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Posts Tagged ‘middle passage pilgrimage’

Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry.

― Jack Kerouac

Inspired by a photo exhibition I recently viewed called The Open Road: Photography and the American Road Trip at the Detroit Institute of Arts (based on a book by Aperture with a fuller array of photos on the same theme) I will now sketch my Open Road experiences, hoping later to flesh this out more fully as perhaps a photographic memoir.

First however, I should nod a thanks to Jack Kerouac and his revolutionary, and for me highly affecting book, On the Road. I read it when well into my 30s, with family in Maine, camping for much of the summer. I recall reading it while riding in our car to Branch Lake. The book was old and decrepit. So as I finished a page I tossed it out the window, heedless of environmental consequences, but I thought then, as pages flew like autumn leaves, a fitting reflection on the ephemerality I detected as a subtheme of the novel.

When a youth during the depression unable to find work in his hometown of Dubuque Iowa, Fran, my dad, hopped a freight train and landed in Chicago. No doubt he influenced me to, as soon as possible, join the Open Road, even tho at that moment I was yet unborn.

I attempted a similar vagabond trip—my first real road trip— when, at the age of about 4, I decided to run away from my pleasant, safe, comfortable, relatively loving Southside home in Chicago. I gathered a few things, probably candy bars and pop (and toilet paper), into a large hankie or bandana, and tied it to a stick. I threw the contraption over my shoulder and set out. I made it to the local school, Caldwell Elementary, about two blocks from my home, and quickly returned.

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Skip Schiel, age 4, 1945

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Skip Schiel in his First Communion suit, age 7, 1946

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Skip Schiel with Tom Rinkach (L), age 11, 1952 c.

While at Boy Scout camp in Michigan, my buddy, Kruli, and I ditched the program to make an all day hike. Without permission we left before breakfast, returned after dinner, and carried with us only brownies that my mom had sent me—and that crucial toilet paper.

Between my junior and senior high school years, my dad and I canoed Boundary Waters along the Minnesota-Canada border. I felt responsible for him, even tho I was only 17 years old. Until that trip I’d resisted the idea of attending college. Since my father was a salesman (a traveling salesman at that, eventually in charge of a large Midwest region, warranting many road trips for him) and sometimes very persuasive, I expected he would urge me—incessantly as he’d done before—to attend college, make something of myself, utilize my interests and possible gifts in engineering to become an electronic engineer. During that entire ten-day journey, he never raised the topic.

I decided to attend college. Long bouts of paddling, lugging our canoe over portages, making camp, and cooking together might have softened his outlook about me, developing his trust that I’d make the correct decision.

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Frank (Fran) J. Schiel, 1958, Boundary Waters, Minnesota-Canada, photo by Skip Schiel

Fran and my mother, Pearl, with my sister Elaine when she was old enough, every summer drove long distances for vacations—West Coast to San Francisco, East Coast to Maine. Dad photographed; eventually I took over, probably reluctantly. Mainly he (because I refuse such setups) created endless images of Pearl in front of some scene or historic marker.

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Frank Schiel, Elaine (sister), Pearl, Chicago’s Southside, 1954 c. photo by Skip Schiel (probably)

My big road trip break was in the summer of 1959. I’d just graduated Arlington Heights High School in a Chicago suburb, felt a strong urge to “go west, young man, go west,” and boarded the Union Pacific train to Utah where I thought I might find summer work, possibly on a ranch. Shortening that story (which could constitute one chapter—or even the entire memoir) I ended up working the balloon dart and bingo games with a carnival that paired with rodeos traveling thru Colorado and Wyoming—the summer of my big rupture from family.

During term breaks at Iowa State University I would often not return home (long distance, 300 miles) but instead hitchhike around the Midwest, with camera, with curiosity, producing numerous slide shows that predictably bored all the neighbors and family I could persuade to watch.

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Skip Schiel in Cimarron, Arlington Heights, IL, 1960 c.

Still at Iowa State, I bought my first vehicle, a Ford pickup truck that I named Cimarron (after a western movie), and let it cart me around to places distant and exotic, like the Black Hills. Amidst wandering defecating, fornicating buffalo, sacred to the Lakota Sioux, I camped, I photographed.

My first international road trip was to Romania in 1977, the year my father died. As an instructor of filmmaking at Boston College, I’d received a scholarship to attend a program in Cluj Romania, in the heart of the Transylvanian Alps, as an introduction to Romania. It was skilled propaganda during the era of the tyrant, Nicolae Ceaușescu, designed to generate positive impressions of this then communist and iconoclastic country. Altho by now I’d identified as a photographer and movie maker I decided not to bring equipment for this first, for me monumental, road trip. Instead, I’d observe, observe as purely and contemplatively as I could. For this decision I am forever grateful. When to not photograph is a skill difficult to develop.

With my wife Lynn and our two daughters, we bought a black VW bug and drove it each summer, Katy and Joey stuffed in the back seat, luggage hurtling from the roof top carrier, back to Chicago and Racine Wisconsin to visit grandparents. I photographed along the way.

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Joey, Skip, Katy (left to right), Watertown Massachusetts, 2009

For three months in 1979, one year after Pearl’s death, two years after Fran’s, I visited Nepal and my sister Elaine and her husband Bob, studying Buddhism with a lama at the Swayambhu monastery. I made numerous road journeys, including one with a guide to Helambu, the foothills of the Himalayas. Lots of mountain walking then.

I should add the many mountain hikes with family and my former partner Louise over a long period of time—White Mountains, Green Mountains, Sierra Nevada, etc. Don’t they constitute travel along the open road, a very open and winding road?

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Skip & Louise, White Mountains, 2002 c.

In 1982, a pivotal year for me, I drove across the Great Plains alone and discovered American Indians.

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Rosebud Reservation, 1983

Which led to 1983 when I bused the same route at the end of winter, and took up residence on the Rosebud Indian reservation, hosted by Jesuits. I lived and photographed there for one month.

(In this report I do not constrain myself to car-based road trips only, but include other modes of transport, soon to be foot and plane, never boat or ship, surprising because of my love of water-borne transport.)

In 1988, the first of my many Alaskan journeys (roughly every 3 years) I walked solo the Chilkoot Gold Rush Trail. Since then I’ve made other Alaskan exploits, alone and with my Juneau family.

In the summer of 1989 my newly discovered mate, Louise, and I flew across the country to visit her family. Followed in the summer of 1990 by a car trip across that same continent to meet my family. With stops in Chicago for cousins Karen and Bob and aunt Anna Mae and uncle Spike, Rockport for cousin Ginger, Dubuque for uncle Eldon, Napa California for her mother and father, Elizabeth and David, and Juneau for Elaine and Bob. Returning, we stopped at Pine Ridge and Rosebud reservations and learned about the upcoming Big Foot Ride to Wounded Knee that winter. We decided to raise money for the Ride generally and to ourselves participate as support people.

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Elaine, sister (L), and Louise

In early 1990, with Frank Gatti and Tom Sander, I explored South Africa on behalf of Friends Meeting at Cambridge, mostly by car but also for short trips on foot. Circumventing restrictions from apartheid we had reasonably free range of the country.

In Dec 1990, Louise and I boarded the train for Denver, rented a 4-wheel drive SUV to help as support people and participated for 2 weeks on the frigid plains. We camped out some nights, stayed in school gymnasiums on others. Louise walked the final day with Buddhist walkers into the Wounded Knee Massacre site for our final ceremonies, Wiping the Tears and Mending the Sacred Hoop. Here she met Jun-San, a nun of the Japanese Buddhist order, Nipponzan Myohoji, that would lead inexorably to more road trips we shared—almost entirely by foot.

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Morning circle, Big Foot Ride to Wounded Knee, December 1990, photo by Skip Schiel

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Big Foot Ride to Wounded Knee, December 1990, photo by Skip Schiel

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Lakota lands, South Dakota, 1990, photo by Skip Schiel

In 1995 I joined the Auschwitz to Hiroshima pilgrimage to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the end of World War 2 from a Japanese perspective. We walked (mostly, also used bus, train, and plane) thru Poland, Austria, Czech Republic, Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia-Herzegovina. Running out of money in Hungary after about 4 months, I returned home to raise more money (with help from Louise and daughter Katy) and incidentally joined the Turtle Island pilgrimage that Jun-San, one of the Buddhist nuns, had organized to support native rights. We walked from Plymouth Massachusetts, around Lake Ontario, to New York City, to learn the story of Peacemaker (the founder of the Haudenosaunee or Iroquois Confederacy). Staying on reservations and reserves (in Canada), walking thru the Hudson River Valley in the spring, we finally arrived at a major conference in NYC about violence. We walked some 1000 miles in about 3 months.

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Auschwitz main gate, December 1998, photo by Skip Schiel

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Croatian women, Lipic Croatia, former Yugoslavia, 1995, photo by Skip Schiel

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Boy with peace crane, Cambodia, 1995, photo by Skip Schiel

At the end of that long walk I returned to the Auschwitz to Hiroshima pilgrimage and walked from Thailand to Japan, thru Cambodia, Vietnam, and the Philippines. The journey of a lifetime—until the next one.

Then in 1998 on the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage I and many others, mostly European Americans, African-Americans, and Japanese walked from Leverett Massachusetts, down the coast to Savannah Georgia, thru the deep south to New Orleans. I left that pilgrimage for one of my own, first driving thru the Mississippi Delta to Chicago and across to Leverett in Western Massachusetts, and then by train back south for 4 months of pro bono photography to groups we’d met during the Middle Passage Pilgrimage.

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From the book, The Middle Passage: White Ships/ Black Cargo, by Tom Feelings

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Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage, Ingrid Askew, co-founder & co-director, 1998, photo by Skip Schiel

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Gulf Coast, Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage, 1998, photo by Skip Schiel

In 1999 I rejoined the pilgrimage in South Africa and remained there for 4 months doing photography.

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Robben Island, South Africa, Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage, 1999

Subsequently (and earlier), driven mainly by Louise’s enthusiasm, she and I joined Nipponzan Myohoji for various walks: to and around Walden Pond in Massachusetts; in 1992, commemorating the Columbian quincentenary in a counter cultural manner, Alcatraz Island in San Francisco to Reno Nevada; numerous Walk for a New Spring journeys thru Boston and environs; and the Hiroshima Flame Walk in DC (which was mostly Louise because by now my enthusiasm for such long walks had waned and Palestine-Israel had taken over).

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Louise, 1995 c., photo by Skip Schiel

And currently Palestine-Israel and Detroit. In Detroit I bike around the sprawling city. In Palestine-Israel for short periods I rent a car and have traveled the entire length and breadth of that small (by United States standards) region, mainly by bus and shared taxi—Negev Desert, Galilee, Golan Heights, and the Israeli coast, also Gaza, by foot and rides with friends.

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Skip Schiel in the Dheisheh Refugee Camp, Bethlehem, 2003, photo by Mark Daoud

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Pre-wedding party, Gaza, 2013, photo by Skip Schiel

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Johnny Price, Detroit, 2011 c., photo by Skip Schiel

Ghost Bike, with my folding bike in the background

Ghost Bike, marking a bicyclist’s death, Schiel’s folding bike in the background, Detroit, 2016, photo by Skip Schiel

Later I may add various other photographic tours I’ve made in the United States while touring with my Palestine-Israel presentations, especially south as far as Florida by train and bus, Chicago by train and car, and the West Coast, California to Alaska, by airplane, train and car. At each location I prod myself to walk, often to photograph.

When will I reach the end of my road? And how will the end manifest? Who if anyone might emerge as a solid travel partner or am I fated to walk this path alone (probably, most unlikely that current close friends will ever join me). In addition, my peers and I are aging.

I conclude this little foray into my road trips with two quotes, one by the illustrious peripatetic poet, Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass, the other by what might have been a fellow walker but this was not to happen, my former wife (or simply my former as we call each other), Lynn.

I inhale great draughts of space,
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am large, better than I thought,
I did not know I held so much goodness.

All seems beautiful to me…

—Walt Whitman

And from Lynn, her inscription in Whitman’s, Leaves of Grass, that she gave me shortly after we’d met.

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2016

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LINKS:

The Open Road: Photography and the American Road Trip (at the Detroit Institute of Arts, summer 2016)

The book the exhibition is based on, by the same title

My photos

“And you will be carried where you do not wish to go” in 8 parts, part one

Auschwitz to Hiroshima: A Pilgrimage, 1995

On Turtle Island, A Pilgrimage, 1995

My account specifically about my Open Road experiences in the troubled lands of Palestine and Israel:

The Palestine-Israel Kaleidoscope, a memoir-part 1

The Palestine-Israel Kaleidoscope, a memoir-part 2

And my most recent writing and photography from Detroit (as of posting this blog)

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Excerpts from my journal while touring the southern United States with new photographs and stories. The main shows are Gaza Steadfast, Bethlehem the Holy, The Hydropolitics of Palestine/Israel, and Quakers in Palestine/Israel. (I’ve completed the tour and I’m now happily at home in Cambridge Massachusetts for the foreseeable future.)

PHOTOS

November 8, 2009, Sunday, Slidell LA, home of L, in the dining room:

Some confusion about the remaining big plan: which of the few remaining gigs are confirmed, where will I stay at night, what will be the transport? Last night’s show scheduled for a church in Biloxi MS had to be shifted to the home of one of the organizers, G, because someone had slipped and not actually booked the church—so we couldn’t get in. The afternoon Hydropolitics show was in a classroom on a nearly empty campus—so few attended. In short: dismal times.

Partly this seems to reflect the political climate here, sodden, conservative, quiet, at least in the region of the Gulf Coast other than New Orleans itself (which is said to be highly politically active). As one man said, the Egyptian at my Gaza Satori coffee house show (which was well attended), there is no one to argue with here, dead.

I respond: so what? One of the main reasons Dave and I chose to move into this zone was exactly its relative backwardness compared with other parts of the country. Backward only in the sense of awareness and involvement in progressive politics.

Surprisingly I’m not worried. I trust that good things will eventually happen. Church locked? Use someone’s home. Few upcoming gigs? Use the time to explore New Orleans and Birmingham. No housing around the time of Birmingham? Use Couch Surfers and Hospitality Club [2on line systems for finding hospitality worldwide, I used it in Israel] to find alternative housing in that area. Worst case is perhaps shift to Atlanta and reside in the Japanese Buddhist dojo and join the immigrants’ rights march, or ship myself home early. I have choices.

At the end of this road is the prospect of a full month of relaxation and concentrated photo work. December: enjoy the onset of winter, plunge into processing the photos from the summer, maintain blog and website, visit family, perhaps establish a deeper friendship with a few good souls, put together a New England tour, and photograph in New England.

About hurricane damage, the aftermath of Katrina, I’ve noticed open land where buildings once stood, foundations, building relics, and other markers of habitation. The Long Beach Mississippi University of Southern Mississippi Gulf Coast Campus for instance. Driving in past boarded up buildings my impression was of dereliction. Abandonment. Loss and no recovery. Driving further, following signs for “Event parking,” we entered the renovated part of the campus. I learned from an English prof there that the university is slowly rebuilding, from the back of the campus to the front, in part using insurance money.

Casinos seem to have been rapidly rebuilt, altho some construction was frozen because of the economic crunch. Workers have removed the tons of sand blown in by the storm. In places they were distributing new sand to reconstitute the beaches. Oddly, in most parts of the beach we drove along between Ocean Springs and Gulfport few people were on the beach, only one or 2 in the water.

Our Middle Passage Pilgrimage in November 1998, about this time of year, had walked along this stretch. I believe I spotted the Lutheran church were we resided, and I noticed the beach area where we’d stopped for prayer in a circle, which I’d photographed. Later I’d like to check my records to determine the exact route, and to read what I may have written about my experience on the way to New Orleans and eventual departure from the pilgrimage to construct my own.

My Slidell Louisiana host, L, is the only person that I’ve queried about knowing about the Middle Passage Pilgrimage that actually remembers it. She attended a church event on the topic, but did not herself participate. She thinks we headquartered in the Unitarian Universalist church in New Orleans. I might check that when I’m there.

To meet the threats posed by violent storms, buildings now must be built on stilts, at least the residential buildings. I’m not sure what changes in building codes have been instituted for large buildings. Sitting square and huge along the water I muse about their vulnerability.

Slidell Louisiana

Unfortunately photographing this is tough. In a car, whisked from spot to post, by friendly hosts, I’m not able to walk, find vantage points, consider the light, and make decent photos. And since so much seems viewable from ground level, I float the thought that to photograph this topic well—aftermath of Katrina—a helicopter might be a useful tool.

About the folks hosting me: D and D, exceptionally kind and thoughtful, my every need considered, jewels of humanity. Initially meeting in high school, they now seem utterly compatible. They’ve strewn their tables with unfinished projects. D showed me his garage with wood tools he’s not used in 3 years. His computer books are all out of date. Before retirement he worked as a chemist, she a secretary. I love them and hope to know them better on my next trip. They appreciated my work, invited me back.

My main host, G, aging, falling asleep at odd moments (said to fall asleep while on the internet), hunched over because of back problems, lost his wife recently, her 4th marriage (widowed twice). Dave thinks he’s a good organizer but judging from the turnout maybe not.

Another host, L, about my age, speaking very slowly with a southern accent, lives alone with her cat in a house that resembles that of someone living inches above the poverty line in the early 20th century—lace, old fashioned furniture, thin rugs, spare kitchen. But she rallied, met me in Gulfport, drove me to her home, is hosting me for 2 nights. Her part time job is shelving books and she complained about once being married to the “world’s worst husband.’

No wireless Internet where I’m staying in Slidell with L, but I can use her computer. Once again I’m handicapped—but not for long

November 9, 2009, Monday, Slidell LA, home of L, in the dining room:

I found this powerful poem that I’m now using as my footer.

A thunderclap under the clear blue sky
All beings on earth open their eyes;
Everything under heaven bows together;
Mount Sumeru leaps up and dances.

—Yuelin Shiguan

Being close to the traditional Veterans’ day, which I thought was either the first or second Tues in November (the first was election day, does this replace Vets’ day?) yesterday, a Sunday, I happened upon a parade thru the center of Slidell which included lots of vets, lots of Junior ROTC marchers, and one armored personnel carrier manufactured locally at Textron. I’d been out walking, surveying this somewhat dismal town—observing the Amtrak station (which if I’m lucky I might pass while on an Amtrak bound for Birmingham), noticing a small internet café at the station that I might have used had I known about it, the town’s center and in it a church with a huge attendance, L’s neighborhood consisting mostly of one story, flat housing, much of it looking ramshackle, hardly able to stand up against floods and winds, a park along a bayou, missing trees in its midsection (L explained that Katrina had destroyed many trees and most would probably not be replaced), another park with a name like Hound or Pig Hollow, many small closed antique and boutique shops, a few other people out walking, plenty of cars, and a few other points of interest.

I photographed houses set about 8 ft up on stilts, learned from L that many of them have been raised to offer some protection from flooding. A few abandoned houses. Not much to photograph. Until finding the parade. Then, how to show it compassionately? The announcer repeatedly called for the crowd to “put your hands together and honor…,” a Korean war vet, a major who’d made some contribution, performing cheer leaders, a marching band, etc. All American, and I’m on the outside. I don’t hate this exhibition of militaristic fervor but I find it repellant. To the point of imagining a conversation between me and someone who’d noticed I wasn’t “putting my hands together.”

I might respond: I’m with you on honoring courage and dedication, trying to act effectively for what one believes. I have to question the belief, the objective of the action. Is using violence to resolve conflict smart? How many innocents are injured and killed when military action is taken, what is the long-term achievement of using the military, and what are the hidden costs such as post traumatic stress disorder?

The person might pop me one as a weakling or supporter of terrorism, or might say, well, I’ve never thought about that. Let’s go somewhere after the parade for coffee and conversation.

I discovered the Ali Baba café, serving Mideast food. Tasty but slow, a gracious overworked owner, very dark skinned with a wide smile. The shelves were spotted with a few Mideast foods but empty space predominated over filled space, lending the appearance of either a start up business or one that is not exactly thriving.

Sunday was an off day, I hope not one in a growing string of off days—no gigs. I had time to edit and post on YouTube my first video of the tour, made while cruising thru a hilly golf course on my comfort bike in Miami while talking to myself, barely hearable over the wind noise. I’m curious about responses to this video, whether some might find it stupid and pointless, others innovative and courageous. Is it deep or is it a trifle? It surely was fun to make and about as fun to post.

Looking at my YouTube viewing numbers I discovered that a Walk Around Ramallah was most viewed, with over 1500 or so viewings, while some others like the workout in Portland gathered only about 60 or so views. The ratings, when people stopped to rate, were generally good.

A few more observations about my host, L. She seems to live alone, not only in her house, but in her community, rarely referring to anyone or any community. She has habits like every morning eating instant oatmeal, eating while sitting on a beach chair at the dining room table with her legs up reading the morning paper and cuddling her cat. She is very helpful and thoughtful, which I appreciate, and she likes my photos, to the extent that she volunteered to put some on her Facebook page. This may be her true community, Facebook.

I gave her a 5 by 7 of her choice, she had sharply observed remarks to make about some that almost made the cut (I’d offered one free), asked me to photograph her for Facebook, asked if I’d be her friend on Facebook, and is now trying to find me housing in New Orleans thru a friend.

Anne R is circulating a doc entitled GLOBAL ACTIONS TO END ISRAEL’S OCCUPATION, which has her mark on it. It lists various organizations and other initiatives that suggest the efficacy of Boycott-Divest-Sanction, BDS High on the list is Veolia Transportation, the company that presumably pulled out from its contract proving light rail service to Israeli settlements, running thru Palestinian territory. I’ll have to thank her for this and I’ll consider sending it to my list.

Hurricane Ida is approaching, how will this effect my plans, and what will it do to the land and people?

November 11, 2009, Wednesday, Baton Rouge LA, home of Joey and M, in their living room:

Mississippi River, Baton Rouge Louisiana

A tour of Baton Rouge with the ever hospitable M, dinner with him and his wife at home, a minor revision of Gaza, and finally contacting my New Orleans host—that about makes up my day yesterday. Not the most exciting day of the trip, but adequate.

The Mississippi river runs thru Baton Rouge (red stick, supposedly from a red stick that native people placed along the river to designate the spot), and because of the levee the river is hard to see unless one is on the levee or a bridge. A railroad line runs along the levee, past a station converted to a museum. The city built a walkway, much used at sunset yesterday when m and I promenaded along the levee and tracks. Here I made a panoramic of setting sun, opposite shore, bridge, and perhaps a few walkers. We tried gaining perspective for photos by driving as slowly as possible across the new and the old bridges, without much luck. I believe I was able to show some of the numerous refineries along the river. I believe this stretch of the river is called Chemical Alley because of all refineries.

On the Baton Rouge levee (click for an enlargement)

We also visited the government complex along the lake, centered on a tall building of about 30 stories built in the 1930s by Huey Long. He was assassinated in the main hall. The lake was gorgeous, and the grounds included an Indian mound thought to be a sacred or leadership site, a rose garden with odorless depleted roses, egrets, and the old powder magazine left over from a fort. Inside the magazine a museum explaining the history of Baton Rouge and exactly what a powder magazine is.

We cruised thru various sorts of neighborhoods, including ones inhabited by black Americans. These are spotted throughout the city and are remnants of pockets of Blacks who lived near plantations, if I understand M correctly. There is also a larger concentration of Black people elsewhere. Unlike Slidell, there has not been a permanent immigration of Katrina survivors. Some moved here temporarily and then returned to New Orleans or moved elsewhere.

M treated me to a catfish lunch at a well-known restaurant opened by a former football player, now a sort of chain in Louisiana. Good food but obsequious service. The aging “server,” Desiree, used most of the endearment terms in the book: dear, hon, honey, sweetie, love, baby… and we’d just met! M quipped that such terms in English often relate to sweet food, whereas in Arabic, the multipurpose word habibi, the terms are more focused on relationship. Habibi can range from dearest one to friend, and might even be a sort of imperative, as in HABIBI, come here!

The downtown, altho initially appearing decayed to me, is in fact, M explained, being rejuvenated. This is due to a governmental initiative to relocate government offices to the central city. as Chicago reawaked its downtown by siting colleges there, thus drawing ancillary service organizations and people, Baton Rouge appears to have done this thru legislation—a mark of good government?

Weather was warm and moist, with manifold sky creatures zooming about, mostly cumulous. M complained about the year-round heat and mosquitoes, using this to explain his lack of exercise.

The remark about Sderot from someone in the audience at the Baton Rouge show prompted a slight revision of Gaza. Indeed, I learned that Sderot is built on Palestinian land, the cleansed village of Nadj in 1951, and might have been founded to define Israel territory—another fact on the ground. It also housed refugees from North Africa, Kurdistan, Persian and other regions, so it is a town of immigrants. Unfortunately I couldn’t find any visuals to illustrate the idea of worldwide Jewish and Christian attention to the town when attacked by Gazan rockets, contrasting with the minimal attention to Gaza itself and the suffering Israel caused.

J and M have lived in this house more than 30 years, raising all their children here for at least part of the children’s lives. M and J speak of moving to Damascus, his original home, claiming that at least one child wishes to move with them. But as J, from the US, added, he’s been talking about this for 40 years. I note that I am one of the few people I know not beset by bi-regionalism. With no desire to return to the Chicago area, my original home. Perfectly content to live out my remaining hours, days, weeks, months, years in New England, if not the Boston area, if not Cambridge, if not 9 Sacramento St.

Refinery, Baton Rouge

And my New Orleans host, JS, finally emailed me, claiming he’d had the flu and was busy. He assures me of hospitality for one night, I remain presently an artist without a home for the remaining few days in New Orleans. Ditto for Birmingham. Slouching toward Atlanta where in about 12 days I board the train home. Can’t wait, not so much for this journey to finish but to be home and in my expanded December zone of work work work, with family, friends, Quakers, land all mixed in.

H wrote in response to my first video, about bicycling around a fancy South Miami golf course:

The subject says it all… this is surreal… a contrast to Gaza perhaps?… maybe an ‘opposite sketch’?… maybe you are……… ???

And from me:

all [of what you wrote] seems correct: surreal, Gaza, “opposite sketch,” and … mainly just having fun, playing, momentarily in the land of the rich. you are very perceptive.

LINKS:

Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage: “The Modern Dance of Imperialism,” by Teresa Williams

A Spirit People: One View of the Interfaith Pilgrimage of the Middle Passage, photos of the pilgrimage by Skip Schiel

Global Actions to End Israeli’s Occupation (mostly using Boycott-Divestment-Sanctions, BDS—thanks to Anne Remley and QuakerPI.org)

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