He was one of nature’s biggest gifts, and the country owes him thanks. —Charles M. Russell, 1925
The bald eagle has been the national symbol since 1782, but the Western artist Charlie Russell was right: The buffalo was far more important to the story of the American West.
Congress agrees on very little these days, but this May, it successfully passed a bill that was quickly signed by President Obama. The National Bison Legacy Act designates the American bison, most often called the buffalo, as our first national mammal. What’s more, the bill enjoyed the support of a wide array of ranchers, environmentalists, zoos, outdoorsmen and Native Americans. As the Wildlife Conservation Society put it, the animal “is an icon that represents the highest ideals of America.”
The story of the buffalo, once roaming in immense herds, also touches on some of the lowest points in American history. As settlers and gold-seekers pushed toward California throughout the course of the 19th century, tragedy often followed in their wake, including the brutal repression and massacre of the American Indian, the wide-scale exploitation of wildlife resources, and the near-extinction of North America’s largest land animal, the buffalo.
With notable candor, the National Bison Association’s Dave Carter says “the fact that we almost screwed it up” back then did not prevent diverse and sometimes conflicting groups from agreeing on a united effort to help restore the buffalo. The end goal: everything from sustainable commercial meat production to Indian spiritual revitalization.
In the early 1800s, there were more than 30 million buffalo in North America, ranging in massive herds from Alaska to Mexico. By 1890, only about 500 animals were left. By the early 1900s, there were only about 30 genetically pure animals surviving in isolated areas, such as private ranches and the Yellowstone caldera.
In his book Last Stand, Montana author Michael Punke depicted the collapse of the buffalo in a sad telling of historical events. This included the scourge of hide hunters, who sent 1.5 million hides back East in the winter of 1872-1873, leaving carcasses to rot on the plains. In 1874, the Sharps Company issued the Sharps Old Reliable, “the rifle to end all rifles.” Hunter Frank Mayer used one to kill 269 buffalo in a single hunt, shooting from 300 yards away.
Railroads sponsored buffalo-killing expeditions, during which one Kansas man is said to have shot 120 animals in 40 minutes. Passenger trains on the newly minted transcontinental railroads would stop for hours while a single herd passed—and sportsmen took aim. And the rail workers had to be fed. A young man who came to be known as “Buffalo Bill” Cody wrote in his diary that he killed 4,280 buffalo in 18 months to feed construction workers for the Kansas Pacific Railroad.
Mercilessly, the U.S. Army participated in wholesale slaughter of the buffalo. Author Larry Barsness, in Heads, Hides and Horns, chronicles the relationship of the buffalo to North American Indians, and why the Army worked to wipe them out: “Either the buffalo or the Indian must go. Only when the Indian becomes absolutely dependent on us for his every need will we be able to handle him. If we kill the buffalo, we conquer the Indian.”
Yet thankfully, the buffalo survives, and Native Americans have a big role in the animal’s restoration. The InterTribal Buffalo Council represents 63 tribes engaging in, or planning, management to restore buffalo culture, and in some cases to manage herds for commercial ventures, which in turn will aid Indian communities. Executive director Jim Stone says the new national animal designation is a vehicle that will allow tribes to be “buffalo-centric” again.
People talk about oil and gas as the new buffalo, or gaming as the new buffalo. “There’s still the old buffalo,” Stone says. Stone, a Yankton Sioux, says his South Dakota tribe harvested its last buffalo in 1886. It wasn’t until 1993—107 years later—that the tribe could conduct another ceremonial slaughter of a buffalo. Stone believes a national buffalo designation resembles the effort to put the image of Harriet Tubman, the Underground Railroad “conductor,” on the $20 bill.
Buffalo, you’re the national mammal. You deserve no less.
Gaynell Terrell is a contributing writer to Writers on the Range, an opinion service of High Country News.
Editor’s Note: On March 8, the Independent published an opinion piece titled “Community Voices: It’s a Terrible Waste of Time to Argue for Bikes in Wilderness.” Here’s a piece that takes the opposite viewpoint.
It hasn’t happened yet, but one day, bicycles and baby strollers will be welcome in wilderness.
That’s the goal of the nonprofit Sustainable Trails Coalition, which seeks to permit forms of human-powered trail travel—beyond walking—in wilderness areas.
Congress never prohibited biking or pushing a baby carriage in wilderness. Both are banned by outmoded decisions that federal agencies made in the 1970s and 1980s. Over time, those decisions became frozen into place by lethargy and inertia.
It is true that the Wilderness Act forbids “mechanical transport.” By this, however, Congress meant people being moved around by machines, not people moving themselves with mechanical assistance. Now that wilderness acreage is larger than California and Maryland combined—vastly larger than when the walk-only rules were imposed—there is a pressing need to restore Congress’ original vision.
In 1977, renowned conservationists Sen. Frank Church of Idaho and Arizona Rep. Morris Udall explained what they thought Congress’ intentions were. Church said, “Agencies are applying provisions of the Wilderness Act too strictly and thus misconstruing the intent of Congress as to how these areas should be managed.” Udall warned against “stringent ‘purity’ criteria” that have “led to public opposition to wilderness proposals based on what is, and what is not, perceived to be … permissible in wilderness areas.” As early as 1964, some Forest Service staff wanted to ban even rowboats.
The Sustainable Trails Coalition’s proposal is modest. It would not permit mountain biking or walking with a baby stroller everywhere. Instead, local land managers would be given the discretion to allow forms of human-powered travel where they believe it’s appropriate. The United States has 765 wilderness areas, each one managed by officials who know the terrain.
Opposition to the coalition’s proposed bill apparently rests partly on unjustified fears that federal employees can’t manage land. Another argument is that where bicycles go, motorcycles and ATVs will soon follow. But members of the coalition have talked with staffers at many congressional offices, and none of them show any interest in using our proposed bill as a stalking-horse for motorized uses that, unlike bicycles, have never been allowed in wilderness.
We suspect that our opponents’ real fear is not that reform will fail, but that it will succeed. If we cease limiting wilderness travel to methods available in biblical times and thereby achieve better-managed wilderness, the previous cries of “wolf” will look foolish.
Some opponents accuse us of being pawns of giant bicycle companies with large cash reserves and a thirst to get bicycles back into wilderness. But the coalition is a grassroots effort, funded by individuals and a few small businesses.
Opponents of biking in wilderness are like pen-and-ink types opposing manual typewriters: It might be comical if the effects weren’t so grave, disconnecting more people from the outdoors and increasing their indifference to conservation.
Some people also worry that bicycles would “shrink” wilderness, and argue that we already have enough places to ride. But backpacking technology allows for more invasive intrusions into wilderness than bicycles. Most bicyclists leave the wilderness at dusk and don’t camp.
As for the call for us to “go somewhere else,” we would never patronize these critics by saying they’re not welcome in wilderness unless they travel by bicycle. We prefer to bicycle, but we don’t insist that everyone else has to ride. Bicycling is clean and environmentally benign, and has that wonderful quality of “flow,” which the human psyche rejoices in experiencing. Mountain biking may be richer in flow than any other recreational endeavor—that’s one reason so many of us prize it.
There’s a grim backdrop to the struggle over wilderness that this quarrel only worsens. In the 52 years since Congress passed the Wilderness Act of 1964, national forest wilderness has fallen victim to a number of contradictions that have warped the original vision. Some areas are overrun and loved to death, like the Maroon Bells in Colorado. Others are no longer managed and seldom visited, and marijuana growers reportedly have filled the vacuum, as in California’s Yolla Bolly. Still others, including the Pasayten in Washington, are despoiled by pack outfitters, whose abuses are ignored by many wilderness activists and the government.
Fixing these problems will take a generation, lots of money and new leadership. Cyclists can’t do it alone, but we can help, if we’re accepted as partners, and not treated as interlopers into the wilderness private club.
The Sustainable Trails Coalition loves wilderness and thinks Congress got the law right in 1964. Now, we seek restoration of the original vision. There is nothing to fear about granting federal employees the discretionary authority the coalition proposes.
Ted Stroll is a contributor to Writers on the Range, an opinion service of High Country News. He is an attorney and president of the Sustainable Trails Coalition in California.
I shouldn’t be writing this, and you shouldn’t be reading it. Far more pressing issues face our public lands—but a vocal minority is drudging up the long-resolved question of mountain biking in wilderness.
They have even drafted a bill for somebody to introduce in Congress—the Human-Powered Wildlands Travel Management Act—that would open wilderness to biking. That means we have to pause and rehash the facts.
First, no legal argument supports biking in wilderness. Unambiguously, the 1964 Wilderness Act states there shall be no “form of mechanical transport” in wilderness areas. The discussion should end there, but a few claim that “mechanical transport” somehow does not include bicycles. They allege that the law unintentionally excluded an activity that emerged after it was enacted. Or they tout an early Forest Service misinterpretation of the law, which initially allowed bicycles in wilderness but was corrected more than 30 years ago.
The arguments have no legal merit. Worse, they ignore the historical context and foresight of the Wilderness Act, one of our foundational environmental laws. In doing so, they distract people from truly understanding our public lands. That’s not good for people or the land.
We should remember that the Wilderness Act grew from a half-century of public-lands battles, fought by America’s most influential conservation thinkers, including Aldo Leopold, Bob Marshall, Olaus Murie, and the indefatigable Mardy Murie, among others. Theirs was a multigenerational struggle to safeguard a vestige of the nation’s public lands from the advances of population and technology.
The technology part is important. The framers of the Wilderness Act knew human ingenuity was not somehow petering out in 1964. In fact, they lived in an era of fantastic invention. Forms of transport being tested at the time included jetpacks, gliders, aerocycles and various new wagons, boats and bicycles.
That the law anticipated future invention is indisputable, but it benefits us much more to know why it does. The reason was most concisely expressed by the bill’s principal author, Howard Zahniser, who, in 1956 defined wilderness as a place where we stand without the “mechanisms that make us immediate masters over our environment.”
Zahniser was a Thoreauvian pacifist deeply troubled by the Holocaust and other horrific events during his lifetime. In wilderness, he saw a suite of biophysical and social values that carried the potential to make us better people. But to fulfill its promise in modern times, by offering an opportunity for raw challenge, humility and solitude, wilderness had to remain a place of human restraint. For eight years, Zahniser worked with Congress to ensure that the law enshrined that ideal, with clear limits on acceptable activities in wilderness.
Some pressing for bikes in wilderness conveniently ignore this central principle. Instead, they focus on issues of trail erosion or impacts to visitors and wildlife, where they front overly rosy claims. In diminishing the purpose of wilderness, they hawk a dumbed-down version of the public estate.
Similarly, it is unhealthy to conflate the ban on bikes with a ban on a certain group of people. That tactic may stir emotion, but it undermines serious public-lands discourse. Nevertheless, some are using the trick, including Bike Magazine editor Vernon Felton, whose recent video casts bikes in wilderness as a civil rights issue. That’s an affront to anyone who has worked for voting rights, fair housing, protection against hate crimes or other actual civil rights.
Felton and others also oversimplify prohibitions on bikes in wilderness study areas, calling them overreach by conservationists or the feds. But such bans are essential to the purpose of these study areas, which must be carefully managed to preserve their eligibility as wilderness pending congressional action.
Another claim is that banning bikes turns people against wilderness, or even broader conservation issues. But I think those misrepresenting the facts are the ones driving a wedge. Either way, diminished support for wilderness is not good news. But nor is it new. The historical trajectory toward better land stewardship has always been the fight of the few.
One last thing to consider is the issue’s scale. The wilderness system is limited to roughly 53 million acres outside of Alaska. Smaller than Colorado, that portion is scattered across 43 states. And while most of the land is in the West, most of it is also rugged and unbikable. Meanwhile, hundreds of millions of acres remain open to biking.
Still, some will demand that bikes be permitted in wilderness. And they will join logging, mining, off-roading and other interests in whittling away at the boundaries of pending wilderness proposals. At a time when so many more serious issues confront our lands—climate change, ocean acidification, plastics pollution, sprawl and much more—it seems a misguided use of energy.
Tim Lydon is a contributor to Writers on the Range, an opinion service of High Country News, where this piece originally appeared.
My father’s recent death was not beautiful, and neither were any of the other deaths I’ve witnessed of late. This has left me wondering about a better path.
Death is not easy, to be sure, but these were made particularly painful by medical interventions—or perhaps I witnessed the confusion between saving a life and prolonging the process of dying.
So I threw a party. Or rather, I held my first Death Café—and it turned out to be a lively, invigorating affair.
In Europe, there’s a tradition of gathering to discuss important subjects—a café philo, for a philosophical café, or café scientifique, a scientific café. Now there are café mortel, or death cafés. A death café isn’t an actual place; it’s a temporary event in various locations, such as my home, complete with decorations and, for example, a cake with DEATH: THE FINAL FRONTIER scrawled on top.
My gathering included spunky friends, all in our middle years, all of us healthy. As it turns out, this is the segment of population that most seems to care about shaping the end of a life. A Pew Research Center study found that less than half of people older than 75 had given much thought to the end of their lives, and incredibly, only 22 percent of them had written down wishes for medical treatment. The same study, though, found a sharp increase in all adults putting something in writing (six of 10 of us), which indicates that percentage-wise, it’s the slightly younger folks who are preparing for their inevitable deaths.
This does not surprise me. For the last 14 years, I’ve been one of the 28 million Americans currently watching as someone dies. Baby Boomers and GenXers are caught in an unprecedented tide of taking care of both children and parents (not to mention ourselves and our own aging bodies); we are the first generation to be caught in this particular kind of care-giving-and-slow-death crisis. With medical intervention and technological wizardry, we’re forced to make decisions about procedures and medicines and ethics as never before. And we find ourselves without much guidance in a culture that’s conflicted and confused about dying.
Which is why we’re willing to talk. At my Death Café, I encouraged us not to focus on the deaths we had witnessed in the past, but instead to speak of the deaths that we want for ourselves in the future. Various results emerged. Half were afraid of the suffering that can precede death; half were afraid of death itself. A few of us had practiced death (“pretend this next breath is your last; what does that feel like?”), but all of us were convinced that doing so would only intensify and enlarge our lives.
The zeitgeist of this new movement is just now gaining momentum, but I can feel its strength and power. An unprecedented 66 percent of Americans now think there are instances in which doctors should allow a patient to die instead of doing everything possible to save that patient’s life. People would like to die—and sometimes would like others to die—and this doesn’t make us morbid or crazy or unethical or mean. No. We are merciful and kind. We are as moral as we are mortal. We just want to know how to gracefully do that is going to happen anyway.
What lies ahead is unexplored territory, much like death itself, really. Here in California, “Death With Dignity” legislation recently became law, and the state representative in my Colorado hometown is reintroducing a similar bill in that state. Don’t get me wrong; I am all for funding research, finding cures, and offering respite to caregivers. But it’s also our ethical duty to try for a chin-up, heart-steady end.
My father contracted pneumonia after 14 years of suffering with Alzheimer’s. He was given antibiotics; I was not in a legal position to object, but I’d have asked for comfort care only—not because I didn’t love him, but because I loved him enough to want him to have as natural and relaxed a death as possible. Instead, I saw him grimace in pain and fear. I saw tubes and syringes and the sores on his body. I saw the family he’d worked so hard to create break apart under the pressure. I saw his blue eyes fade, and they taught me well: This could happen to you, too.
Death is perhaps the greatest mystery we face, and the actual act of dying is the last physical act of our lives. We can strive to do it our way and to do it well. If anything deserves preparation, or some renewed clarity, death might be it. Which is why I suggest throwing a lively party.
Laura Pritchett is a contributor to Writers on the Range, an opinion service of High Country News. Her novel Stars Go Blue is based on her experience with her father.
What I say will not make me a popular person, but here it is: For excellent reasons, dogs should not be—and usually aren’t—allowed in the backcountry of national parks.
Dogs, being predators, bother wildlife even when they’re leashed. Then there’s canine fecal matter, which carries a number of diseases and parasites that may be passed on to wildlife.
Perhaps surprisingly, a lot of dogs are not good hikers; their paws become lacerated, and since they sweat through their feet, it is easy for them to overheat. If a dog gets lost or injured, search-and-rescue volunteers may have to risk their lives to aid the animal. This year, off-leash dogs had to be rescued from Volcanoes, Acadia, Kenai Fjords and Yellowstone national parks.
There seem to be many people who cannot bear to be away from their fuzzy loved one for the length of a hike in the wilderness, so they bring their dog along—even when it is prohibited. How do they get away with that, you may ask? Easy: They just say it is a “service” or “therapy” dog.
Bingo. No one can question the service dog. Websites selling service-dog vests, collars and even bandanas brag you can “Take your dog anywhere.” Then they add that they sincerely hope no one is gaming the system by registering a service dog that is not, in fact, a service dog. Right.
In 2011, the National Service Animal Registry signed up 2,400 emotional support animals. Last year, it registered 11,000. No paperwork required; this is on the honor system. Public employees such as park rangers may ask whether the dog in question is a service dog, but they may not ask about the manner of a person’s disability. One is allowed to ask what the dog is trained to react to and what, as a caring professional, one should do upon that occasion. Websites promoting pseudo-service dogs warn that one should have the answer memorized so “it flows smoothly.” If the question evokes a blank stare from those who have not rehearsed their smooth response, one can, if one is in a snarky mood and out of uniform, mention that “liars go to hell.”
Those protected under the 1990 Americans With Disabilities Act are not pleased. Some say they are concerned that the rights of those with disabilities will be undermined by those who want Fido along and are willing to lie to achieve that goal. Although passing a dog off as a service animal is a federal offense, perpetrators figure they won’t get caught.
This is becoming enough of a problem on and off trails that municipalities such as Prescott, Ariz., are passing or proposing laws penalizing the pseudo-service dog. Meanwhile, national parks are allowed to close an area to service animals if it is determined that the animal poses a threat to the health or safety of people or wildlife. Grand Canyon and Yellowstone national parks both require that service dogs be registered with the backcountry office. The owner is schooled on trail etiquette, and search-and-rescue is alerted.
Rangers say that they never used to see dogs; now they deal with them 20 to 30 percent of the time. A dog owner may be ticketed if the dog is off-leash, barking or defecating on the trail—but not for lying about the dog’s status.
Mule wranglers at Grand Canyon say mules will attack a dog. On a narrow trail with a cliff on one side, this is not a good scenario. One wrangler says the half-dozen dog owners she has met cooperated in moving their dog out of sight; still, they’re a hazard.
Make no mistake: There are those for whom having their dog along can be a matter of life and death. When a legitimate service dog is on the trail, the owner usually sets a realistic itinerary and avoids extreme temperatures. But they often leave the dog home, because they do not want their animal exposed to danger or put under stress.
So what, you might ask, is the harm to a national park if a true or faux service dog is well-behaved while it’s there? Badly behaved teenagers surely do more damage to the wilderness than dogs; after all, dogs don’t spray paint their name on the rocks.
For me, it’s the lack of respect for a park’s rules that gets my goat—the notion that rules apply to other people, but not to me.
Marjorie “Slim” Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, an opinion service of High Country News, where this piece first appeared.
We Americans have been spoiled by low costs for so long that we have started acting as if low costs were our birthright, which explains why our government leaders have never been in any real hurry to do anything significant about our southern borders. Now, many spoiled, control-freak Americans are throwing temper tantrums over this issue, without thinking ahead. Careful; sometimes you WILL get what you ask for, only to end up wishing you’d just kept your greedy, selfish little mouth shut.
Surely someone has done a legitimate impact study of the volume and variety of the lowered costs we Americans enjoy on a daily basis due to our government’s playing the “indulgent uncle” on the issue of illegals from Mexico.
Conservative, but Not Crazy
Dear Gabacho: Oh, there are as many studies about the impact of undocumented folks on the economy as there are Mexicans who say their grandpa rode with Pancho Villa. Of course, almost all of those reports are biased bullshit, whether from the left (anything produced by Latino congressmen) or the right. (I’m looking at you, o hateful Federation for American Immigration Reform—was it someone from your crew or another of your Know Nothing ilk who, after a Vietnamese-American woman was tragically killed by a Mexican-American woman, wanted to know if the perp was an “illegal alien savage”?)
The only group hewing to the middle ground, alas, is the feds: They say that if we don’t legalize undocumented folks, we’ll lose $80 billion in unrealized gains by 2023; deficits will increase by $50 billion; and Social Security won’t get the $50 billion illegals could contribute if only they were legal. Of course, a Communist Kenyan runs the White House, so that report is also invalid.
So the truthful answer? What your humble Mexican says: #fuckthehaters.
Why are Mexicans so afraid of earthquakes? (George Lopez’s television show even based an episode around this topic.) Don’t you people know that here in the USA, we have something called “building standards” (unlike the adobe and Play-Doh used in Mexico for construction)? After the last big Northridge quake, you panochas were so afraid of being indoors that you made the local parks look like a Mexican-Woodstock!
Panocha Lover in Huntington Beach
Dear Gabacho: Pendejo, can we start with you using panocha (“pussy,” for those who don’t habla) as a slur? You had a great question that I won’t answer because of your stupidity. Anyone who uses the word as a synonym for cowardice obviously can’t get any. You want to call a Mexican a coward? Call him “Enrique Peña Nieto” or “Donald Trump”—or, better yet, “Panocho Lover in Huntington Beach.”
BORDERTOWN PREMIERE DATE!
Gentle cabrones: Am excited to announce that Bordertown—the animated FOX show that’s like a Mexican second-cousin marriage of Family Guy and Bob’s Burgers and on which I served as consulting producer—will have its debut Jan. 3 at 9:30 p.m.! Make sure to watch live, DVR it—and please DO NOT pirate the show … until Season 4, at least. Tune in, and join the #televisionreconquista!
When I moved to a small town in the Mojave Desert last spring, I found myself in a new relationship with garbage.
There’s some serious junk festering in the sands of the Southwest: toxic dumps, airplane graveyards, nuclear test sites, and so on. An abandoned disposal site in Yuma, Ariz., holds a mountain of toxic e-waste from California. The Mesquite Regional Landfill in Imperial County, near the Mexican border, takes in rail-transported loads of garbage from Los Angeles. And the lonely section of the Mojave between Victorville and Las Vegas is known to be a choice stretch of body-dumping territory.
It makes for an odd and sometimes grim American miscellany. But the longer I’m here, the more inevitable the combination of desert and trash seems to be.
We live in a country that promises eternal newness. But we’ve never been great at dealing with yesterday’s new––the old new, the long-dead new, the new stuff that’s no longer shiny. It haunts us, gathering dust in the corners, lingering in the air like an unpleasant smell. It makes us uncomfortable, cluttering our lives. So we cast it away—into an emptiness that seems to dwarf it, a place where nobody will notice it.
This gesture makes sense, if you assume vastness and cleanliness are the same. They aren’t, of course. But it’s hard to remember that from our usual vantage on the desert—which is from a distance.
Even here in Southern California, I can climb away from what we leave behind. The scramble up 10,834-foot Mount San Jacinto is itself a kind of cleansing. The last half-hour to the peak is a crawl over white boulders, like chunks of old, hardened clouds, before a last breathless balance up the highest slab. At the top, 360 degrees of pure perception is yours for the turning, the taking, while the desert stretches its vast and apparently golden carpet far below.
The power of erasure can seem unlimited—at least until it comes up against some of the hardest trash to get rid of: the personal kind. As I get acquainted with the desert’s landscape of castoffs, I recall long-lost trash of my own. The Little Debbie wrappers, leftovers and wadded-up pieces of paper scattered around raccoon-raided cans in my childhood backyard in Florida; the stale peanut butter and marshmallows we used to trap said raccoons and then later release them by the creek; the decorative bunches of eucalyptus that I hauled from a dumpster and sold to neighbors out of my Radio Flyer wagon. The many apartment furnishings I gathered curbside on garbage collection days in Los Angeles. The pink sweatbands that found their way from my trash in New York City onto the head and wrists of a homeless man at the next subway station.
Many of us have bagged and tied off all kinds of memories and feelings, and buried them deep, left them to decompose, hoping that they’ll somehow disappear in the vastness of time and experience. But our memories and desires are not so easily disposed of. Periodic radioactivity of the heart is part of the human condition. We’ve all got some personal Waste Isolation Pilot Plant inside.
“Throwing away” just might be the dominant fiction of American consciousness. It’s the flipside of the American dream, a dark corollary to the myth of the West: The ability to become whatever you desire requires the ability to toss things away without looking back. We handle our personal garbage pretty irresponsibly. Perhaps, if we’re serious about valuing our environment, it behooves us to value our inner landscapes, too, expanding the notion of “sustainability” so that it includes more than just physical ways of being. Emotional trash may not disappear easily, but it’s a hardy material. It can be reused. Recycled. Whether for love, art or the common good, there’s tremendous power in learning to own what we wish we could just throw away.
So, in an awkward move toward reintegration, I am making an inventory of what I find as I dig into my own exterior and interior deserts.
Kleenex. Three peach pits. A wad of masking tape. Cat poop. Bad drafts of poems.
An empty box of assumptions. Old grudges. Some limitations. Some hopes, some sadness, some fear.
And this glazed, broken bowl that, if I bend over it at just the right angle, throws back a blurred reflection.
Elizabeth Wyatt is a writer and artist based in Joshua Tree. This piece originally appeared in High Country News.
It’s a claim that drives journalists crazy: Why is the media so negative? Why don’t newspapers cover positive news?
For argument’s sake, if we take the position that this claim is accurate (and it’s not; media sources generally give a lot of pixels, airtime or ink to arts, music, food and culture news that is, by its very nature, positive … but that’s a discussion for another time), much of our recent coverage here at the Coachella Valley Independent (including much of the content in our July print issue) is bucking the trend: A lot of our recent stories have landed on the positive side of things.
First: Brian Blueskye’s story on Yucca Valley 18-year-old Aiden Stockman, which is a must-read. I first learned about Aiden at Palm Springs Pride’s Harvey Milk Breakfast in May, at which Aiden and his mother spoke. Tears were flowing as Aiden and his mom talked about Aiden’s struggles with his gender identity—and the amazing acceptance Aiden’s Yucca Valley High School classmates showed him when he finally came out as transgender. However, not everything about Aiden’s story is happy: He faces a lot of obstacles when it comes to employment and his future.
After the Harvey Milk Breakfast, I asked Brian to get in touch with Aiden so we could share this story with a wider audience—and Brian did a fantastic job.
Second: Several of our recent news stories are rather uplifting. I recently penned a piece on the brand-new Sunny Dunes Antique District: A diverse group of businesses (many of which are new) in the area of Sunny Dunes Road just east of Palm Canyon Drive have banded together to work with the city and other groups to develop and promote the cool things going on the area.
Of course, per usual, we’ve been publishing all sorts of great arts, food and music coverage, including a review of a fantastic brand-new revue at the Desert Rose Playhouse, a piece on delicious sour beers made in California, and an exclusive music mix from SynthEtiX, compliments Alex Harrington’s DuneCast.
As always, thanks for reading—and be sure to pick up the July 2015 edition of the Coachella Valley Independent, on newsstands now.
It was two years ago this month that the first print edition of the Independent hit the streets of the Coachella Valley—three months after the “official” launch of CVIndependent.com.
Through 28 months of online publication and 21 print editions (two quarterlies and 19 monthlies, if you’re keeping score) so far, we’ve constantly strived to be a true alternative publication—in other words, cover topics that have gotten short shrift in the other local media.
One of those topics was music. Since Day 1, we’ve made an effort to cover as wide of a variety of music as possible—and I am proud of how we’ve done. This brings us to the topic of our second annual Music Issue, which is hitting streets this week. Some of the Music Issue stories have already been posted at CVIndependent.com; the remainder will be posted soon. We have a total of 10 stories previewing acts who will be performing at Coachella or Stagecoach, plus tons of other great music coverage.
Another undercovered topic we’ve been tackling: Issues in the East Valley. I am proud to say you can find two features that focus on the East Valley in this month’s print edition. Kevin Fitzgerald brings us the story of Agua4All, an effort to bring safe drinking water to areas of the eastern Coachella Valley where there has been none; you can read about that at CVIndependent.com on Friday. Also: Brian Blueskye tells the story of Martha’s Village and Kitchen, a fantastic nonprofit in Indio that’s celebrating its 25th anniversary of helping the valley’s homeless.
Finally, I want to mention something we won’t be covering. Yet another topic that’s been undercovered in the valley is theater. For two years now, we’ve made every effort to ethically and fairly review all local productions that run for more than one week—and we’ve done just that.
However, at least for now, we won’t be reviewing Desert Theatreworks shows. After a review of the company’s production of Lost in Yonkers, company management stopped granting us review tickets. It’s worth noting that although Desert Theatreworks’ management took the time to berate the reviewer after the review was published, emails and a phone call from me to discuss the matter went unreturned.
Desert Theatreworks is now the second local company to do this; Palm Canyon Theatre has been denying the Independent review tickets for more than a year now.
The truth hurts sometimes, eh?
A Note From the Editor: Will the Death-With-Dignity Movement Finally Make Significant Legal Progress?Written by Jimmy Boegle
On Valentine’s Day, I did something that, at one time, I never thought I’d be able to do: I married my boyfriend.
When I first started dating the man who is now my husband, some 12-plus years ago, same-sex marriage was not legal anywhere in the United States. My, how times have changed: As of this writing, same-sex marriage is legal in 37 states, as well as the District of Columbia—and even the staunchest same-sex-marriage opponents concede it’s probably only a matter of time before it’s legal throughout the United States.
The rate at which same-sex marriage has become accepted and legal has been simply stunning; after all, it has been less than 11 years since it first became legal anywhere in the U.S. (in Massachusetts). And look where we are now.
Unfortunately, legal change on other important social issues has not been so swift. This brings us to a recent Independent story, by Sacramento-based writer Melinda Welsh, on the right-to-die movement. (It's the cover story in our March print edition; you can also read more from Anita Rufus on the local angle here.)
Oregon’s Death With Dignity Act was approved by voters in 1994 (and it went into effect after an injunction was lifted in 1997)—yet today, physician-assisted death is legal only in three states, period. This is despite the fact that 70 percent of Americans say physicians should be able to “end (a critically ill) patient’s life by some painless means” if the patient so desires, according to a 2014 Gallup Poll.
However, the legal tide may be about to change, thanks in part to Brittany Maynard. Last year, the California resident was forced to move to Oregon in order to die with dignity after she was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. She made her situation very public—and got a lot of attention in the process, before passing away on Nov. 1, 2014, at the age of 29.
In the wake of Maynard’s crusade, progressive lawmakers around the country are reintroducing death-with-dignity legislation. Welsh’s story looks at the situation in California. It’s a fantastic piece; you really should check it out, if you haven't already.