Whose Side Am I On?

I am writing from a country far, far away.

Because I can't give you the name of this nation, I will tell you a little bit about it.

It is a poor country. By that, I mean it has a GDP of roughly $17 billion (US, PPP) and since the 1960s, has been accumulating exorbitant amounts of debt to fund infrastructure development, poverty relief programs, etc. It is, as they say, "underdeveloped" or "developing". Some people think that the latter is a more polite, more encouraging choice of nomenclature. Because I am of the opinion that the terms mean the same thing, and because I don't like the implication of that thing – namely, that Aristotle's Great Chain of Being is still a vital force in our language and our minds – I will use the term "Third World". If you read to the end of this essay, you will understand why I choose this title, despite the fact that it has fallen out of favor with the academic establishment.

I am in a Third World country. Objectively, that means that it is debt-ridden; its creditors include the International Monetary Fund (IMF), the World Bank, and bilateral donors like USAID and DFID. In exchange for the forgiveness of said debt (or, some would argue, to continue being eligible for loans), it is implementing structural adjustment programs (privatizing and deregulating industry, opening borders to international investment, "tightening the national belt" through cuts to social programs). It has a booming population that is rapidly urbanizing. Roughly eighty percent of the swelling population is engaged in the informal sector (economic activities that are not taxed, like subsistence agriculture or selling second-hand clothes in the street). Despite being overwhelmingly agrarian, it is trying to attract industry (or perhaps, 'reluctantly submitting to industry') by participating in the "Race to the Bottom": allowing foreign companies to enjoy the cheap labor force and vast mineral resources with as few pesky regulations as possible so that I, the ever-loyal consumer, can buy my jeans for $29.99 at the Fayette Mall.

Open to debate is whether or not this country's Third World status is also a function of its citizens' non-European heritage or if that is purely coincidental. It is also a former colony, another characteristic that is shared by a suspicious number of Third World countries.

What do these things mean? They mean that four-fifths of the population live on the equivalent of $2 a day or less. To address two common responses to this statistic: indeed, one should remember that this is a country where many people grow their own food and build their own shelters, tempering the need for paper currency. However, to reiterate, the country is urbanizing with a speed that decries its reputation for a leisurely pace. And granted, the purchasing power of $2 is greater here – best case scenario, the exchange rate is 1:1700(national currency), meaning that the average citizen makes ends meet on 102,000 NC per month. By way of comparison, I just rented a modest studio apartment for 130,000 NC a month in the capital, a deal that by every one's account is impossibly ideal; a deal that was secured only because of personal connections I had established due to my privileged status as a white foreigner. One hundred and thirty thousand NC for housing alone for one month. I have, in addition, over 500,000 NC for food and pleasure for the month of April.

What I'm trying to say is that you should pay very little heed to people who insist that the statistics are a bunch of rain-on-our-markets'-parade baloney. Things are unequivocally hard for the vast majority of people here, and increasingly so as they flock to metropolitan centers, seeking the gold promised them at the end of the proverbial rainbow.

They find it, alright. Problem is, it's inside of well-guarded family compounds, like the one in which I live; it's tied up on the lithe mannequins in the windows of boutiques which they aren't allowed to enter. Its baked into the pastries that are temptingly arranged behind glass counters according to impeccable Western aesthetic standards.

They find the gold: its just locked up, in a crystal safe. The transparency mocks them. Because they are wholly unequipped to crack the combination -- they do not speak the languages of power -- they remain on the periphery, faces pressed against the Swarovski, becoming increasingly despondent and desperate. But for some, despondency and desperation evolve into a lock-jawed bitterness at having been duped by the siren song of modernity. They become increasingly angry as I emerge, refreshed, from a popular spa, or from the hotel that still bears the name of a notorious colonial plantation lord, after my afternoon coffee and chocolate, or from the "green zone" (by which my roommates and I affectionately refer to our lodgings), freshly showered, en route to a meeting, certainly an important meeting, at the Carlton.

They are angry, the children who demand money, even those who cannot identify the emotion. They are angry and they are strong; they have grown up under conditions that have hardened their soles and sharpened their senses. They are strong because they have nothing to loose. By contrast, I am contemptibly weak, in body and heart, with my arch supports, miniature pharmacy, and fear of pain.

The only thing that is not weak is my mind, which is quick to point out the shameful inconsistencies in my behavior.

I have digressed.

This essay is not about my lack of moral fitness, or even this country, necessarily.

It's about Kentucky, my home. It's about the fact that this Third World country and Kentucky have more in common than one might suspect, good and bad: the wild disparity between rich and poor and the desire of the urban citizens to distance themselves in the eyes of outsiders from their rural brethren; the rowdy music and the fierce pride; the absentee landownership and the bids for industry, natural resource stripteases; the puzzling phenomenon of folks with means staying, purely out of something as antiquated as love of the land and community (do I need to point out that that is a joke?); the phenomenal creativity and energy of youthful resistance; the very histories themselves. All these things are shared, but I will focus on the first similarity to catch my attention: the mining industry.

There are certainly rays of sunshine in this godforsaken place. After a comprehensive revision of the 'outdated' national mining code (outdated because it smacked of socialism and nationalism, making exploitation difficult for international firms) between 1999 and 2005 under the expert guidance of a D.C.-based law firm, this country's mining sector was declared "open for business". The Heritage Foundation raved -- the chastity belt had been unlocked. This country's investment freedom score soared from 30 to 70 in this period -- largely because of the fact that "most sectors of the economy are open to 100 percent foreign ownership" (that's polite speak for absentee landownership). Since the completion of this "mining law modernization" process, all but 15% of subterranean exploration rights have been claimed by foreign conglomerates. The possibilities are endless. Just think -- in only a few brief years, this wretched, impoverished country will be making enough money, thanks to its shrewd utilization of la richesse de la terre and the invisible hand, to crack the crystal safe.

Just like Kentucky.

Just like Kentucky. With its poverty, unemployment, and illiteracy rates that are some of the bleakest in the nation. With upwards of 50% of children living below the poverty line in some counties and average income levels in others that are nearly half that of the national average. With it's hopeful reception of President Lyndon B. Johnson in 1965, and his declaration of a "War on Poverty," and its subsequent realization, forty years later, that nothing has changed. With its uncertain hope that Massey is telling the truth this time with its assurances of wealth on the horizon and its reluctant acceptance of prevailing wisdom, which insists that there are no economic alternatives to coal for the backwards lot of Appalachia; with its Harlan Country insurgents of June, 1973; with its Martin County flood, 250 million gallons of coal slurry into our rivers and streams, 30 times the amount of oil spilled in the Exxon-Valdez disaster of 1989, declared by the EPA the worst environmental disaster in the recorded history of southeastern United States, and the media no where to be found; Kentucky, with its proud mothers who are intimidated by menacing coal trucks which circle their homes for days on end after they have been so presumptuous as to point out that the law exists to protect the consenting citizenry, not bloodless institutions that lack the faculties to make sound, ethical judgments, much less love or feel loyalty toward someone or something; Kentucky, with its achy, heart-breaky voices and mandolins and fiddles that I have failed to love enough, the sounds of obstinate joy in the face of impossible odds; sounds that explain my own life, perhaps better than I'll ever be able to understand.

This Third World country will arrive at wealth, influence, and most importantly, self-determination, just like Kentucky.

I promise.

What is the point of this? The point is that Kentucky might have more in common with the villagers, the naked pagans, of the country from which I write, than certain powers would like us to realize. The point is that the disempowerment of the Third World, which (news flash), with the globalization of markets, is no longer a respecter of national boundaries, relies on its incoherency and internal conflict. It relies on the dispossessed of southside Chicago and Southeast DC and Appalachia and Native American reservations and Tehran and Nairobi and Sarajevo and Beijing and Bangkok and Manila and Rabat and Baghdad and Beirut and Jerusalem all believing that they have nothing in common. It relies on the fortification of divisions and the stoking of hatred - cultural, ethnic, religious - between these groups.

The point is that in 2000, Massey Energy was spun off of Fluor Corporation, a publicly owned Fortune 500, engineering, construction, and procurement firm that operates, directly or indirectly, in well over 25 countries, one of which is the country from which I write.

I won't bore you with a laundry list of examples of the ways in which the global pillars of government, finance, and commerce are intertwined...chances are, you've heard it before, and if I'm not careful, folks will start calling me a conspiracy theorist.

But there's no question that solidarity exists within the modern, globalized First Estate, to the degree that "inbred" might be a more appropriate term. By contrast, hatred and violence reign within the modern, globalized Third Estate. We call the hatred and violence racism, sexism, tribalism, sectarianism; we call it the East versus the West, the clash of civilizations, Muslim extremism, Christian fundamentalism, ecoterrorism. With all of these frightening -isms and fancy phrases, is it any surprise that we feel ourselves pitted against basically everyone else in the world, and that the feeling is mutual? Is it coincidence?

I could carry my point further, but I myself am frightened of where it might lead, I am frightened of pain. I myself am unprepared for the full implications of my point. So, I will sit here in the crystal safe, sipping my cafe au lait, savoring ganache; I will readjust my black-rimmed reading glasses and bangle bracelets and "ethnic" raw silk wrap; I will return to my dog-eared Kafka and Thoreau and Sartre and repeat rituals that confirm my seat in the 21st century salons. I will let you draw your own conclusions.

But, as for me, even as I try to quiet my mind with these symbolic acts of "progressivism", I know that the arm of history is long, but bends toward justice. I know that President Nkrumah of Ghana was not only demonstrating non-alignment when he used the phrase "Third World" - he was also invoking the spirit of the French Third Estate. I know that the underdogs of history ultimately give up trying to figure out the combination, quit playing by the rules given them, and simply take a sledgehammer to the crystal safe. All that it takes is the realization that they have numbers and the mandate of history on their side and nothing more left to lose.

And just as those (of us?) on the inside for so long saw no distinction between the individual hungry bellies -- Appalachian or Colombian or Thai or Congolese, milk that skin-and-bones cow dry -- the hungry bellies will make no distinction between those who use solar panels and those who do not.

So, if you have read this wishing that I had been referring specifically to "Eastern Kentucky" in the description of our state - if you, even as a 'progressive', felt a desire to distinguish yourself from Appalachia - I would reconsider. As the song goes, "Whose side [of the safe] are you on?"

Whose side am I on?

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

"And what there is to conquer...
has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate..."

One of these men is Wendell Berry. His words follow.


Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion-put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Self-Immolation

When I find myself resenting
That bipedal scourge: doubt,

I recall the Buddhist monk,
Saigon, 1963,
who in the busy thoroughfare,
With help from his robed brothers,
Solemnly doused himself with gasoline,
Silently, lit the match.

What could he do?
No gun, words, or vote?

He could sacrifice his mantle of tranquility.
"Drape this over the stooped and gently shaking shoulders of my shackled race.
I will not enter Nirvana until all things have been liberated.
I will take this cup."

A bold step into the ranks of the suffering,
Interrupting the cocktail conversations
of the cloistered, serene in our bored frivolity,
Living for our paper hats and cha-cha lines.

And then I see:
I too can set myself on fire,
Ignite myself with untoward knowledge,
Succumb to the solitary flames of impolite fact.

I can sacrifice my mantle of tranquility, crying out
"I have doubts! I don't know!"
In this, I abandon the intention of proselytization,
For in that I seek but my own vindication.
Instead I will make new magic: my intention
Is to love that which has been neglected,
To reconcile that which has been fractured,
Which I can do best with my gun unloaded,
My mouth closed,
My interests shelved,
But hands and feet moving,
Heart and mind in flames.

Today, we too can take this cup.

Stork and Crow

Are you my stork, I your crow?
From this distance, I hope.
Are you a solitary bird
With a peculiar gait?
You can commune here in joy or grief
Or quietude by my river bank.

But wait – do you understand?

I need not the rehabilitation
Of my former, fallacious wings
(The restoration
Of breasts newly-budded.)

These aren't scars at all, see.
Do you understand?
Just some residual evidence
Of undercover blessings.

I need not your affirmation
That I am powerful and whole
(Don't waste your words, my darling,
Convincing me of things that I ought know.)

If you're confused by silence,
Disdainful of soil,
Preferring to its wisdom
The vagarious dignities of fearful men,
Or if you are not awestruck by both loins and womb --

If you do not have the courage to meet the giant
With your five dry loaves and two small fish,
Having resolved that they can indeed nourish the world --

If you do not see that our home is carried in whole
On the wings of butterflies, and that it is no less captivating
Or fragile --

If you cannot see and hear and feel clearly
This, what they call shabbier,
but what I know is stronger
self --

If I move my hands
And in the soft space under my arm
(a secret, but unguarded)
You do not recognize the bounty --

Ah, darling, don't fear, I'll still love you.
I'll spread my wings wide and I'll bless you.
But fly on in peace.
I am waiting neither for a teacher nor a pupil
Neither for a mason nor a tool
But for my Stork,
Against whose feathers, mine will be brighter,
And who against my wing, will be more radiant.

When paired together, who knows what could be illuminated?

But if you do recognize, make no sound:
Come, here, quietly.
Sit with me.
Let me feed you,
The best fish you have ever tasted,
Fresh from my most hidden places.

Before we take flight again, together,
Still warm with the miracle that we
are both seeing and being seen so clearly –
And that the energy of this rarest glow
Is healing our earth
More than ever we could know.

Home

You are my primary cause
A hot, bright thing to make me leap and gleam.

I am sorry
I have seen the suspended egg,
full of sticky life yolk
and straining to hold fast for us.

I cannot un-sense it,
Because the sight tore something,
And created a new color impossible to forget.

Some mornings I cry because
It cannot love me as you do,
It is a chasing after the wind.

"Meaningless! Meaningless!"
says the Teacher
"Utterly meaningless!
Everything is meaningless."

But a stain is a stain,
And something was torn, I tell you,
And bled a new color onto my brain.

The color of not-but-almost-sorrow.

Dust to dust, it is a comfort,
I will go, sweet and soundless.

But while here, I must attend
To the silver cord, the golden bowl,
The pitcher, the wheel,
The dust, and the spirit.

But always,
You will be my primary cause
The hot, bright thing that makes me leap and gleam.

Untitled

Weathered old man, I study his type:
The Automaton.

Creaking and clicking into his seat within the chanting Mass.
But no – his soul decries his context.

Don’t waste your sympathetic smiles;
What need has he for your instruction, Voltaire?
What unfamiliar lesson could you teach him, Diderot?
Gaia is teacher and muse.
What you have detailed in sundry volumes of high and mighty word,
He inauspiciously gives living form, under her discerning eye.

At your invitation to the perfumed salon, a polite declination:
“No, thank you, I ought to get back. Horses ha’int been fed.”

He sees his smallness, taught him by a life wrestling the earth.
He knows his fallibility, taught him by solitary, dawn-lit walks home after weary nights spent by the side of a dying calf.
He understands life, its instrumental purpose, taught him by solemn slaughterings and his own broken body.

He sees his smallness; I see a crown of humility.
He knows his fallibility, and so keeps his sword of judgment sheathed.
He understands the instrumental purpose of life, and so mocks the approaching dragon,
Death.

He touches my arm and tells me my skin is beautiful and brown like my mother’s
And that my heart knows best,
And I remember blackberries so ripe they could be gathered with concentrated breath;
I remember the tulips, my compass, every spring returning to spell out our heritage;
I remember racing -- downy legs on hot horseflesh -- through tobacco fields toward the place where copper clouds meet Kentucky bluegrass;
I remember the land, something so secure – something that will outlast us both,
Enduring despite our limitations, our forgetfulness.
Line by line, I see the impression of his soil-stained hands on my heart.
I see us on different sides of the semantic chasm, bridge-building, plank by tender plank.
As we cry together, understanding the misunderstood.

Untitled

My dear manic shape-shifter
My coy coyote, dancing for pennies
Performing, always,
With a flourish, you turn your face dark
Your curl up into yourself
And turn 'round the mirrors
And I have lost your real eyes now.
They are all so lovely:
Some morose, sucking on a cig.
Some clownish, aching for the break of laughter.
Or angry and bewildered, a boy-child raised by wolves, alarmed by hush nows and cluck clucks.
Some absent, raking over the brick-a-brack that so bores you, calling for heads to roll for distraction's sake.

Slow down so that I can see the wound
And balm and wrap it.

Map-makers

Map-makers
Charting the stars,
The mountains and oceans
The movements of our ancestors and ourselves.

Likewise, color-coding our bodies,
Our temples,
Graphing the subtle clicks and turns of our hearts
And testing for the tripwires of our minds.

Extracting meaning from the random,
Creating coherency from absurdity.
Measured music; balanced portraits;
Exposition, Mounting Action, Climax, Resolution.
Formulas and chronologies,
Created in frustrated attempt to understand ourselves.

All the while, trying to accept
The futility of our endeavors
To conquer the unknowable.
Trying to find a way
To love ourselves and love eachother
Because
(rather than 'in spite')
Of our limitations,
And our potential --
Who knows which of the two is more difficult to live with?

My Body Climbed a Mountain

My body climbed a mountain
The tallest in this country.

This body that I thought was my ball and chain
It carried me up a mountain
The tallest in this country.

In front of this alien mask
Through the looking glass
Wishing it ill
Hating the soft places

It stifled my Spirit of St. Louis
Kept my red-letter flight grounded
It corrupted movements of sentiment
And made me vulnerable to the vagaries
Of men's attentions
And women's criticisms
And a brutal moral climate.

Vulnerable is not my color.

I resented it, even as I exploited it.

But my body climbed a mountain, I said.
The tallest in this country.

We worked together,
My mind and my body,
Over boulders and through falls
And at the summit,
We communed
For the first time in many years.

Vahaza Woman

Vahaza woman
Donnez-moi; Donnez-moi; Donnez-moi
Les bonbons (literal or figurative, one never knows)
Eyes - in them a melange of desire and self-contempt, bitterness and is that a pinch of malice? -
On les grandes seins
Comme tous les images de
The apple-pie Jezebels,
The fertile blow-up dolls
Who shake their Vahaza goods
On all the televisions
Every night,
From hill to dale
Translucent tits paired with hot-cross-buns.

Yum Yum.

Or half the body for half the price -
Cropped at neck and knee -
No need for these -
Too tough to chew through.

These eyes want the prime rib, baby.
Only the best cut for this fine gentilhomme.
Would you like me to trim the fat?

Vahaza woman
Humanitarian or harlot?
Il n'import quoi.

Snap.Snap.Snap.
Raise your eyes.
My mouth is moving,
Asking questions, telling stories, proving my personhood, something divine.
In between my chin and my nose.
Northward troops!
You're getting warmer.

What do you see when you look at me?
Damn sure it's not capability,
Or heart and mind riddled with funny notches (won't call them scars) borne of absurdities,
Or contradictions of unflagging tenderness in my spleen but gravel in my gut,
That, if you bothered, you'd understand were far from contradictions.

But you see a blur of white, indistinct,
(Because we all look the same, you admit as much)
You see a lasso in my hand to capture the stars for which you're straining
(You want the Big Dipper; No interest for the Southern Cross).
I am simply the means
To achieving dreams.

But I am not a tool.
This is not cultural insensitivity --
This is me
Telling you
That I will not be the object of either your fears or desires.
Re-pocket your hand; I will not be your garden hoe or milk cow.
I will be but your equal; ax sharpening ax.
I will be but your equal; flint against stone, together performing impossible, making magic.
I will be but your equal; our unique wisdoms paired for stunning clarity.

So retrain your eyes -
Find my mind, the seat of my history and my potential -
And we, together, maybe,
Can then begin to heal.

Growth and Subsistence

I've been in Madagascar for two weeks and two days now.

I was encouraged, before I left, to "absorb now, process later". It's impossible. 'To process,' for me, is synonymous with creation. We absorb and then create -- using different media, of course -- I use language to create an image of the personal evolution I sense transpiring as I see (the sunsets at Acouba, the sand at Libanouna, the street vendors, the port at dusk, and the sunken ships), feel (moist heat, hands on my waist at L'Hotel Gina, mosquitos, the trade winds, my burning lungs at the summit of Pic St. Louis, a new cockroach friend down my shirt), smell (mofo akondro, her sweat, his sweat, my own sweat, the outhouse, ylang ylang blossoms, aloe), hear (Tay be!, incontrollable laughter, zebu, roosters at 5am -- Transylvania should invest in a couple and let them run around back circle...fewer students would miss class -- Salame vahaza!), and taste (zebu, rice, rice, rice, brown rice, rice water, lentils, dust, hint of mint -- not my own). I become despondent when I can't enjoy my process, enjoy my creation. I become despondent when my words cannot make known to you the effect of these miracles, all around, that are seeping into me, that I am photosynthesizing, like the peeling trees, through the skin and into the unknown places, changing the composition of my head and heart.

For this reason, I'm finding it incredibly difficult to transition into exclusively speaking French and Malagasy. My desperate and battered words can't evoke anything but laughter...they don't draw pictures...they do not synthesize subtle, nuanced sentiment...they turn my heart into something almost vulgar and incoherent. I cannot focus on theme; I must focus on conjugations and articles and sentence structure. I cannot create with these words...I can only cling-for-my-life. I can subsist but I cannot grow.

And that hints to a more fundamental problem, perhaps. I become despondent when I feel I am not growing.

But I know that stillness is not stagnation...I talk about it all the time. One can certainly experience a swelling of the spirit within physical subsistence. Have I told you of the marriage of two halfs, yin and yang, the arrow and the orb? Have I told you how much I want to realize this union in my person? Have I described a picture of God, balanced and whole, fully empowered and how I want to understand?

Ironically, Madagascar is, both for logistical and cultural reasons, forcing me to be still. It's forcing me to spend a lot of time in my head. I have not been able to hide from things that I hoped would remain stateside. And it is clear that those things from which I'd hoped to hide are hands-down the most critical to explaining who I am.

I didn't leave bad habits or insecurities. I must have hid them, subconsciously, in a invisible zippered pocket in my enormous internal frame backpack. My security blankets.

I didn't "leave my past behind". I am the product of twenty years of roll-with-the-punches "past"...and I couldn't very well leave me behind. So along the past came.

No conclusion here. Only a final observation: I am both growing and subsisting. I don't understand it entirely -- a clever trick that the Divine can pull -- but I have faith. Specifically, I have faith that subsistence isn't a punishment and that the growth it stimulates is of an unfamiliar type. I have not experienced this type of growth, and I feel the pains of it (remember when we would wake up howling, clutching our legs when we were eleven?), the pains of mind and body shifting and grinding into new positions, shooting through my whole body. I am malformed, I fear, because I haven't known growth through subsistence. Not malformed forever though. I'm confident my body can correct itself. Our bodies are all so resilient, you know.