

a mouth, a marsh, or margin

is of containment,

the inside circuitous edge.

 

No line to follow out to ocean,

no river against an envelope

of trembling white ships.

Here I am landlock.

Give me your hand. 

 

I’ll end this post with one by Kimberly Wensaut. I liked the poem, of course, but I also wanted to highlight Wensaut because she is Potawatomi, one of the tribes that I have worked for. It is always nice when personal and professional combine in a good way (often it is the reverse, alas...that’s the life of a professional). I like this poem because of its great storytelling, its precise and imaginative use of the language, and for the perceptive linking of related words: “Prodigal, prodigious, prodigy.”

 

Prodigal Daughter

 

Once, when I came home

after sixty days on the road,

my mother said, Oh -

the prodigal daughter has returned.

 

Prodigal, prodigious, prodigy.

 

In my blood is a way of life.

Migration and distance bridge the gap

in our seasonal souls.

Winter camp, summer camp

kept those villages on the move.

 

Or maybe it is because 

no one remembered 

to save my cord at birth.

That sturdy life line

which delivered me whole

into this world, anchored me

to the generations. 

 

They used to do this. Kept it

in a finely beaded pouch

as one would keep a thing 

of immense worth. If this was not done,

they said the child would be foolish

or would always be searching.

 

Maybe it is the thunders

who breathed life into my body.

They are forever wanting

to lift me high and carry me away.

 

Once, I thought I could settle

into the arms of pine, hemlock,

spruce and icy river.

But this has not happened yet.

 

Home is elusive.

It shapeshifts with the currents

of my heart and its will.

Home is a trickster changing 

according to the medicine

of the season and its lesson.

 

I was weary, this last ride home.

Every fiber ready to surrender.

Sage and a small courage 

begged my continuance.

 

There is frost on my doorway,

and leaves unswept.

There are miles to dream 

before I meet the morning again. 

 

I see a lot of my own self in that poem. While I am in some ways anchored to my home, my family, my life; I am restless with curiosity. I have been unable to “settle,” so to speak. U2’s song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” is the theme song of my journey. “Home” in the metaphorical sense has been elusive to me for over a decade. I am not remotely welcome in the religious tradition I was raised in, because I refuse to bow to the political and cultural hate that dominates it now. I haven’t been truly accepted by my parents for a long time, unfortunately. (And for reasons related to that religion.) Finding my “tribe” so to speak has been an ongoing process. I miss the feeling of being “anchored” that I once had. But such is the price of intellectual, spiritual, and moral integrity sometimes. That last stanza intrigues me, because it seems to be a deliberate inversion of the last lines of Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Frost is entrapped by his promises, and thus has miles to go before he sleeps. Wensaut has the calling to wander, and thus has “miles to dream” before the morning calls her away again. 

 

I am glad that I purchased this collection. It fills a missing place in my poetry collection, and was a joy to read. I am looking forward to experiencing the poetry of the other geographical areas in time. As an American, I believe that being honest about our past - and our present - is crucial for healing and truly addressing the challenges we face. As they have been throughout history, our artists, particularly our poets, are our prophets. And, as always, it isn’t the prophets who speak comfort to the privileged who are telling the truth. This collection represents a small slice of the greater body of Indigenous Peoples poetry - a voice that desperately needs to be heard by all of us. 

 

The Haunted Hotel by Wilkie Collins

Source of book: I own this.

 

The Haunted Hotel is arguably the most obscure of Wilkie Collins’ novels. It is briefly mentioned as a “short novel” in Collins’ Wikipedia page, but doesn’t manage to make his bibliography, for reasons I do not understand, given that this one is at least in print, unlike, say, Jezebel’s Daughter. Like virtually all of Collins’ novels, this one is “sensational,” in that it deals with scandal and illegal behavior - in this case murder and insurance fraud. It is rather short, as far as his novels go. I happen to own a number of Wilkie Collins books, and figured this one would be a fun classic to start the year with. 

 I have read a number of Collins novels over the years, including Armadale, The Woman in White, and Blind Love. Since starting this blog, I have re-read a couple of my favorites, The Moonstone and No Name. (For what it is worth, No Name remains my favorite, because of its audacious and ruthless heroine.) This, somehow, the first new Collins book I have read in the last decade, which seems wrong. I guess I need to finish up the books I have of his. 

 

The Haunted Hotel is a bit different from the other books I have read by Collins, in that it has a true supernatural element, not merely a “supernatural” event that is later explained rationally. The hotel in question is indeed haunted, and the haunting is never explained as trickery or coincidence. 

 

With any Collins novel, it is inadvisable to spoil the plot, as a lot of his charm is the way he carefully sets up the story so that the ending is (one hopes) a revelation. These days, with 150 years of detective stories (The Moonstone was the first detective novel), we are, fortunately or unfortunately, much better at solving these things in advance, so this one probably will not be a complete surprise. However, the way the characters (who lack all the facts) figure out the truth is well done. 

 

The book opens with a weird scene: a woman demands to see a certain renowned doctor, and proceeds to ask if she is going crazy. She intends to marry a man whom she has kind of, sort of, stolen from an innocent and naive woman he was engaged to, and is now terrified that karma will destroy her. After this bizarre introduction to the Countess Narona, the doctor exits the scene, and things get even weirder. 

 

Narona marries Lord Montberry, to the horror of his family, then honeymoons in Venice. Lord Montberry contracts bronchitis and dies, as confirmed by a doctor and the inquest. More mysteriously, the Italian valet disappears without a trace, and his English wife is sent a check for a thousand pounds out of the blue, with a note saying “to compensate for the loss of your husband.” After this, Narona departs for America with her mysterious chemist (and gambler) brother, but not before cashing in the life insurance, and telling the jilted woman, Agnes, that they will meet again, probably in Venice, and it will be for the last time. 

 

Oh, and it gets more convoluted. One of Lord Montberry’s brothers is an investor in the renovation of a palace in Venice - they are turning it into a hotel for fashionable tourists. That palace? It happens to be the very place Lord Montberry was staying when he died. (Hey, coincidence is a Collins thing…) 

 

Sometime later, Lord Montberry’s nephew falls in love with a young woman, they marry, and end up agreeing to meet the rest of the family part way through the honeymoon...and all of them will stay at the newly opened hotel. How convenient! The hotel gets filled at its opening, the family gets a destination vacation, and...well, things start going wrong. The various members of Lord Montberry’s family find that when they stay in the room Lord Montberry died in, they are, well, haunted. 

 

So what did happen to Montberry and the valet? Why is Narona going crazy now that her brother has died? Will the faithful Henry will the heart of the betrayed Agnes? Okay, we all know the guy gets the girl. 

 

The short length of the book means that the usual twists and turns and details from Collins’ longer books simply aren’t there. The mystery isn’t as deep, we don’t get to know the characters as well, and there are fewer of them. It’s longer than a short story, but not by that much. Which is fine: it’s a good yarn, although not as rich as Collins’ longer books. 

 

The Countess is a good character, a solid example of a woman who destroys herself while calling it “fate.” As we eventually learn (and this is only sort of a spoiler, honestly), she has chosen to sacrifice herself for her worthless brother, kind of on the “women sacrifice for men” bullshit of the era. You know, better she marries for money than he marry a Jew. (Yeah, ouch. The Victorian Era. Although clearly Collins isn’t approving of Narona’s choice, he seems to assume the reader would recoil from the Jewish option.) So, I would say the book was diverting, but not Collins’ best work. 

 

I’ll mention a line I liked, at least, just for its own sake.

 

There was a time when a man in search of the pleasures of gossip sought the society of ladies. The man knows better now. Ne goes to the smoking-room of his club.

 

This is true. Our culture loves to talk as if gossip were a female thing. And women can and do gossip. (Often with “the Lord laid it on my heart” or “we really should pray about Jane.”) But men are even worse. And I believe that is the truth. 

 

For those who haven’t discovered Wilkie Collins, he is a lot of fun. His best works are thrilling for their suspense, for their intricate plots, and for his ability to ratchet up the drama in a way that shocked (and thrilled) his Victorian readership. This book isn’t where I would start, although its short length makes it a potential gateway drug. 

It's All Relative by A. J. Jacobs

 Source of book: Borrowed from the library

 

Interspersed with the more serious books I read, I try to keep some lighter fare on my nightstand to balance things out. Plus, my kids can sometimes enjoy this sort of book and we can talk about it. 

 It’s All Relative isn’t fluff, to be sure. Rather, it is a non-fiction account of the author’s exploration of genealogy, his acquaintance with people who are trying to put together the family tree for all humans, and a giant “family reunion” he held based on the truth that we are all related. By “we,” Jacobs mostly means “homo sapiens,” but with the clear understanding that all life is related. 

 

Jacobs’ reunion project and the book are in significant part driven by his desire to see the concept of “we’re family” broadened beyond the immediate tribe. It is hard to blame him for this. The last couple of decades have seen the rise of nasty tribalist movements determined to dehumanise and persecute those humans who are less like us than was prefer. To push back against that is a noble cause, supported by science, empathy, and humanism. It is also thoroughly Christian, although not exclusively so - Jacobs is a secular Jew, and my experience has been (unfortunately) that “Christian” in modern America has nothing to do with Christ’s teachings and everything to do with fear and hatred toward outsiders. 

 

The book isn’t a bunch of serious philosophy, though, but rather a collection of humorous stories about Jacobs’ planning of the reunion, the people he meets, and a bunch of fun rabbit trails along the way. He writes in a breezy and self-deprecating manner which makes the book fun and compelling. Because the book goes all over the place, a summary beyond that is pointless. It is best experienced, not described. 

 

There are plenty of great lines along the way, and, as usual, I made a few notes….

 

First up is an observation about who our family is, if we truly embrace humankind as related, an epiphany when he starts exploring online genealogy sites. 

 

Here I am, sitting in my home office in New York City, subjected to endless Internet headlines about our world’s seeming descent into disaster - wars, racism - and up pops this startling news about how I’m connected to thousands of other humans across the globe. These newfound cousins would likely come in all shapes, sizes, and ethnic backgrounds: tall cousins and short cousins, white cousins and black cousins, carnivorous cousins and vegan cousins, gay cousins and straight cousins, cilantro-loving cousins and cousins who believe cilantro tastes like Satan’s unwashed tube socks. 

 

I particularly included this quote for my, um, “cousin” Sara, who does not like cilantro. (I’m the cilantro-loving cousin, by the way…) 

 

Next up, this observation from when Jacobs attends the Eighty-Fifth annual Lilly Family Reunion in West Virginia. (The current Guinness record holder for reunion size.) 

 

I pass an exit that features two signs, one for Southern X-Posure Gentleman’s Club and one for Appalachian Bible College. Highly efficient: You can sin and repent at the same exit. 

 

This reminded me a lot about our trip to western Texas in 2019. Here are my own observations at that time: 

 

We chose the route through El Paso to get to Carlsbad. The way they are coloring the overpasses terracotta and turquoise is quite nice. My kids noticed a few things about Texas which is pretty much a microcosm of its excesses: The number of gigantic megachurches that likely cost mid to high eight figures to build and the number of aggressively anti-abortion and fundamentalist billboards are only surpassed by the fireworks and gun shops - and the dozens of strip clubs. In other words, Bakersfield but bigger and louder. 

 

It does not seem accidental that the more aggressively religious a place is, the more the strip clubs thrive. 

 

Jacobs can’t resist poking a little fun at the Lilly clan - they pretty much give him all the hillbilly jokes first anyway. And the nicknames. They sell T-shirts with the nicknames of legendary Lillys from the past. However, the one that cracked me up the most was this line. 

 

Many of the Lilly men sport big beards, suspenders, flannel shirts, and trucker hats. Give them a glass of absinthe and a Zadie Smith novel and they could pass for hipsters in Brooklyn.

 

I laughed long at that one. Speaking of reunions, he also attended Twin Days - he has twins, after all. The theme that year was “Twinstock,” so hippie stuff everywhere. 

 

We buy Lucas and Zane tie-dyed “Twins Days” T-Shirts, which they put on right then and there. 

“Peace, dude!” Zane says, and holds up his fingers in a peace sign.

“Peace back at you, dude!” Lucas says, and holds up his fingers in a peace sign. 

Then they begin to poke each other in the face with their peace signs. Sort of Three Stooges meets Haight-Ashbury. I’m impressed that they can take an age-old symbol for peace and somehow turn it violent. Love and conflict - an excellent summary of family. 

 

That would totally be my kids. On a more serious note, Jacobs gets genetics professor George Church to speak at the reunion. Church opines that while the reunion is a fun idea, it will take more to actually unite humanity. 

 

He also told me that if we really want to unite the world, we should take advantage of human tribalism and have us all come together to fight a common enemy. In other words, if I can threaten an alien invasion, that would help.

 

Alas, not even Covid seems to have done that. Sigh. Also on point is a paraphrase from Richard Dawkins. 

 

In his book, The Ancestor’s Tale, Richard Dawkins talks about the “tyranny of the discontinuous mind.” What he’s saying is that reality often lacks hard boundaries. Species blend into one another, as do the differences we interpret as races. The world does not consist of tidy cubbyholes. Almost everything is on a continuum. It’s not only incorrect to reject the nuanced view of the world; it’s dangerous. It can lead to racism and fundamentalism, to us-versus-them thinking. 

 

Um, hello there White Evangelicalism and Donald Trump…

My journey away from Evangelicalism was driven in significant part by their refusal to embrace a nuanced view of the world. EVERYTHING had to be us versus them, black and white, good and evil. And Dawkins is right that that kind of thinking leads to nasty consequences. 

 

Oh, and Jacobs interviews the late Barbara and George H. W. Bush. Who are, as always, gracious. Jacobs makes an astute observation:

 

I’m a Democrat, as is legally mandated for those who live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, but I’m also a fan of the elder Bush (who, by the way, seems like a free-love Trotskyite compared with today’s Republicans.) 

 

Yep. Pretty much. The era of reasonable and non-reactionary Republicans appears to be over. Also nice is the Bushs’ response to the usual question of “what’s the secret to your long and happy marriage?” 

 

Mrs. Bush answers: “I think you ought to treat your spouse like you treat your friends.” 

 

That is so true. In my experience as a divorce attorney, I can say that I would have a lot less business if spouses simply treated each other with the same kindness, courtesy, and decency they treat their friends. On a related note, if people treated their friends like many do their spouses, well, they wouldn’t have friends for very long. (I have seen this too, actually…) 

 

I found that I agreed with Jacobs on a number of unexpected things too. He isn’t particularly hung up on burials and funerals. 

 

When my kids are a bit older, I plan to tell them that I don’t particularly care what happens to my body after I die. If they want to save money, they can bury me in an IKEA dresser or keep my ashes in a Ziploc bag under the sink. Doesn’t matter to me. 

What I would love, though, is if, every once in a while, they could look at a photo of our family playing Marco Polo, or read a letter I wrote to them at camp, or watch a video of our family attempting and failing to play a didgeridoo. 

 

And that really is the way I feel. My body can return to the stardust from whence it came. Keep my memory alive in your hearts. Know that I loved you. 

 

Another thing that I noted with approval is the chapter on privacy. “Do we have more privacy now than our ancestors had?” The answer, of course, is “yes.” In recent history, believe it or not, if you were anybody at all, the freaking newspapers would print that you were hospitalized and what the diagnosis was. (Ah yes, that’s why HIPAA exists…) Busybodies ruled the world. Jacobs was shocked when he researched his ancestors and found all kinds of embarrassing and private stuff on the public record. But that’s how it was. Google may know a lot about me, but my neighbors aren’t constantly up in my business. 

 

And another one: ancestry is a double-edged sword. Back in the day, it was mostly used by the aristocracy in their “hand” measuring contests. And now, while it connects people to each other and their ancestors, it is also wielded by white supremacists, who even use DNA testing to show just how “white” they are. Yuck. Jacobs again makes an astute observation. 

 

This conundrum reminds me of the Internet as a whole. It’s an open question whether, in the end, the connectedness offered by the Internet will be good or bad for society. The comedian Kumail Nanjiani is on the pessimistic side. He recently wrote this assessment of the Internet: “Hope: Internet will allow people from different backgrounds to communicate and understand one another. Reality: All the racists found each other!”

 

Yes to both. For many of us, it HAS enabled us to be and stay connected with people from different backgrounds. My own experience of social media has been one of connections made, in some cases around the world, and has helped me to get useful feedback on my blind spots as a white American. On the other hands, good lord, all my racist acquaintances and family have “come out” so to speak. 

 

I’ll end with a couple of people who contributed good things to the project. First up is Cass Sunstein, an actual close relative of Jacobs. Sunstein shares the goal of using the reality of human relatedness to further the goal of human harmony. Sunstein has long been one of my favorite legal writers, so it was nice to see his name here. 

 

Second was Henry Louis Gates, who actually spoke at the reunion. Jacobs gives a brief quote, which is a good way to end this post. 

 

Every schoolboy and schoolgirl now knows that we descended from a small group of people in Africa. From Mitochondrial Eve and Y-Chromosomal Adam. But it’s one thing to know it. It’s another to see it demonstrated fifty thousand years later. Despite all our differences - differences in geographical origin, skin color, hair texture, nose structure - despite all these differences, we are all related. We are all cousins, whether we like it or not. 

 

We are indeed. Some of y’all need to go stand in the corner until you are done with your tantrum and ready to stop hitting your other cousins. Just saying. 

 

Christmas Books and Music 2020

For eight of the nine years since I started this blog, I have made a short post about the books (and sometimes music) I received as gifts for Christmas. (And in this case, also the used books I found in my post-Christmas shopping.) In addition to being fun, it also serves as a teaser for the reviews to be written in the upcoming year. As usual, I try to link the reviews to these posts as I write them.

 

Here are the past editions:

 

2011

2013

2014

2015

2016

2017

2018

2019

 

***

 

Here are the books from this year:

The Luck of the Bodkins by P. G. Wodehouse

Anytime you discover a Wodehouse book you hadn’t heard of is a good time. My wife found a used paperback of this lesser-known novel from the 1930s for me. A quick bit of research reveals that it has a sequel written some 37 years later, but can essentially be considered a stand-alone book. This version is the Penguin edition, so I am not certain whether it duplicates the British or American version - the names and plot are the same, but there are some differences, it appears. Whatever the case, I expect to enjoy this one.

The World of Uncle Fred by P. G. Wodehouse

 Speaking of Wodehouse….this is another book my wife found for me. This is a hardback book that collects all of the “Uncle Fred” books Wodehouse wrote. Uncle Fred is, of course, Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, the fifth Earl of Ickenham. Who has all the good sense of mischievous young boy, the energy of a teen, and the good humor necessary to survive the ire of those affected by his schemes. If you want to read my posts on the Uncle Fred books, see Uncle Fred in the Springtime, Uncle Dynamite, and Cocktail Time. This book also includes the short story, “Uncle Fred Flits By,” the only one I haven’t read. Older used books are also fun because the occasionally contain some history. This one, published in 1983, has the following inscription:

 

Michael

From the Metzners in London. And especially from me in remembrance of our splendid trip in Europe 1982. 

As you know, Wodehouse is the greatest author of all time, excepting Homer.

Yours etc. etc.

 

It is hard to know for sure whether or not this book has been read, but I do hope Michael enjoyed this book 30 some odd years ago. 

 

3. TheReal Story of Ah-Q and Other Tales of China, The Complete Fiction of Lu Xun

 My wife’s sister and brother-in-law always seem to find unusual and fascinating presents for all of us. I suspect the ones for me are mostly from her brother-in-law, as he is the one who is most eager to tell me about the books he finds. Lu Xun is considered one of the founding figures of modern Chinese literature, writing mostly about the late imperial period of China. I am definitely looking forward to reading this one. 

 

4. Monkey Bridges and Bahn Mi Sandwiches by Oanh Ngo Usadi

Another one from my wife’s sister and brother-in-law. This is a nonfiction memoir of a woman who fled Vietnam as one of the boat refugees. I love good autobiographical writing, and this one appears to be humorous as well as poignant. 

 

5. The Dreamt Land by Mark Arax

Also great at finding books for me are my wife’s brother and sister-in-law. (She does come from a family of readers.) I have had this book on my library reading list ever since the author did an interview on NPR. California is at a crossroads of sorts, trying to become sustainable in the face of climate change (which affects us FAR more than flyover states at this point), increasing drought, and hostility from white America. This book looks at California’s past and future through the lens of the water issues crucial to our existence. 

 

6. Bear In The Backseat by Kim DeLozier & Carolyn Jourdan

This one is from my friends Peter and Patty, and is a set of essays written by a National Park Ranger about true stories involving wildlife...including tourists lacking common sense. Definitely my sort of book. 

 

7. Wagnerism: Art and Politics in the Shadow of Music by Alex Ross

Oooo! Alex Ross. One of my all-time favorite non-fiction books is Alex Ross’ work on 20th Century music, The Rest is Noise. (I read it before I started the blog, but you can read my review of Listen to This, which is also good.) I will literally read anything by Alex Ross. So, a 750 page work on Wagner and Politics? Be still my heart! My wife knows me all too well.

 

8. The Possessed by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

 

This book is also translated as “Demons” or “The Devils,” but this is the title on the hardback box Heritage Press edition that my wife found used. The translation is the venerable Constance Garnett one. I think this is the last of Dostoyevsky’s best known works that I didn’t have in hardback. It has been, however, far too long (over a decade) since I read one of his books, so I resolve to remedy that this year. 

 

9. Walden Two by B. F. Skinner

I’m not sure if my friends Peter and Patty intended this to be a Christmas present, or just a “what the heck” gift just because. But I’ll count it here. I decided I need to read all of Walden first, as I just read excerpts in high school. But this more modern look at Utopia - the idealism we need to make positive changes in society - should be interesting. 

 

10. Walden (and other works) by Henry David Thoreau

As usual, if I had the chance to do a little used book shopping around Christmas, I figured I would mention those books in this post. To go with Walden Two, I realized I needed a copy of Walden, to read first. (See above.) I found an inexpensive used hardback Library of America copy of it (along with A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, The Maine Woods, and Cape Cod in the volume) and ordered it for my growing LoA collection. 

 

11. Big Sur (and other works) by Jack Kerouac

This one has a bit of a story. I am part of a book club that has been going for ten years - I have been part for the last three - and we decided that some of us will revisit the very first book selection, Big Sur, by Jack Kerouac. While I have a LoA hardback of the “road novels;” including The Dharma Bums, which is the one I have read, enjoyed, and even took a hike described in it; that volume does not include Big Sur. In looking for a copy, I found that buying it as a stand-alone hardback cost as much or more than getting a used LoA boxed copy, which also includes Visions of Cody, and Visions of Gerard. This should be interesting. 

 

***

 

A bit of music too: 

 My wife’s brother continued his streak of finding interesting and really good music. In this case, Omoiyari by Kishi Bashi. The title means empathy, or the ability to feel along with others. The album is related to the “Songfilm” of the same name. The tracks were recorded (videotaped for the film) at locations connected with the internment of Japanese Americans during World War Two, one of the most shameful episodes in our history. (You can read about our visit to Manzanar here if you like.) Bashi is a violinst, and features strings (all of which are credited!) throughout the album, which is impossible to describe. It is atmospheric, a bit bluegrass on a couple tracks, more Enya on others, and just, different. I like it though. And did I mention violins?