It’s my 4 year end-of-first-bike-trip-aversary!
That journey by the numbers:
800 miles from Memphis, Tennessee to Venice, Louisiana
2 nights camping inside a fire station
26 nights people took me in
I thought it was a southern hospitality thing, but people have been taking me in all over the world in the years since –– I don’t know how to possibly repay this gift, but once I have a place of my own there will always be a futon for travelers.
1 cardboard sign
1 time I held a mastodon tooth
Thanks, Howard Brent! Howard took me out on a Sunday river boat ride with his friend Hank, too. He showed me how the river washes up a whole treasure box of things, like the skeleton of this boat.
Despite the best attempts of the Army Corps of Engineers, the Mississippi’s banks are always moving and jumping.
1 night dancing at Reds in Clarksdale
This saxophone player’s jacket is the inspiration for the neon vest that I wear while cycling…
I embroidered myself a pair of poet pants in New Zealand, too.
I did a fist pump every time I saw one of these signs. MRT!!!
That August 2013 I recorded 50 hours of stories.
I didn’t know what I was doing, but it felt right.
Music comes out of the water, I think.
Stop what you’re doing and go listen to the Shotgun Jazz Band. No, really. The night I spent listening to them in New Orleans was simply sublime.
I chased after a car to get this picture taken at the End of the World, the place where Louisiana Highway 23 meets the Gulf of Mexico.
I’ll have to check when I’m back stateside to see if I can find the hard-drive with those audio stories on it. It would be interesting to listen.
I’m immensely grateful to all the storytellers who have propelled me around this planet a few times since… I couldn’t keep going without the 700+ people who have taken the time to share a piece of their lives with me.
Here’s to water stories, climate change stories, and everything in between.
Stay tuned for more updates about 1,001 Stories in the months to come. I have 700+ audio stories from the last three years to share… still working on format, but a podcast might be bubbling on the back-burner.
xo from Stockholm,
Two weeks ago I was in Montreal connecting with Jeremie Robert, a super-talented acrobat and circus performer currently performing with Compagnie XY.
Jeremie and I met through his work with ArtCirq, an indigenous circus in Igloolik, Nunavut, Canada.
I have been applying for grants to travel to Nunavut for about two years now (still no luck) and would love to write about these performers in the Arctic. It’s super-expensive to get to the far north, though.
Climate change is occurring in the Arctic twice as fast as in the rest of the globe, with a predicted 5 to 7 degree Celsius temperature rise in the next century.
Igloolik is a community on the front-lines of climate change, and also a place deeply invested in the healing powers of performance art. I can’t imagine a better place to record stories.
What is circus, anyway?
I asked this question to a Compagnie XY acrobat at a barbecue a few nights before their first show.
“Almost anything can be circus in the right context,” she said, “and there are whole theoretical classes at circus school devoted to this exact question. Circus art is something that you have to train and study for years in order to perfect.”
(I’m familiar with this line of questioning, though I’m usually on the receiving end of it: What is Folklore & Mythology?“)
Circuses are generally performed in round tents, too––or so I learned from a mini-exhibition at TOHU.
Ringling Bros. is dead, but circus is not. Modern circuses don’t have animals. It’s more about skill and training than flashy oddities.
If I decide to go to grad school in the coming years, Performance Studies is a field I’m considering. I love the idea of wrestling with the circus question, and interviewing / writing about performers in this sphere.
Montreal though, what a place. Light tastes different in every city.
My favorite thing to do in Montreal was just wander.
Montreal is spiral staircases on the outside of homes.
(I love walking up and down these kinds of stairs. It feels like being inside of a seashell.)
…long afternoons in the park, eating fruit and watching the world go by,
… rainbows everywhere,
… and of course, poutine. (Pro tip: poutine tastes best after drinking local beer in the park with a new friend, and will keep you full forever & ever.)
I think I’m falling in love with public spaces / places where people can picnic. Afternoon light. Fists full of blueberries — blue blessings.
Montreal is full of bicycles. Jeremie let me borrow his for the week.
In attending a few performances at Montreal Completement Cirque, I learned that I’m fascinated with flying… maybe because I know it is something my body won’t do.
Is it too late to learn?
Why do I travel?
To see more fully. To be surprised. To search for the blessing that sits just outside of my comfort zone. To begin over and over again.
When I travel to a new place, the days are long. Empty and waiting to be filled.
Before I left the states I bought myself two rings, one for the middle finger on each hand. My left hand is a tree, to remind me to stay grounded:
The right is a feather for flying free. Serendipity.
When I visit a city, there are always layers––the detritus of cities I have been. The shape of houses in Montreal is not unlike DC. The parks that make me breathe deeper remind me of Paris. And anywhere I feel disoriented in language has an odd similarity––I could be in Fiji, or Tuvalu, or Thailand again.
I’m grateful for the sense of dislocation that not knowing a local language can provide. I get lost in the recesses of myself that I didn’t realize were still there.
… and maybe find some Canadian folks to collaborate with on the audio map in progress.
More soon. Here’s to living the questions.
2.5 months around the 🌎 for climate / water stories (of course), starting now:
Montpelier –> Montreal –> Chengdu –> Beijing –> Copenhagen –> Stockholm –> Chicago –> Boston
Goals for this trip:
- Record water / climate change stories in each place
- Learn whatever it is that the journey has to teach me
- Get more comfortable taking portrait photographs
I bought a used DSLR camera & I’m learning my way around the different settings / breaking through the shyness that I have of photographing people.
This is my friend Cora Brooks in Montpelier, VT. She writes poems and taught me how to bake bread.
We met 5-ish years ago through the archives at the Schlesinger Library, where I was doing a research project on poets who have their papers archived there.
I started alphabetically by last name, elbow deep in grey boxes and filing folders. After a few weeks I realized that Cora was still alive (most people donate their papers only after they’ve passed).
I wrote her a letter. She wrote back. We’ve been writing each other letters ever since.
I’ve visited Cora in Montpelier a few times over the years, and every visit is a new kind of magic. Today we walked to town and ate beetroot and orange gelato.
Cora teaches me how to enjoy slowness. Her home is full of words. She has a cat whose name changes every time I visit. Last time he was Zebra Tattoo. Today he is Barcelona.
Here’s to intergenerational friendships.
Stay tuned for more. I’m looking forward to updating you all from the road.
They asked if they could animate one of the water / climate change stories that I recorded. They chose a story from Noelline Gillies, a woman in her 80s from Omarama, New Zealand who I recorded in 2015.
Here’s a trailer of the result.
القصص أبواب = stories are doors
The first word I learned on my first day of Arabic class was الأمم المتحدة, the United Nations.
Five years later, I walked inside COP22 in Marrakech, the U.N. talks on climate change, trailing red Moroccan mud on my shoes.
After passing through airport-esque security (no, my shotgun microphone is not a weapon; no, I’m not concealing anything in my hair), I waited in line for my accreditation badge to be printed. I stood behind a delegation from Sudan and an ambassador from the World Bank. The World Bank man liked our green shirts printed with the words “Climate Justice Storyteller” across the front.
I studied Modern Standard Arabic for four years (2009-2013). Save for layovers* in Doha and in Abu Dhabi, I had never set foot in the Middle East before attending COP22 this November.
*Airports don’t count, right? But they are beautiful intersection points. See Naomi Shihab Nye:
Harvard students who take Arabic fall into neat categories: the vast majority who want to work for the State Department or the CIA; aspiring business leaders; the ROTC guy who occasionally came to class in uniform; and a poet obsessed with words (*points at self*). Our vocabulary lessons were skewed accordingly. It was two years before I learned how to ask to use the toilet. Official state functions were deemed more important.
In Morocco, my Modern Standard Arabic was woefully useless. I could introduce myself politely and barter for a taxi or a handful of oranges, but not much beyond that. The dialect spoken in المغرب diverges sharply from the formal stuff I learned in class. If I spent a few more months focusing on immersion, I could probably pick it up. Living breathing languages are beautiful for their twists and turns, but COP was about something else.
One thing I love about learning languages is that it teaches me to be a better resident of my own tongue. I’ll never be done learning Arabic, or English (!) for that matter.
Language is an approximation, always. The words that describe the thing (round, asinine, plastic, vertigo) can never BE the thing. Ceci n’est pas justice climatique.
I’m most interested in the ways that stories (and poems) become doors, portals through which we access experience that is outside of what we would have come across otherwise.
I remember the first poem I ever read: “Zinnias” by Valerie Worth
by Valerie Worth
Zinnias, stout and stiff,
Stand no nonsense: their colors
Stare, their leaves
Grow straight out, their petals
Jut like clipped cardboard,
Round, in neat flat rings.
Even cut and bunched
Arranged to please us
In the house, in the water, they
Will hardly wilt– I know
Someone like zinnias: I wish
I were like zinnias.
That poem, for me, was a door. I had never seen a zinnia before, but I felt like I could feel the flower’s texture. I wanted to be “stout and stiff”––as if looking at a flower could make me more confident, more alive. It wowed me (and still does) that words could do that.
How can the climate movement harness the power of a poem? How can we be “like zinnias” and “stand no nonsense”? Where do stories come into play?
A group of 13 storytellers from as far afield as Utah and Hawaii joined together to find out. We were selected as part of a Storytelling Challenge run by SustainUS.
Hundreds of people applied. I had my second round interview when I was super-sick, an amoeba wreaking havoc inside my intestines in Cambodia. I must have said something semi-coherent, though.
It was a privilege and an honor to receive the call from Morgan Curtis on July 4th: “Will you join the delegation?”
I said yes.
Fun fact: I met Morgan Curtis through this blog! She wrote to me about a year and a half ago asking for tips for her bike trip to Paris for COP21, which resulted in this post. And on Monday we’re meeting up for vegan pies in Oxford. LOOK OUT, WORLD.
In the months before November, the SustainUS delegation had weekly Google Hangout calls to work out travel logistics and figure out how we wanted to show up together inside the U.N space.
At a retreat in Oakland, California, we gathered to do a version of Joanna Macy‘s Work that Reconnects and to practice the basics of Nonviolent Communication, a method that involves listening without the intention of responding. Instead, I learned how to listen for needs.
It is a huge privilege to have access to the U.N. space, even as an observer. I wanted to honor the stories of climate change that need to be told; the voices that weren’t present inside the tents of COP22 because they were not allowed access, or the voices that, even present, were systematically silenced within. Why don’t indigenous nations, for example, have a seat at the negotiation tables as sovereign nations? Tribal sovereignty and environmental justice / climate issues go hand in hand.
I view my purpose as one of amplification.
I spent the eve of COP22 on a rooftop with local activists talking solidarity across movements. Stories = fuel.
Earlier that I day I attended COY, the Conference of Youth that proceeds the Conference of the Parties (COP) each year. I stopped in at Green School Bali‘s booth, a storytelling space inspired by this episode of This American Life where a Japanese man uses an old phone booth on top of a hill to communicate with the dead. Inside the Green School booth, you could sit down and tell your own story of climate change. The personal is political is ecological.
And while we listened, the world changed. My country elected a climate denier / sexist / homophobe for president. OH JOY.
The day after, SustainUS gathered with international youth climate activists outside COP22 to mourn the election results. The president elect isn’t going to do shit for the planet, so it’s up to the people. We sang. We stood in solidarity with youth climate activists from around the world.
If I had to be in this struggle, there’s no other youth activists I would rather be in it with. Our work starts now. The next four years are critical to take action to limit catastrophic climate change.
I am inspired by how this group shows up, together, in the face of systems of oppression and extraction that feel so heartless.
We brought human stories to the UN. We listened.
There’s no other group of people I’d rather be facing the climate crisis with. Now the real work begins.
At the midpoint of the conference, I marched in Morocco’s first climate march with thousands of other activists.
Local activists marched alongside the international community. In their eyes, the Moroccan regime used COP22 to greenwash its crimes. SustainUS stands in solidarity with local Moroccan activists fighting against an oppressive regime that values profits over people #300kmsouth.
I traveled to COP22 not because I believe that the U.N. can solve all the worlds problems, but for stories. I believe that storytelling, listening, and amplifying voices can be tools for social change.
Manari Kaji Ushigua Santi, President of the Sapara Nation of the Ecuadorian Amazon, took the time to talk with me about climate change:
“We have to get to know ourselves again – who are we? We are part of a chain of life in this earth. We are not a being more important than all other beings. No. Where do energies come from? From the sky and from the earth. We don’t want people to exploit all these natural resources. Each resource: petroleum, gold, uranium, copper – all of those have life. They are elements that help us balance with the sky and with the earth, so that the earth sustains itself. What happens if we exploit all those resources? The world starts to dance.”
Since the end of COP22, I’m thinking more about the dancing world. The unsteady world. The world in which I will grow old.
(P.S. For an awesome book about dance, check out Swing Time by Zadie Smith. I’m in the middle of it now and the way she writes about movement is stunning.)
How will people look back at this time: the age of screens? The age of environmental indifference? The age when we stood by and let destruction happen––the destruction of species, of the oceans, the Arctic, our coastlines?
Stories are the doors I build and walk through.
How can we tell the stories of the climate justice movement so that it brings in more people than it shuts out? COP, for example, has an old white man problem. I’ll be writing more about this soon.
I want to move through and move beyond closed doors and into new doors. Old doors. Doors where I dismantle the hinges, piece by piece. Doors I ram through and slam my body against, day after day. Doors I repair. Doors where I have no idea what’s waiting on the other side.
Hungry for more? Here are a few door-like essays that I wrote during COP22:
Earth to Marrakech: “Meet Andy Costa, a Cycling Activist from Cote D’Ivoire”
Everyday Feminism: “Five Alarming Ways that Climate Change is Racist”
Earth to Marrakech: “Indigenous Leaders at COP22 Stand in Solidarity with Standing Rock”
Sierra Magazine: “Dispatches from a Youth Delegate at COP22”
(If you’re wondering to yourself––how can I keep this little storytelling boat afloat?––pop on over to my Patreon page. Any and all support is much appreciated. Plus you’ll get access to cool stuff like 1x poem every month written by yours truly.)
Until next time,
Hi all! I’m part of a group of 13 youth delegates from SustainUS going to the UN climate talks in Morocco this November.
We’re focusing on climate justice storytelling, and will be bringing stories from COP22 to media outlets back home.
The Paris Agreement has been signed, but we can’t wait for 2050. The transition from fossil fuels needs to happen (and is happening) now. This is the decade to take direct action to prevent catastrophic global warming.
I have 10 copies of a poetry chapbook left & a handful of postcards from driving across the country that I would be more than happy to send your way. If you’d like a letter or a book of poems in exchange for a donation, let me know!
Thanks so much for your support. If you can’t donate, sharing this link would be a great help, too.