#like if i was using an indigenous american then i'd be more willing to use more plains indian sign but | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

firstginger · 2 years ago

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Hello! I hope this essay of a question isn't too long, but boy is it oddly specific.

So my friends had me tell them the things I remind them of (I offhandedly mentioned I keep a Google doc of the things everyone likes or has the same vibes of for gift inspiration when their birthdays roll around. They all emediatly wanted to know their Google doc info.) And each of them realized I associate them with certain animals (totally not because those would definetly be their daemons in another life, surely not. *frantically hides notes*) and they started making their own lists. And unanimously they all gave me the same animal: a hare. Specifically the punchy and uncanny kind, like a jackrabbit.

Slight confusion on my part as I'd always figured I'd be something a little more aggressive or mischievous like a coyote. Having taken the daemon quiz a fair few times, I usually end up getting either a jackal or a cacomistle. A jackrabbit doesn't seem too far out if my wheelhouse, but I'd never considered it.

I guess what I'm asking is, would you be willing to elaborate on why my friends might be getting jackrabbit vibes from me? Is there something I can't see that they are seeing? Like, I'm not upset about it I'm just very confused lol. Just if you have the time, no pressure. Thanks in advance though, I really love your personality quizzes <3

oh what a fun question! i think this goes back to how in the daemon community there's two types of forms: analytical forms and pullman (or symbolic) forms. analytical forms are the type that are most commonly used in online form finding. they take the animal's ecology and "translate" that into human behavior — so from that perspective, your daemon would be an animal that is rather similar to you in how they go through life. in comparison, the pullman form is based on how daemons were originally portrayed in the book. this is form finding based on an animal's associations or the cultural beliefs associated with that animal — in the case of the book's canon, this was largely western european, though modern daemon pullman analyses try to take all cultural associations with the animal into consideration.

a jackrabbit is a great example. someone with a jackrabbit analytical form is going to be introverted, sensitive, competitive, obsessive, somewhat cliquish, and anxious for starters. jackrabbits are rabbits — they're skittish prey animals. compare this to the jackal who's also introverted and close-bonding but is going to have behavior in line with a scavenger, and the cacomistle who's introverted and solitary and has behavior in line with a generalist forager. a large part of analytical analysis is understanding how these behaviors can be attributed to a human and that's where some of the subjectivity in form finding comes in. still, i think there can be some objectivity in, for example, comparing a pack animal to a solitary animal or a prey animal to a scavenger animal. are you someone who's socially cooperative and dependent or someone who's independently-minded? are you someone who's anxious and routine-forming or someone who's bold and spontaneous?

but your friends' observations have an interesting point, in that we often associate the jackrabbit with traits like cunning, luck, speed, and ambition (though rarely productive ambition). the jackrabbit's reputation goes back to different native american and indigenous associations with the hare: many tribes have stories regarding the hare as a light-hearted, clever trickster figure who is often also a teacher to mankind or otherwise a sort of relatable underdog outsmarting predators (see ableegumooch of mi'kmaq folklore, moskim the rabbit of lenape folklore, and the trickster rabbit figure of the cherokee, creek, and other tribes). other tellings of a hare protagonist such as br'er rabbit, aesop's tortoise and the hare, and bugs bunny help cement the stereotype of a long-eared rabbit/hare/jackrabbit as someone who's wily and clever, though can sometimes bite off more than they can chew or otherwise screw themselves over... but ultimately are survivalists who will always return another day. someone with a jackrabbit pullman form is more likely to be someone who's cunning, quick-thinking, curious, insightful, self-assured, and prone to spontaneity if something interests them. punchy and uncanny does describe them well, but these associations are quite different from a skittish prey animal!

the jackrabbit also has other non-personality associations your friends might be picking up on as well. the jackrabbit is a staple of the american desert and great basin, so if you're from those regions, it may invite comparison. if you're a runner or talk quick or are otherwise speedy it may remind others of a jackrabbit as well. and then of course i'm sure many of us are familiar with friends pinning us as an animal we like or own... the number of times i've been associated with horses because i rode them (and collect art of them...) is so high, though i don't think my personality or vibe is particularly horse-ish at all!

i think my ideal would be having a form that fits me in both regards: an animal whose behavior is similar to mine, but also something my friends would peg me as. i feel like we need an association of daemians who are happy to be super specific about the vibes we give off — i feel like my normal friends will compare me to something like a dog, and then i'll get weird about comparing them a black-casqued hornbill or a chital deer haha.

hope this helped answer your question!

#personal #daemonism #form finding

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tleeaves · 1 year ago

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alright had to ask, what is it about australia or living here that you don’t like?

Okay, I apologise but this might be nonsensical (and totally political). Also, I get pretty heated in some of my discussion. Please know that it is not directed toward you, this turned into something of a vent/rant.

I point out the obvious right now based on current events, how Australia failed our Indigenous population by the "No" votes succeeding in the referendum for the Voice, and how disappointing that is. Let me paint a quick picture of what it looked like the day I voted: outside the town hall, there were three elderly folks holding signs and loudly telling my father and myself to vote no right on the steps of the entry. We walked straight past them to the one lone old woman who had pamphlets for the yes vote in hand, heads held high, and took two pamphlets with grateful smiles. I come from an immigrant family on both sides. This land was never ours. At least half of my heritage is made up of people and cultures that my British ancestry have historically oppressed too. The Indigenous peoples of this land are the rightful caretakers of it and always will be, no matter the people that come here. I gladly voted "Yes" and would have done it hundreds of times over if I could.

Unfortunately, it seems my long-standing suspicions have come true: many Aussies can be some of the most ignorant, lazy bunch of tall poppy syndrome mob-followers I have ever had the displeasure to know. Many voted against the referendum simply because they were uninformed and misinformed about it. I'm sure there's a great number that just did not care, because "what's it got to do with me? What if it affects my life negatively? Just say no to change to be safe and be done with it." It is appalling to me that apparently so many people are willing to just bury their heads in the sand and call it a day; not doing the research, not inquiring, not even appropriately weighing up multiple reliable sources to determine how best to vote. This is not their country. If I could, I'd tell those who voted "No" to leave it. Just leave. "Go back to your country" and I don't give a fuck if they were born here since this is the kind of argument white as hell ignorants tell every one who doesn't fit their picket-fenced lives.

Because that's what Australia feels like to me. Just another version of that illusory "American dream". We follow the footsteps of America in a lot of things, I've noticed, particularly in politics and media. We have more freedoms, yes, but how long will that last? I do not trust this country, especially now. We cannot seem to escape the ghosts of British colonisation either.

And do you know what I have also learned while researching Britain for many years (primarily for writing purposes and settings)? Australia is pretty much a watered down version of it, from our houses to our laws. It makes sense. But we are a pale, ugly shadow. Australia was built on by and for the convicts, not European elegance. I keep seeing in my mind the country town I used to live in. Those houses are uniform, old things commissioned for the immigrants and whatnot that came to work at the power station and mines. You can see echoes of English culture. But that's just it. Only echoes. That is Australia. I do not see anything recommending this place even aesthetically, anything particularly unique. In Victoria it's dark and rainy and can get icy, and you're basically in Britain. Melbourne is New York, as @faithfromanewperspective has pointed out, and so we are also American-influenced. Queensland has been referred to as "the Florida of Australia" by Americans and Canadians I've met. Everything contemporary Australia seems to be, is just a melting pot of Western culture. Our own politicians laud that we have so many different cultures from all across the globe, but I do not think some people realise that Aussies are not an accepting people historically, and many of those who were around when immigrants from Southern Europe and the Middle East first came here for work in the decades that followed the world wars are still alive and still allowed to vote and campaign.

And look, I'm almost definitely not the first person to point any of this out. But it's all this knowledge that's been a thorn in my side for a great deal of time. I cannot truly like or love Australia, not when there is also all of this.

Onto more minor things: the public transportation? Pretty good, I can't really complain, and it's especially good in Victoria. The weather? Can be really nice in certain parts of the country. We so far have not reached the insanity that is America, and we fortunately have no border-neighbours to war with (though I admit we are neglecting our Islanders and their well-being in at least a few ways, and I think we may be able to expect rising tensions after the "No" votes won). Personally? I prefer colder weather and would move from here if I could -- maybe in future -- back down south or overseas. Our environment can be beautiful, thoroughly enjoyable and peaceful, but the bush and even rainforests are not exactly my favourite. There's something so dry and alien, even about the plants here. And the rainforest/tropical areas here are good for carnivorous plants, which I tend, but the constant weather changes haven't been very kind to my bones (or to my plants, actually, and I have to wonder about the role climate change is playing in making the environment increasingly harsh, even for Australia). Also, I hate humidity. The air? In summer, it makes you wonder if there is air. I've had panic attacks because I feel like I can't breathe, that everything is too thick, too close, too everywhere, if that makes sense (keeping in mind I have water-related trauma). I don't like that places outside of the cities have such small Balkan populations and so I struggle to meet many people with the same life experiences and culture that I do, which makes carrying on language and traditions passed down in my family feel like a losing fight. Really, I just do not want to live here in Australia. It is both home and not. If I have to stay here, I'll go back to Victoria or might even try out Tasmania (gone on trips there, but have not lived there before). But that's if I truly have no capability of leaving the country.

One more thing: something about the places I seem to live in this country is very anti-knowledge and learning. Especially Queensland when compared with Victoria. Everything is so fitness and sports heavy, there is simply a general lack of respect for education. I'd talk more on this but I've run out of brain juice.

Anyway, that was my long-winded, rambly rant of things I don't like about Australia and living here. I'm pretty sure I have more to add but this is mainly the stuff at the forefront of my mind currently.

#fearful of how to tag this without attracting the anti-indigenous folks #there's no escape really let's just hope I get overlooked #australia #don't like it here #am trying to leave trust me

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alarajrogers · 1 month ago

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I think it's also kind of important to understand what Zionism even is, because it's become this huge bugaboo?

People seem to think "Zionism" means "I support everything the state of Israel does, including bombing innocent children in order to forcibly take their land," and... no. Not what it means. Zionism means "I believe the Jews have the right to have a homeland, and on the whole, the best place for that homeland is probably their ancestral lands, which they were largely forced out of 2000 years ago by imperial Roman colonizers because they wouldn't stop fighting against occupation and they wouldn't give up their culture."

Those who believe Israel has no right to exist are either massive fucking hypocrites because they believe the USA, Canada, Australia, and all the nations of South America have a right to exist, when none of those nations involved taking back ancestral land -- they're all straightforwardly occupying colonizers took over indigenous land, no "but it was ours before colonizers threw us off of it" complexity -- or they're as weirdly obsessed with "blood and soil" as Nazis and they think somehow it would make sense for all the white people in the US to move back to Europe, like we aren't all mutts with twelve different European countries plus maybe some native or African genes or maybe both in our ancestry. By the true definition of Zionism -- Jews have a right to their own homeland, on the territory they're indigenous to -- you are, 75 years after the existence of Israel was established, either a Zionist, a hypocrite, or so weirdly extreme in your leftism you've gone all the way around to the Nazi position.

You can believe that and still believe that Benjamin Netanyahu is a fuckhead who ought to die in a landslide, that what Israel is currently doing to Gaza is unforgivable (but not worse than what the US did to Iraq or any number of other places in our history -- Israel's not a special snowflake of evil here, and thinking they are is antisemitic), that whether you want to call it a "genocide" or not it is still war-crime-o-rama and no, "but Hamas uses civilians as human shields" is not an acceptable excuse for carpet bombing the fuck out of children. You don't have to excuse Israel or make up reasons why they're justified, any more than Americans had to make up reasons why what we were doing in Iraq was ok. You can be disgusted by the actions of Israeli leadership. But if you then take it out on Israelis, you better not be from the US -- or Britain, which has done far worse -- or you're an antisemitic hypocrite. And if you take it out on Jews because they believe Israel has the right to exist -- or because they haven't been sufficiently vocal about appeasing you and claiming it doesn't -- then you're kind of a textbook definition antisemite.

So yeah, if you're against Zionism -- the belief that Jews deserve a homeland and probably the best place for it is where it was already established, on the lands they are indigenous to -- then you're either someone who has no idea what Zionism even is and you're willing to spout uneducated opinions on the Internet, or you're an anti-semite. (And if you are Christian or you were raised Christian and you spout shit about "no, actually the Jews are not indigenous to Israel", oh my God are you being antisemitic and stupid, because every part of the Old Testament is about the Jews being from Israel. Also, all the archaeological evidence. Also, all the independent historical evidence.)

Note: I'm not Jewish! I was raised Catholic and am now an atheist (or at the very least, an agnostic anti-Christian; I'd be willing to accept the existence of a Creator, but that entity cannot be the Christian God, because the Christian God shows no special love for beetles and tries to encourage sexual taboos and gender-based behavior that are actively bad for human beings and counter our evolutionary niche.) I consider myself an ally to Jews, but I am very much a goy. So if you're the kind of asshole who discounts everything Jews say on the topic, maybe listen to me.

*This poll was submitted to us and we simply posted it so people could vote and discuss their opinions on the matter. If you’d like for us to ask the internet a question for you, feel free to drop the poll of your choice in our inbox and we’ll post them anonymously (for more info, please check our pinned post).

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ohkraken-a · 4 years ago

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okay. so. i have been using asl to describe what q'rhurh is signing in replies, but now knowing tsl (tusken sign language) was created using a mix including plains indian sign language, i'm thinking of switching my methodology; however, because the fc i'm using for her is aboriginal, a larrakia woman to be specific, i'm planning on looking into isl (indigenous sign language) to stay more accurate and respectful of her people and heritage, only because there are so few records of larrakia sign, and even then from what i can find it's more a supplement to oral tradition than a true sign language, so i think isl might be my closest bet.

#; hc ( q'rhurh )#like if i was using an indigenous american then i'd be more willing to use more plains indian sign but #i also don't want to do the whole 'signing is the same' or even 'languages is the same' deal either ya feel #idk why im sharing all this but here ya go

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pizza-soup · 3 years ago

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My grandfather, my dad's dad, this November will be at the first parade in this region to specifically honor Native American vets. He's so excited. He never thought he'd see the day that his people get rightly acknowledged like this. Haven't seen him this happy since New Mexico officially removed Columbus Day and replaced it with Indigenous Peoples Day. He's glad to see this kind of progress being made for us, that society is finally thinking critically about what they're supporting. It makes him hopeful for the future.

Today I was also talking to him about a memory I had of his ranch and his giant cowtank filled with catfish. When I visited them during summer vacation, I would help my grandma take the cucumbers, tomatoes, and jalapeños that had been sitting in the ice cold water in the fridge, chop them up into a salsa, and take the tomato vine and cucumber peels to the catfish tank. It was always fun to see the fish stick their faces out of the water, splashing around to get the scraps. I remember my grandparents telling me that the fish helped them with the pecan trees. In my young mind I pictured the fish with little rakes and hoes, tending the trees. In reality, the water from the fish gave a boost of nutrients to the trees which is vital for the long winter months.

Before European contact, some tribes had extensive irrigation canals to feed their crops, ancient hydroponics. The deeper canals often contained catfish to aid in pest control and provide nutrition for young plants, as well as provide a source of food during the winter. In shallow canals, tadpole shrimp, native to the state, took care of weeding out weak wild rice seedlings and eating mosquitoes, which is a godsend during the monsoon season. Some native farms today still practice this, which is why you still find tadpole shrimp in more modern canals and catfish kept in tanks adjacent to orchards. That relationship never changed, because it just worked.

It really made me think of making a catfish tank on my own property, as I already have a habit of tossing my betta fish water in the garden. I like the setup my grandparents have, the tank is in a shed-like structure, which shades the fish from harsh sunlight and snow, the tank has a spigot on the side that runs into the trees, with a pipe on top meant to pump in fresh water to replace the tank water. My grandfather said he'd help me set up a small one, as there's more to just putting fish in a tank and feeding them. I'd have to learn a bit of pisciculture, how to spot diseases, check for ammonia levels, oyxgen levels, ect. As well as raising fingerlings to replace the adults as they age and die. There's a lot in involved, but he'll share his decades old expertise with me and set me up with young fish from his stock next year. I'm apprehensive but willing. I really would like to make this work.

#daily updates

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thehoneybuzz · 4 years ago

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Chasing Baker

My Nana was my greatest adversary.

In an otherwise charmed life, Nana was an immovable force and the only legitimate challenger to my willpower. Not without the warmth one would expect from a grandmother, Nana could be sharp - like a sun-warmed pane of glass. Lesser hearts might have bent to me when I requested accommodation - but not Nana. Nana set a firm bedtime, insisted on efficient tooth brushing, and rather than negotiate with hair tangles, made short work of them in single, swift wrenches when brushing your hair. No nonsense. When you stayed with her - in one of two twin beds in a room made precisely for grandchildren - you often found yourself in bed with the lights out, with no real memory of having gotten there, swept away in the tide of your sheets. Nana was uncompromising, and no arena was more suited to our mutual stubbornness as the dinner table.

I grew up a notoriously picky eater. After a weekend at my Uncle Jerry's, my mom received a hardcover copy of "The Strong-Willed Child" from him as a gift. He had spanked me for not eating chicken nuggets. As evident by its title, the book was meant to coach my mother on parenting strategies for mitigating my innate obstinance. This would not be the only copy of the book my mother received. Though, I think she could have written one by the time I turned 4. I simply refused to eat the things I didn't like, and that was a long list.

A relative once applauded - clapped his hands together in joy- upon learning that I had graduated from having the crusts cut off my bread to full-blown sandwich eating. The peanut butter and honey sandwich was my signature dish and an absolute staple. I'd like to say I've grown out of it - and I've certainly grown having tried llama steak in Peru, lamb heart at the table of a Lebanese family, and Greenland shark in an Icelandic cafe - but it took me a long time to let go of my habits and permit myself to try, and it took some coaxing. My preferences ran deep.

My diet from ages six through eleven included Eggo waffles, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, an assortment of cereals, a handful of specific fruits and vegetables, and the occasional steak when mom thought my iron was low. My mom - on the advice of a pediatrician who told her that if she force-fed me, I'd develop an eating disorder - catered to this preference. Nana did not. They must have been seeing different pediatricians.

Nana took the clear your plate approach - The approach driven by reward and consequence. Finish your plate, cookies delivered. Fail to try, become hungry and hungrier still as dessert passes you by. I took to swallowing food whole, and my mom took to sending me with granola bars on visitations. She'd line the interior of my suitcase like we were smuggling drugs. I'll admit it was an unusual form of contraband, but the measure seemed necessary in a divorced child's duplicitous world. What my mom saw as nourishment, my Dad might see as undermined parenting strategy even under the best of circumstances - which they often weren't. I was hungry, so decided it best to keep things a secret and wrappers out of the trash.

Despite Nana's apparent best efforts, I avoided the eating disorder. Thanks to my mom, I avoided most foods until my early 20s. I don't know who was right. What I know for certain is that I was loved.

When I sat down with Nana after my trip to Mt. Baker, she clutched her heart as she said. "Ally - to think about you as this little girl - and that you would only eat peanut butter and honey sandwiches - to think of you climbing mountains…" she shakes her head, "… well I just can't believe it."

I started to laugh and asked her, "Want to know the best part?"

She nodded, smile in her eyes, full of that sunny warmth - playful and kaleidoscopic.

"I ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches up and down the side of that mountain, Nana," I told her, laughing, and then we laughed together. Growing up is fun, I thought, especially in moments like this.

Laughing with your grandmother is a gift you receive in exchange for time, and it is a beautiful gift indeed. Here is a woman who bathed you, clothed you, fed you - and by the time you're old enough to understand the magnitude of the life she held before all that, she is often gone. I'm lucky to have this time. Nana is 90 years old now, and my mother's mother passed at 74. I never got to have the conversations I wanted to have with my grandmother, who died. To ask her questions like, 'Who were you?' 'What lifetimes made up the love you gave so effortlessly away?'

There is something about mountain climbing that makes you consider those kinds of questions in real-time. There is something about mountain climbing that makes you feel as if you are in the process of 'becoming.' So when, at the parking lot of Grandy Creek Grocery, I met my fellow climbers and our guides - there was a feeling of anticipation and nervousness about who I'd be sharing that story with. Dropping me off, my mom described it like the first day of kindergarten. The first person I met was Sharon.

I had been worried about Sharon. Weeks before, on the pre-trip Zoom call, she stood out from the digital crowd as the most visibly senior person there. Sharon did not look old - she looked undoubtedly the oldest. I think this is an important distinction - particularly to Sharon. I remember thinking - "I hope she is not on my trip because I'm worried she will show me down." A very judgmental thought and the universe saw to its reckoning. Sharon surprised the hell out of me.

She paced the parking lot, and I jumped out of my rig to greet her. We quickly began commiserating. Baker would be her first mountain. I had Mount St. Helens under my belt, but it's not much in the way of experience. We talked about our training plan, recounting long drives to taller places. Sharon was from Wisconsin, and she had to drive 45 minutes to get to peaks at 3,000 - the same as me in Eastern Washington. We had a lot in common. Where I ran, she had been hiking with weight and jogging. Sharon wasn't afraid of hard work. On our drive to the trailhead, I learned that she had just lost 75 pounds last year. I learned later that when Sharon signed up for this climb, she hadn't told anyone in her family she was doing it. She was 62 years old and had never once traveled alone. What on earth possessed her to climb a mountain? I'd be afraid of that question, too.

Sharon eventually fessed up to her family and made the trip official. That's how we found ourselves on the side of a mountain together. I'm embarrassed to have been so fundamentally wrong - but my confession is not without meaning, and I learned an important lesson. Never underestimate a Sharon.

When Melissa, our guide, described Mt. Baker for the first time, she called it by its indigenous name, Komo Kulshan. She then gave us its epithet - "The Great White Watcher." Having now met Kulshan face to face, I can tell you that's precisely how he feels. The summit looms as you navigate through the trees. Stoic in the face of the wilderness that surrounds him. Ice cold, he waits. In the Lummi language, he's called 'white sentinel.' He is persistent, vigilant, and watching.

I focused my nervous energy on preparing to meet this mountain by learning what I could about him. I learned that Mt. Baker is 10,781 feet tall, an active volcano, and the second most glaciated mountain in the continental united states (Rainier's got it beat, and you don't count Alaska). It's a formidable mountain, known - as nearly all alpine environments are - for its quickly changing conditions and the perils of its geology. This all, somehow, frightened me less than the thought of meeting Melissa Arnot-Reid. Her legend loomed not in the Cascades - where only a single peak resides above the threshold of 14,000 feet by which the Rockies measure their formidable "fourteeners." Melissa's legend loomed as large as Everest, on who's summit she has been six times - the only American woman to summit without the use of supplemental oxygen and survive. 29,032 feet. Melissa was someone I wanted to learn from, and I was scared shitless of her by reputation.

Suffering a bit of social awkwardness around celebrities, I prepared to meet Melissa by seeking to learn nothing about her at all. The antithesis of my mountain strategy - I told myself our experience would be what it was when we met on the mountain. My job was to learn - to ask my questions courageously - and be vulnerable and bold in seeking truth. I spent a fair bit of time wondering if she might be an ass hole, too. The age-old adage, "don't meet your heroes," drifted in and out of my mind.

In the last 15 minutes of our drive to Grandy's, my mom started reading Melissa's Wikipedia page aloud to me as I navigated the road, undoing months of my concerted preparation. I let her continue, greedy for information. "It says she trains by depriving herself of things - that she'll go without food and water."

"Probably a good idea if you're ever going to be stuck on the side of a mountain without it," I told her. I braced myself for a response. In the past few months, my mother had a growing sensitivity around topics that might suggest I could die on the side of a mountain. Admitting, so blatantly, that mountain climbing was a dangerous sport left me vulnerable to excessive mothering accompanied by exclamations of "Don't you dare!" Instead, my mom sort of nodded and continued, "I'm surprised her baby came out healthy."

My brow furrowed. I hated my mother for saying it. I had avoided a lecture from the mother of the mountaineer but failed to account for the mother of the daughter aged-almost-thirty. My uterus is a topic of conversation around my mother's table. Apparently, so was Melissas. Not wanting to discuss either, I let my mother's comment go unchecked as she continued to list accomplishments. "This article says she's focused on business, not emotions. That she is an incredible problem-solver." Now her reports felt more like cheating - it felt like an unfair advantage to meet someone armed with publicly available information about them. When you Google "Allyson Tanzer," you won't find much about my disposition under pressure. I told my mom it was time to focus and turned up the music.

When we parked, and I went to introduce myself to Melissa, three things happened. As I introduced myself, she first quickly let me know that she would not be giving out hugs due to the pandemic. Then, taking my hand in a firm grip, Melissa detailed that she and our other guide, Adrienne, had critical guide business to discuss and would be with us in a moment. She reported being thrilled to be meeting us as she quickly dropped my hand. Within thirty seconds, I was apologizing profusely and backing my way into the grocery. What can I say - first time formally climbing mountains, and I wasn't sure of the protocol. I fiddled with a bag of Cheetohs and continued to hope that she wasn't just an ass hole.

I went to the bathroom for something to do and remembered what my mother said. Task-oriented. I figured Melissa probably didn't hate me, after all. Despite my earlier misgivings, I was grateful to know a bit about her character, regardless of how 'honestly' that information was obtained. Thanks, Mom.

Our climb began. We left Grandy's in a caravan and parked near 3000' at the winter routes trailhead. On the first day, you ascend to 6000' and establish camp. You carry about 40 pounds, walking 1 mile and about 1000 vertical feet per hour, stopping for 15-minute breaks in those intervals. Conditions are warm, which means you're doing something the mountaineers call "post-holing" - ramming deep holes (as if for a fence post) into the ground as you step through snow that's washed out underneath. It's slow-going and rigorous. An hour and a half in, Melissa reports that we're standing in the location where she usually takes the first break. Unseasonably warm weather with a heavy snow accumulation has made for an exciting start.

You walk along a canyon ridge formed by a retreating glacier. You realize that time here is not measured in the same cadence that it's known to you. Mountains measure time in millennium, not decades. The formations of rock are carved by years, not minutes. The ground holds a history you can't conceive of - an ancient history of rock and ice. You are constantly struck by feeling small both physically and in your very chronology. I spent the first day happily in awe.

At camp, you maintain - guides (and playfully designated junior guides), boil snow, establish a base, dig a toilet. You assess whether or not you need to poop in a bag and carry it down the mountain with you as you try - for the first time - a rehydrated meal claiming to be chili Mac and cheese. Melissa teaches us how to walk on rope over a glacier. I try to mimic her knots. She redefines your concept of efficiency - breathlessly describing a packing order that accounts for calorie intake, warmth requirements and weight distribution - Every contingency considered. When I win the Ice Ax Rodeo by landing my thrown ax in a particular configuration - all is right in the world. Melissa is a drill sergeant giving instruction. She outlines the next minute - next five minutes - next hour - next day.

Her matter-of-fact nature reminds me of something. When I gave my parents a ride in an airplane for the first time with me as the pilot in command, I provided them near the same briefing as we were parked on the ramp. It ended dramatically with, "And if anything should happen, you have to exit the aircraft first in the following fashion." At which point I launched myself from the plane. I wanted them to be prepared to fight their instincts to protect me. I’m the only pilot on board - and my job is to protect my passengers, no exceptions. They both described a sense of foreboding and peace at the demonstration. It’s precisely how I felt when Melissa explained how she would be rescuing herself from a crevasse. “If you fall, I get you out. If I fall, I get myself out, but I need your help as an anchor to do so.” She took the approach of coaching us in only what we needed for the next challenge. We would learn crevasse rescue on a need to know basis. At Grandy’s, she told us to expect 48 hours of endurance. At camp, we’re at hour 9. She painted a picture of the following day.

"We'll begin between 11, and 2 am. Expect switchbacks up the glacier, a series of flats, and gains over the next hour. In 3.5 miles, we'll gain an additional 2000 feet - meandering a path through the glacier's crevasses, and it will gradually become steeper over time. About 1.5 miles to the summit, we'll hit the Easton glacier culminating in the Roman Wall. Then, because God has a sense of humor, you have a long flat walk to the summit after the steepest portion. All said it will take us between 5-7 hours to the top."

Frankly, it was just about as simple as that.

My eyes opened at 11:50 pm to the sound of movement outside the tent. Melissa had coached us here, too. "You may not be sleeping," she told us as we readied for 'lights out.' Days from the summer solstice, the sun burned brightly above us at 7 pm. "Remember that you don't need sleep; you need rest. That's what you're getting here at camp. You're horizontal; your feet are out of your boots. Close your eyes, and know you're getting what you need." Felt like a lie, but sure enough, with two hours of sleep, I couldn't describe myself as tired.

I did, however, feel cold. Chilly night temperatures had crept into our tent, and dressing for the day was arduous. I knew to keep my clothes in my sleeping bag. It was a trick I learned from a friend made trekking in the Andes for dressing in the cold. I knew to shorten my trekking poles while climbing, thanks to my guide on that same trek. I'd be leaving my trekking poles behind today, though. Ice axes only. We divide into rope teams. The race begins, but there's no starting pistol - only wind.

Fifteen minutes into our climb and we're struggling to find the rhythm. I'm still shaking the bleariness of the cold. The rope between climbers takes on an interesting dynamic. While it connects you to your fellow climber, it also isolates you from them. You have to maintain a certain distance away from one another while maintaining the same pace. It's a dance with crampons on in glacial ice - a delicate dance indeed - and it's where climbing feels like a team sport. You're all in it together.

Voices rang out in sequence like a game of telephone - one of our team would need to climb down. We said short goodbyes and waited as Adrienne (guide) descended with climber to camp. We were lucky - we hadn’t been climbing long which meant Adrienne could climb down and back to rejoin her rope. Guide redundancy is a safety net when groups of climbers work together.

Darkness continued. We continued. As you persist, darkness seems to persist along with you. In the first hour, it grows heavy. Your world begins and ends at the light of your headlamp, and that's where you find it—your rhythm. Crampons crunching, breath steady, and the gentle swish of your layers create a sort of timpani, a medley of percussion sounds. Clink, brush, crunch, and clink, brush, crunch, as ax bites ice, the movement of your clothes, and the toe of your boot kicks crampon into snow propelling you forward. There isn't much to think about in this grinding meditation. You're grounded in tugs from ahead or behind you as you march, slowly up. You can count steps, miles, feet of elevation - whatever keeps you moving. Whatever keeps you going up.

Moments before sunrise, we would lose another on our team. I listened to Melissa coach her. "What we're headed to is going to be harder than what we've just done. If how you are feeling is taking away from your ability to focus on your next step - I can only tell you that it's not going to get easier from here." That's when I saw the decision on her face. Another round of goodbyes - this one a bit more somber. She had worked so hard.

The decision to descend is a difficult one, but it’s one of the most important you can make. There are steep consequences to being in over your head in a place so remote. The summit is a siren, beware. Melissa - aware of the remaining teams intention to summit - advised us to plug our ears as she told the descending climber the Sherpa belief that a mountain won't let you summit for the first time if it likes you. Mountains bring you back. Further, she coached, the decision to go down can lift an entire team's chance of success if you feel you're a liability. Recognizing yourself and your limitations truthfully is a mountain in itself. That's the summit this person made in her decision to descend.

Like a good Agatha Christie novel, our list of characters dwindled. We added layers and continued - five of the original eight. Melissa was right, again. After we lost the second climber, our ascent became a proper climb. From that point forward, if anyone decided to turn around - we would all have to. There was only one remaining guide, and she had to protect all her climbers, no exceptions - me in the cockpit all over again.

She didn't show it, but 62-year-old Sharon was genuinely frightened. She had realized the same thing I did. If she didn't make it - no one would. Sharon kept climbing. Remember when I was worried she would slow me down?

When the sun starts to rise, everything begins to feel possible again. I don't mean to say that things were hopeless, just that with the sun comes energy and a sense of renewal. Color returns to the landscape, and you can begin to be able to measure your progress concretely. The mountain casts a shadow across the earth, stretching miles. You can't believe that you are contained within that shadow, on the face of such a giant who stands so impossibly tall. Melissa stood there, and I took her picture.

She had turned out to be not an ass hole at all. Where I sought to be her student, she aspired to teach - at once brilliant and kind. Her stride - her sport - a work of art. The precise art of what she calls slow, uphill walking. Her shadow and the shadow of the mountain impressed upon me the power of legends.

As the Roman Wall came into view - I knew we had it. We short rope in and make one last push. If Mt. Baker is a joke from God, the ending of the Roman Wall is its punchline.

Atop the incline awaits a long, easy walk to a haystack peak some few hundred yards in the distance. I was bubbling with emotion as my heart rate settled and the view became clear. There wasn't much difference between where we stood and where we were going. We dropped our packs, unroped, and ran up the summit. I was in tears.

Melissa broke her no-hugs-in-the-pandemic rule and celebrated us each in turn. I snapped countless photos and spent each frozen moment smiling. I pulled Melissa and Sharon in close. I had felt something on my heart and only needed a moment's bravery to share it.

I started awkwardly.

"I'd like to say something to you and Sharon," I muttered, barely audible over the wind, as I tugged on Melissa's sleeve. I grabbed Sharon's arm and pulled her in too. I don't remember the exact thing I said or the exact way in which I said it. I remember pausing to make sure I got it right and wondering for a long time if I managed to do so.

I told them that I had come to the mountain expecting to be impressed by one person. Melissa promised an impressive education - on which she delivered. She is of that rare quality - the kind who’s presence improves you. I came to Baker with that expectation, I confessed, I expected Melissa. I paused before telling Sharon, her gloved hand in mine, “You?” I laughed nervously. “I wasn’t expecting. A 62-year-old woman….” I nodded back to Melissa, “And you, the mother of a 3-year-old…” I didn’t want to get this wrong. “You are two people who our society labels and confines. Yet, here you are - on top of a mountain. I have to tell you….” I was choked up in earnest here and struggled to continue.

"It matters.” I said. “What you do matters. It matters to have an example of what is possible. Both of you have provided that example to me and women like me. Thank you." I sobbed. "I am so grateful for it and grateful for you." Melissa smothered me in her jacket as she embraced me, once again, in a hug. Pandemic be damned. My tears froze. While I expected a "There's no crying in mountaineering" a la Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own (it was a climb of mostly women, after all) the admonishment never came.

Sharon grabbed hold of me next and we shared the alpine view. Before I knew it, we were the last two on the summit. The wind howled a steady cheer. Celebrations concluded, it was time to leave. I stayed for just a moment longer, watching Sharon as she left. They don't make anything more beautiful than a mountain, and it's a view worth savoring. I descended, joyfully, to my team.

I didn't bury Jake up there. In Ashes to Ashes, I told the story of taking my old farm dog's remains to the top of my first volcano. He's not so much a good luck charm as he is an omen of protection. I don't need luck as much as I need safety, and he serves his duty well. Jake stayed with me through our descent to camp. I needed a little protection coming down off the Roman Wall, I thought. I wanted him close until we were off the glacier. He lays now at the foot of my tent—a very good place for a very good dog.

There's a natural mindfulness to climbing. I often find myself living in the present step - not thinking about the route that lies below. You forget in moments that the trip up is accompanied by an equally long and perilous journey down. From the summit, your journey is far from over. Yet, time flies by even as you stop to admire the steam vents. The rainbow that surrounds the sun refracts joy and color the same.

You reach camp, celebrate, pack up. Miles and thousands of feet remain even from there. That's when you realize it's ending and when I realized I didn't want it to end.

We spent the next few miles getting to know each other in earnest, savoring time and mountain views, chatting in the way of long-form hikers - about the nature of things and through storytelling. Melissa regaled us with vulnerable truths and comedic parables. We laughed. I kept sipping at the wells of knowledge around me, drinking in the moments. Laughter distracted from hunger, from wet feet, and from the dull and dim realization that all good things must come to an end. We made our way to the bottom of the mountain. Just like that - we say goodbye.

Sharon drove me back to Grandy's. We chitter like school girls - adrenaline and nostalgia collide in our post-climb delirium. We talk about the future. I realize that we are good friends. I am humbled by just how wrong a person can be to believe something about someone for no good reason.

Mom picks me up, and with her embrace my adventure is over. I’ve come full circle - safe and sound, parked in the lot of Grandy Creek Grocery.

Melissa found us there and knocked on our window.

"Your daughter is really special. The MOST special,” my hero and friend told my mom. Mom beamed with a special pride reserved exclusively for mothers of strong-willed daughters. I had been misreading things - the adventure had only just begun.

There are eight years between Melissa and I. I’m not sure I’ll be chasing Everest in that time, but I know I won’t be finished. I’ve got thirty-three years to catch Sharon at 62. In the mountain blink of sixty-one years, I’ll be as old as my Nana and I hope at least half as wise. Good thing there are so many years - for there is so much left to climb.

#mountaineering #mountains #travel #adventure #adventurephotography #traveling #travelblogpost #mountainclimbing #mt baker

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bushybeardedbear · 4 years ago

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So I've been considering writing and posting this little issue I've had with something. Sorry to anyone following me who doesn't care about MLB. And sorry to anyone who doesn't want discourse on their dash. I will tag accordingly...

So, all that said...

The Native American Miracle Box

Is it just me or is it a little problematic?

So, on the surface it's great to see it. It's using Native American symbolism and mythology. It's establishing that other cultures communed with and harnessed the Kwami. (Though, one could argue the Miraculous in general actually enslave these god-like beings but that's a whole other can of worms I don't want to open...) Jess being a Native American hero, wielding the Miraculous of Freedom. Its all superficially really encouraging, inclusive and nice.

But, this is a big but.

There's a huge period of Native American history where one would assume access to Super Heroes might have been a little useful.

I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on the historical events, because I'm not. I'm not going to pretend I speak on behalf of or in replacement of anyone anyone else, because I don't. If anything, my ancestors may well have been complicit in the acts I'm referring to. So if I'm wrong, call me out on it. If I'm misrepresenting anything, do the same. I'd much prefer other more relevant voices than my own be talking about this and to be listened to. I'm only saying this because to my knowledge, nobody else seems to be talking about this.

This isn't an easy topic, but America is founded upon genocidal colonialism. There's no two ways about it. Indigenous populations were murdered on a vast scale. The effects and marginalisation that resulted are still a part of people's everyday struggle. I'm fully aware that something like a cartoon talking about genocide and the lasting effects it has might be a little outside its remit, but there seems to be something inadequate about the way Miraculous Ladybug simply removes the Native American Miraculous from the equation and in a completely dismissive way.

So, based on what little information is out there, we are to believe that at some point in human history, some Native American people became aware of, communed with and created tools to harness the Kwami. In the centuries that followed, nothing was done with them. And then in around about the 16th century, these ancient powerful artifacts were just for no given reason or cause scattered around the world somehow. Then, it wasn't until the American war of independence that one of these artifacts were first used. By a white man.

Tell me its not just me that sees this as somewhat problematic?

Imagine if this was for example a hypothetical Jewish Miracle Box. Arranged in a box shaped like the Star of David and with Miraculous forged by Moses to free his enslaved people. And somehow, let's say around the 1920s, the box and its contents just conveniently go missing just before a major historical event involving Jewish people.

Wouldn't that be rightly seen as a bit messed up?

Even writing that hypothetical makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

So, isn't the Native American Miracle Box a very close parallel to the scenario I just laid out? Disappearing just before the colonisation of America happened? Or am I being somehow unfair and over-analytical? Please, if I'm talking nonsense, tell me so.

So, to my mind it feels a little like these new Miraculous have the trappings and essentially superficial decoration of Native American Culture. The most recent hero to weild them, also Native American. On the one hand that should obviously be applauded. But in the context of the Canon ignoring or marginalising the struggles of Native Americans and essentially using the peoples and cultures as decoration, isn't that a kind of clueless cultural appropriation? A kind of Colonialist attitude to the various Native American cultures as a kind of way to score points for appearing superficially inclusive?

Did Thomas Astruc or any of the Miraculous staff ask any indigenous peoples or groups for input before including this, for instance. I don't think for a moment it was actively malicious. Just, honestly a little thoughtless.

Though I suppose it's easy enough to argue that the integration of these super heroic power items into world history is in general not a great idea. Is this actually part of a larger trend of lazy world building written from the point of view of someone far removed from the historical horrors he's pushing his magic toys into?

It's one thing to argue maybe Sun Wukong, Robin Hood, the Pied Piper or other apocryphal and legendary figures held the Miraculous. Legends don't have a real world impact beyond the imaginations they spark, their place in the cultural zeitgeist. But when real world history is an issue, maybe you should have made an active choice to make your entire setting into its own historical reality based in mythology?

A similar issue to the historical problems of the Native American Miracle Box popped up in earlier episodes. Whilst not explicitly stated, it was strongly implied that during WW2, Master Fu guarded the Chinese Miracle Box from The Axis Forces. Preventing them from falling, he says, into the wrong hands.

So, why would Fu at no point consider that choosing heroes at this critical point in world history might not have been wise? Was it somehow morally wrong to intervene in defeating an ideology that threatened millions of people? Could any of the Miraculous in the hands of the Allied Nations have been considered the wrong hands given the enemy they were facing?

The issues are only compounded when you consider the Miraculous have existed in one form or another through all of human history. Yet its only now that they factor. We have to consider that either the Miraculous are always conveniently not available when certain conflicts happen or that they were indeed used but changed nothing meaningful.

If you're going to say these ancient relics have existed and been used for centuries, why not go the extra mile and examine how they've changed history? If you don't want to ever deal with the real world history, then perhaps only have the items show up in the modern day? It's the Half and Half response of "they only matter when it's easy to say they matter" that invites discussion of odd choices in the writing.

Maybe my willing suspension of disbelief for MLB is just shattered after season 3 was so... Unsatisfying?

Whatever the case, I'm just wanting to vent, put my thoughts out there and say that maybe attempting to insert new mythology into the existing world history and YET not having any impact on world history seems like its poorly thought out and best and deeply insensitive at worst.

#Discourse #miraculous ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Discourse

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crionic-dubs · 3 years ago

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In their words, "no one being entirely unproblematic" isn't the "piping hot take" OP thinks it is. We know. Everyone who studies history even close to professionally knows. But there's folks out there who still think the Roman Empire was the ideal government we should all strive towards, and Mr. Walrus doesn't seem to mind them. Yet if anyone tries to say that Native Americans DID in fact do some cool stuff, whoa, teach the controversy pal. There's folks who are willing to latch onto anything, anything to justify colonialism and conquest, even if they themselves can be judged by those standards. And so places that try to promote history to laypeople, or are using history to promote indigenous rights, will of course try to tell you about the more positive things first because of the situation we find ourselves in where people either don't think natives have a history, or that it's all violence and despair. Can those places do more to present the history in more detail and in mature tones, like how we talk about "our" history? Sure, but most of these places aren't run by professional historians or anthropologists, and so a lot of their ability or inability to do that has been affected by colonialism. As it stands, the positive perspectives being put out by some pophistory sources (as there's still plenty that go the BWAHAHAHA BRUTAL SACRIFICE route), or held by a fraction of the public, are far from being problematic right now. Except, apparently, to people like rudjedet who, despite being outside the U.S. and thus outside and ignorant of the problems it has with indigenous people and the power dynamics concerning their history, thinks that people who put out positive-only views of Native Americans are a big problem, who do it solely because they're not white (not at all reminiscent of a right-wing "ohh white people have it rough because we don't have it all!" narrative), and that if they're not left unchecked, they could..."repeat the mistakes of the past". Like, <jfjfftrtt>? What mistakes? I'd love to know. Are the Oglala Lakota planning a fascist takeover of the United States, their arms supplied by yoga moms nationwide? What the hell is she talking about? Does she actually realize the social situation many tribes are in? I can't wrap my head around this. God, I hate tumblr. Also, guess what? Historical revisionism isn't bad. Not automatically. It's not automatically good either. At its heart, it's just how we change our understandings as new perspectives and information are added. It's no different from how science updates and sometimes refutes itself with the progression of time. It doesn't always mean denying atrocities or making ones' government appear gloriously flawless. In fact, a lot of revisionism comes from the undoing of those established histories to present something more inclusive and orthodox-challenging. In most cases, it's a necessary act. Every new work a historian puts out is, one way or another, revising the established pool of historical knowledge. Like I said before, if you think history is nothing more than collecting facts without even attempting to put it all together, you're a bad historian. And a couple of pophistory sources trying to tell folks that indigenous people weren't irredeemably barbaric is hardly historical revisionism in the first place. At most, it's just awareness raising. It is true a society need not be "squeaky clean" to be worth studying and remembering, but when a society's history is barely taught at all outside of negative elements used to justify their subjugation, all because the powers that be decided no parts of them were worth admiring, then it's important to remind people that there are such parts. To reiterate, fridgemagnetting, uwu-washing, whatever you call it can be problematic in public outreach, either by professionals or especially by non-scholars whose hearts are in the right place, but the biggest problem I have with it is that the "promotion" is often pretty shallow and superficial, sometimes infantilizing in its own right by where they choose to point

their praise, especially when you contrast it against how, say, a Roman or British documentary is done. And a lot of that is simply out of the immediate control of the promoters. I don't have a problem with them "failing" to include the negative aspects, because as with any thesis, you don't include things that are outside the point and scope. It would be an issue if people were doing an assessment of total "morality", but no one is trying to do that here. And once you get into the real academic sphere, not the pophistory public outreach one, none of this even applies. It's like baby jabber. Finally, even what makes a society worth "studying and remembering" to someone can be problematic (see: wehraboos vs. any other reason you'd be interested in WWII). Why do you enjoy this part of history so much? Do you enjoy reading about the Mongols not just because of the way they were able to quickly set up an empire, but because of their literature, their effects on economics and freedom of religion, their mail system, patronage of arts and sciences, even just the way their families work or what they valued, or are you a fan just because "wow cool horse warrirs! klingon dothraki horde haha so badass".‡ Or if peoples' only interests in African history all involve "fierce tribesmen" versus, say, the intricate political and religious institutions and relationships of sub-Saharan Africa. One cause for fascination, at its worst, is just a dehumanizing warrior fetish that doesn't really lead anywhere useful (except to supplement some right-wing strength/fear-based agenda) and doesn't really do a service to their descendants either, especially if they're on the socioeconomic boot end. The other is born out of a genuine desire to learn about worlds so different, yet in many cases the same; it sees the subject matter as real people who lived, laughed and died, whose lives could produce literal libraries' worth of content, and who deserve to have their stories told. That's all we want. TL;DR people don't understand the concept of "punching up" and "punching down" also applies to cultural-historical outreach.

God I am sick and tired of people uwu-washing indigenous American history.

Did the Inca have exquisite building techniques, efficient messengers, and quality waterworks? Yes. They were also an expansionist empire built on violent conquest and the splitting up and relocating of conquered peoples.

Did the Aztecs have a gorgeous capital city built at the heart of a lake, with floating farms and towering temples honoring their fascinating pantheon? Yes. Guess what tho. They were also a violent expansionist empire who practiced ritual sacrifice of prisoners of war.

The Iroquois confederacy had one of the most unique representative political systems I’ve ever heard of, with women taking a forefront in most local government matters too. But their internal peace allowed them to redirect violence to their neighbors, as so often happens with tribal confederations, and they eventually violently conquered the Ohio valley and destroyed or displaced dozens of other indigenous groups.

Even my beloved Cahokia has the graves of sacrifice victims amidst its ruins.

A society should not need to be (and fundamentally cannot be) squeaky clean unproblematically stannable in order to be worth studying and remembering, and pretending that they were is no less disinformative than the European accounts painting them as godless savages.

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