Mission San Diego de Alcala has an interior garden with a cross built from the original bricks of the Spanish Mission. Here I am, a few years ago, contemplating the slumping cross. |
“. . . when we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.” Chimamanda Adiche
I am about to embark on a great adventure.
For much of June, I’ll be traveling through California on my
own. On my own … at least
physically. I fully expect to meet
ancestors and relatives – human and non-human - at every breath, to see and
hear and feel and know wisps or storms of stories all around me, coming from
every direction, including from within.
After a week spent visiting my adult children and
one-year-old granddaughter, I will leave from the Amtrak station in Tacoma,
Washington on a Saturday morning, carrying just a backpack of clothing and
writing materials, a book or two, and all my years of longing. I’ll head straight through Washington, Oregon
and Northern California all the way to San Diego, a glorious journey of almost
40 hours through crazy beautiful mountains, forests, valleys, inner cities,
along beaches and rolling hills covered with wildflowers. I’ve made this trip before; the magic of a
slow train and hours with nothing to do but read, write and look out the
windows is my idea of escape, vacation, paradise.
Once in San Diego, I will visit the mission
there, then slowly proceed back up “El Camino Real” a few train stops at a
time, following the path of the missions as laid out by the Spanish Franciscans
and soldiers from 1769-1836-ish, over the course of 18 days. I won’t be able to visit all 21 missions; but
we do what we can with what we are given, and eight missions are plenty for this
trip (and brings me to a total of 11 missions visited).
Preparation has taken quite some time, and a whole lot of
energy: figuring out which California missions are close enough to Amtrak
stations for me to visit without a car; planning a few inland excursions with a
rental car; scouting out bus or walking routes; setting up lodging along the
way (I’ll have a sleeper on the train for a total of four and a half nights,
and along the Camino Real itself I’ll stay in hostels, hotels, an air bnb, even
one of the missions itself, as a solo retreat participant). A summer grant from my university makes this
possible, but I need to make the funds stretch as far as possible, so meals
will be creative: both healthy and cheap.
Other preparations have included re-reading various
histories of the individual missions I’ll visit (both the “official” Catholic
archival materials, and more recent indigenous-centric or alternative texts), revisiting
my family genealogy as well as Isabel Meadows’ stories, reading and/or downloading books about
California flora and fauna, especially ones that include traditional gathering of natural resources as food or
materials for living. Something about
being able to name a tree, a flower, a fruit, a stone, a bird, gives me a
little bit more of the story I’m witnessing and trying to tell.
But I’ve been preparing in other ways, too.
My preparations require serious attention to the health of
my faith: faith that stories matter. When you spend nine months a year teaching
literature of the margins to mostly white, mostly middle-to-upper-class
students in a small southern university, this kind of faith can wear thin. When you live in a world, as we all do, in
which language and story are perverted into propaganda and misinformation,
faith that stories matter takes a beating.
I have paused throughout the month of May (oh the grace of not
teaching!) to refresh my faith with the beautiful constructions of language by
writers whose work pulses with meaning.
Most recently, I read (and savored/delighted in/got lost in) Susan
Power’s Sacred Wilderness and Louise
Erdrich’s The Round House.
These two books rejuvenated me as a writer,
acted like a blood transfusion of plump, singing platelets for my faith. Rich characters, deeply spiritual quests,
poetic renderings of community and family … and the sheer joy of storytelling
as the glue that holds us together (individually and collectively) even beyond
death. Yes, I believe that the stories I
will find as I travel will have the potential to make a positive difference in
how I, and others, know and live in the world.
I have faith that sometimes a story may be both dangerous and necessary. Faith that the story will lead me in the
direction that it needs to go. Faith
that I am tough enough, resolved enough, to go there too. Huwa!
More than anything else, preparation for my time on “The
Mission Trail” (as this string of history has often been called by historians
and touristic exhortations) means reminding myself that I may be completely
unprepared for the story that emerges from landscape and memory, golden hills
and ocean breakers, melted adobe and reconstructed campanarios. The story I find may not be the story I
expect to find, or the story I want to find.
Looking for genocide, I may find peace.
Looking for sovereignty, I may find fractionated tribes swollen with
Historical Trauma. Expecting oppression,
I may discover resilience, even joy. If
I can stay open to the story around me, who knows what I might learn?
This last thought gives me greatest
pause.
In her talk, “The Danger of a Single Story,”Chimamanda Adiche tells us about her experience, learned over and
over in different situations, with the limitations and damage of falling for
‘just one story,’ of believing that the story we’ve always heard is the only
story, the only truth about that story (the transcript of Adiche’s
talk may be found here).
She says,
“It is impossible to talk about
the single story without talking about power …
How they are told, who tells them, when they're told, how many stories
are told, are really dependent on power. Power
is the ability not just to tell the story of another person, but to make it the
definitive story of that person. The Palestinian poet Mourid Barghouti writes
that if you want to dispossess a people, the simplest way to do it is to tell their
story, and to start with, ‘secondly.’ Start the story with the arrows of the
Native Americans, and not with the arrival of the British, and you have and
entirely different story. Start the story with the failure of the African
state, and not with the colonial creation of the African state, and you have an
entirely different story.”
Adiche reminds us of the
driving force behind the literature of so many survivors: the desire, the need, to tell our own stories, to claim
our voices, to take back the power of narrating our identity. I absolutely agree with her; storytellers
have a power that cuts both ways. A
story can create, but it also has the power to destroy. Because of this, Adiche also warns us: not just about being wary of the stories we
inherit, but taking care with the stories we, ourselves, create. In our urgency behind this desire for voice, we
become susceptible to the lure of a central myth, a controlling stereotype that
damages the lives of very real human beings.
It seems like a paradox: how do
we assert our story, our truth, without becoming proselytizers for The One True
Story? Put another way, does there have
to be one monolithic story for a people, or can there be multi-colored threads
intertwined in a larger cable?
Many years ago, I attended a life-changing, week-long
writing workshop on the McKenzie River in Oregon. As part of the registration process, each
workshop participant reached into a basket and drew out a card with one printed
word that was meant to act as our guiding principal throughout the week. I drew the word willingness. Such a
demanding word! To this day, willingness tasks me with the work of
not taking the easy way through an experience by closing up, turning away,
maintaining the status quo.
Well, this storytelling thing is a risky business.
Yes, I will bring my
intellectual knowledge about Missionization with me – leaving it behind is
impossible – but I also want to try to put aside what I think I know about the
story of California missions, and listen to the story that comes to me from the
places themselves. I sound surer of this
process than I actually am; I think I
have some strategies about how to do this, but I also know that I’ll work it
out as I go.
What I do know for sure is that this journey has been calling me for a
long time, and now that I am finally on my way, I can hardly wait to hear the
harmonies of voices, see the constellations of stories, re-enter the ‘kind of
paradise’ that is my homeland.
Fresh figs from Mission Soledad (previous visit) |
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