Welcome to Road Quill - the Blog / Vlog

FIRST A NOTE: This blog was lots of fun. I’m now writing at Holly Starley’s Rolling Desk. I’d love to see you there. :)


In May 2019, I sublet my apartment in Southern California, took a train to Washington, and hopped on a bicycle. Schlepping my camping gear and laptop on the bike, I set out on what would become a three plus-year mostly solo journey, first on bike and then in a 1996 Ford Econoline van I picked up along the way and built out myself—with help from generous, talented friends and family.

From southern Arizona to northern Alaska, I’ve tested my skills and comfort zone, fallen back in love with my inner child and given myself permission to use my voice, met nomads and travelers who’ve become my road family, and bathed with copious abandon in the forest (deserts/glaciers/mountains/tundra/prairies). For me, this concept, borrowed from the Japanese shinrin-yoku, speaks to nature’s ability to cleanse the soul—aka reawaken the knowledge of our kinship with all.

From solitude to communion—“waiting out” the global pandemic with the coyotes, flycatchers, and ocotillo of the Sonoran Desert to protesting outside Denver’s capitol building the following year to “vanlife” gatherings—this off-grid journey has had much to teach.

This blog/vlog (more of the latter on Road Quill’s YouTube channel) captures just a smattering of the adventures and lessons from the road. I’ve paused to work on a manuscript that shares more. Thank you for visiting and engaging!

Hostility at Peace Arch: Canada's Not So Friendly 8/9 Border Reopening

After a long wait and a fraught border crossing, I am en route to Alaska by way of the Alaska-Canada Highway. The Alcan, once a legendary challenge of roughness, is still a feat of beauty—with vistas and wildlife sightings and only intermittent cell service. Starting at Dawson Creek, BC, it winds 2,232 kilometers up into the Yukon and the Canadian Rockies. And I’ve prepped myself and Ruby to traverse it.

My reception at the border of our “friendly” northerly neighbor was, by no means, friendly. If you’re thinking of traveling in a van (or at least a not-so-pricey-looking one) to Canada now the border’s open, take note.

Peace Arch Border, 8/9/21, 2:53 am. Canada’s border reopened to US passport holders at midnight. A dispute between the border guards and a short strike on 8/6 had ended the previous day. (The snake “in the sky” is my dashboard companion.)

Peace Arch Border, 8/9/21, 2:53 am. Canada’s border reopened to US passport holders at midnight. A dispute between the border guards and a short strike on 8/6 had ended the previous day. (The snake “in the sky” is my dashboard companion.)

Openly (almost cartoonishly) hostile from the get-go, two young guards ordered me out of the van and briskly demanded I lose “the hoodie,” turn around with my tank top held up over my waist, bend over and pull up the legs of my yoga pants; grilled me on whether I’d had past run-ins with the law, promising to verify. During the entire encounter, they wore dubiousness like a badge.

I sat in a cold, empty waiting room, ignored when I attempted to ask for my sweater back. I was the only one there; I’d been watching each car in front of me waved through after about ten minutes since I’d lined up at midnight, and it was now 3 a.m. Meanwhile, they tossed my belongings around in the van. Back inside, dripping all the condescension and doubt twentysomethings with guns and badges can muster (a lot), they pressed for travel, personal relationship, living arrangement, and financial details—at one point demanding how much money I could access “right now,” causing me, in an utterly absurd moment of mental gymnastics, to wonder if they were calculating bribe amounts.

This before the inside interrogation and after the check for weapons.

“You’re in Canada now, and we have questions. Why are you here?”

“Taking the Alcan to Alaska.” Exciting, no?!

“What proof do we have of that?”

Well, none. You just met me. “Um, the Alaska milepost with the route planned out in between the seats for starters.”

“What incentive do you have to return to the US?”

“I mean, Alaska is the US. But family and the cold will have me in the Lower 48 again by end of fall.”

“How do we know you’re not just going to try to stay in Canada?”

Who’s on first? Also, I’m a delight. Why don’t you want me in Canada for a spell?

The less angry one—I’d have been scared to be alone with his counterpart, who dripped distain like a boxer’s sweat and glared at me with that kind of disgust that’s hungry—at last deigned to let me in. Only I’ve been flagged. I must leave Canada in seven days … or else. There’s a paper stamped to my passport noting this. Most US citizens can stay six months without a visa.

This shortens my trip across those long kilometers of ultimate wilderness road trip, leaving me little leeway for discoveries, meandering explorations, unforeseen hold-ups, exuberant daylong hikes, or deciding to just take a break for a day to rest or write or work or soak in a hot spring.

I was taken aback by the experience. I felt ashamed to be answering whatever detailed personal questions they threw at me, to not be believed, to not understand what they wanted from me or thought they saw in me. Didn’t Canada want my tourist dollars? Wasn’t this one of the prime motivators for reopening the border? I tip well, carefully consider balance when it comes to receiving and giving of resources and respect for communities I visit. As a guest, I always hope to leave a place better than when I arrived. It wasn’t until reflecting back on the encounter a couple hours later when I stopped to sleep before carrying on to my hotel in Whistler that I understood their profile of me—a poor houseless person trying to mooch off Canada.

And that, in terms of humanity, makes the hostility and intimidation even worse in my eyes.

As a bonus pain in the ass, they lost my vaccination card. I didn’t realize that until I stopped to rest either. It just didn’t come back with the other paperwork they thrust at me. I’ve since tried calling a few times, but no answer at the border office. And I have miles to cover. I’m hoping it won’t cause me problems crossing into Alaska. I do have a photo of the card.

This experience felt shitty. And my bewilderment and naivety was, of course, a privilege.

I have to ask myself, Who would I be if I lived in a world that often responded to me in this way? If the consequences—teetering in the palms and whims and biases of authority figures with weapons—were far more important, or life-threatening, than a shortened or even halted epic road trip? How would it alter my perspective and how I show up in the world if I was accustomed to being disbelieved and suspected and looked down on? If, when I was doubted and risked being turned away, it was from seeing family, accessing safety, protecting my child?

And who would I be without the fortune and honor of knowing and loving and listening to the stories and heartaches and triumphs and setbacks and navigations of people whose world regularly consists of such a response?

Would love to hear others’ experience at borders / with authority figures and gatekeepers.

***

My anecdotally derived tips for traveling to/through Canada in a van:

  1. Be aware this bias—that you might attempt to stay in Canada / be a drain on resources—might greet you.

  2. Be precise and specific about your plans. Have proof of reservations handy.

  3. Have a ready and clear answer for why you will and must return to the United States.

The Tao of Poo

Let’s imagine we’re driving along a ribbon of a highway in the far southern regions of the western US of A. The sun, journeying upward at our back, lasers the world into hot white brightness. In the rear, latched in a cubby built to its specs, is today’s task—brimming.

We’ve located our destination (iOverlander!) yet have little idea what exactly we’re looking for. Delays, siren prodigy that they are, tantalize.

Alas, we know one of life’s certainties: When loos brim, delays must not prevail.

On the hunt, we slowly circle the lot, eyes peeled for … What? A sign, “Poo goes here”? 

Rarely is a dumpsite so accurately and artistically labeled (not to mention, precisely the type of direction I was seeking).

Rarely is a dumpsite so accurately and artistically labeled (not to mention, precisely the type of direction I was seeking).

Inside, we’re rebuffed by a brief, entirely one-sided encounter with a not-so-much-as bemused woman at the counter. At last, we find a manager whose demeanor embodies a smile on only the bottom half of a face. He takes our payment, hands us a receipt with a code, and points out the window—at nothing.

After stuttering our confusion, we’re led to a cement pole with a mounted keypad, next to a shockingly small cover, presumably over a hole in the ground, and a rusted water pump.

We nod thanks, even as the manager smiles with his mouth and turns forlornly to the store. It’s now quite clear what to do with the code.

Turning back to the menacing cover, we ponder. Let’s say we figure out how to open it, what then?

Stick with what you know.

Good idea! We punch in the code. And then recall that Ruby’s still parked on the other side of the curb.

Pull back out and circle the lot or cart the loo on over?

The chance leaving might require retrieving a new code makes the decision easy enough.

Having brought loo hole-side, we bend to separate the bottom briefcase-shaped tank when it hits us that we’re not prepared. We march back to Ruby for antiseptic wipes, paper towels, and a tub of Happy Campers.[1]

Thusly armed, we turn resolutely back to the task.

There, on the other side (the correct side) of the hole sits a massive, shiny black RV, its cash value no doubt equal to our past decade of rent, a large satellite preening on its roof. A man (who has somehow failed to see the tiny loo marking its territory?!) emerges, whistling a happy tune. From above, chatter of lovely wife, giggle of smart children, and happy kvell of fluffy white dog float down like bottled bliss blown out as bubbles. He kneels and pops open a lower side panel on his rig; pulls out a ringed black plastic hose; and turns to find a woman, perturbed/hesitant/crestfallen standing astride a small … potty, is it? … and squaring off from across the hole.

He cocks his head east. “Oh,” he says momentarily. “Were you using this?”

“I already put in my code,” we manage.

“That’s too bad.” He Ned Flanders smiles. “You could’ve used mine. Go ahead. You were here first.”

Now what? “No. You go ahead. You’re probably faster.”

Head cock west. “Why don’t we do it together?” 

Gulp.

“You can use my hose.” He nods to a water hose he’s set next to the pump.

We need our own hose?

“And these.” He hands over a pair of surgical gloves.

(We’ll buy a box and a small hose the next day.)

He steps on a protruding rectangular bar on the back of the cover, and up it pops. 

Aha.

The toe of his boot in place, he bends, inserts the black hose, and turns to flip a switch on his rig.

As the combined metabolic waste of the bottled bliss producers is sucked below ground, we chat. He sells expensive satellite systems for boondockers. We’re both coming from different events at Quartzite, a desert spot reminiscent of Tattoine—dusty, vibrant, rough around the edges, at once temporary and timeless—drawing nomads, outliers, and sun chasers. 

“All done here.” Flanders beams and reverses the process, packing the black hose back in its compartment. “You’re up.” 

“Okay?” We slowly loosen the cap on the briefcase.

“I’ll hold this.” He again places the toe of his pristine Timberland on the depressor, popping and holding open the cover.

As we tilt the briefcase, aiming the similar-in-diameter opening toward the hole meant for hoses and pumps, the 2.5 gallons of liquefied contents feel like lead. No turning back. Trying desperately not to shake, we turn the briefcase sideways.

The loo and bidet.JPG

The loo

Complete with candle; tp; and, of course, bidet.

Let’s just say, though it could have been worse, zero splatter outside the hole was a pipe dream. (We’ll soon learn to do it like a champ.)

To our new friend’s credit, he shows no reaction. In response to meek apologies of utter shame, he merely jokes about this being the poopiest part of life on the road and efficiently cleans up with his hose.

“You know, if I were you”—he leans, now aloft in his captain’s chair, tone conspiratorial—“I wouldn’t pay to dump such a tiny bit. Just take it into a Walmart bathroom” (advice we’ll never follow). He waves, and the RV swaggers out of the lot and disappears into bright sunlight.

***

Note: Though I have, since this first dump close to two years ago, become much more adept and comfortable with black-water dumping, this is not the only entertaining moment I’ve had at a dumpsite or, generally, related to the carrying around and proper disposal of one’s personal waste. Aw, vanlife. 

***

“To know the way, 
we go the way, 
we do the way.
The way we do,
the things we do,
it's all there in front of you.
But if you try too hard to see it,
you'll only become confused.
I am me and you are you.
As you can see; 
but when you do 
the things that you can do, 
you will find the way.
The way will follow you.” 

― Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh

[1] Happy Campers is a truly spectacular product—no chemicals, no smells, bioliquifies loo contents. Thank you ,saleswoman at the Camping World where I picked up the toilet, who looked at my build and said, “I see how close the toilet is to your bed. You’re going to need some of that,” and pointed to the tub on the shelf. You are on my list of heroes.

Cordelia (RIP) was a friend I met while visiting a dear friend and cousin, who, for the next 7 months, sent me wonderful videos of Cordy's adventures in her silky kitchen window home.

The briefcase and the supplies—paper towels, antiseptic wipes, gloves, bleach, Dr. Bronner’s, and Happy Campers.

The briefcase and the supplies—paper towels, antiseptic wipes, gloves, bleach, Dr. Bronner’s, and Happy Campers.

A basic blackwater dumpsite—holes in the ground, more or less, whose diameters match that of long plastic tubes through which RV owners pump some 20 gallons of waste. They’re found at RV campsites, national parks, service stations and other shops that cater to RVs, visitor centers here and there, city garbage collector hubs occasionally, and sometimes in super random spots. Fees range from $20 to free. Some have hoses; for others, you need your own. I refuse to pay more the $10 and that only in a pinch. My dump, after all, is pretty small relatively speaking.

A basic blackwater dumpsite—holes in the ground, more or less, whose diameters match that of long plastic tubes through which RV owners pump some 20 gallons of waste. They’re found at RV campsites, national parks, service stations and other shops that cater to RVs, visitor centers here and there, city garbage collector hubs occasionally, and sometimes in super random spots. Fees range from $20 to free. Some have hoses; for others, you need your own. I refuse to pay more the $10 and that only in a pinch. My dump, after all, is pretty small relatively speaking.

Oh, the Places You'll Shower!

1. Over a small, earth-orange bowl with a candy-red tea kettle.

Through the window, a light snow will dust the hillside, lacquering the smattering of bright buildings in this quirky old mining town. The hunt for either (a) shower go-tos (pre-Covid)—yoga studios, gyms, rec centers—or (b) a discrete spot for the outdoor shower came up dry.

So you’ll set tea kettle on stovetop.

Eager for more live music, more of last night’s post-dance conversation and billiards with an engaging stranger, more of the day’s art-covered alleyways and eclectic shops, more of the previous day’s tasting in a vineyard owned by kick-ass sisters, you’ll pour warm water into the bowl—blissfully unaware they were lasts for the foreseeable future (it’s Feb 2020).

You’ll start with your shoulders—soaping and rinsing part by part—and work your way down. Slipping into your robe, you’ll kneel in near child’s pose, head over bowl, and pour from the back of the neck. Shampoo, rinse, condition, rinse. Voilà! This will double as a floor cleaning.

Later, you’ll chat up the drummer with the flying violet hair during a break. Belly full and blood warmed, you’ll throw your body into the raucous, joyful beats, grinning up at her and the bassist rocking pigtails and a massive, popsicle red, triangle bass and harmonizing with the gregarious lead of Igor and the Red Elvises.

The venue—excellent food; stiff, well-crafted concoctions; and music from a stage set high enough to feel like a concert but overlooking an intimate dance floor—has that rare magic that renders locals, musicians, and visitors family. Oh, how you’ll miss that family.

2. In an avocado-green pop-up tent with sun-heated, foot-pump spray.

This luxury version of my vanlife shower is enjoyable only when speed isn’t needed, wind isn’t whipping, and space is aplenty. The tent was added following a handful of showers witnessed only by gleaming sun, Bart the horny toad, Jaxon the red paper wasp, and a cacophony of birds.

Its downfalls: (a) Wind. (b) Useless stakes (see a). And (c) while it usually folds easily to disc shape, for reasons beyond grasp (certainly not mood or hurry), it occasionally refuses.

3. On a fold-up chair, sipping beer and listening to coyotes narrate the farewell of a day so scorching even the ubiquitous Pepto-pink jeeps have absconded.

As the sky softens to milk, the sun-hot spray from the pump tank will feel perfect on skin treated to days of wind and the “air wakes” of zipping jeep tours.

Often stubborn about moving on, you’ll have spent the better part of the day tucked into a human-size crook of juniper branches finishing a work project.

With milk giving way to lavender peach slow dancing over marbled cliffs, you’ll sip the amber nectar. You’ll slide a fresh razor over clean legs. And then, in silky robe, you’ll gallop across the expanse of land, yipping to help the coyotes call in the deep orange final bow before stars swimming in navy velvet make distant memory of the day’s heat. And you’ll know; this is why you stayed.

4. Under a new moon in a Hwy 1-pullout / locals’ hangout.

This one fulfills a promise—to shower, make squash chili, and enjoy a glass of red before night’s end. While the northern California coast is gorgeous, it’s no bastion of boondocking. So the past few days have been moves, spot hunting, and possible-“knock” nights indoors—requiring a drive-ready van and no dinner drink. Today, you ran briefly on a bluff over a bejeweled sea. You picnicked on a tiny shore along the road down just enough of an embankment to hide from passersby while seated, sharing the spot with harbor seals and, a couple rocks over, two young men who fried fish caught on a Huck Finn pole over a folding sheet metal stove. Tomorrow, a storm is coming, and the drive won’t be so lackadaisical, so it’s shower now or hold your stench.

It’s dark, cold, and windy. Not keen on surprising impending young neighbors in a state of undress, you’ll fill the shower before checking the water temp and pop up the tent before checking for wind. You’ll wedge the tent into open side doors and hope that’ll thwart gusts. You’ll step out, shivering under the inky sky, pump quickly, and squeal when the not-yet-lukewarm spray hits. This rapid wash will be, nonetheless, glorious.

By the time the expected visitors arrive, you’ll have put away dinner dishes and two Tupperware of chili and curled up with Women Who Run with Wolves and your second glass. You’ll fall asleep to the faint sounds of flirtation and playful raucousness.

5. At a park while waves crash and a lion bellows.

 Quick and easy, you’ll magnet rainbow tapestry betwixt open back doors, warm the kettle, and gather the bits. You’ll slip into this hidden nook—pour, wash, pour, ring your hair out, and pile it in a towel. As you sit back inside for lotion and dressing, the king of the jungle will remind you of the city zoo hidden behind palm fronds across the street.

Why Vanlife? The Loves and Challenges of Life on the Road

As a little girl, I’d hike through the rusty splendor of Southern Utah with my parents. The smooth curved rock would beckon fantasy: This is my home. By day, I roam the land. At night, I sleep curled in a cave. I intuit the plants’ gifts—food, medicine, braided rug, snug roof. I move like light and shadow, share secrets with all who breathe this desert air.

Today, some decades later, my bedroom window is the back of my ’96 Ford Econoline, Rambling Ruby van Jangles. Over the past year and a half, I’ve traveled from Oregon, where I found Ruby and started her build, to Arizona’s southern border with Mexico, to the tip of the Pacific Northwest rainforest looking across a fog-covered Salish Sea toward Canada, and back to the Grand Canyon State.

Signal Peak, Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, Yuma County, Arizona.

Signal Peak, Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, Yuma County, Arizona.

My top five life-on-the-road loves (plus a bonus sixth at the end):

  1. The sunsets, sunrises, landscapes, paths, however beaten or not. The grandeur of this planet, her power and rhythms, teach me to honor the paradox of my speckhood among and embodiment of her.

  2. The connection with where my needs come from and how I thrive. For the “wild times” (they outweigh their urban counterpart greatly since the pandemic), I delight in carrying enough fresh food and water to keep my plants and myself alive and me clean for two weeks between restocking, in using what I have wisely, sorting and minimizing my refuse, getting the power I need from the sun. Figuring out how to accommodate whatever I dream of for my little home on wheels pleases me no end. Hence, the squeegee bidet, the well-stocked liquor cabinet, the easel, the guitar and van piano, the inflatable kayak, the “just enough” shoes.

  3. The building of my knowledge, tools, and resourcefulness. I’ve learned the names for tools I’d never seen; gained a tentative understanding of 12-volt systems, once splicing and rewiring the melted cord for my fridge on the fly; ripped out runner boards, repaired a roof leak; resealed windows. 

  4. The generosity, talent, skill, and support of amazing humans. From friends and family to strangers to strangers now friends, my cup runneth over with the kindness that has been offered me again and again. I’ll feature them—the body repair shop guy with the heart of a teacher, my Marborg hero, and many more—in future blogs. 

  5. The perspective shifts. To evolve is to see anew is to evolve. For me, there’s no higher value than to constantly learn, to clean the lens you’re seeing the world through.

My top five challenges:

  1. The whims of the elements and uninvited critters. I’ve been taught a thing or two about the power of the wind. Rain and snow have had their say too. As have the diametric but equally mind-numbing bitter cold and scorching heat. I’ve lain awake listening for the tell-tale scratch of claws in vents and battled with an army of mosquitos in 60 square feet.

  2. The poo dump days.

  3. The times when you can’t find … you name it—a place to shower, to stay for more than a night, to stay period, to refill much-needed fuel. You’re irritated, unsettled, exhausted; your body’s cramped; everything’s disheveled; “the knock” looms possible.

  4. The loneliness. I often cherish the solitude and sometimes ache to share it.

  5. When you’re reminded you can’t plan on anything going any specific way, and something will always need taken care of. No change from life anywhere lived in any which way on the planet here, though. 

Enjoying a great ride to the base of Signal Peak.

Enjoying a great ride to the base of Signal Peak.

In truth, all of the challenges—even the afternoon I dropped my toilet lid into a hole in the ground where unspeakables get pumped (cue Marborg hero!), the morning I lay on the desert floor weeping apology to a mouse whose death I’d brought unskillfully, or the time I high-centered Ruby on a craggy rock and watched transmission fluid pour from her underbelly (more heroes)—have been their own adventure.

I promised a sixth road life love. Here it is. Since I moved into Ruby, the inner voice I’ve nurtured since my days as an angsty youth nursing an unhealthy burden of self-loathing and disconnect, will often whisper, I’m so happy.

“Yes, baby girl,” I’ll say, grateful for her wisdom. “That’s what this swelling in our being is.”

In today’s world, that happiness has felt a juxtaposition. And it has been. Loneliness; heartache over the losses we’ve collectively sustained—in lives, in progress for those who identify as women and people of color, in time, economically, educationally, in safety and security for millions of the most vulnerable around the globe—fear for loved ones. They’ve all had their way with me too. It’s also felt a little unjust at times. Why should I allow myself this joy?

Here’s what I tell myself: There’s much work to do. And we can hold multiple truths alongside each other. We can bellow with the pangs and taste the elixirs. We can look forward to the changes needed and follow the threads that lead us (back perhaps) to what fills us.

I leave you with this wish. If you can, in whatever way you can, and to whatever degree you can, may you turn toward the swelling in your being your inner self recognizes as bliss.

***

Thank you ever so much for your time. Subscribe to be notified when new posts drop. For the video companion to this blog, check out my YouTube channel.




Nighttime at Kofa National Wildlife Refuge.

Nighttime at Kofa National Wildlife Refuge.

Pass No More: A Call for White People to Dismantle White Supremacy

I stepped outside to talk to the police officers who’d responded to a call about me. When I opened my van/home door to retrieve my ID, an officer poked his unmasked head inside and shone his flashlight around, reflecting the laundry, dinner dishes, my hastily made bed.

“Can you back up, please?” I said, not rudely but firmly, aware of my privilege. Without that pass I was born with—“white”—even such a mild reproach would carry a possibility of great peril I was blissfully free of.

My 2-year-old nieces, Lucy and Claire, learn #BlackLivesMatter, from their mom, Cassie.

This writing is to white readers, especially those who believe racism is isolated, not near you, or a sad remnant of the past. Most of you are kind. When you interact face-to-face with a person of color, you’re likely warmhearted. I’m begging that we move beyond defensiveness—“not me, not my community”—and see that, despite our kindness, we live in a society that’s unrelentingly unjust. We enjoy the benefits of our whiteness, while people of color perform exhaustive and exhausting mental, emotional, and physical gymnastics to live safely. And far too many, nevertheless, don’t.

We’re all part of the fabric of the society (the white supremacy) that makes that so. To be part of the change that will come requires that we first see the truth. To that end, please consider these four premises (better yet, read or listen to voices who understand them far better than me):

  1. The United States is a white supremacist society. (Robin DiAngelo, White Fragility)

  2. Race sorted by skin color is a societal tool to make “palatable” horrific atrocities. (Dorothy Roberts, Fatal Invention)

  3. People not seen as white have experienced “entrenched suffering” since the creation of this society. (Audra D. S. Burch, in “Special Episode: The Latest from Minneapolis,” NY Times, The Daily; see also James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time; Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me; Angie Thomas, The Hate U Give; “A Weekend of Pain and Protest,” NY Times, The Daily; Ijeoma Oluo, So You Want to Talk about Race.)

  4. If you’re asking whether the looting as an offshoot of recent protests is wrong, “you’re asking the wrong question. (Trevor Noah, “George Floyd and the Dominos of Racial Injustice”)

I’ll elaborate.

Our white supremacist society

Vile, hooded violence. The “n” word. Foul hatred borne of greed or, its shadow, disenfranchisement and ignorance. These are terrible expressions of white supremacy. And also supreme is another word for better. The US society is founded and still functions on the premise that it’s better to be white.

It’s better to be white because, if we’re white, we can move through society without fear of injury, imprisonment, or death based on the color of our skin at the hands of the power structure that’s part of the social contract we’ve all agreed on. If we’re white, we can say things like, “We all belong to the human race,” and, “I don’t see color”; feel good about not being part of “the problem”; and, thus, gaslight ourselves and the people harmed by the problem daily.

These are other expressions of white supremacy. Adapted from Ellen Tuzzolo and Safehouse Progressive Alliance for Nonviolence’s diagram.

Adapted from Ellen Tuzzolo and Safehouse Progressive Alliance for Nonviolence’s diagram.

Race as an invention

When our society was built on slavery, the white men in charge claimed people with black skin were a different race—less intelligent, more aggressive, built stronger for physical labor and to feel less pain. In truth, people with black skin color are from and live all over the world and are part of many diverse cultures and experiences and communities. When our society was built on looting the land and lives of the native people, the white men in charge claimed them different—uncivilized, unable to grasp the concept of ownership of land, more unruly. The indigenous people of the United States comprise a vast variety of tribes and cultures and experiences.

Devaluation continues to be a tool of power to ease the collective conscience. The White House uses words like “illegal,” “alien,” and “invaders” to describe people attempting to migrate here, as separating aliens and caging illegal invaders is not the same as separating families and caging children. When angry, white protestors storm state capitols with assault rifles (arguably brandishing), the White House suggests governors make deals with the “good people” exercising their right to protest. When people of color and their allies storm the same capitols with handwritten signs, the White House calls them “thugs” and threatens, “When the looting starts, the shooting starts” (a phrase used in 1967 by Civil Rights era Miami police chief who had a long history of bigotry). Who gets the percussion grenades and pepper spray—thugs or good people?

The fruits of entrenched suffering

You are outraged by the murder of George Floyd. Hold this outrage in a part of your mind.

Now remember a time when you were enraged at the unfair treatment of your child or loved one. Recall what you dreamed of doing or saying to the snot-nosed brat whose cruelty brought tears, the insensitive teacher who didn’t take time to see the full truth, the jerk boss with the demeaning behavior.

What if you saw, in the face and body of George Floyd, the face and body of your son, your husband, your father, yourself? What if you knew there was a real possibility that any interaction with the police (or, for that matter, armed “vigilantes”) could change your life or end it in a flash? What if your son was five times more likely to go to prison than his white counterparts (NAACP)? What if you knew some pissed-off white woman could use your skin color as a weapon? What if you had to be on alert and on your best behavior always?

Imagine this. When you browse at a department store, you’re often tailed by security. It’s not unusual for your intellectual or economic accomplishments to be met with masked surprise. When you run with your (white) wife, you always run in front, lest you be seen as chasing her. You only walk certain neighborhoods with your young children, as alone, you might be perceived as a threat. Donning a hoodie comes with the risk of being mistaken for a criminal. You spill your gratitude nightly no one got nervous around your gentle giant (black) husband and called the police today. Your six-year-old daughter told you she didn’t want to leave you alone for your safety. (These are people’s realities, the last of George Floyd’s best friend, former NBA player, Stephen Jackson. The link is to a speech he gave, following a powerful speech by activist Tamika Mallory. )

Now imagine there’s a pandemic. People of your skin color are dying at least at twice the rate of white people (The Atlantic, June 2020The Atlantic, April 2020). The virus doesn’t discriminate. Society does. Chronic, brutal inequities—less and lower-quality health access, greater rates of environmental pollution, denser living, greater likelihood of doing lower-paid “essential work”—have long plagued your black, Latino, and Native American communities. Imagine watching white people complain about their rights being infringed on because they’re asked to wear masks.

The wrong question

Power is only transferable “peaceably” by those who hold it. Consider that when, in 1920, white women received the right to vote, only white men could give that right (DiAngelo). If power isn’t shared peaceably, it will eventually be taken forcibly.

Now imagine you’ve tried to work “within the system” to change racial disparities your whole life. If you hear the bootstrap message—this wouldn’t be your reality if you were just better, stronger, worked harder—one more time, you’re going to scream. Your protests are hijacked by agitators, if not the hair-trigger fingers of the officers allegedly there to serve and protect your constitutional right to protest. Let’s say you choke on pepper spray, gasping for breath. Let’s say a rubber bullet slams into your neighbor, breaking skin and bone. Let’s say someone of your skin color knelt in quiet, peaceful, respectful protest during the national anthem and, in return, had his career taken from him and was called an unpatriotic traitor. Let’s say someone of your skin color chanted in prayer in defense of water and ancestral lands on a frozen night and was hammered with freezing water cannon blasts, threatened by snarling dogs. Let’s say the collective anger and pain and entrenched suffering bubble over and things get destroyed or looted by opportunists or people so distraught they’re about to break, and you’re told to behave—blamed once more. If you’d have just done something peaceful, quiet, and respectful, they might have listened.

When your derision is directed at looting and destruction of property, as if shaming an unruly child, as Trevor Noah said much more eloquently than I could, you’re asking the wrong question. You’re only imagining the bubble you live in. Remember your rage on behalf of a wronged loved one? If the wrong happened over and over and it became clear there would be no end no matter what you did, what wouldn’t you burn down to stop it? The question isn’t, Is this the wrong way? The question is, How can I help end the entrenched pain and suffering that has led to this?

Talk to the next generation about racism. Photo by Cassie Starley. Thanks, sis-in-law!

The right question: What can we white people do?

1. Get past shame and indignation.

Think of it like this. You’re told the foundation of an apartment complex you rent out (and live near) is rotting. You respond, “I’m not a bad person. I clean the complex all the time.” The tenants ask, “Please fix the rot before the building falls.” You say, “Why can’t we all just get along?” They demand the repair, and you get pissed. “I inherited the building. The foundation was already rotting. It’s the city’s pipes that leaked. Why are you calling me the bad guy?”

You’re missing the point. You’re goodness is irrelevant. The complex is rotting. It needs to be fixed. Please stop feeling judged or blamed or ashamed and start fixing the problem. (And stop shaming people who get enraged because the rot is threatening their and their loved ones’ lives.)

2. Listen to and seek out perspectives outside your own experience.

If a person of color tells you about his, her, or their experience, believe and listen. Period. Don’t ask your friends of color for explanations or solutions.

Follow activists like @tamikadmallory@OsopePatrisse@opalayo@aliciagarza@bellhooks,@Luvvie, @mharrisperry@VanJones68@ava@thenewjimcrow@Lavernecox @deray@rachel.cargle, and @TaNehisiCoats. Just listen and learn. Period. “Pay lesser known activists like @thedididelgado here, Ally Henny here, and Lace on Race here for their teaching, time, and work” (from “75 Things White People Can Do for Racial Justice”). 

Read and listen to books and videos. Along with the few I’ve linked here, check out this list, “Understanding and Dismantling Racism: A Booklist for White Readers” by Charis Books and More.

3. Talk to your kids.

The parents actively raising children who will continue the work of dismantling white supremacy and bigotry are heroes. Charis also has a list for kids, “Books to Teach White Children and Teens How to Undo Racism and White Supremacy.” 

Listen to this 7-minute podcast in which All Things Considered Host Michel Martin talks to Jennifer Harvey about her book Raising White Kids.‘Raising White Kids’ Author on How White Parents Can Talk about Race.

Check out “How White Parents Can Use Media to Raise Anti-Racist Kids” by Common Sense.

4. Know the difference between bias (prejudice) and racism and stop believing in reverse racism. Know that ending white privilege doesn’t take from you; it shares with others (which benefits them and you).

Racial bias (prejudice) is when I have a judgment about or dislike you based on your skin color. Racism is when that judgment is backed by the power structure. I can be biased against or hold prejudices about white people, but those biases aren’t enforced by societal structures.

When white women (and black women finally in 1965) got the right to vote, the men didn’t lose their right to vote. I should be able to ask a police officer not to stick his head into my home uninvited (and, in the time of a pandemic, unmasked). I should be able to jog, commit a traffic violation, go to church, go shopping, wear whatever I want, protest injustice, and let loose without fear that, because of my skin color, I will be hurt or killed. I should be able to screw up royally and get arrested and face criminal charges, knowing that, when taken into custody, I will be protected and, when going to court, I will be treated fairly. And so should everyone who lives in our society.

5. Protest.

In the words of writer and activist Rachel Elizabeth Cargle, asking white women who marched with the Women’s march to show up now, “Don’t you understand that the only reason the Women’s March wasn’t violent is because the March was comprised of the types of (white) bodies the police are trained to protect? RACIAL JUSTICE IS A FEMINIST ISSUE.”

6. Donate.

Help protestors with bail funds. Among the many organizations and cities who need this help (all great), check out go.crooked.com/bailfunds. They’re splitting donations between 70+ community bail funds, mutual aid funds, and racial justice organizations.

Campaign Zero is working on 10 specific policy solutions to end police violence.

Black Visions Collective is a black, trans, and queer-led organization committed to dismantling systems of oppressions and violence.

Look for Go Fund Me campaigns for families who are suffering losses, such as Justice for Breonna Taylor.

There’s a good list in the Make a Donation section of, “How to Support the Struggle Against Police Brutality” (Claire Lampen, The Cut, May 31, 2020). 

7. Document.

Learn how to safely record police interactions. (ACLU Apps to Record Police Conduct).

8. Speak up.

Hard conversations are hard. But if we, with our white passes, are too uncomfortable to speak truth to people around us who are perpetuating these disparities, whether consciously or not, what hope is there?

9. Stop believing you want to help but just don’t know how.

Do some of these “75 Things White People Can Do for Racial Justice” (Corinne Shutak, Equality Includes You, August 13, 2017).

Imagine if you and every white person you know did even one of these things every month for the next year.




I have privilege as a white person because I can do all of these things without thinking twice:

I can go birding (#ChristianCooper)
I can go jogging (#AmaudArbery)
I can relax in the comfort of my own home (#BothemSean and #AtatianaJefferson)
I can ask for help after being in a car crash (#JonathanFerrell and #RenishaMcBride)
I can have a cellphone (#StephonClark)
I can leave a party to get to safety (#JordanEdwards)
I can play loud music (#JordanDavis)
I can sell CDs (#AltonSterling)
I can sleep (#AiyanaJones)
I can walk from the corner store (#MikeBrown)
I can play cops and robbers (#TamirRice)
I can go to church (#Charleston9)
I can walk home with Skittles (#TrayvonMartin)
I can hold a hair brush while leaving my own bachelor party (#SeanBell)
I can party on New Years (#OscarGrant)
I can get a normal traffic ticket (#SandraBland)
I can lawfully carry a weapon (#PhilandoCastile)
I can break down on a public road with car problems (#CoreyJones)
I can shop at Walmart (#JohnCrawford)
I can have a disabled vehicle (#TerrenceCrutcher)
I can read a book in my own car (#KeithScott)
I can be a 10yr old walking with our grandfather (#CliffordGlover)
I can decorate for a party (#ClaudeReese)
I can ask a cop a question (#RandyEvans)
I can cash a check in peace (#YvonneSmallwood)
I can take out my wallet (#AmadouDiallo)
I can run (#WalterScott)
I can breathe (#EricGarner)
I can live (#FreddieGray)
I CAN BE ARRESTED WITHOUT THE FEAR OF BEING MURDERED (#GeorgeFloyd)

White privilege is real. Take a minute to consider a black person’s experience today.

—Adapted from Demcast staff, “I Have Privilege As a White Person Because I Can Do All of These Things without Thinking Twice,Demcast, May 29, 2020. Some graphic content. Use discretion.

References and resources

ACLU. Apps to Record Police Conduct.

Baldwin, James. The Fire Next Time. Dial Press, 1963. First published in The New Yorker.

Burch, Audra D. S. In “Special Episode: The Latest from Minneapolis.” NY TimesThe Daily. Podcast. Hosted by Michael May 31, 2020.

Charis Books and More. “Books to Teach White Children and Teens How to Undo Racism and White Supremacy.”

Charis Books and More. “Understanding and Dismantling Racism: A Booklist for White Readers.”

Coates, Ta-Nehisi. Between the World and Me. One World, 2015.

Demcast staff. “I Have Privilege As a White Person Because I Can Do All of These Things without Thinking Twice,” Demcast, May 29, 2020. Some graphic content. Use discretion. 

DiAngelo, Robin. White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to talk about RacismBeacon Press, 2018.

Filucci, Sierra. “How White Parents Can Use Media to Raise Anti-Racist Kids.” Common Sense Media, May 29, 2020.

Harvey, Jennifer. In “‘Raising White Kids’ Author on How White Parents Can Talk about Race.” All Things Considered. Podcast. Hosted by Michel Martin. May 31, 2020.

Lampen, Claire. “How to Support the Struggle Against Police Brutality.” The Cut, May 31, 2020.

Mallory, Tamika, and Jackson, Stephen. “Activists on Floyd Death.” Fox Carolina News. Facebook watch party. May 31, 2020.

NAACP. “Criminal Justice Fact Sheet.” 2020.

New York Times dispatchers. “A Weekend of Pain and Protest,” NY Times, The Daily. Podcast. Hosted by Michael Barbaro. June 1, 2020.

Noah, Trevor. “George Floyd and the Dominos of Racial Injustice.” The Daily Show with Trevor Noah. YouTube channel. May 29, 2020.

Oluo, Ijeoma. So You Want to Talk about Race. Seal Press, 2018.

Roberts, Dorothy. Fatal Invention: How Science, Politics, and Big Business Re-Create Race in the Twenty-First Century. The New Press, 2012.

Shutak, Corinne. “75 Things White People Can Do for Racial Justice” (Equality Includes You, August 13, 2017).

Thomas, Angie. The Hate U Give. Harper Collins, 2017.

Check out the reporting and writing of 

Audra D. S. Burch

Rachel Elizabeth Cargle

Activists to follow on social media

@aliciagarza

@Ally Henny

@ava

@bellhooks

@deray

@Ijeomaoluo

@Lavernecox

@Luvvie

@mharrisperry

@opalayo

@OsopePatrisse

@rachel.cargle

@tamikadmallory

@TaNehisiCoats

@thedididelgado

@thenewjimcrow

@VanJones68















Unlike Dislikes Unlike

Still tingling with the dewy warmth of my cobalt blue dragonfly shower morning, I pulled into a small visitor center parking lot just twenty minutes north of that magical site. I had floated down from the captain’s chair and was absently reading details I wouldn’t remember about the nearby lagoon when a timid, “Hi,” wafted through my haze.

“Can you …? I mean … I need gas. I have this.”

He was holding out an empty gallon milk jug, and his eyes and posture were weary—poised for rejection.

“Okay,” I said. “You wanna give me the jug, and I’ll fill it and come back?”

His eyes met mine, blue and appreciative. “I have money too,” he said.

I accepted his four dollar bills only because my debit card had recently been compromised, a theft my bank had quickly caught. But I was currently out of cash or a way to get any till I got to the next town with a branch of my bank—a couple hundred miles down the road.

“I’ll be back,” I told him.

“Thank you,” he said effusively. He was sunburnt and too thin, his red T-shirt was worn, and his blond hair was thinning, but at that moment his entire body seemed to sigh a breath of relief.

Back at the quirky gas station I’d first seen before finding the dragonfly spot, I was glad for the chance to use the old-timey gas pump to fill the gallon jug and to check out the minutia of the station’s interesting details. But there was a heaviness there—something oppressive. And what had called to me as friendly and kitschy when I’d first seen its playful colors from a distance in the dark now seemed stiff and unrelatably garish in the full sunlight—like an actual consideration of nostalgia for the 1950s. The gray-bunned woman behind the counter fixed her gaze on something behind me in a way that left me wondering if she was blind even after she had once seemed to pin her eyes on me.

kitschy bathroom_unlike dislikes.jpeg

When I got back to the visitor center, the guy with the red T-shirt accepted the jug with gratitude, and I saw he wasn’t alone. A wispy woman with blond pigtails and a face and bright dark eyes etched deeply with exhaustion from not just the day but a lifetime of wearing her heart on her sleeve and being kicked in return far too often. She was overly thin like him, in a way that suggested cigarettes and perhaps other substances had replaced many a meal over the years.

They’d been out there for six hours—being told no over and over. The man at the visitor center counter, who clearly had gas in a shed behind the center, had insisted he simply couldn’t leave the counter. In the brief time I was there, two cars besides ours had come into the large lot overlooking the lagoon. The people inside had slid out and sauntered around momentarily before climbing back in, not even glancing toward the likely nearly always empty visitor center. Stoppers by simply shook their heads and climbed back in their cars.

“No one would even take me,” the woman told me. Her eyes conveyed a pain not dulled by the lack of surprise that comes with repeated disappointment. “Little old me. What am I gonna do?” She sighed.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them sincerely.

“Do you have any aspirin?” she asked me. She had a splitting headache. I’m guessing they’d been in the sun much of the six hours and had likely had little if anything to eat.

I got her some Advil.

They were from Kentucky, and we exchanged brief pleasantries about how far they’ve come before we parted and went our separate ways. I wished them good luck and wished to myself only after their beat-up once-white Toyota Corsica was in my rearview that I’d offered them some of the dried fruit or lemon cucumbers I had.

How great does the frequency of rejection in a person’s life have to be and for how prolonged a period until being told no is what he or she comes to expect? And when that pattern starts in youth, how manifestly does life train the shape of one’s body to resonate with the expectation of denial—of being shunned, left out, looked down on—until it becomes the norm? How absolute shit is it that those who start with a deficit, more often than not, just keep bowing under the weight of more and more of the same piling on?

How much do I—a white woman with a friendly smile and a generous network of familial support, for whom life has opened more doors than it’s shut—take for granted the privilege that nets me the help of strangers easily and often? The ability to be annoyed and firm with, rather than fearful of, the young police officer who will tap on my van door one 2 am a few hundred mile later?

If like likes like, how do I foster first in myself the ability and compassion that will enable me to see all the other humans (even those whose political agendas make my skin crawl; hey, we all have our challenges) as like me? And if that’s not daunting enough, how bewilderingly trying is the desire to see that—all of us seeing each other as like—perpetuated throughout the world?

I borrowed this photo from Wikipedia. I thought I had snapped a few shots but seem to have captured neither the lagoon nor it’s tiny visitor center.

I borrowed this photo from Wikipedia. I thought I had snapped a few shots but seem to have captured neither the lagoon nor it’s tiny visitor center.

Firsts

Maybe you could just go inside, buy something, and ask if you can tuck in behind the station for the night, with a promise to leave early in the morning.

kitschy gas station_400.jpeg

It was a quirky little gas station / convenience store—its three main features spilling carefully cultivated color and kitsch onto the large asphalt property they seem to have been plopped in the middle of, like an oasis for 1950s cravers. A single old-school pump with flip number display and a large jauntily angled sign attesting to its functionality stood in front of a white-washed concrete tank holder. The small store’s arched awning entrance was dotted with similar signage and replete with flowering plants, on the arch itself, in pots lining the walkway, on shelving against the building—effulgently drooping yellow trumpets, pots of delicate pink roses, crimson and sapphire nasturtium, fuchsia-belled evening primroses. The knickknack feature in front boasted wooden stumps, a tin cat, various owl and angel figurines, and a carved plumpish-looking Lady Liberty raising her torch to traffic.

I wouldn’t see these details, though, until the next day. For now, I knew the place seemed funky; a bright green bike lane striped the single main road of the town it skirted (bespeaking recent grant funding and evoking in me—having ridden the sometimes shoulderless Oregon coast weeks earlier—a wave of kinship); and darkness was fast approaching. I’d driven down several side roads and come up with zilch for my first night of “stealth” camping (not in a friend’s driveway or paid spot).

Luxuriating in blackberry-lined paths and the ancient giants of Redwood State Park, I’d enjoyed a certainty throughout the day that I would find just the spot. Now I felt less sure.

Then I recognized something in this desire to find the “safe” route, to give up. It was fear. But it wasn’t really the fear it was cloaked in—of ill-intentioned people, upset rangers or police officers, or wildlife (the AM station a road sign had prompted me to tune into warned of 1,200-pound elk that sometimes charge with no reason). Those things were the sheep’s clothing. The wolf was success—moving toward the power of self-actualization. I didn’t think then of the words of Marianne Williamson, often attributed to the Dalai Lama. “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.”

What you want, I told myself, is to boldly be who you want to be. And the only way toward boldness is to boldly move forward. The only way to make something a thing you do easily is to do it.

It was, as they are, a lesson made easier by practice—and by failure. How many times has the fear of asking clearly for what I want or of stepping vigorously down an as yet unwalked path thwarted me?

Why is it that shrinking can feel so tempting, wilting so “safe”? What messages and from what sources have urged the eschewing of flagrant flourishing? To balk at stepping into our own power—which I believe is simply becoming fully unabashedly ourselves?

sunset_stealth camp 1_800.jpeg

Not long after I’d pointed my van southward once more, I saw a small sign for the old highway 101. I’d noted it as a possibility on the map earlier in the day. From the moment I turned onto the narrow, pitted, treelined road, I knew it was what I’d been holding out for. I backed into the pullout just in time to watch the orange yolky sun sink into a shimmering blue-black ocean through a window in the wall of brambles, soft creamy bishop’s flowers, and brushy pink spear thistle alongside my home for the night. 

*** 

shower 1_600.jpeg

In the morning, after a breakfast of summer squash, mushrooms, and fried eggs, I would construct my van shower of PVC pipe and shower curtains and enjoy another first—my first outdoor shower—amid hundreds of bright blue dragonflies. And in the week to come, there would be more—first dinner guest, first city camping, first rousting by a police officer.

#vanlife

 

"Other"

slit in the cliff base near Crescent City_800.jpeg

Hearing their voices over the sound of the surf is difficult. But their enthusiasm is palpable—she hovering precariously over a tide pool, camera poised just above water’s edge; he hopping awkwardly, gleefully from rock to rock, unwittingly revealing the eleven-year-old spirit still alive and well in his middle-aged body.

“We’re from the mountains.” He beams as I get closer. “We go crazy over this stuff.

“There’re three big starfish in that pool.” He points. “And another one over there. And that’s a great spot for a picture. You can see all the way through.” He gestures to a crack cutting an exuberant gap at the base of the massive cliff that rises to its craggy edge hundreds of feet above us, its base forming the pools we’re observing.

Besides another couple sunning back on the beach and grandparents, each filming a child frolicking in the sudsy surf who’ve now left, we’re the only ones who’ve ventured down the half-mile blackberry-brambled path to this sweet spot just outside Crescent City.

We exchange pleasantries. When he asks where I’m from, I simply say I live in Santa Barbara; the city, where I still sublease an apartment after all, fits better into people’s worldviews as home than does “my van.” They’re from nearby Grants Pass.  I move past them, appreciating the friendliness but looking to commune solo with this vast wealth of abundant life. And I’m glad when they turn the other way, heading back along the beach toward the trail.

He calls something I can’t quite make out but understand is about Santa Barbara—a question I can tell is about something “bad” from the expression on his face. I assume he’s asking about the fires or mudslide that wreaked havoc and took 21 lives in the area last winter and respond accordingly, prepared to accept his sympathy on behalf of my neighbors.

He shakes his head and raises his voice to be heard over the waves colliding with the rocks and seabirds’ calls. “Are you getting overrun with illegal immigrants down there?”

I’m taken aback. Is it the whiteness of my skin that makes him take him such audacious leeway? What’s his point? Is he hoping for a last moment of camaraderie before we part ways? Oh how we love the beautiful tide creatures. Oh how we bemoan the deplorable brown people.

Microbursts of emotions, all incongruous with the serenity I’m here for—disgust, confusion, sorrow, anger, fear, hopelessness—pierce the blissful glorious-sun-and-berry-full-belly-induced haze I’m basking in.

 “No,”  I say and turn away.

Do you mean are people whose countries of origin aren’t the United States living in my community—gifting it with diversity, familial strength, strong work ethic, children? Are some not documented, many of whom have come because of a system we’ve all perpetuated whereby “they” have come at “our” explicit invitation to perform the menial labor (at far-too-low wages) we need to keep the very fabric of our society intact, and who now life in terror of being ripped from their homes and families? Yes.

You know what we thankfully don’t have overrunning us? Racist, ignorant rednecks.

Why would you say that? What are your concerns related to immigration?

Where did your ancestors immigrate from?

Would any of the responses that flooded my brain the rest of the afternoon mattered? Would having spoken of my beloved friend family (from Colombia, Ecuador, Venezuela, Lebanon, Argentina, France, Spain, Amsterdam, Peru, Guatemala, Mexico, South Africa, Portugal) in Santa Barbara accomplished anything other than what his comment did for me—show him that I am the “other”? What would?