Reset

I’ve recently been (quite agreeably) made redundant so I’m taking a moment to reset and revise. I’m at what I think is a good pivot point in my personal and professional life where I have the resources and skills to make changes and head in a new direction. Over the past several years, I’ve been mentored by Dr Neil Hillman who I’m starting to work with more closely. I’ve registered my own domain which you can check out here (basically just a calling card site at the moment).

Microdosing Heroism

I’m, perhaps ironically considering we’ve just gone into lockdown in Sydney, thinking this morning of the thousand small interactions we have with others. Each of these, no matter how brief or seemingly inconsequential, provide some opportunity to change the course of one’s own and the other person’s day (or, I suppose in a larger sense, can have an impact on the rest of our lives). I don’t want to make that thought too grand as it would be exhausting to carry around and have it at the forefront of our consciousness wherever we go (especially in an urban environment where one has so many fleeting encounters each day). However, I think there is some space, especially in difficult times, to be more aware of and for each other with compassion and intent.

There are, to my reckoning, a glut of superhero films and series available to stream and binge on during lockdown. As a child, I dreamt of gaining superpowers, vanquishing foes (I probably did use the word ’vanquishing’ at age ten) and saving the world from all danger. The evident popularity of these stories (back to the Iliad and the epic tales of heroes) is partially from a desire to have agency and do good in the world or at least know that there is someone who has that ability. I doubt that I will suddenly be granted a superpower and don’t know that I would have the wisdom to wield it with any sense. I’m not sure that I would want to live in a world where such powers are arbitrary distributed as what humankind has already mustered seems to exacerbate the problems that we have and create more where there were none.

However, I think there is something innate in us all; there is a little bit of heroism and power that we carry and perhaps don’t tap into enough. It’s different with each of us; I can’t say what it might be for you and it probably changes depending on the context. But it may come in that fleeting moment when you interact with one person; it may be made from the connection of two people in a situation that will never occur again. We may never be heroes in the superhero sense but can, at any given time, microdose on superheroism by stepping in at a critical moment to perform an act for someone that helps them. I think it’s enough to take up the task of heroism in whatever small way one can. There won’t be one superhero that saves us all, but all of us in conglomeration can have the same effect in the end.

I remember reading once about an Indian tradition that, if one is in distress or urgent need, it’s acceptable to ask a stranger ‘can you act as god for me?’ That, in that moment, this person who can help would be granted extra grace and ability. I’d like to think the cosmos is there standing by to open up something for both the one in need and the one who can provide on a scale that’s adequate for the occasion. Or else, why are we really here? I can’t fix everybody’s lives or expend myself to remedy the massive problems of the world. I can microdose heroism though that might help someone on the course of their life with the issues they are facing. I can, in doing that, if everyone is doing that, import some change in the world.

Don’t discount your own abilities to be a superhero within the bounds of your ability and the specific circumstances you are in (this can also overlap with the capacity one has to be a jerk on a power trip by doing the opposite if we are using the metaphor of villains and heroes). Be, wherever you can be, a hero and a god to others—maybe not in the epic sense or even in a way they might recognise—but in a way that carries that spark of help and hope as we live with each other day to day.

The Essential

Before I begin writing about this, I want to acknowledge, while there is much discussion about the pandemic as a shared catastrophe, it will obviously fall upon us all in very different ways. I’m writing from relatively ‘safe’ Australia where, despite initial fumbles, the authorities and public have quickly adopted measures that seem to have warded off at least the initial hard impact of the virus. Yes, at the biological level we are all equally at risk; however the mitigation of that risk is vastly different depending on your location and/or socioeconomic status. Also, even within the societies that have prepared well and are taking adequate measures, the economic fallout from this will be significant (and ‘significant’ seems too muted a word). I’ve retained full employment and am able to readily work from home; that’s not the case for a tremendous number of people who either can’t do this or who are currently stood down from work in an industry that has closed shop for the duration. 

I say all that because I found myself writing notes for this post and almost romanticising the situation with all manner of hopeful thoughts for how ‘we’ will emerge on the other side. But this was only for the ‘we’ who probably have the resources and protections to endure with some level of safety and comfort. Yes, ‘we’ can talk about all the constraints and limitations we face under lockdown; but the spectrum of that is so broad that it’s easy for ‘us’ not to realise it goes into wavelengths that aren’t even visible to our eyes. I have, for reasons I’ll explain below, been in isolation for the past four weeks so even my perspective of what is happening here in my own city is fairly limited. I will not begin to compare the practical lived experience of someone on the other side of the world with mine even though we are both in ‘lockdown’. There are billions of people who do not have the luxury of considering this with the same level of security I have at this moment. 

Having said that, I think there are universals that can be helpful to consider (both for now and the future). There are very few catastrophes everyone in the world can relate to and to which we are literally not immune. Pick any crisis in the news and, even if you are only one or two steps removed, how easy is it to isolate that as something ‘over there’ and unrelated to you own life (that’s not necessarily a criticism; we must do that in some ways to avoid becoming overwhelmed). Even major regional natural disasters like the Boxing Day Tsunami do not stop the world from operating elsewhere. They disrupt the lives and security of people in that place but leave the rest of us to either ignore or feel a sense of empathy. I’m sensing, at least with myself, I need to cultivate a third way of looking at this. I’m finding myself, in thinking and discussions about the pandemic, still falling into one of those two lines of thought. There is so much to be overwhelmed with that I can’t consider what’s going on in all places and make a sum of it all. However, I’m also starting to compare and contrast the experiences of other people and places with my own and saying ‘well at least it’s not as bad as country X here’ or ‘God, it’s going to be awful in this other place’. Neither of the above are helpful for my psyche and only serve to reenforce the us/them outlook that pervades everything else. 

This is abstract and of course not possible or practical but, at least in my spirit I think I need to strip everything I mentioned before away and just become a human on the Earth at this time. I will continue living and working as I am; this is not the beginning of a desire to become a hermit (though I’m starting to feel like one shut in my flat). But I think, to even begin to hold all this, I have to remove myself from either the weight of worry that I have or the feeling of security and acknowledge that I am neither in control—or entirely powerless. There is a balance point here that may be different in practice for each of us, but that we all have. There is a lot to give over that is beyond our control but at least those limitations, in some ways, make things easer to define. They may be starkly defined but as we settle into whatever these new norms are, they become apparent. Also (again acknowledging my own protections and privileges here), I have increasingly clear notions of what I do control and have agency over. Through all the uncertainties, it’s important to maintain perspective on what’s at hand day to day. 

I was going to write a whole paragraph here about what the next months might look like but it would all be speculation and talking into the air. I don’t know; there are smart people who are trying to model things out, but there are so many overlapping variables I think it’s the best we can do to just shelter in place and be kind to one another. Depending on where you are, there have either been sensible precautions put into place or spectacular failures of leadership. That range is too much to consider in a blog post and, I’m sure, will be unpacked for decades. 

But I do want to think about what follows; that’s almost easier. This is after we have a cure/vaccine in circulation and we are on the path back to whatever ‘normal’ can become again. What I hope for is that positive changes occurring in the midst of this become normalised. These are everything from the small scale interactions I’m having with neighbours to larger societal shifts around working at home, food distribution, welfare, job protections, banking and social safety nets (again, milage may vary depending on where you are). What is a constant, no matter the location, is the sudden shock to the system that there is a particular thing that everyone in every country has to face all at once. I think this can be the enduring and, perhaps, most beneficial outcome of the whole experience. We are facing another global catastrophe in climate change that has been unevenly acknowledged; what, if anything, could act as a better model for responding to that than something like what we are going through now. Not to diminish at all the impact of the pandemic, but it’s basically transitory and something that will be mitigated through known pathways of science and medicine. We’ve know about climate change for decades, the impact is effectively permanent and the remedies are, while apparent, systemic and increasingly difficult to implement. This may provide a model for working together on something that will fall upon us all. It’s a window into what happens if we either choose to act or fail to and face the consequences. 

We are also prompted to examine how our societies are set up, the vulnerabilities of individuals who may already live on the margins and what that means for the whole (in that, if a significant portion of the population are only a step away from either paying rent or not, what does this mean for everything else up the chain). What happens when all airlines close simultaneously? The industry hasn’t collapsed as we assume it will all come back afterwards; but what happens during this hibernation? What changes can we make to protect individuals and the systems we all rely on so that, when this happens again, the uncertainties we faced in the past month are diminished and we have a plan in place (in the same way we practice for fire evacuation in our offices; it may never be needed…but when it is…)? It’s going to lay out clearly also what we must hold in reserve to be prepared for these things and where funding should be focused (here in Australia it might make the difference between our spending billions for a new fleet of submarines for unlikely naval battles or laying up gear and supplies for the situations we face now). 

I think we can also now frankly understand what an ‘essential worker’ is; these are often the people who don’t get the recognition they deserve but in these times stand out and are hailed as heroes. Nurses and doctors are there literally putting their lives on the line. Teachers are staying in schools despite having even fewer protections than health care workers. Then there are people like all the delivery drivers; I’ve suddenly discovered the power of ordering almost everything online and suddenly have a new appreciation for the guy who brings packages to my door!

And, when one contemplates a disease that can literally kill you, the idea of what is personally essential comes sharply into focus. As I said above, I’ve been in at home for several weeks. Part of that time was in medically mandated isolation as we were unsure if I had COVID-19. I presented with similar symptoms and then discovered I was exposed to someone who had the virus; I subsequently tested negative. I did end up in hospital several times (once by ambulance early in the morning). We eventually discovered that I have, of all things, Epstein Barr Virus—which I do not recommend for adults if possible. Nevertheless, I’ve been sicker than I’ve ever been at a peculiar time to be ill. During this time, I’ve had a lot of headspace to consider my connections to others. I’m far away from family and was not able to see friends or loved ones here either. Now, of course, with the social limitations in place, we are restricted to the people who are closest and most dear to us (and even then, we often can’t see most of these people either). I’m not an especially social person to begin with but this is certainly honing down my sense of who is most dear. It gives me a new perspective on people with whom I want to share my life. Maybe, in a shifting and unsettled world, this is the most important thing to hold on to. 

Everything arises out of silence

I often consider the tumult of this world—both the outer and inner turmoil that seems to pervade the lives of many people. However, nearly everything ‘outside’ this one small planet is silence. The primary function of the Universe is silence. We are the rarity; I think it’s not so much that life is rare, but perhaps the more significant rarity is the situation of a whole system in which sound is generated and received. We have a place where those vibrations can emerge and we can be a witness.

I think the situation of our encountering one another (both the ordinary and in crisis) offers the opportunity to generate a space of silence. Unlike sight, for instance, where we can close our eyes, there is no ready muting of sound; silence is something we have to create or protect. So I think there is some kind of spiritual significance to making that space (in that silence is the norm for everything outside this environment we are in; it’s as if we are given a special opportunity where we must actively return to silence). That becomes more difficult—and more necessary—as we make the world a giant mechanism of noise. We evolved in quiet spaces and formed ourselves and social interaction in that space. There is so much talk of our inability to communicate properly now. We have not lost the ability to communicate, we have lost the ability to be quiet. 

When we are really present; people sense both the respect we have for the individual and, I think, the respect for the sacred space of silence. When we speak we begin to codify and form and then ‘everything arises’. That’s necessary as well; but the arising can’t come without a space of silence to begin (and then perhaps everything returns to silence in the end). Perhaps ‘Everything that has Arisen’ was created simply to witness and eventually comprehend the Silence that was before and to follow. I wonder often about all that’s been written about God and, though it’s maybe a necessary effort, it’s not the end of understanding (this is why I am so wary now of any faith that professes ‘the Answers’). The understanding of God and the silence—or God in The Silence—is something arising and, I think, will continue to emerge till it all folds back into silence.

That, maybe, is what people sense when we sit with them quietly. That’s why just being present is so dearly important and healing. It’s not that people so much need an abundance of words and sound; they need to find a passage back into silence. It’s a situation equally helpless and empowered; that sharing that vulnerability and strength with someone in an honest way is the most healing thing one could do. There is an opportunity for emancipation. There is the ability to take up strengths that haven’t emerged before. 

Some years ago, I had an extraordinarily painful surgery which rearranged my entire ribcage…all at once. I remember, during my time in the hospital and recovery, though I was the one in pain, I became the pivot point of reassurance and support for those concerned for me. It activated an understanding of the place of pain and comfort in me—and I was the one in that situation who could become a conduit for others. I certainly had the support of my parents and carers in the hospital but I had to actively engage with the whole thing to make the cycle complete. I have heard many times before people wishing they could ‘take on the pain’ for people living through it; they can’t (and I wonder if that somehow diminishes the experience of the person in pain). How does one face pain with people in the midst of it and, equally so, how do you work through that pain in what is voiced and what remains in silence?

The art of

I've had much to reflect on this past week; first, I went to Melbourne to attend a special service for the father of my friend Martha who passed away recently. In the Armenian Church, there is a service forty days after death to mark the significance of passing. The Armenians were one of the first established Christian communities many centuries ago so the ritual of their worship is ancient and grounded (and notably abundant in incense). Though the entire service was in a language I did not comprehend, there is so much experiential material in ritual and song that the narrative itself wasn't so important. We attended the passing of time and life in a way that takes, perhaps, so many centuries to form and express. I think there is something to be said for the old ways that are sometimes more able to hold these moments.  

Also, that same day (or technically the day after here in Australia) was the ten year anniversary of my car accident. It's been ten years since I was pinned under tonnes of twisted steel in the middle of a rural highway that evening at dusk. It's been a decade since that day and I'm still not sure I have fully resolved the experience in my head or spirit. I survived a 'statistically unsurvivable' accident. That is no small thing; yet, it's also not something that I can pull out and either fully describe or openly carry with me day to day. The incident itself was a 'peak experience'; it's only a reference point from which I can draw—not a time one can re-live in the same way (and, thankfully, I've had very little in the way of PTSD though there is the occasional sound of metal scraping across cement that brings me right back). The peak experience isn't an end unto itself but a catalyst to something further; it's something that is one's own and not subject to any judgement from outside (in that one person might have a peak experience in what another might consider a mundane activity). The significance isn't bound up in the grandness of a particular incident but how that experience opens a given person to new perspectives and growth. I think this is the problem sometimes with 'arranged adventures' that, in the minds of participants, might not live up to the peak expectation. I'm thinking of the recent stories of long lines of people climbing Mt Everest or hordes of Instagrammers clamouring to photograph the same spot as another influential Instagrammer in some endless cycle of imagery. Both cases are built on the expectation of capturing or reliving the peak experience of another; yet, all those same circumstances might not coalesce into a personal peak. Though they can be facilitated, the peaks cannot often be packaged so. It's more up to the Cosmos to align in a way that one isn't expecting.

I hit a peak though an experience that nearly cost my life; that, obviously, isn't something I would or could arrange. Yet that experience in itself isn't where the meaning is held. The meaning came through my call in that moment that I wanted to live (a life that was for myself and for the people who I'm connected to—even for the future people who I could not have known at that time but whom I have since encountered). The cry for life came so I could sit here on the other side of the world a decade later typing this in a café where the people know my name. That experience of survival at the peak came so I could come back down to the nominal level of life and carry that potential onward. It's the same with the more exhilarating but less life threatening experiences I've had. I've been places and had experiences that I would, if I could, return to and linger on; however, that's not the role or purpose of these experiences.

I went Friday evening to hear Dr David Russell speak at the Jung Society in Sydney. He spoke on The Shadow and the Art of Dying; one of his references was Blake's contrast between Heaven (form) and Hell (energy). It's in the contrast between light and shadow, these poles and intertwined forces, that we find the expression of our Self. Without the contrast of these peaks, we have no dynamism to form ourselves as individuals. If it's all light, there is no solidity; if there is no safe space from the darkness, people can break from the compounded traumas. I've been fortunate, I think, to have had a fairly even balance between in my own life. I hope that, with the life that is allotted me, I will continue to be open to the peaks (no matter what form they may take) because I know these are the experiences that ultimately shape who I become in it. That, on ten years of consideration, is I think 'the lesson' of the accident; yes, it's partially 'I'm glad to be alive' and all the expected reflections, but really it's that one should not fear the experience of light and shadow even in the starkest contrast. Life is constantly in the balance and both my hands need to be open to receive those polarities in equal measure if that's what's called for to become wholly human.

On another note, the further peak experience this week was going for (and passing) my Australian Citizenship interview. Hopefully in the coming month I'll receive a letter confirming my status as a candidate and, some months after when I have my citizenship ceremony, will became a dual American/Australian. This has been now eight years in the making and I'm glad to adopt this country as my new home for the foreseeable future. I hope that, as a citizen, I can contribute to this place as it has given to me in these past few years. (I'm still a long way from developing a proper Australian accent though.)

Regarding that thing and some facts

This was published in the Morganown, WV Dominion Post yesterday. It's my rebuttal to a letter to the editor from the day prior. The writer of the original letter claimed, as is so often erroniously repeated in America when this is mooted, that Australia has become a free-for-all of criminality and fear since the National Firearms Agreement. I will grant that Australia and America have very different underlying cultures that don't make particular decisions on this immediately parallel; however, if you are going to posit an argument, you have to work from the facts.

As a resident of Australia visiting Morgantown, I must contest a paragraph I read in Scott Watkins’ letter to the edtor (DP-Wednesday). His statement that, “Australia(ns) thought if they were to confiscate all firearms, which they did, their crime rate would plummet. In actuality, once their citizens were disarmed, the crime rate increased dramatically due to the fact that their citizens could no longer defend themselves” is factually incorrect. Since the National Firearms Agreement (NFA) and buyback program in 1996, the crime rate has fallen nationally, though the population has increased significantly. Watkins also implies that the NFA was an attempt to address common crimes in which firearms were used. It was not; the move was in response to a mass shooting and the national discussion that followed. The (conservative) government at the time brought forward legislation to ban weapons that had no practical use other than killing people—one can still, of course, own a hunting rifle in Outback Australia. Since the NFA, we’ve had no mass shootings. Yes, criminals will still obtain weapons and, yes, there are still gun-related homicides; but the argument that “citizens could no longer defend themselves” is spurious and also assumes that Australia had the same gun culture as America.

Australians do not cower in their homes afraid to go out for lack of protection. On the contrary, it's the knowledge that the streets are not awash with guns that provides a sense of safety. The “freedom” sacrificed by discarding these weapons enables the much greater freedom of well-being in daily life.

Art, Pizza, Annihilation

Last night I watched Alex Garland's new film Annihilation; I remember seeing the trailer some months ago and, as it was portrayed as potentially just another 'the team goes in; creepy things happen; most die' scenario, I didn't pay much interest. However, I've read a few articles on it since and, as it's gone straight to Netflix, it was a ready choice (and it was Saturday night after a day of overtime work).

I don't really wish to comment on the film itself. It reminded me of Tarkovsky in that it left open for the viewer more questions than answers; this, though, is frowned upon in commercial cinema. The studio financing the film attempted, as is their wont, to alter the content and ending to make it palatable for mainstream audiences (read, 'people are thick and aren't going to get the gist of this'). I think this, first, doesn't give much credit to the sophistication of viewers but, concurrently, speaks to a mass market demand to have narratives fed to us in an easily digestible form. If a film is 'too difficult' and gives rise to consideration, then it's often derided in reviews and does poorly at the box office. This is by no means a new realisation, it's been the threshold filmmakers have balanced upon since the beginning. What's changing is the means of distribution for these 'challenging' films and I wonder how that's going to alter what we see on the screen/tablet/phone during boring meeting.

For the past year or so, I've enjoyed a range of films and series on Netflix. Their subscription model allows for a wide reach of international and in-house productions that appeal to niche tastes. I would think that is, overall, a benefit to both creators and viewers. However, like much of social media, it could tend to narrow both the creation and discussion of 'content'. On one hand, it allows for the creation of films and series with significant production backing; a local production company in Germany would have little purchase to invest heavily in a series that would only be seen on German screens. But if the reach is global from the outset, they can produce a series like Dark or Babylon Berlin and garner many millions of viewers. I think there is little argument against the benefits for small regional productions gaining a wider audience. It also allows for a continuum of conversation between the creators and viewers. I'm on season three of El Ministerio del Tiempo from Spain; I tweeted a comment this week on how I was enjoying the series—which was then liked and retweeted by the creator of the show itself.

Where can I get my wig? From El Ministerio del Tiempo.

My concern is, though a given film that would otherwise languish in obscurity might gain global prominence, there is still the danger that it's isolated to a self-selecting audience. This kind of access could even further separate the 'guaranteed to make money sequel blockbuster' from the 'difficult arty' films with the further marketisation of main-street cinemas and broadcast television. We need art to challenge and inspire in public; art that only speaks to and through 'the elect' is not only ineffectual, it's self-indulgent. I'm thinking of much modern art that risks becoming a parody of itself; it attempts to convey serious social themes to an audience who is so far removed from the realities depicted that it becomes an even greater abstraction. I have a sense that we are, increasingly, able to opt out of discussions and presentations of art that challenge our perceptions. This at the same time that we are, in free societies, more able than ever to access the material that would do just that.

Equally, arguments about creation and distribution are beside the point. There are the concerns that I've mentioned above; however, the pivot point in a free society always comes back to artistic literacy. If people don't have the tools to discern and decipher the messages of music, literature, cinema, and all the presentations of artistic expression, then all the art in the world is moot. Conservative and dictatorial governments go straight for the arts in both propaganda and censorship; they know that controlling these narratives are the keys to power. This is why, under the same governments, funding for arts education is the first to go. The excuse is that it's unimportant to 'real' learning; but, of course, it's squelched as it's one of the greater threats to power. In the long game, there is little need to actively oppress the arts if the sensibilities of the people are gradually worn down. If the arts are segregated and siloed, there is little risk to power; art loses its ability to either inform or challenge—it just becomes the background noise between commercials or the piece hung on a gallery wall to fulfil a quota. (The flip side of that is when governments offer significant funding for the arts as a patron of indulgence; this can have its own dulling effect—the whole 'the best art through struggle' argument.)

Where does this leave us? Probably at the same point the arts have always lived; though I'm imagining some kind of sea change with technology and our own awareness, I doubt it's as grand or significant as that. I think we risk excusing ourselves and placing blame on the technologies at hand; we have agency in this. Ultimately, we have to make a choice to engage with the world and the narratives that we have access to. We can contribute to a wider discussion or close down into a self-enfolding rabbit hole of our own making. Sometimes that may manifest as a dramatic public expression...or, just as valid, an evening with Netflix and frozen pizza.

The story makes the world

I studied film production in University; our directing teacher was the venerable Dr Katherine Stenholm. One day in class she made this statement about filmmaking which, at the time, seemed ludicrous, "We make reality." To my young indoctrinated mind, that was beyond our human capacity; God made reality and it was so. However, I've grown to understand more of the nuance of what she meant. This morning I read George Monbiot's excellent Weekly Review article in this week's Guardian. His title and premise is, It's time to tell a new story if we want to change the world. He articulates much of what I've been ruminating recently about our individual and collective need for a better story from which we live. 

He says, "Stories are the means by which we navigate the world. They allow us to interpret its complex and contradictory signals. We all possess a narrative instinct: an innate disposition to listen for an account of who we are and where we stand. When we encounter a complex issue and try to understand it, what we look for is not consistent and reliable facts but a consistent and comprehensible story. When we ask ourselves whether something 'makes sense', the 'sense' we seek is not rationality, as scientists and philosophers perceive it, but narrative fidelity."

We are the storytelling creature and without a coherent story we fall into a kind of madness. We hold to our myths and legends because they give us a form to work from—the archetypes from which we can understand ourselves and our relation to others. One cannot remove the 'story' from the 'self' without either replacing it with another or causing significant trauma. This is evidenced—everywhere in countless ways. From the products we purchase out of 'brand loyalty' to the celebrities we admire, in our adherence to a certain sports team to a willingness to die in battle for the cause of a nation. It's often based far more on the story we've been told or tell ourselves rather than objective reality. 

I'd like to think of myself as a rational person but I know that my own life is not given meaning nor is it motivated by lists of facts. Monbiot, in his article states, "A string of facts, however well attested, will not correct or dislodge a powerful story. The only response it is likely to provoke is indignation: people often angrily deny facts that clash with the narrative 'truth' established in their minds. The only thing that can displace a story is a story. Those who tell the stories run the world." We aren't living in a 'post truth' world; objectively, truth is still truth. We are living in a world where the collective narrative can be powerfully shifted and driven on a mass scale. We are in a world where The Story is even more paramount than ever. All these matters we focus on, the economy, the environment, migration, human rights, resources—we discuss them all as if control of them is the goal and end of power. They are insignificant, or at most, secondary to the power derived from The Story. Consider this, twenty years from now will it matter more who has more control of all the oil in the world or who has shaped a story about how and what resources we use? Will it matter who controls a given swath of geography or how we consider the migrant and the other—how we consider identity? The Story is the basis for how the world continues and we shape that narrative as individuals and as a collective of societies. 

The point this keeps coming back to for me is the issue of immigration. Immigrants must be given a space to make a new story in our adopted homes. If we do not feel part of a place's story we will never feel part of that place. We cannot live as sane human beings without that story in place—if that's missing then one will latch on to another story and that's often one based on disenfranchisement and fear. ISIS provides a story of a place and identity that can call in all the misplaced people around the world who are hungry for a story to live under. They've taken up a story that's undergird Islam for centuries, re-worked it to their own devices and deployed it as a narrative to fit their own needs, "if you cannot feel at home in the place you were born; join us in making this new story for the future." We are suffering for a scarcity of healthy stories.

We have to find a new way to make The Story for us as human beings on Earth while, simultaneously, find a new story for each of us as we readily move about upon it. All that list of serious matters above are also real and increasingly weigh upon us; but, without new stories to guide our actions, we aren't going to have a remedy for any of them. We have to recognise the reality of where we are (both literally and metaphorically); we can't make the story up on a blank slate. We have to respect the place we are in and start from there. I'm trying to consider exactly from where that story begins. I think, perhaps having read too much Wendell Berry, it truly starts from the ground up—that our stories start from a place and that place begins with soil. After writing so much about the idea of stewardship, I'm convinced that we are, ultimately, stewards of the soil. There's not much point in anything else if we destroy the actual earth beneath us; so I'd propose we start building our stories, place to place and person to person on the stewardship of soil (however, that's probably another topic to explore). 

One final note though; back to where I began in directing class. The first thing to suffer in our education, when we tell the story that capital is primary, are the liberal arts. However, if you remove Humanities from the curriculum, you remove someone's capacity to both tell and interpret stories. People are rendered powerless to either understand or generate stories and can then be controlled. That's, of course, a purposed act by neoliberal governments and institutions who want to shape the story to their own ends. We may not feel we have great powers but, if we have the power to tell a story, the story makes the world. 

What kind of heritage?

I'm Appalachian. I'm specifically from West Virginia, which 'sided' with the North in the American Civil War; regardless, I consider myself 'Southern.' Each of the above are layers of identity and heritage. Above those labels I'm an American which, though we consider it some kind of concrete identity, is really so diverse an amalgamation as to defy any sort of compact definition. If anything, America, as I was raised to ideally understand it, is composed of dissimilar peoples who have come together in the United States. Our similarity is based on and strengthened by our diversity. My personal identity is expanded though by further experiences I've had in other places and cultures. In other words, my identity doesn't come from existing in one place or only referencing that single place. Identity comes from an understanding of my place in the larger whole. It's both looking back and forward, not something static and based wholly on the imagined past. It's also tempered by an informed understanding of other people and their experiences. Neither my culture or my personal history have formed in isolation; before I can comprehend my own place in the story, I need to make the effort to properly 'read' that of others. Otherwise, I'll have only a narrow and weakly formed identity based on my internal monologue.

Recently, there was an incident in Virginia that involved a particular set of Americans protesting that their heritage was under attack. Heritage and identity are based on the stories we tell to ourselves and each other. The story that these (mostly white men) tell to others and themselves is that they are a now a minority at risk of dissolution. The elements of this story are made from a collection of objects and 'small h' histories reformed into a new narrative that drive them to this conclusion. The focus in Virginia was a memorial statue of a Confederate general from the Civil War. These monuments are peppered around the South as a lingering reminder of that period in our shared history; however, many are slated for removal as they are and have become increasingly a tool for these 'oppressed oppressors'. I'm tempted to speak about 'the current political climate' or to go off on the poor state of leadership in the White House; but, in some ways, these are indicative rather than causal. We have malicious and tawdry leaders because we, as a diverse group of peoples, have allowed ourselves to become so or have permitted that kind of energy to inform our narrative. I don't really believe the men violently protesting and carrying NAZI flags truly represent the spirit of the South as they think they do; they are more representative of an underlying and systemic disease in the culture that has produced them. They say they are the embodiment of a real America; they are instead an example of ignorance and a complete misunderstanding of what America essentially is. (Further I have to wonder if, despite his personal or political aims, Gen Robert E. Lee would have condoned fascists using his monument as a symbol of their cause!)

There was a physical clash between the protesters and counter-protesters on the weekend and a woman was killed (it's a wonder that more weren't in the presence of heavily armed angry men; I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before these situations spill into uncontrolled violence). The resolution of this is, in the main, not a question of taking up arms on either side, it goes back to our stories. These men don't need some recognition or revolution to satisfy their frustrations; we who oppose their views need not clamp down on their actual freedoms (that just re-enforces their narrative of perceived oppression). We need better stories―stories that are informed by a broader understanding of ourselves and others, stories that aren't based in the Shadow side of our past but have come through and out of it, stories that recognise the reality of now rather than the imagined 'then'. Without a better story, people fester in ignorance of both their own true heritage and that of others. The men protesting on the weekend shouted 'you will not replace us' as if there are hordes of people coming to America specifically to become bigoted disillusioned men. These men have so wholly separated themselves from an understanding of 'the other' that their comprehension of other people outside their own sphere is stilted and misread.

I'm going to digress for a moment. I said in the first paragraph that my identity doesn't come from referencing a single place; that's not to say that a sense of place isn't important. We all need to have roots in a place and/or be able to transplant ourselves into new soil. That's a needed skill as people move about freely (and, increasingly, unwillingly) around the world. What we must realise is that this transition does not mean that existing cultures must be eliminated or that we must lose our own identities. What it does mean is that I need to have a healthy understanding of myself, to be able to communicate that to others and welcome them into my own culture. It requires effort on both parties in the encounter. I am a migrant into another culture now; though Australia is in many ways an easy transition, it's required of me to make the necessary effort to integrate into this society. That does not mean I lose my own identity nor does should it require Australia to diminish itself in order to accommodate me. I think the shouting angry men in Virginia are still looking at the world in a Colonial way―that, with any influx of 'the other' there is an invasion of culture that supplants the native one. That's certainly still possible; however, not necessary for either the migrant or the receiving culture. It's also incumbent on the native culture to offer its best narrative for the newcomers to enter into (in the same way one must offer a rich soil for the transplant as it roots itself). This effort is even more important than ever as the volume and speed of migration increases round the world. Migration, within living memory, was in many ways a slower and more permanent life event. Now we can fly round the world in a day and visit 'home' several times a year; our communication is instantaneous and continual. There is little incentive to wholly integrate into another culture when the ties to ones own are so thorough and especially if the culture one has entered into doesn't offer a compelling narrative in which one can have a place. There is a much larger issue here that probably warrants more thought and writing―but if you want to look at the creation of 'the terrorist next door' don't place the blame wholly on radical preachers far away. Ask why the young man who did some terrible thing couldn't find a place in the story of the country his parents migrated to. Why was the story he was offered as a citizen of one society so weak that it could be so easily supplanted by some YouTube videos and a shady guy he met online?

Ask as well why the men carrying NAZI flags to a rally in Virginia can't find an identity other than that of hate and bigotry. Ask why they have created this kind of narrative as their own history and want to offer that as a way forward for America. How do we counter that failing? We must create better stories and speak them with both both conviction and humility.