Ailanthus, or Letting it Go

I once harbored a grudge against an entire species. Tree-of-heaven, Ailanthus altissima, or simply ailanthus, is a deciduous tree belonging to the simaroubaceae family. With its spindly trunk and frond-like bows of pinnate leaves, ailanthus vaguely resembles a palm plant, and its native range extends from the temperate regions of China through Southeast Asia. But if you live in Europe or the contiguous US, there’s a good chance that you have crossed paths with this “tenacious bastard,” as I once referred to it. Ailanthus is an invasive in both regions, where it thrives in disturbed, low-quality soils such as those found in abandoned lots or the margins of railroads, freeways, or any patch of land that has been cleared of vegetation (the photo below was taken at the edge of a playing field). For this reason, ailanthus is sometimes referred to as the ghetto palm, although its pungent odor and status as a noxious weed has earned it a variety of epithets: stink tree, stinking sumac, tree-of-hell.

My war with ailanthus began five years ago during my senior year of high school. As part of a project for my AP environmental science class, I learned to identify invasive plants in a tract of woods near my house. I did not come across tree-of-heaven in those woods, although in the course my research I happened on a webpage with a photograph of an ailanthus sapling under the bold-face heading “IF YOU SEE THIS PLANT IN YOUR YARD, REMOVE IT IMMEDIATELY.”  I learned that a tree I had taken to be just another part of the urban scenery of the Northeastern US was in fact a foreign invader. Thereafter, I was seeing tree-of-heaven everywhere. I eyed two saplings growing along my bike route to the YMCA, noted the prevalence of ailanthus along the edges of playing fields, and, while driving out of New York City, spotted a mature, six-story specimen from I-95 in the North Bronx. I had no idea how overrun my home was.

So the seed of alarm was planted when, one weekend that June, I noticed a young, seven-foot-tall ailanthus growing in my next-door-neighbor’s side lawn, just a few feet from my own family’s back yard. I wasn’t surprised. Our neighbor at the time was not a fastidious groundskeeper, and a veritable jungle of overgrown bushes and weeds demarcated our properties. Tree-of-heaven can produce 14,000 seeds for every pound of biomass, so it was inevitable that an ailanthus samara would settle and sprout in that jungle. After getting my neighbor’s permission, I armed myself with a pair of garden shears and a plastic lawn barrel and spent an afternoon hacking away at the invader, all the while scowling at tree-of-heaven’s burnt peanut oil scent. I had read about how ailanthus can clone itself via root suckering, and that cutting down the exposed parts of the plant is only a temporary control. Yet I also read accounts of tree-of-heaven roots growing through concrete and destabilizing building foundations, and so the warning kept flashing bright red in my head: REMOVE IT IMMEDIATELY.

Felling that one ailanthus offered no satisfaction. I continued to regard with near-horror entire colonies of ailanthus clones erupting along the roadways of the Tri-State area. That summer on a trip abroad I saw a cluster of tree-of-heaven growing beside a gravel parking lot in rural Tuscany (no!), and when I returned home to Darien I discovered that the same tree I hacked to pieces a few weeks earlier had grown back to its previous height (the bastard!). Ailanthus even infiltrated my sleep. In one dream, I walk out the front door in the morning to find that, overnight, an ailanthus of sequoia proportions has taken root across the street and bulldozed one of my neighbor’s homes to the side. In another, ailanthus samaras, borne by an equatorial breeze, are showering over the neighborhood like snow, and every native plant has been replaced by an embryonic tree-of-heaven.

Ailanthus was a punk, I decided, a spoiled brat with no capacity for restraint. It didn’t belong in New England, land of white pine and sugar maple. It was too smelly, too exotic. It just didn’t look right.

It just didn’t look right. Hungarian nationalists use these same words to describe Syrian refugees walking down the streets of Budapest. The parallel between contempt for an invasive plant and that for foreigners and ethnic minorities is an imperfect one; as the above photo of the kudzu barren makes clear, crowding of ecosystems by non-native species is a legitimate environmental concern. But displaced people and invasive plants are both symptomatic of the Crisis of Now, and therefore merit joint consideration.

In Failed States, Collapsing Systems, journalist Nafeez Ahmed outlines how the sectarian violence that has riven Syria since 2011 is partly an outgrowth of a years-long drought that exacerbated unaffordable food prices and growing unemployment. These global warming-induced pressures only added more strain to a nation buckling under declining oil revenue. Similar biophysical trends played out in Libya, Iraq, and Yemen, and in aggregate resulted in the pulse of immigration from the Arab World that Europe witnessed 2015-2016. Meanwhile, in the botanical realm, global warming enables subtropical plants to migrate northwards in moist regions such as the eastern US, while intensifying droughts in arid climates allows the further spread of xeric exotics like Russian thistle.

With this background of interlocking global systems in mind, the sentiment it just doesn’t look right” belies a lack of understanding of the complex feedbacks that are altering the contours of human life around the world. My growing comprehension of those feedbacks these past five years is partly why I no longer grudge ailanthus. I imagine that going deaf in my left ear in 2014 also helped me learn to let go of the unalterable, and much of what we as a global society will experience as the Crisis of Now progresses cannot be blunted as much as we’d like. In an article for Grist titled “Let it Go: The Arctic Will Never Be Frozen Again,” Eric Holthaus details how, as of last year, polar researchers can confidently project that the Arctic will never again be reliably frozen like it had been since modern humans evolved 150 thousand years ago. Last week, The Guardian reported that the most ancient of the Arctic Ocean’s sea ice ruptured for the first time in recorded history this past summer. In a similar vein, recent research indicates that the carbon storing capacity of soils worldwide is diminishing rapidly in relation to increasing atmospheric temperatures.

Each new climatological threshold is a potential Rubicon for globalized human civilization. In addition to giving up modes of living that we know are destructive to Earth’s life support systems – no more 5,000-square-foot houses, nightly steak dinners, or ski resorts – we also have to learn to let go of certain trappings we used to associate with home, wherever that might be. According to the most optimistic forecasting models, Connecticut will have a climate comparable to that of northern Virginia by mid-century. Worst-case-scenario models predict Connecticut’s climate will resemble South Carolina’s in thirty-odd years. If the latter turns out to be true, then I have to accept that, probably in my lifetime, white pines and sugar maples will recede to the Canadian Shield and New England will become a land of palmetto, loblolly pine, and, of course, ailanthus. Europeans have to brace for further influxes of refugees from destabilized parts of the Middle East and Africa, while all denizens of the world’s coastal regions will need to negotiate a new shoreline as sea levels rise. We can act to mitigate the effects of global warming, but words like “mitigation” and “resiliency” are already an admission on our part that there’s no going back to what we once knew.

IMG_0454
High tide at Holly Pond in Darien, encroaching on a seawall. A section of the wall pictured here collapsed in about 2002 from tidal action. Another collapse will most certainly happen again.

My neighbor of the unkempt jungle no longer lives next door. His property was bought up by a developer who replaced his relatively humble 1960s-era house with a larger, more marketable structure. The developer also cleared out the jungle and the ailanthus tree with it (they probably had to use a backhoe to do the job). Yet even if that tree-of-heaven were still standing, I don’t think I would care. There’s just too much that’s in flux now in the 21st century, too much change that cannot be undone, while the legitimately urgent problems are much greater than a scrawny, root-suckering tree. When I spent an afternoon hacking away at my neighbor’s invasive weed I was also motivated by a primal desire to see ailanthus – my enemy – vanquished entirely. Such a desire is quixotic in the extreme and belies a scorched-earth antagonism that will be of no help in the decades to come.

Besides, as Lauret Savoy tells us in her book Trace, to inhabit a landscape means also to be implicated in that landscape’s history. Well, tree-of-heaven was introduced to the United States at the turn of the 19th century, when everything Oriental was trending among America’s educated class. After being cultivated in the gardens of the gentry (including, probably, the grounds of Sylvester Manor), tree-of-heaven was used as a street tree in the young Republic’s urban centers. Imagine that: ailanthus first took root in North America when the United States was in its infancy. We grew up together on this continent. And since then, tree-of-heaven and One Nation Under God have been casting their seeds to the wind, yearning to multiply.

These thoughts in mind, I cannot help thinking of Camille Dungy’s poem, “What I know I cannot say,” which considers a different invasive plant:

“the blue gum has colonized

the California coastal forests, squeezing out native plants, dominating the landscape,

and increasing the danger of fire. I should hate

the blue gum eucalyptus, but from the well of their longing,

 by which I mean to say from their pods, you know what I mean 

I hope, their original homes, from the well of their longing

blooms explode like fireworks. I love them for this. Do you hear me?

I absolve you. You are far too beautiful and singular to blame.

I am not yet at the point where I can think of ailanthus as a beautiful tree, but I do now appreciate that tree-of-heaven and its status as an invasive in North America is only a single phenomenon, one subplot in a very complex story line. Who among us is not a manifestation of a convoluted chain of events? I’m referring here to conquests, genocides, mass migrations, innovation, leaps of faith – world history. And the pageant continues today in the decisions we make in this century of transition, an era some refer to as the Great Turning. Whatever actions we take, though, must be directed by a fierce desire to persist and forge new ways of living amidst so much loss and dislocation. Ailanthus, which can grow from the most degraded of soils, has already demonstrated a tendency to thrive far from its original home, and for that I regard it with a certain degree of respect.

IMG_0524.jpg

8:39 to Grand Central

Several days ago I took the train to Manhattan for one of my medical treatments, and thus joined the roughly 300,000 commuters who rely on Metro North Railroad on a daily basis.

Let me begin by saying that I like riding Metro North. Whether it be Amtrak or commuter rail, I enjoy the rhythm, the feel – the atmosphere – of trains, and believe railroad travel offers the most logical means of transporting large numbers of people between population centers. Yes, passenger railroads in this country have become more than antiquated, especially in the Northeast, and trains are occasionally delayed or cancelled altogether. But nearly two decades of never-ending military campaigns in the Middle East plus a distinctly American aversion to reasonable tax policy and infrastructure spending means that our roads aren’t in much better shape. And whereas one can read a book, pull out a laptop, or take a nap before the local service arrives, there’s not much you can do when stuck in rush hour traffic except wait for the cars ahead of you to ease up on the brake pedal. If you happen to ride Metro North into Manhattan, there’s also the added bonus of rounding out your morning commute at the unequivocally grand Grand Central Terminal.

Noroton Heights Station

On this most recent trip into the city, however, I found myself thinking about the unquestioned modes of living that undergird our modern commutes in all their forms, and how radically novel the idea of the commute is. The rhythms of our days are shaped according to necessity, and for the vast majority of human history, the biological imperatives of energy conservation have bound our days within an overland radius that rarely exceeded ten or twenty miles. Yet this physical limitation of a day’s or week’s tasks cultivated an exceptional depth of knowledge of one’s immediate surroundings. The Tri-State area’s indigenous Lenape people knew just which springs yielded the sweetest water, which valley’s soils were best suited for maize and tobacco planting, and which coves were populated by reliable shellfish beds. They had to possess this knowledge in order to make a living with what was available.

Life today in the New York greater metropolitan area are governed by an entirely different suite of imperatives. Will traffic be heavier on the Merritt Parkway or I-95? Tomorrow will be rainy; should we take the kids to the aquarium instead of the zoo? Many people, my parents included, end up in Darien because they’ve pondered the long term: which suburb has the best schools? Will my home be worth more after I’ve paid off the mortgage? These are the sorts of questions that the Industrial Revolution and the combustion engine have made possible. The automobile, expressway, and railroad mean we can work and live wherever we choose, regardless of the logic of the landscape and count on civil engineers to smooth out any wrinkles. Destructive storm surges? Higher sea walls should do the trick. Chronic drought? Start digging those aqueducts.

Being a relatively old city that predates interstate highways and mass landscape modification, New York and its periphery aren’t saddled with quite as many design follies as America’s newer megalopolises. It isn’t sinking like Miami and Houston, or desiccated like Phoenix and LA. Instead, New York owes its status as a global financial capital to it’s natural deep water harbor, a fact of the terrain that immediately caught the attention of the commercially-minded Henry Hudson, who sailed through the Verrazano Narrows under the flag of the Dutch Republic in 1609. But, of course, Europe’s Age of Exploration was a commercial endeavor. The Dutch and English, followed by the American Republic, transformed New York Harbor into a nerve center of Atlantic shipping, and the rest is history. So the reality remains that New York sits at the helm of corporate globalization, and the increasingly financialized nature of the world economy means that the five boroughs and their outlying suburbs have become even more untethered from biophysical reality.

When I’m waiting at Noroton Heights Station, the closer of Darien’s two Metro North stations to my home, it’s not uncommon for me to cross paths with a smartly dressed former high school classmate of mine. We’ll catch up on what we’re up to, and my classmate will invariably tell me he or she has an internship/job at a financial firm, or a marketing firm, or consulting firm. I never remember the specifics names, and I sometimes perform a mental eye-roll at the cliché: You grew up in Darien and work in finance? How unique! But I know my snark isn’t justified. My classmates are only making a living with what is available, and in 2018 in Fairfield County there is no shortage of jobs related to servicing the corporate world’s finances (My classmates are also working at least. I’m still a student.)

So it is that on this most recent commute in and out of the city, I found myself looking out the window and wondering how many of Westchester and Fairfield County’s 1.9 million residents really know this place when we see most of it while in transit, when the necessities of our days orbit around Manhattan instead of the nearest springs and shellfish bed. Sure, I fancy myself a pedestrian naturalist, and I can point out the sugar maples and shagbark hickories leaning over the railroad tracks. But can I tell you off the top of my head how all of those trees are pollinated? Er, no. What about the sexual habits of the eels who used to surge up Connecticut’s tidal rivers every spring? Ditto. I don’t have much on my fellow commuters in terms of deep ecological knowledge.

Readers of Thoreau, that Yankee contrarian who insisted that “the swiftest traveller is he that goes afoot,” and that “We do not ride on the railroad, it rides upon us,” will be more than familiar with my musings. Almost every American environmental thinker since the Transcendentalists has decried an estrangement from the landscape wrought by our fixation on profit. But what of it? Should I refuse my medical treatments? Should my high school friends ditch their suits and take up ornithology? Or maybe we in the industrial world should cut to the chase and flagellate ourselves for the original sin of the steam engine. Human life, like ecology, is complex, and the responsibilities that give shape to personal habits and decisions span our families, our communities, our culture, and even history itself. Such a web of connections cannot be dismantled in a day.

So the question remains: if we are committed to reversing our dislocation from the land, what to do when faced with the rigid scaffolding of the status quo? In “Homebound, Once More,” I recount the richness that has been added to my life by exploring the cracks and interrogating the commonplace of Darien, and here I’d like to suggest that such a practice of probing the contours of one’s own locale is a first step towards bridging the divide between our lives and the physical places where we live. Anyone can do this. You don’t need to claim Native American ancestry or live sixty miles from the nearest post office to forge a deep connection with stone and water. Learn to identify the shrubs growing in the abandoned lot down the road. Spread out a blanket at the nearest park and observe the birds, insects, and people coming to life on a sunny day. Or marvel at the way the roots of a mature oak will chew up and mangle a neglected stretch of sidewalk. If Sylvester Manor on Shelter Island teaches us about acknowledging and rectifying the injustices of history, and the Mohawk people of St. Lawrence Valley offer a model for commitment to a single landscape through centuries of dispossession, then a study of Darien suggests that a re-enchantment with the wider world is possible in the most unassuming of places. Thoreau famously found spiritual correspondence in the thawing sand of a railroad embankment, and we can do the same if we look hard enough.

IMG_0464
Tilly Pond Park with the Darien train station in the background.

The Crisis of Now: What is it?

The human mind needs clear concepts to make sense of the world. When a chronic problem has not been properly named, we are unable to think clearly about it and figure out how to solve it.

-Joe Brewer, “Solving a Problem that Has Not Been Named”

I feel that I need to clarify what exactly I mean when I bring up The Crisis of Now in these essays; this clarification is for myself as much as it is for anyone who has been following my posts. The name “Crisis of Now” is an imprecise label, a phrase I concocted on my own so that I could easily refer to the interlocking emergencies of global warming, late stage capitalism, ecological collapse, hydrocarbon depletion, and the erosion of democratic norms and values (especially in the West). Yet even that slightly more nuanced explanation only feels at the hem of the converging trends whose consequences will remake life as we know it in the more affluent parts of the world.

Fans of Irish poetry will recognize that I am essentially trying to sketch the outlines of that rough beast slouching towards Bethlehem after twenty centuries of sleep. The language of the Crisis of Now, however, need not be biblical, esoteric, or apocalyptic. Joe Brewer, a Seattle-based complexity researcher, has grappled with this same question of how to properly identify the bottleneck we as a global civilization are approaching. His preferred term, The Great Transition Beyond Empires, is more adequate than the Crisis of Now on a number of fronts. First, a name like “The Great Transition Beyond Empires” recognizes that we are indeed living through the disintegration of a truly global empire – the enterprise of corporate globalization – and that its zenith and demise rounds out a six millenia-long era of ever more ambitious empire building.

In Beyond the Grain: A Deep History of the Earliest States, James C. Scott enumerates the evidence arrayed against the “social contract” theory of early state-building. The earliest states of the Near East and China were not the products of reasoned, ingenious communal cooperation; they were brought into being only by the typically violent coercion enacted by centralized palace elites. They employed mass slavery, agricultural levies, harsh penal codes, and militarized physical barriers in order to maintain their spheres of influence (the reach of taxation). Now in 2018, in the wake of the Great Recession and the one-two punch of Brexit and the ascension of Donald Trump, the coercive underpinnings of corporate globalization and their shortcomings are in plain view. Fifteen years ago, the most ardent opponents of the WTO-IMF-World Bank triumvirate were small farmers and public sector employees in developing countries hit hardest by structural adjustment schemes. But when voters in the nerve centers of the neoliberal consensus can be convinced to reject the status quo (however artificial such campaign promises may be), you know the days of our paradigm are numbered.

So is corporate globalization the empire to end all empires? After all of the planet’s climatological positive feedback loops have scrambled Earth’s biosphere, after we’ve chewed through the low- to mid- hanging fruit of the hydrocarbon tree, it’s hard to imagine any financial or political entity (or an alliance of entities) wielding power the way corporatocracy does now. But whatever follows corporate globalization depends on what decisions we make in the decades to come, how we choose to fill the vacuum where consumption, wealth hoarding, and unbridled monetization once held sway.

That brings me to the second reason why I like the name, “The Great Transition Beyond Empire.” The shocks and tremors that are currently destabilizing our ideas of how we see ourselves in the world are also opportunities. Disorientation can allow us to rethink our priorities, how we organize ourselves in the landscape and relate to our co-denizens, both human and non-human. In the interim, there will be profound pain and suffering as political turmoil and dueling elements of the social body rush to fill the vacuum. Just ask the people of Syria and Venezuela, or the thousands of families separated these past months at the US border; they are already in the crucible. The dangers being unleashed by global warming, ecosystem collapse, and the sputtering of capitalism are real, but recognizing the potential of disruption and chaos gets to the heart of what crisis can mean. “Emergency” comes from the Latin emergens; to rise up or outward. We as a people – the human tribe, if you like – have the potential to emerge from the rubble of our dying way of life.

Okay, enough of the abstract theorizing. It’s time to talk specifics. Where will this transformation take place? Who will power it? Change will come from people like you and me, anyone weary of centralized bureaucracies and decision making, who  circumvent rigid federal and supranational power structure and try to effect change on the local level. I recently cut out a New York Times op-ed piece by David Brooks titled “The Localist Revolution,” which posits that the real change makers going forward will be locally oriented: neighborhood associations, state and municipal officials, farmers’ cooperatives. All 7.6 billion of us alive today face the same global emergencies, but only individuals with an intimate sensitivity to their immediate surroundings will be able to respond to how those crises manifest on the ground. After all, do you really think Congressional committees will know how to best allocate the water supplies of Oregon’s Klamath River, or that Brussels technocrats possess the regionally particular knowledge that is vital to stalling the die-back of ancient olive groves in Calabria?

The New York Times is hardly a den of fringe intellectualism, and David Brooks is only picking up on what legions of thinkers and activists have been saying for decades. In her essay collection, The Algebra of Infinite Justice, Arundhati Roy shares her hope that the 21st century will be the century of the dismantling of the big, and that the god of small things will finally be shown the deference she deserves. Already, small farms in Puerto Rico are demonstrating a newfound robustness in the wake of Hurricane Maria, and town civic associations throughout Spain are working to provide support and integration services to an influx of asylum seekers arriving from North Africa. In the digital realm, groups like Tamera and Bayo Akomolafe’s Emergence Network are working to connect and build a dialogue between local change makers across the globe. Taken together, I like to think that all of these initiatives and trends hint at a germinating reverence for the beauty and diversity of the particular.

The photograph featured at the beginning of this post was taken in the final days of the Standing Rock protests in North Dakota, when the Water Protectors vacated the main camp, Oceti Sakowin, in anticipation of Governor Doug Burgum’s eviction order.  A lot is captured in that photo. The colorless sky, stagnant water, burning structure, and backhoe waiting to clear the detritus of a once-jubilant resistance movement make for a dystopian tableau. But those who closely followed the Lakota Sioux’s standoff with Energy Transfer Partners, LP, especially after the Dakota Access Pipeline was lain under the Missouri River, have taken heart in the invocation that we the living are the Eighth Generation, and that our decisions, not just the single action of a government agency or corporation, will shape the world of the seven generations that follow. As our global crises converge, will we muster the fortitude needed to assemble our own resistance camps and triage centers, to halt and reverse the depredations of corporate globalization? The answer lies in whether each of us is willing to engage with and assume a deeply embedded citizenship of the places we call home.

Home, Again

What does it mean to be back in Darien at the age of 23, to have the architecture of my days once more be molded by the place where I grew up? To begin to answer that question I recently reread an essay I wrote at the close of my first semester of college. The essay, which I titled “Commonplace,” verbalizes my then-newly crystallized belief that the places we are most familiar with on a day-to-day basis have the potential to yield the most profound insights and discoveries about the world at large. In “Commonplace,” I recall a bike ride to a local beach one cloudy September Saturday during my senior year of high school:

Long Island Sound was a drab, grey monochrome. The unbroken clouds overhead sapped the trees of any bright hues. A wind blew off the water, just crisp enough to forebode a change in seasons. In short, it was the type of day my suburban neighbors would use as an excuse to stay inside and do chores around the house. But, standing there alone on the sand, looking across to the opposite shore of New York, the thought came to me, “How could I ever turn my back on this?”

Because it is scenes like this, times when the world shows its capacity for the unabashedly mundane, that catch me the most. My earliest vivid memory rooted in the coastal Connecticut landscape where I grew up is of swimming in a neighbor’s pool with my brothers and some family friends one summer evening and insisting that everyone look at a sunset-streaked cloud that happened to be passing directly overhead. I was interested not in the sunset itself, but that one small stratus cloud, brushed with pink and purple. As I got older, no matter what interests took hold of my attention and state of mind, I always found time to stop and contemplate the perfectly commonplace interplay of the naked natural world and the built, suburban environment I called home. And in those mundane scenes and moments, sometimes as unremarkable as a dull orange twilight horizon set against a foreground of dusky houses and maple trees, I have found sources of wonder comparable to looking across the Grand Canyon or out at a panorama of the Rocky Mountains.

Where I grew up is in many ways a mundane place, easily written off as a mere bedroom community where an absence of definable local culture is paralleled by a lack of distinction in the natural or ecological sense. My town’s woods, where they exist parceled between roadways and residential development, do not erupt with orchids and wildflowers in the spring, nor are its horizons animated with the melodrama of snowcapped sierras. Yet it is precisely this mundane landscape that has left an imprint on my psyche. It was amid the suburban spread I called home for the first eighteen years of my life that I learned to appreciate not just the occasional scenes of ostentatious natural beauty, but also the world in its simple, unremarkable manifestations, be they a mellow twilight or a cloudy, colorless day at the shore.

FYPprojectpictures115

Weed Beach, November

I typed those paragraphs five years ago. I had no idea then in the fall of 2013 the scintillating path I would take in the next stage of my life: two brain surgeries, hearing loss, a season of peripatetic farm work, two experimental rounds of chemotherapy, and a bout of major depression. And I am still working towards my college diploma. Darien and my parents’ house on Thomasina Lane has remained a constant this whole time, and that constitutes a generous mercy. Any measure of stability is helpful in a time of transition and turbulence.

Yet I am grateful for my anchorage on the north shore of Long Island Sound not just because of the consistency it has provided. In “Commonplace” I conclude:

On that grey September day at the beach, I did eventually turn my back and let my future take me wherever it may. Because these moments of mystery and silence are not exclusive to a pebbly stretch of New England coastline. Rather, they exist everywhere and every day as the inherent beauty of this world.

The knowledge that profound insight – mystery and silence – are present everywhere has sustained me on a spiritual level through my setbacks and disappointments these past five years, and by regularly returning to Darien I have kept that knowledge fresh.

I don’t mind that I never got a chance to study abroad or spend a summer backpacking through the latest haute ecotourist destination; I don’t need mementos from far-flung places to make my life richer. Through the first 18 years of my life, followed by all of my recent convalescences and languid vacation days away from school, the shingled rooftops and hardwood woodlands of Darien have been the stuff of my world, just as cattle paddocks and baobab trees are the stuff of a Herero’s world, or freeway underpasses and chaparral hillsides are the stuff of a southern Californian’s world. Wherever you happen to make your life, there are layers of discovery waiting in the cracks between the most unassuming features of our natural and human landscapes.

FYPprojectpictures106-2

Casement Street, sunset

Several years ago while walking in Darien’s Woodland Park I picked my way through underbrush and encountered an army of shrimp-like arthropods marching across a scummy pond margin. Last summer I kayaked to a cove in neighboring Stamford and explored 1-acre-square Vincent Island, where the mason shell of a house that burned down before I was born is being swallowed by poison ivy and other sun-loving herbaceous plants. I don’t have as much time to explore the woods or go kayaking this summer, but only a few days ago, on a visit to Darien Town Hall, I saw a justice of the peace presiding over an outdoor civil wedding ceremony between a young couple dressed in shorts and t-shirts. These are the sorts of discoveries that lie in wait if one chooses to interrogate the commonplace and see what happenings unfold behind the static of the day-to-day.

While I could sigh with regret or resignation that I am now well into my third decade of life and still bound to the address where I grew up, I don’t really feel regretful or resigned. I will leave Darien for good at some point then end up in a new locale whose commonplace is just as fertile as any other. But in the meantime I can explore the endless crevasses and cul-de-sacs of my immediate environs.

Lunch at Mama’s

Not long after I returned from Shelter Island, I made plans to meet up with a friend for lunch at Mama Carmela’s Italian Deli. Mama’s, located in a strip of commercial zoning along the Boston Post Road, is less than half a mile from where I live, and I had dropped in on Mama’s for sandwiches several times in the previous year or so. But this most recent sandwich stop was the first time in a while where I actually sat down with my lunch at one of its tables and took in the details of the place. Except for the Darien Times articles detailing the latest local sporting and academic exploits stuck to the tack board by the back entrance, I didn’t notice any significant changes in the appearance or atmosphere of Mama Carmela’s. Nor did I expect anything to be different. Mama’s is one of those places that has always just been there.

Of course, Mama Carmela’s has not occupied 1981 Post Road since time immemorial. It set up shop in the summer of 2001. But Mama’s, mind you, is a “deli” deli, one of those salt-of-the-earth sandwich joints that’s as embedded in the local geography as the nearest hill or stream. Every American town needs such a place. Your equivalent to Mama’s might be flavored with a German, or Latin, or a down home accent depending on where in the country you live. But whether you order fried okra or a potato knish to go with your wrap, America’s long-standing lunch and breakfast joints are all kept alive because they connect their patrons with the local ecology of human interactions that make a community. This sense of community belonging, which Wendell Berry describes as “membership,” is the topic of many an impassioned op-ed screeds, most of which (rightfully) bemoan the loss of said belonging in the face of globalized corporatocracy. But here I want to briefly reflect on how precisely I feel a sense of membership when I’m standing in line waiting to place my order at Mama’s.

IMG_0387

Frank, Patty, Carlos, Sue, Frankie, and Juan are the vital names you need to know. Frank Colandro is the founder and head proprietor of Mama Carmela’s, and, appropriately, with his bushy beard and ham arms, mans the deli’s meat slicer on most days. Next to Frank’s work station, Patty, a sharp-eyed older woman, works the cash register and speaks with an exacting, cut-to-chase tone of voice to match. At the other end of the counter, the cooks – Frankie, Carlos, and Juan – cantilever around each other with spry precision as they switch between frying eggs and bacon on the one hand and slicing vegetables and cheese on the other. Amidst all this, Sue (wearing a pink shirt in the photo above) makes sure the machinery of Mama’s stays greased. When I’ve stopped by for lunch over the years, I have seen her at work taking orders from customers, unpacking supplies from cardboard boxes, helping the cooks with food preparation, and relaying information between the entire crew. If Frank is the pater familias, then Sue is the grande dame of the deli.

On any given day there are bound to be alterations to this ensemble of employees. Frankie’s or Carlos’s places at the fryer might be temporarily replaced by a seasonal worker, or Frank will be stationed at the cash register instead of Sue. But the variations in staffing at Mama Carmela’s are minimal, and employee turnover is low: a sure sign that you can trust a dining establishment to prepare your food. It is this stability that allows me and dozens of other Darienites to know the staff at Mama’s on a first name basis, and the familiarity is reciprocated. You can usually count on there being a laminated flyer posted on the deli counter displaying the go-to order of a faithful patron (usually a high school athlete or local first responder). When I myself was a DHS student, and spontaneously grabbing lunch with friends at a local sandwich joint was a rite of establishing teenage autonomy, I became a regular enough face at Mama’s that after placing my order one afternoon, Frankie gave me a fist bump and introduced both himself and his co-workers. In effect, Frankie bestowed on me a membership that went beyond the walls of the deli and encompassed the entire web of Darien affairs that crosses paths with 1981 Post Road.

As the writer Arundhati Roy suggests, we should not make complicated what is actually quite simple, so I will not parse and dissect every meaning behind the ideas of ‘membership’ and  ‘community.’ I am even cautious about using the word “idea” to describe what I feel when I’m standing in line at Mama Carmela’s, since ideas can be maddeningly ambiguous; mere ideas, without any grounding to them, are the playthings of convoluted philosophy treatises that no one will read. Home, however, is not ambiguous. Home is where you feel most comfortable, the place you go back to, where you belong. Even though I spend significant portions of my time in New York’s North Country these days, my permanent address is still in Darien, and ordering lunch at Mama’s during summer and winter breaks serves as a reminder of where in the world I am grounded.

Amber Hours

I am no longer on Shelter Island. Instead I am writing this from home in Connecticut. But physical distance sometimes provides greater clarity when reflecting on a geographic place, and I am not done thinking about Sylvester Manor.

During my last week on Shelter Island, high summer arrived thick and sagging over the northeastern US, and the moderating effects of the Atlantic were not enough to spare Long Island’s East End from excessive heat. It is important to realize that working in the sun on a farm is not like being at the beach, even if said farm is within striking distance of the Hamptons. Out in the field, with your neck and back to the sky for eight hours a day, anything over 74 degrees in the afternoon and 66 degrees at night is hot, sticky, and uncomfortable. During my final week at Sylvester Manor, high temperatures ranged between 84 and 90 and never dropped below 70 at night. For the first time in my life I found myself slowing down my speech and bodily movements so as to conserve energy; not just while working in the Windmilll Field, but also when climbing the Manor staircase to my bedroom, where I only had an electric fan for cooling off. Come night I remembered my aunt telling how when she was a girl in the late 1950s, her family visited relatives in Missouri in August, where whole neighborhoods would gather at nightfall to munch on watermelon and drink lemonade until it became cool enough to fall asleep (usually sometime past midnight). Lying in bed on the second floor of the Manor with my top sheet flung away and sliding to the floor, I understood why watermelon was my aunt’s favorite food.

Even walking through the boxwood garden between the house and the detached kitchen became a somnambulant chore. On those walks, which most often took place in the late afternoon, I was nudged by breezes that felt as though they had arrived direct from Pamlico Sound or Gullah country. These subtropical breezes were more than just warm; they carried a scent I can only describe as “decadent bloom,” with special emphasis on the Latin origins of ‘decadent.’ Decadere: to fall, sink, to decay. That is, these late day drafts that slipped north across Sylvester Manor were laced with summer’s floral exuberance just as much as they bore the traces of moldering springtime biomass. Any denizen of or traveller to those parts of the American South that have not been sterilized by urban sprawl will know exactly what I am trying to describe.

A green shoot ascending from the previous month’s rot, death begetting life; these are common pastoral tropes because they are the natural ordering of things, and spirit resides in a landscape where the dualities of growth and decay harmonize. But the light of my last evenings at Sylvester Manor is what I really want to tell you about. “My god, the light!” I’d wager good money that sighs and exclamations of that sort have been uttered on countless occasions at Sylvester Manor since the plantation days of Nathaniel and Grizell. Early evenings between the end of June and the first half of August – when the sun reposes at a slant which turns the air to an amber syrup that slicks every surface with grandeur – has probably drawn out the greatest share of wistfulness from the Manor’s residents and visitors. An environmental historian might caution against ascribing aesthetic tastes like an appreciation of the quality of sunlight to different eras. But when I stood rapt on the lanes of the Manor as that deep, deep syrup seeped through overgrown yews and drooping lindens, I could feel the presence of the generations before me who possessed an innate human reverence for beauty. That I beheld the same Georgian dormers from which Julia Dyd Havens Johnson and Isaac Pharaoh once witnessed the waning day, or the same boxwoods that Cornelia Horsford and Alice Fiske spent long afternoons fussing over, made the imprint of those past lives all the more poignant. They said “this light was ours.”

IMG_0338

But then the glow wanes in intensity and depth throughout the growing season before fading with the harvest moon. For Joan Didion, the dwindling of summer and the ends of things is presaged by the long blue twilights of the northern mid-latitudes. For me the annual decline is signaled by the thick, bright early evenings of high summer, and I could not articulate why until I smelled the winds of Sylvester Manor. Life on these Earth is fecund beyond comprehension. Yet all fecundity returns to humus or oceanic muck, and the amber hours of the warmest months serve as a reminder of that law. The sighed message of, “this light was ours as well” was also a warning: “It won’t be yours forever.”

In retrospect, I’d say that amber light was pregnant with melancholy, with a human forlornness towards the unalterable ways of the world. Because no matter what the last wills and testaments might say, the land upon which we make our living is not ours to claim, not really. Cornelia Horsford must have known that one day her garden would go to seed. Even Nathaniel Sylvester, who parceled out Shelter Island in his will to his sons and sons-in-law so as to establish a cloistered Sylvester colony, must have sat alone in old age one summer late afternoon, possibly with the tidal shush of Gardiners Creek lulling his thoughts , and realized how frail a piece of paper is compared to the stone and water of creation.

All life falls, and we the living borrow our sustenance from the departed beneath us.

Thoughts on Toil

The following is from Jean Toomers poem “Harvest Song”:

I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All of my oats are cradled.

But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger.

 

I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.

I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry. I hunger.

These two stanzas speak with accuracy to the history of farming in this country on a number of levels. More immediately, though, I have been thinking about the hard task of working the land, and thought the lamentations of Toomer’s imagined reaper conveys the drudgery inherent to agricultural labor.

fullsizeoutput_445e

A wagonload of hay after harvest at Sylvester Manor, ca. 1900.

Last weekend I was bone tired. I slept excessively, my neck and back were sore, and I went about about chores with a longing for the next opportunity to sit down and rest. At first I was worried that I had contracted a tick-borne illness. But when my energy returned and my neck muscles relaxed after a stretch of languid non-activity, I realized that perhaps my body was only adjusting to and expelling three weeks of exhaustion from the constant, repetitive physical motions of farming. Granted, unlike the rest of the Sylvester Manor farm crew members, I only work in the field three days a week, with the rest of my time going to to my research and writing for this project. But as an individual with a chronic health condition, I have to contend with a different set of challenges when I am in the field.

Yet I have voluntarily taken on the responsibility of working as a member of the farm crew, while for the vast majority of farm laborers in the world right now and throughout human history, agriculture has been anything but voluntary. In his 2017 book Against the Grain: A Deep History of the Earliest States, James C. Scott distills the findings of the last 20 years of neolithic archaeology to demonstrate that human societies’ transitions to decidedly sedentary, agricultural means of organization was almost always accompanied by the coercive powers of a centralized state. Intensive fixed-field agriculture devoted to the production of one or two cereal grains – the type first practiced by the kingdoms of Mesopotamia – was associated with shorter life expectancies and lower overall health, greater inputs of intensive labor, and less individual agency than the diversified pastoralist-horticulturalist-hunter gatherer lifestyles of the region’s pre-state populations. Moreover, it is generally recognized among researchers that the latter lifestyle yields a greater caloric return upon energy invested than the former agricultural lifestyle, regardless of what region of the world one is examining. With this historical background in mind, it is little wonder that from its inception in the Tigris-Euphrates floodplain until well into the 19th century, the modern agricultural state has leaned heavily on the sweat of slave labor.

My point here is that when we lionize farming and a “return to the land,” even in the context of small-scale organic agriculture, we must do so while being mindful of what exactly we would like to return to. The Jean Toomer poem I quote at the beginning of this piece was written in the ferment of the Harlem Renaissance, a cultural movement born out of the cosmopolitan centers of New York and Chicago at a time when whole communities of African Americans were leaving behind the impoverishment and state-sanctioned tyranny of the rural South. Toomer himself never worked in agriculture, but wrote ‘Harvest Song” in an attempt to capture the body- and spirit-crushing work of farming to which his enslaved African ancestors were bonded. Toomer is in fact writing about spiritual disenfranchisement, and nothing denies the humanity of an individual quite like staring down a chattel worker in a mono-cropped field and working him or her like a common beast.

The uncomfortable questions raised by the toil of agriculture extend beyond the slavery of yore. Today hundreds of millions of rural farmers in China and India are abandoning the countryside en masse in an attempt to elbow their way into the middle class, while farmers from Vietnam and Bangladesh to France and the United States are grappling with unprecedented rates of suicide. There are uniquely modern factors involved in this agricultural crisis: the demands of a globalized economy and social isolation, to name a few. Yet these unique 21st century challenges are only additional to age-old problems that have bedeviled farmers since the palace officials of Akkad and Shang Dynasty China established the world’s first state granaries. As Dr. Mike Rosmann writes in the journal Behavioral Healthcare, “Farming has always been a stressful occupation because many of the factors that affect agricultural production are largely beyond the control of the producers.” In an increasingly complex world where ever greater portions of our lives seem to be at the mercy of opaque bureaucracies and computer generated algorithms, we can’t blame the millions of used-to-be-farmers who have given up a way of life that is so thoroughly shaped by outside influences.

When we bemoan the emptying out of rural communities, we need to be clear-eyed about the drudgery inherent to agricultural life in many parts of the world. So, when small community efforts and organizations like Sylvester Manor Educational Farm set out to revive rural economies and ways of life, it is paramount to determine what was missing in the past. With that question answered, a life based on farming and that beloved character of “closeness to the land” can be reoriented around joy, justice, inclusion, and nourishment of both body and the soul.

Wampum, the Iroquois Connection, and Monetizing the Landscape

A couple of months ago a professor of mine and I were ushered into an anteroom of the Akwesasne Cultural Center and Museum in St. Regis, NY. The space was dedicated to a single exhibit; a glass case containing a 250-year old belt made from white and purple wampum beads. Our guide, Sue, explained to us that the belt is referred to by her people as the Wolf Belt, and commemorates the peace between the various Iroquois communities of the St. Lawrence Valley and the English crown following the Seven Years War. The Wolf Belt, which had been housed at the New York State Museum in Albany since the turn of the 20th century, was repatriated to the Akwesasne Mohawks in 2010.

s_topTEMP900x420-2859

Wolf Belt upon its return to Akwesasne (©Indiantime.net)

At the time of my visit to the museum I was reading Katherine Howlett Hayes’s Slavery Before Race, and thus was aware of the possibility that some of the beads threaded into the Wolf Belt, if not from Shelter Island, may have been manufactured in the general eastern Long Island area. Wampum, which comes from the Algonquian wampumpeague, is manufactured from either whelk or quahog shells, depending on the maker’s desired bead color. Contrary to popular historical misperception, wampum was not “Indian money.” It could not be used to purchase goods or services. Instead, wampum was exchanged among coastal Algonquian communities as a gift that carried political undertones; several strings of wampum might be exchanged among visiting sachems as a substantiation of a diplomatic partnership. These networks of exchange penetrated inland into the eastern Great Lakes region, where the Iroquoian nations, especially Haudenosaunee came to value wampum as a means of declaring war or, in the case of the Wolf Belt, friendship.

IMG_0232

Spiraled whelk shells were used to make white wampum beads, which were considered to be less valuable than purple beads from quahog shells.

Europeans, however, did treat wampum as a currency. Dutch settlers used wampum as a means of procuring beaver pelts from inland Indians, while both Dutch and English colonial officials at times sanctioned wampum as legal tender in monetary transactions for lack of standard coinage. Given Shelter island’s estuarine location, it is unsurprising that the manufacture of wampum was one of multiple commercial activities that took place at Sylvester Manor during its plantation days between 1652 and 1680. A ready supply of Manhanset laborers experienced in the techniques of shell bead making provided Nathaniel Sylvester with an additional source of wealth, at least until overproduction of wampum (as a result of the introduction of steel awls) ate away at its value. Excavations of the original plantation core have turned up copious amounts of tool-worked outer shell fragments that were discarded in favor of the inner shell parts from which beads were produced. Some beads stayed in the economy of Long Island Sound, while others undoubtedly ended up in Haudenosaunee territory in the St. Lawrence Valley.

Sylvester Manor’s one-time status as a mass producer of wampum bears special significance on several fronts, not least because it represents an early, explicit instance of European commercial interests monetizing an indigenous cultural practice. As it happens, Nathaniel Sylvester’s great-grandson, the lawyer Ezra L’Hommedieu, (whose daughter, Mary Catherine, served briefly as the mistress of Sylvester Manor in the 1830s) had a hand in determining how the state of New York dealt with its indigenous nations. As a member of New York”s Indian Affairs Commission in the 1790s, Ezra and his colleagues negotiated with constituent members of Haudenosaunee (which was still divided in the aftermath of the American Revolution) for the overwhelming majority of each nation’s historical lands in exchange for reserve territory. The commission also treated the indigenous population as citizens of the new Republic; not out of altruism, but because land belonging to a citizen could more easily be sold to settlers than land belonging to a sovereign nation.

The realm of monetary valuation is a topic I will return to repeatedly in my writing, for the relentless commodification of the natural and human cultural spheres is a critical factor in creating the Crisis of Now. Yet Sylvester Manor offers a unique perspective from which to consider how Anglo-Dutch speculation and investment in the 1600s created the monetary system me know today, and how such an economic model marginalized the lives and power of American Indians.

From its inception, the colonial project in North America was an economic endeavor aimed at extracting raw materials that were growing scarce in Europe. Even the Puritans, those righteous “First Americans,” could not have established Plymouth Colony without the backing of the London Virginia Company and the Merchant Adventurers. It therefore follows that, where one year Nathaniel Sylvester is overseeing Manhanset laborers turn shells into currency, another year Ezra L’Hommedieu is paving the way for white Americans to establish homesteads in what used to be Haudenosaunee country. Since capital for such monetary claims of ownership flowed exclusively from Europe and America’s settled coast, it was almost inevitable that indigenous landholdings in the American Republic would be decimated by the market demands of a new transoceanic Western society.

The Akwesasne Mohawk, with whom I worked this past spring as part of this project, are engaged in a decades-long, incremental mission to regain historically Mohawk land that was sold to non-native settlers under questionable legal maneuverings. They are not alone in this goal. The Schaghticoke Tribal Nation in Connecticut has been trying to defend its land claims in the northwestern part of the state since the 1980s, while, here in the neighborhood of Sylvester Manor, the Shinnecock nation still disputes the legitimacy of the Shinnecock Hills Golf Club. If the indigenous peoples of the world were among the first to feel the shock of global investment capitalism, then, by reclaiming their lands and removing them from the market, it is appropriate that they should be at vanguard of transitioning away from the economic system that has landed us amidst so many converging global crises. Yet they are joined by many allies, including Sylvester Manor Educational Farm, which focuses on reviving local cultural traditions; reconnecting island residents with the rhythms of the growing seasons; and shedding light on the American landscape’s true past. Surely this mission constitutes a movement away from the dominant mindsets of the past 500 years or so. If the the repatriation of a revered piece of Mohawk beadwork is a part of this new movement as well, then all the better.

The Amsterdam Connection

When the Manor house was refurbished in 1908, Cornelia Conway Felton Horsford, the mistress at the time, chose to embellish the front parlor’s fireplace with delftware tiles – an apparent nod to Nathaniel Sylvester’s upbringing in seventeenth century Amsterdam’s community of exiled English Separatists. The parlor delftware constitutes one of the more visible attestations to the Sylvester family’s time in the Dutch Republic. When a team of historical archaeologists from UMass-Boston began excavating the Manor grounds in the 1990s, they unearthed a surfeit of Dutch-made tobacco pipes and yellow bricks that resembled the bricks fired in Gouda kilns.

img_02731-e1529456048946.jpg

Delftware trim, front parlor.

I am interested in the Netherlands of the 1600s. One could argue that the global order of things as we know them today – our world of intercontinental commerce, service-oriented economies, and staggering material wealth, all powered by growth-based economics and investment capital – was first realized in the damp, peaty lowlands of the Rhine delta at the turn of the seventeenth century. Intriguingly, Yale anthropologist James C. Scott also speculates that the year 1600 marks the point in world history when the concept of ‘the state’ came to predominate human social organization. It just so happens that no state at that time had a wealthier population than the Dutch Republic.

Nathaniel Sylvester’s parents, Mary and Giles, migrated with their Separatist families across the English channel to the relative safety of Amsterdam in the first decade of the 1600s. By Nathaniel’s birth in 1620, Giles was a well-regarded member of the Ancient Church (Englelse Kerk) and an up-and-coming merchant in a country that was willing to out up with foreigners and religious iconoclasts rejected by the rest of Europe. As such, the Amsterdam Nathaniel grew up in was one of satin-clad housewives and colorful row houses fronted by spotless stoeps which resounded with the raucous footsteps of children engrossed in neighborhood play. It was a port city from which more than 100 merchant vessels might disembark and set sail across the IJsselmeer in a single day. Such an ’embarrassment of riches,’ as Simon Schama puts it, was made possible by the Dutch Republic’s subordination of Spain and Portugal in the realm of Atlantic shipping. Absent the mercantilist royal bureaucracies which helped contribute to the demise of Iberian transoceanic hegemony, Dutch exploits in the New World and Asia were financed primarily by private investors via joint-stock companies – the forebears of today’s transnationals. Raised amidst so much commercial ferment, it is unsurprising that Nathaniel and his four brothers followed their father into the merchant trade.

1614-1618 - Pieter van der Keere (plaatsnijder, uitgeverf) - Profiel van Amsterdam (det.)

Profile of Amsterdam Seen from the IJ by Pieter van der Keere (1618)

All of the Sylvester sons returned to the English fold, either settling in Britain or one of its colonies just as the English began challenging Dutch turf. Yet part of the Dutch Republic’s inheritance in wealth came with an unquantifiable human cost, a cost that the Sylvesters were also complicit in exacting: by the 1600s, the Dutch were the most active European slave traders. Northern Europe’s growing taste for sugar shifted the flow of African slaves northward from South America to the French and English-dominated Caribbean, where Constant Sylvester, Nathaniel’s older brother, established a Barbadian sugar plantation. Nathaniel then acquired the 8,000 acres of Shelter Island in order to establish a plantation of his own for the purpose of provisioning his brother’s operation with horses, salted beef, and any other goods that could not be produced in a tropical colony whose entire bonded work force of several thousand was engaged solely in the production of a sweetener.

This is to say nothing yet of the presence of slaves at the Manor (upon his death, Nathaniel Sylvester bequeathed 23 enslaved Africans to his wife, Grizzell, and their children); the marginalization of Indians on Long Island’s East End (the system of debt bondage and impressed Manhansett/Montaukett labor under the Sylvesters was slavery in all but name); or the wealth inequality among Europeans themselves as a new economic order took shape (1600s Amsterdam had its districts of grinding urban poverty, while Sylvester Manor possessed its share of indentured servants from the British Isles). But it is not my purpose here to recount every human injustice associated with Sylvester Manor’s past – as I have already noted, the human toll of the patterns of commerce and statecraft born in the 1600s is beyond quantifying.

Instead, I wish to reflect on how Sylvester Manor serves as a relatively intact index of the social trends and revolutions of the past 400 years whose cumulative effects are manifesting in what I like to refer to as the Crisis of Now – the interlocking environmental, economic, and spiritual emergencies that define the 21st century. Despite the Manor’s bucolic rural character, it took the labor and wealth extraction on the margins of three different continents (four, if South America is included) to make its existence possible. Now, in 2018, the infamous Triangle Trade of the Atlantic has evolved into the globally-connected society in which we all are enmeshed, and Sylvester Manor is one of many regional nerve centers that were vital in catalyzing that transformation.

So it is that when I look across the north lawn towards the white wooden gate and Gardiners Creek, I find it impossible to ignore the global reach of these 240 acres on the edge of North America. The white gate, which now opens onto a land bridge, marks the landing where barges and longboats unloaded wares from Europe for Nathaniel Sylvester’s provisioning operation before loading Barbados-bound cargo. In the wake of those ships of yore, I try to discern the skeins of connective historical tissue that link this place with the slave castles of the Guinea Coast and the tribal councils of Eastern Algonquian tribes just as much as with the windmills of Holland or the sheep pastures of Somerset. Here multiple human trajectories and the fates of nations collide, and today our lives are thoroughly etched by that collision.

IMG_0268.jpg

Gardiners Creek Landing

This is intellectual rumination, an attempt to make sense of the entanglements of the injustices of the past with the lives of the 7.5 billion humans living right now. These are not jolly thoughts to be preoccupied with, but I believe that parsing and understanding the knotted interface of past and present is necessary if we are to see through our converging global crises. And from deposits of yellow Dutch bricks to a burial ground for the enslaved, from archived documents bearing the signatures of Long Island sachems to parlors decked out in cosmopolitan colonial opulence, Sylvester Manor offers a unique vantage point from which to begin that work of belated comprehension.

Manor Ghosts

In the Spanish film El Bosque Animado (The Enchanted Forest), a spirit instructs the protagonist that “Every forest has a right to its ghost.” As a student of environmental and ecological thought in college, that is a lesson I have learned first-hand; I have lain on my back, as if invited, and stared up at a grove of Adirondack white pines taller than the Statue of Liberty that somehow escaped the whims of nineteenth century lumber barons. Yet I have also stumbled through a vine-tangled oak savanna not far from where I grew up in Connecticut. The latter forests’s ghost did not seem keen on my intrusion.

Two weeks into my stay on Shelter Island, I think it is more than appropriate to say that every landscape has a right to its ghosts, and one would be hard-pressed to locate a tract of American land whose ghosts are as multitudinous as those that inhabit Sylvester Manor. There are the obvious resident specters – those of Nathaniel Sylvester and his 10+ generations of descendants. There are also the notables of American history – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Mary Dyer, Asa Gray – who have left imprints on the property in the course of pursuing their own life’s work. Yet, like the family historian motivated solely by a desire to trace his lineage back to Henry VIII (or Marie Antoinette, or Genghis Khan, or whoever you fancy), enumerating all of the past luminaries associated with Sylvester Manor misses the point. Human history is an ecology of stories, and we can only do justice to that ecology by understanding the multiplicity of lives, big and small, that have crafted the world of today simply by having once walked this earth.

So, as a start, it helps to remember Isaac Pharaoh, a Montaukett man who was indentured to the Gardiner family in 1829 at the age of five and ended up spending the rest of his seven decades at Sylvester Manor. There is also Julia Dyd Havens Johnson, born circa 1810, whose step-father, Comus Fanning, was a manumitted Long Island slave; Julia served as Manor housekeeper for three generations of Gardiners and Horsfords. There is also the Colored Burial Ground, a fenced off parcel of woodland where multiple generations of  enslaved Africans and impressed Manhansett laborers are interred. Such are the beginnings of Sylvester Manor’s historical ecology.

IMG_0409.jpg

Burying Ground of the Colored People of the Manor

But what to make of these lives, these Manor ghosts whose stories are integral to the landscape? Sometimes at nightfall, after a long day of work in the Windmill Field, I may be walking among the garden’s ancient boxwoods or by the north lawn’s copper beech, and feel compelled to stop and contemplate. When I do halt in my path, I become aware of a presence, a collective calling to attention that says “We were here.” I suppose the presence I’ve become familiar with at Sylvester Manor is a spirit of sorts, born of this parcel of land’s particular ghosts. They are ghosts of loss, injustice, and sorrow. Yet they are also ghosts of contentment, joy, and the mundane experiences of human life lived on a day-to-day basis. They have a different story to tell of American history than the occluded, amnesia-ridden tale most of us were brought up with. And, like every history grounded in a cultural landscape, they can tell us something about the human condition. Regardless of what stories we unearth, though, the ghosts of Sylvester Manor implore us the living to pay attention and listen close.

IMG_0212