Don’t Give a Crick, by Kylie Smith

I walked down the path to White Clay Creek trying to allow my body to absorb some sunlight

while being aware of the loose rocks lining the path so I did not roll my ankle, my attention was more on the latter. The trail eventually was cleared of stones and replaced with sand, dirt, and dead grass. I was able to then take in my surroundings. No one was around so I was able to take in my first maskless deep breath in what has seemed like ages. In the air, spring and winter battled with the forces of the warm sun against the nip in the air, and it will be a couple of weeks before spring wins the battle. And even though the air dried my mouth and was sharp against my lungs, that breath felt better than using a new pack of Bic colored pens or finally smoothing out that stubborn wrinkling in my duvet cover.

I looked around to take in my wooded surroundings and everything reminded me of home. With White Clay Creek looking exactly like the Rocky River, only the water much more clear, and the branches bare of leaves but beginning to bud at the end, transport me to the Cleveland Metroparks with how identical it looks to the scenery back home. There, I decided I wanted to spend a bit more time listening to the stream in the creek and getting some sunlight. I walked back to my car and grabbed Clean and White so I could both do my homework while enjoying the outdoors. As I reached the street, I could hear multiple croaks and volume continued to grow as I made my way towards the parking spaces. I traced the noise to a small puddle, probably formed by the rain water and in it there were three small frogs. So needless to say, that was the highlight of my day.

Book in tow, for a second time attempted not to roll my ankle and happily, I succeeded. I went back to the same area I was before, and tried to find a tree trunk I could sit on that I could get to without being poked and scratched by a thousand little thorns and twigs. I carefully made my way to a fallen tree, taking the long route. I took too many pictures of the surroundings and sent them to people who, rightfully so, did not care that I was outside. I was amazed at just how clear the water was and sent a picture of it to my best friend commenting on it only to receive the response “ok grandpa”.

My gaze followed the water as it moved down the creek. I followed each little ripple with my

eyes periodically until something caught my eye. There, in the dirt, off to my right, was the tread of my left platform van, staring back at me. It then hit me about how many other footprints, both physical and environmentally I have left over my 20 years. Most of them I have probably been unaware of.

After I felt like it was time to return home, I gathered my things and left. Even though I was back in Sharp Hall, the checkered pattern of the sole of my shoe still remained embedded in the dirt.

My existence is filled with shoe prints, the empty plastic Sabra hummus container sitting beside me that I will recycle but it is only delaying the inevitable; the fire roasted salsa sitting in my fridge that I tried once and hated and will probably throw out at the end of May when I back up my dorm. I produce a lot of waste but because of my race, class, ethnicity, I will never experience the full repercussions of it.

About 5 miles away from the Cleveland Metroparks lies Cleveland, a city once controlled by the auto industry, now left abandoned and destitute partly because of the departure of General Motors. Although very close in distance, the Metroparks and Downtown Cleveland, look like two completely parts of the country. The Downtown has been ripped of trees, clean air, and clean water. Through the practices of redlining, and just overall racism, black people are “lawfully” segregated to Downtown. The effects of environmental racism are not felt by the whites in the suburbs today, nor were they felt by those in rural areas. Many of these problems are no better than the conditions immigrants in the tenement houses faced during the second Industrial Revolution. “On cold days when home use of coal was heavy, Pittsburg skies appeared black at noon” (141). With the natural air filtering system of trees plowed down and replaced with skyscrapers, the polluted air could not be clean then and continues to remain dirty in urban environments.

I live off heat and food and clothing whose waste I will never see the effects of. Just like the

tread of my van in the dirt, my actions do not affect me as much as those who live in the area

where my waste will go. This problem has been going on for far too long, but there seems to beno end in sight because the problems of waste and the effect that come from it are only felt by the poor and people of color, not the rich and in power.

A Walk for Reflection, by Kiernan Fallows

The weather at the farm this week was saddening. As the sun melted the snow that was

present at the start of the week, more rain came in full force. Normally I find rain relaxing to

listen to, but when I’m working outside four days a week, it gets old fast. Inside the barn was

busy this week, as usual. The normal hustle and bustle of thirty-five horses moving from place to

place and pasture to pasture gives you a little bit of a whiplash but I am starting to get the hang

of working at such a fast pace. I took a horse named Vera on some walks this week for twenty

five minutes a day. She has a torn suspensory ligament and as part of her healing process I give

her daily walks. Usually I call someone and talk on the phone to pass the time, but this week I

decided to walk outside and take a listen to my surroundings. As the weather has warmed up, I

noticed a huge flock of canadian geese has taken up residency at the pond near the barn and they

are quite loud. They were taking baths in the water, probably just as happy as I was that the

weather was up to the forties. As the snow melted, the ground became soft and quite muddy. If

the horses aren’t careful when galloping through the fields, they may just find themselves

slipping and falling. The barn swallows have been making so much noise flying from tree to tree,

chasing each other almost as if they are playing tag. Other people in the barn have been

complaining about how loud they are, but I find them quite enjoyable to watch.

While on one of our walks, I was thinking about trauma. Partially because we were

discussing it in class and partially because the night before I had a really bad dream flashing

back to a traumatic experience in my own life. I don’t usually have dreams like that often, but

when I get really stressed about work or school, I feel like these dreams are my body’s way of

telling me to slow down and take care of myself.

A couple years ago I was driving down the road and came upon a woman begging for

help as her house was on fire. There were two people in the house when it started, this woman

and her eighteen year old daughter. When I came upon the accident by chance, the mother had

jumped out the window to save herself and had no choice but to leave her daughter behind in the

flames. She was bleeding and in obvious shock and as I held towels from my car trunk on her

wounds to try to stop the bleeding I couldn’t do anything but watch the house go up in flames

knowing her daughter was inside. There was absolutely nothing I could have done, but for a

while I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for her death. After months of trying to just

forget this whole thing happened, I finally went to therapy to talk about it and I have been doing

much better since.

While reading about how the indigenous people were removed from their homes and as

they looked back they saw their own houses in flames, I felt a pang in my chest. It hit close to

home and although, thankfully, I have never seen this happen to my own house, I have seen it

happen to someone else’s right before my eyes. Although this specific part of the book struck a

chord with me, another person may have read it and felt nothing. There is a level of compassion

and understanding necessary to feel grief. It’s so much easier to just forget something happened,

to turn a blind eye, to not have uncomfortable conversations, but those responses aren’t helpful

towards forward progress. When reading about people’s homes being burned down, it’s easy for

me to feel for them because of my own experiences. It is important for people to read books like

An Indigenous Peoples’ History of the United States so we have a better understanding of what

happened to indigenous communities and the ways that our country was founded. Not only just

reading books like this is important, but also discussing them with others. We can then use this

information to help better understand why there are lasting impacts on groups of people today

and help us understand the steps needed to be taken to sympathize with those groups and

reconcile the present effects of those lasting issues.

Oh, Clear Sky, Teach Me Freedom, by Arlett Ramirez

I enjoyed looking up at the grand sky, getting lost in thought as the blue color continues to intensify. The sound of the river walking by, as it follows a limitless road. I feel less connected to my earthly attachments and I begin to wonder why I had the dream to own a big house. For a long time, I always thought that a house would provide me shelter but it would still feel congested regardless of the size.

The worst of tight living conditions as told by Clean and White such as the large European and American cities in the eighteenth century were a breeding ground for poverty and filth. The lack of sanitary infrastructure came with a great cost, where there was an increased risk of yellow fever, typhoid, and other diseases. Despite this history, we continue to have growing cities such as New York City that take more from the land than give back. White Clay Creek could have been unlucky and had a city built over it. It is sad that in our lifetimes, we may never get see the original beautiful nature of the New York City area before settler intervention.

Taking a step back, I was feeling intimidated by the amount of space in the forest. From my perspective, I have always prioritized my feelings of safety over spaciousness of an enclosed building. Growing up I have lived in the white man’s house, never thinking that other communities would see the same house as a cage. The pictures from the National Geographic article show the broken and crowded living conditions of the Oglala residents. In the white man’s house and cars, there is limited space to make a home and it constantly reminds the residents of the barriers created by the White society. There is little wiggle room to live outside of these houses as White American society has this expectation of everyone living in a building and the appearance of a standard home. To show signs of fighting back, the Oglala residents continue to practice ceremonies and customs in order to break the white man’s cages.

The wind was petting my hair into a wild mess as usually. It was a friendly gesture, where the life of the forest was beginning to grow back as it transitioned to spring. The little plants were starting to germinate, even when the weather was slightly cold. Sometimes, nature can still find the will to live and move forward from the violence of humans. Such violence is found in events such as the Wounded Knee Massacre, which ensued a protest against the U.S. due to the horrid actions against vulnerable groups of people. Once again, the U.S. felt the need to stop the protest through the use of violence, which ended up in 130,000 shots fired and 1,200 arrests. The screams of terror, confusion, sadness, and mercy were all heard by mother nature but not by the U.S.

With everything stacked against Indigenous people, their sense of community did not fade, and they continued to keep their culture alive. As stated in the “Shadow of A Nation,” wealth was not from the individual but from the community according to customs in Indigenous reservations. Another sign of high community value was the ritual of being a hero. Instead of receiving gifts which is often portrayed in White American media, the hero would give gifts to the community as a way to say thanks for the endless support.

However, all these strengths from the community wouldn’t be enough to comfort or protect individuals from struggles present in their communities. Jonathan Takes Enemy used basketball and alcohol as an escape from reality. The constant running away from the heavy grip of doubt and negativity impacted many lives. In the boundless forest, no matter how much one runs away, the struggles come back and drag everyone down.

One day, there may be no more standard house trapping communities, no more screams of agony, and no more suffering of communal struggles. Maybe one day, we can all lose ourselves in the vast emptiness of space, to be free from the pressures created by internalized trauma.

Nearly Erased, but Not Forgotten, by Rebecca Mezei

When I was little, and even to this today, I loved to color, draw, and just make art. I found that making art was a fun way of expressing myself, allowing myself to convey feelings without having to say words or without having to formulate emotions into a cohesive thought. Furthermore, very early in life, I formed a habit of being eraser-happy. One misstep of my colored pencil and out the eraser would go, ready to cover my mistake in a layer of shed rubber. Even if the misstep was an improvement to my work, it was gone, forgotten, erased. A piece of the story to never be shared and to never be remembered.

As I walk around White Clay Creek I feel as though I see a similar behavior in the world. I walk in the snow and I leave footprints. These footprints will melt by the next time I return. I breath in the air and a cloud of smoke appears, yet quickly disappears. As I walk, I kick leaves and sticks around in all directions. However, even that is fleeting as the wind will surely move them back. Every action I have taken while at the park, erased. I tried to test this further. I made a ripple in the water. It eventually dissipated. Nothing I did was lasting, a phenomenon which in nature is relatively reassuring. My actions did not leave a permanent impact, allowing for others to experience as I have. However, the same phenomenon is also scary; it is terrifying to think that something could be so easily forgotten, so easily erased.

Thinking about this in the middle of a natural park makes it hard to ignore how the indigenous people seemed to suffer and be erased. The settlers came to North America with the goal of a fresh slate. Upon their arrival, they realized this clean slate “for them” could only be achieved with messy conflicts and bloodshed of others. The indigenous people were the ones to suffer the disappointment and the disappearing. They were treated as having no value: less wealthy, less deserving and generally worthless. Their lifestyle and lives were ignored. Their progresses trampled. Their villages and societies burned. Ultimately, they were brutally killed and mutilated, with only fractions of the initial populations left to remain. More than hundreds of thousands of Native American Lives, forgotten, ignored, erased.

Thinking about that is so crazy to me. It is inconceivable to think that anyone would be willing to cause such suffering in order to further themselves to a goal they conceived only a few years prior after facing societal injustices in their place of origin. What should be more important? Why were the settlers the ones who claimed the right to decide? They should not have had the ability to erase entire cultures as they had done. They erased populations of animals, they erased buildings, they erased most of entire societies without a drop, a speck, or even a thought of remorse.

I am not related to an indigenous person. I am a child of two families who immigrated here: one from Hungary and the other from Belarus &Ukraine. For me, my cultures have felt very distant from me in some respect, separated by borders and oceans. However, my parents and grandparents, and even my aunts and uncles, have taught about how they grew up. They have made family recipes passed down through generations and have even taught bits and pieces of their languages. They have told me stories about my grandparents when they were in Europe and about the struggles they faced to get to the United States. They have played songs, showed me pictures and helped me try to learn to feel connected to a culture that I do not live in, a generation removed. However, for the few indigenous individuals who survived and were able to live on in this country, covered with eraser shavings of their cultures, their experiences must have been very different.

For descendants of the indigenous people who survived, their connection to their culture must be hard and painful, as their very way of living is a reminder of what they lost in the past. While their parents and families are probably still present in their lives, their communities are likely small. I expect that their experience of trying to connect to their culture is more difficult, as many people were killed, or forcibly assimilated, in an effort to erase them from the slate of North America. Many traditions, family recipes, songs, and other cultural aspects of importance likely fell to the same fate.

In class we watched a video about chief Quiet Thunder, a direct descendant of an indigenous individual in the Leni Lenape tribe. In the video he talked about his culture and how his tribe thought of food and of the pipe and how they continue to plan to treat the earth to prepare for seven generations to follow. This video was informative, of course, but it also made me upset. These cultures should be one which we are all well informed about and familiar with. It shouldn’t take a video of a late chief to open our eyes to these cultures. There should not be only a few individuals who participate in these cultures that were here so long before the settlers. It is unfair and it is inconceivable that anyone considered it to be okay to try and erase a culture. It is worse that they succeeded for a large fraction of the populations that were here and are here no longer. While the indigenous populations were nearly erased, it is our responsibility now to make sure that they are not forgotten.  We should be doing everything in our power to help them prosper and grow and regain some of what was taken away, regain some of who they were and should be again.

The Noises of a Not-So-Natural World, by Wylie Feaster

As I return to Sugar Pond for my second visit, it saddens me to say that the ice from last week has not left: the pond still remains entirely frozen over, even more so than before. In the areas where motionless pools of meltwater once rested, small, elevated ridges of compacted snow have now taken shape, splitting what was once an entirely flat, frozen plain into an uneven array of jagged slopes and edges. Along the pond’s perimeter, rings of twigs and leaf litter assemble in the uniform depressions leftover from previously felled oak trees. Gauged out of the Earth by the sheer force of their collapses, each hole in the ground represents a grave − the pond, a graveyard − for natural beings that took centuries to grow, yet only seconds to topple over. I find it ironic that what once stood so high above the pond now rests for eternity submerged beneath the frozen surface, concealed from the view of even the most observant passersby.

As I begin to straddle the edge, hoping to spot a log or two suspended beneath the ice, my search carries me towards the pond’s steepest bank. Upon my arrival, I notice that the soles of my boots are no longer passing over thick swathes of snow and ice but rather an orderly assortment of cedar planks, anchored perfectly in between two sizable boulders. I had reached a bridge, the only point along the pond’s entire circumference where water is granted the chance to escape into a connecting stream. As I sit atop one of the railings, the torrents of water spewing out from the gap below the bridge create an intense reverberation, one that bounces between each of my ribs before plunging back into the frigid depths below. “Was I too becoming a part of nature’s cycle?” I thought to myself. The expression, “Now, our minds are one,” kept repeating in my head as I attempted to align my breathing with the cadence of the water droplets skittering off the rocks. Whether I succeeded or not was now the least of my concern. I was too focused on the fact that, for once during this pandemic, I truly felt at peace.

Or, at least that’s what I kept telling myself. As fast as the natural world instilled within me with a sense of newfound serenity, the continuous clatter of the non-natural world snatched it away twice as fast. In the span of the entire five minutes I spent attempting to listen to the water beneath me: a fire alarm had sounded (four repetitions meant a fire had broken out), an HVAC system behind a nearby home had whirred to life, and three deafening crashes (followed by the sounds of trucks reversing) indicated that construction down by the train tracks had just begun for the day. Yet, as much as I wanted to tune out these noises, I couldn’t. I didn’t have a choice.

Whenever I think about the goal of our journal assignments, to “[engage] with the noise[s] of the world,” I cannot help but also think about the noises that helped colonize this country. From the gunshots that tore through the flesh of innocent Indigenous men and women to the crackling of crop fields set ablaze by army troops, America represents a nation founded from the commotion caused by barbaric violence and total war. When a singular shot from a confiscated Worcester rifle misfired, the lives of 300 defenseless Lakota Sioux individuals were claimed as quickly as the soldiers who killed them could mount their machine guns into place.

The noise of the world had overcome them. Just like the great oak trees I had searched for earlier, their downfalls took with them centuries of Indigenous knowledge, growth, and wisdom, all erased within a matter of minutes. Yet, still today, we are rarely ever exposed to what truly happened at Wounded Knee, the massacre, the bloody mutilation of hundreds of innocent lives. We make up excuses. “It simply doesn’t align with the white American perspective,” we say.

As I begin my trek home, just a stone’s throw away, I think I’m finally starting to understand why the pond freezes over every winter. It’s not because of the frigid outside temperatures or some reaction that occurs between the air and the water. No, the pond freezes over in order to shield itself from the noises of the world. I often wish I could do the same.

Seeing With New Eyes, by Alexis Cervantes

A few sprinkles of snow from the last winter storm remain, blanketing the rocks that barricade the vulnerable land from the Atlantic. Along the wrack line, cigarette butts lay scattered here and there, along with several plastic cups and even a shoe insole. Officer’s Row, a long line of quarters which once housed an officer and his family, remains in ruins from Superstorm Sandy. These buildings, destroyed and now without porches, directly face the Sandy Hook Bay. Trees appear so bare that you can see the bright blue and cloudless sky when looking through their leafless branches. The grass is even the same color as the sand. Everything just feels lifeless. I see now why I am the only one here. Though abnormally warm and sunny for a winter day, I have the entirety of Fort Hancock all to myself.

As I casually walk around the peninsula, I look around at my surroundings. A bright white lighthouse catches my eye over the towering stone wall as I stroll through what is left of former military batteries. There are still remnants of barbette mounts. This former U.S. Army fort was first constructed during the 1850s. The original design of the fort, created by Robert E. Lee, was locally called “Fort Lincoln” or “Fort Hudson”. It is only to be expected that this once powerful military location has connections to three powerful white men, all with notable names.

Lee, who inherited slaves from his mother, also married into one of the wealthiest slave-holding families in Virginia. Given his history, and his reputation as a racist, having Lee as the designer of this important fort tells quite the story, specifically regarding status and power as an individual in the United States. As discussed in class, the Calvinist “elect” includes people that “God picked himself as the favorites.” Lee, being rich and having a successful public image at the time, would have been seen as one of these special, hand-picked by God individuals.

Indigenous peoples, on the other hand, were the prime image for those that were not included in this elite status. Their skin color, way of life, and lack of fortune were seen as inferior, uncivilized, and unworthy of God; colonists wanted nothing to do with them, except steal their land. An image shown on the first day of class that has stuck with me since was that of a massive pile of bison skulls. These innocent bison, just roaming their land, were killed by European settlers in a way to force out Indigenous peoples. The invaders figured that if they got rid of the food supply of the Indingeous peoples, they would have to leave and find new resources, leaving the land open for European settlements.

On a related note, not only was land being stolen, but also innocent Indigenous lives. America is a country founded on genocide, yet refuses to recognize this massive astrocity. This country has the rhetoric of being a great and perfect country, thanks to the novels by James Fenimore Cooper, but that is clearly not the case.

Power and narrative go hand-in-hand. European settlers had the authority at the time; they had all the power and were forcing the Indigenous peoples to comply. With this power came the ability to pass on information, owing to their status and credibility. Growing up in a public school that is in a state of one of the original thirteen colonies, I personally never heard the term “genocide” connected to “Indigenous people” until I was a junior in high school. In fact, my sophomore history teacher outright refused to teach us anything other than the standpoint of white male in colonial America. Stories of American history just ignore the perspectives of Indigenous people because they did not hold any status.

After learning the historical context of Fort Hancock this week, I will absolutely be looking at my surroundings differently from now on. I will no longer just see this strip of land as my getaway and escape from the stressors of the real world, but rather an area with a dark history and ties to racists, as well as individuals that committed genocide on innocent groups of people.

The Weight of Racism, by Marissa McClenton

After watching and discussing the work and life of James Baldwin, I have decided to use this journal to talk about my family. This will be in two parts because in order to understand how I came to be the woman I am today, you need to learn about both the black and the white parts of my family. I hope that, in telling this, you understand more about who I am as a person as well as who I came from and the legacies that I am tasked with both upholding and dismantling. 

The Lasister Family is a very typical southern white family. There is a long long longggg history of alcohol and substance abuse, sexual and domestic violence, poverty, and patriotism. There is not a single Lasister man with whom I feel safe around with the exception of my cousin Caije who has not disappointed me yet and his last name is Dilts. When it was found out that my mother was pregnant with a child fathered by a black man she was disowned from parts of her family. She was tainted now. Dirty and Black on the inside. To this day, none of us have met those family members because my father has a low tolerance for disrespect that my brothers and I inherited. It would not have gone well. I am not a white woman because I come from a family of white women who enabled the white men to hurt everything that they touched. Everytime I watch the videos of the integration of schools, I see my family because I know for a fact that they are those kinds of people. I don’t have the space in this journal to discuss how my mother is both different and the same from her family. 

The first time I learned about the childhood of my great grandfather, Mark McClenton, was at his funeral. He was born in Ocilla, Georgia and there was a lynching there the year he was born. The New York Times Article quotes “OCILLA, Ga., Feb. 1 (AP).–Overpowering Sherift W.C. Tyler and his deputies early today, a mob of 500 men took Jimmy Levine, a negro, from the officers and lynched him ten miles from town. The negro had been arrested about an hour before at Mystic, Ga., for attacking and slaying a 14-year-old white girl.”. He was raised in Florida and we are unsure how much time he spent in Georgia before his family left. PopPop was the smartest man that anyone around him had ever met. He did not graduate high school and I’m unsure if he made it past middle school either. He worked fields and factories for most of his life and retired as a truck driver. I heard secondhand stories about Kenton being a sundown town where being found past sunset as a black person was to ask for trouble to find you. My PopPops earlier adult life was full of alcohol and violence. He was a part of one of the deadliest gangs on the east coast called the East Coast Gladiators. The gang was forced to dismantle but the constant sound of bikes coming to visit my PopPops house all the time makes that seem like it didn’t fully happen. 

I am named after Leona McClenton, she was biologically my great grandmother but my father grew up calling her Mom so that has never felt right to say. She is my grandmother. I’ve never heard someone talk about Leona without crying. Not my dad, not my uncle, not my great-grandfather, nobody. She was the glue that held everything together and the shield that protected the children from the anger of my PopPop. He cheated on her with a white woman named Barb, who went on to have several of his kids and marry him after Leona passed away. These children were included in my grandmother’s obituary when she passed away. Every member of my black family that I meet has told me, in one way or another that my father raised me in her image and it is one of my greatest prides in this life. I never got to meet her but my identity of a black woman was built from the stories I heard from her life and the legacy that she left. 

I carry the weight of racism and white supremacy from the Lasister family. They are not all bad people, but all of them have benefitted from the actions and behaviors of the white men within the family.  My grandmother is the only Lasister that has done the actual work to repair the harm that my family has caused myself and my brothers, both directly and indirectly. I love her more than anything in the world. I also carry the weight of my ancestors who were slaves in the south but still managed to pass on the heritage and culture as my PopPop moved north to Delaware. I carry on a legacy of strength and intelligence but also a pain so deep that my PopPop never spoke of it and it was lost when he passed away in 2019. This is why I am a Black Woman. The legacy of Leona is carried on as I carry her name within mine. I just hope that I am doing her justice. 

 

Looking Back at the Carlisle School, by Maddy Starling

This evening, I decided to take a walk around Opossum Lake’s walking trails hoping I would notice some of the changes that had happened during this week of cold weather. The most noticeable thing was that there were fewer people out on the water. Probably due to the crisp breeze over the water. I also noticed that the birds seemed jumpier than usual. I could usually spot a few red-winged black birds, but tonight it seemed that every slight movement caused ruffling through the marshy littoral-zone. I’m not sure what was making them so jumpy, but it ruined my bird watching for the evening. The Cattails also have been severely affected by the weather. They have all developed white tuffs, which I learned when I looked it up are their seeds beginning to prepare for the fall (pictured below). It is amazing to see how quickly this place has adapted to the changing weather. Although I am not convinced that fall is fully upon us yet, this place sure is.

I decided to sit on the bench on the hill that overlooks the whole lake so I could really take in the scenery. As I sat there, I wondered if there were once Indigenous people on this land or in Carlisle. Of course, I knew there were Indigenous people in Carlisle at some point, but those were children stolen from their homes to go to the Carlisle Indian School. I wanted to take a moment to talk about this school after reading about it in chapters 8 and 11 of our book. With the school just 10 minutes from my house, it is shocking how little I was taught about the school. I mean most kids have a lot of questions on why there is a little graveyard in front of the Army War College in town, but the answers don’t usually go too in depth. Honestly, the only time it was really talked about was if a student chose to do it for a project or at higher level history classes like AP U.S. History. The history of the Carlisle Indian School is not something this town is proud of. Other than the graveyard, most of the school building have been transferred for other use for the Army War College with small plaques to mention what they used to be. What used to be one of the schoolhouses, is now a gym for Army officials, but the pictures of the students are still present in one of the hallways.

In the past year however, it has been hard to keep the school out of the community’s mind. Over the past few years, the Army has been trying to find the families of the children buried in the cemetery in hopes of returning their remains. Last year, there was a large ceremony as six remains were returned to their native reservations. That moment made the town have to relive its terrible history as every local news source was reporting it. I have always had a strong dislike for the school and what it stood for but reading the horrors the book brought up made me realize the mental torture aspect of the school. These children were brainwashed and beaten into giving up every belief from their culture. The histories relived on pages 151, 156 and 212-213 I had never heard before even though I live in the town that created them. This really makes me wonder if under Trumps “Patriotic Education” anything about the Carlisle Indian School will be taught.

As the sun began to set and the everything began to settle around the lake, including my thoughts, I took one last look around. The crickets and frogs created a symphony surrounding the edge of the lake. Almost like they were letting the rest of the lake know it was time to settle in for the night. And I think they got the memo because when I walked back to my car there was less rustling in the cattails and I finally got to spot a that red and yellow wing peacefully sitting upon a branch. I hope this place doesn’t lose too much of its beauty as the seasons change and instead just changes its form. I think next week I will go deeper into the woods here in hopes of seeing some new things to write about, but until then I’ll say goodbye to my hour of nature for the week.

Forest Bathing: The Cure to All Migraines, by Kyna Smith

Over the last couple of months, I feel like I’ve aged thirty years. Not archaic, but old enough to complain about back pain. Every morning begins like this: my alarm goes off, I frown at how early it is, and then groan as I get out of bed because my entire body feels stiff—suffocated even. I am not unique in this feeling. Being quarantined defies all human instincts; we are meant to socialize, to embrace each other, to wander and to explore. Conserving my sanity in the wake of a pandemic has been difficult. I’ve realized the ways I used to fill my time were merely escapism, bleak attempts to avoid emotions that would have otherwise consumed me to a point of exhaustion. Now, I have no other option but to actively confront myself, and as painful that is, I need to learn to love myself like I would a dear friend.

One of the few ways I’ve maintained my mental health is spending time in the woods. Sometimes, I try to find new trails, but I’m a creature of habit, so I always go back to Brandywine Creek in North Wilmington. The drive there is breathtakingly beautiful—long, winding roads, acres of yellow flowers, and an endless skyline of trees. When I arrive at the creek, I instantly feel better, like my troubles can wait a few hours because the present moment is most important. Two weeks ago on a particularly bad day, I decided to walk the entire trail. I don’t like to run because I don’t want to miss anything. Walking allows me to move through the world delicately and intimately, to breathe slowly and mindfully. That day, color bled back into my life, filling every grey and empty space. I noticed the migraine I had while I was driving subsided significantly, and my lower back was less tense and sore. I became reminiscent of my childhood in Indonesia, where I spent the majority of my time in forests, regularly experiencing their mental, physical, and spiritual benefits.

In Dr. Qing Li’s book Forest Bathing: How Trees Can Help You Find Health and Happiness, he explains the scientific reasons for why we feel better in forests. The concept of “forest bathing” refers to the Japanese practice of spending an extended period of time in a forest while engaging all five senses. For example, Dr. Li mentions looking at different shades of green of the trees, dipping your fingers in a stream, and listening to birds singing (121). The purpose is not only to feel better, but also to disconnect from our devices and reconnect to nature. In the beginning of the book, he introduces the “Biophilia Hypothesis,” which is, “the concept that humans have a biological need to connect with nature” (13). Because we evolved in nature, we learned to appreciate the sources of life that helped us survive. Human beings are physiologically attuned to the natural world because we share a deep bond with it.

Phytoncide, an antimicrobial substance emitted from plants, is the reason for forests’ refreshing aroma. Exposure to phytoncides increase “natural killer cell” (NK cell) activity; these cells help strengthen our immune systems and fight off infections. Additionally, phytoncides decrease the level of stress hormones, leading to lower levels of anxiety and increased hours of sleep. Because stress weakens the immune system thus causing frequent sickness, forest bathing allows people to stay physically and mentally healthy for longer amounts of time. These phytoncides are especially crucial for people who already suffer from mental health disorders, such as depression, anxiety, and PTSD.

Another beautiful aspect of forest bathing is its openness and flexibility. There are so many ways to engage the senses specifically in a way that is best for the individual person. My favorite “forest bathing “technique” is one Dr. Li actually mentioned, which is to focus only on sound. You start by slowing down and giving yourself time to release your thoughts. Next, you focus on your breath to let go of any distractions, and then you begin listening in all directions with your eyes closed. I usually do this while lying down on a bench. That way, I can be comfortable and hear more intensely. It is then I will be able to hear every rustle, every birdsong, rippling water over stone.

It is evident being nature gives us physical and emotional relief. Truthfully, science is only confirming what we already know and feel. The problem with most human beings, however, and especially in the U.S, is that they have desensitized themselves to their own bodily sensations. Most Americans are so consumed with work, money, and technology, that they have grown numb to their own physiological responses. In order to experience the benefits of the Natural World, we must be cognizant of our internal worlds—we must know how we feel. If we refuse to acknowledge the interconnectedness of our minds, bodies, and souls, we cannot know that we are sick and need to be alleviated of our stress and pain. The key is to be mindful of our bodies, to check in with ourselves as we do with loved ones. I am still learning this myself: the art of being my own friend, asking myself, “how does my body feel today?” so I can know if I am in need of extra support from my fellow living creatures, the vibrant leaves and curious animals who always encourage me to heal.

Grief and Memory, by Mark Switliski

My mind has been fixated on death and grief since finishing The Summer Book by Tove Jansson. I’ve particularly been strung up by one quote from the story Of Angleworms and Others that a classmate chose during an in class discussion activity, “They realized that from now on life would be quite different, but they didn’t know how, that is, in what way” (139). The quote is part of a narration by Sophia, a young girl living on the coast of Finland with her father and grandmother, about the thought process of a worm that has just been severed in half. The bisection is the result of a traumatic event, which, in Sophia’s case, is the recent death of her mother. With regards to death, the bisection is a creation of two identities, one identity that still exists with the person who has passed, and one that will continue living without them. During the beginning of the process of grieving a death, especially for the first time in one’s life, it is not clear how these two identities will coexist.

This quote, let alone the entire book, resonated with me so deeply because I also lost my mother as a child. I realized from then on life would be quite different, but I didn’t know how, that is, in what way. It’s such a simple statement, but when I read it, it takes me back to that day. I had, without a doubt, been bisected. It’s been just about eleven years since my mom passed, meaning that I’ve lived roughly half of my life without her. I wish I could say I’ve made some sense as to how these identities coexist, but it doesn’t seem like they’re connected by much more than fleeting memories.

Memories and grief have an undeniable relationship. Once we’ve experienced loss, such as a death, all we have are memories, both fond and painful. They shape our grief. The truly terrifying realization of grief is that we might forget these memories. And then what? Perhaps when that happens, our identity that exists with the dead begins to die itself. It nearly brings me to tears thinking about how little I can remember of me and my mother’s time together. What still pains me the most is that I hardly had the chance to get to know her. Pictures and vicarious memories are comforting mementos, but nothing could replace creating new memories together.

As I’m sure many others would agree, death puts many things into perspective. Some that come to mind are the fragility of life, the importance of reflection and the imperceptibility of time until it is too late. My mom’s birthday is, coincidentally, on Earth Day and now that our class is reading The Madhouse Effect by Michael E. Mann and Tom Toles, I can’t help but relate these perspectives to the impending grief that the impacts of climate change have caused and will continue to cause for humanity. Those that deny climate change may only feel this grief when their great grandchildren ask if the Great Barrier Reef was real. All those children will have to experience this planet’s beauty are pictures and vicarious memories. They will have been born into a bisected world.