Enclosure

The process of "enclosure" in the English countryside used to be a definite multiple-choice question in any high school level course in European history.  The very first sentence of the Wikipedia entry for enclosure says: "In English social and economic history, enclosure is the process which ends traditional rights such as mowing meadows for hay, or grazing livestock on common land formerly held in the open field system."

Capitalist theory frowns on common land.  The so-called "tragedy of the commons" is that, since nobody owns it, everybody can abuse it.  Moreover, it can't be converted into capital so the present owners could do something different with its cash value.  It is stuck in the hands of those who have the rights to use it so new people can't come along with a "higher" use for it.  The phrase they use for this kind of perpetual ownership is "mortmain", or "dead hands."

Before the Supreme Court seized the common lands of the Spanish and Mexican community grants of the American Southwest, especially Sandoval v. US (167 US 278) the common lands of each community were used mainly for grazing livestock and cutting timber for construction, furniture and fuel.  Stones from the Creek addresses this again and again.  I wrote a paper on this subject twenty-five years ago.  The people of those community grants are still dealing with the consequences 100 years later.

But the seizure of common lands is only one tool in the hands of those who would proletarianize an independent group of people.  In the story "Turning Water Into Gold" the federal Newlands water project wasn't just a way of enriching speculators in the desert.  It was also a way of denying the Pyramid Lake Paiute people their ducks, kuzavi, tule… let's just say their entire livelihood.  And it was a way of driving them into the wage economy.  Water projects today do the same thing by privatizing the very essence of life.  So do chemical spills like the one in West Virginia and "fracking"(which makes injecting the chemicals into ground water a normal part of the process) by poisoning the people's water instead of privatizing it.

In "Scars" the industrialists of the "New South" simply criminalized young Black men by arresting them on specious charges and then leased these "convicts" to work for them: in this case in phosphate mining.  It was also done in the coal mines of Tennessee and Alabama, in steel plants, and on private plantations, too.  There were no wages, but the point is still to take independent people and get them working for you.  The difference is that it was slavery long after the adoption of the 13th Amendment.

In the story "The Sun Shone So Brightly," the protagonist thinks of himself as a kind of free spirit who has traveled across the country and across oceans because he doesn't want to follow the traditional path of farming his parents' land.  But he finds all his childhood friends working in a copper mine not far from their home.  It was never a matter of choice for them; perhaps his own choice is just his imagination.

Frontier

In 1971 my friend Richard and I took a long car trip around the United States.  One stop was Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado, a center of Anasazi culture between the 7th and 14th centuries.  The question of why the inhabitants moved from the mesa tops into well-defended caves and then left the area was presented by ranger interpreters as a "mystery."  At that time, Richard was pursuing an archaeology major and he asked whether it was possible that this had to do with the upheaval in the Valley of Mexico coinciding with the arrival there of the Aztecs.  The question elicited a stunned silence.  Finally the ranger explained his discomfort: "But that's Mexico and this is the United States!"

Remember that we were discussing events in the late 1200's:  two hundred years before Columbus, and five hundred years before the Declaration of Independence. (560-570 years before the US arrived in the area.)  One has to assume that the Border Patrol was short-handed at the time.  In his defense, I will note that the distance between Mexico City and Cortez, Colorado is about 1600 miles.  On the other hand, the cultural reach of central Mexican culture was extensive.  It is probable that the Mesoamerican ballgame Ullamaliztli was played in the areas now called New Mexico and Arizona.  200 sites resembling ball courts and several balls have been found at archeological sites.  And evidence of trade is everywhere in what is now the US in the form of products from central and southern Mexico.

But I started thinking about this differently around 1986 during a visit to Taos Pueblo.  People want Taos to manifest a kind of mystic connection with hidden powers.  It is roughly 1000 years old and the campaign to save the sacred Blue Lake was a big deal in the 1960's.  But when you visit Taos Pueblo, the members have little stores to sell you Coca Cola and fake-looking tomahawks made in Singapore.  My revelation was that Taos was the outermost pueblo of the Rio Grande Valley, doing business with the Plains Indians before Kit Carson and before the Spanish.  It may have been the farthest outpost of the empires in the Valley of Mexico.

Taos continued to play a role like that during the 1830's and 1840's.  But coming from St. Louis and headed to Santa Fe, the entry point to New Mexico was at the ford on the Pecos River.  Until 1800, then that frontier was Pecos Pueblo.  For about three-quarters of the 19th century it became San Miguel del Vado: Saint Michael of the Ford.  Once the Santa Fe Railroad was built, it moved to the city of Las Vegas, New Mexico.  Now the frontier is about 300 miles further south, in El Paso, Texas.  But that is just a formal national boundary.  ICE sets up where they think illegal crossers will get back on I-10 or I-25.  And who knows what the future holds?

Winnetou

In the story "One Voice, One Heart," Lazar Sussman answers his children's question, "How did you meet mommy."  He tries to reconstruct how he, a Jewish livestock dealer's son from the frontier between Hapsburg Austria-Hungary and Romanov Russia, found his way to the Apache frontier of the Arizona territory.

Why were a barely teenaged Lazar and his older brother Shlomo so captivated by talk of America by refugees from the pogroms of 1881?  And why did they run to Arizona instead of staying in New York with all the other Jews they traveled with?

The answer is in Shlomo's fascination with the novels of Karl May.  Lazar tells his children:

My papa did business with a man from Breslau, Morris Eisenfeld.  He brought Shlomo these books from Germany about America… about the Apache chief, Winnetou and his friend Charlie.”This was too much for the children.  “Who is Winnetou?” demanded Esther.

And in mature reflection Lazar has to ask, too, who is Winnetou?

Karl May is one of the most popular and most translated of German writers.  Born in Saxony in 1842 he made a living writing romantic stories about places he had never been.  His most popular stories are probably those about a German traveling in the American West who becomes blood brothers with a Mescalero Apache chief named Winnetou.  May did eventually visit America, but he did not get farther west than Buffalo, NY.  He nevertheless insisted that these were actual stories about his travels.

Theodore Roosevelt, Jr.

On November 26, 1906, President Theodore Roosevelt ordered the dishonorable discharge of 167 troops of the US 25th Infantry, an all-Black unit of the United States Army.  All had been questioned in connection with a shooting that August in the town of Brownsville, Texas.  All denied knowledge of the incident and their stories were corroborated by their white officers.  First Sergeant Mingo Sanders, a soldier with  twenty-six years of service approached the inspector general with details about the evening, but with no knowledge of the shooting.  They were discharged without a court martial because of what Roosevelt termed a "conspiracy of silence."

On September 28, 1906, Theodore Roosevelt, Jr., a Harvard sophomore was rioting with classmates on the Boston Common.  When police arrived to break it up and one officer gave chase to Roosevelt, his room-mate, Shaun Kelley, knocked down that officer, breaking his nose and opening a wound on his scalp.

Roosevelt was arrested, brought in front of a grand jury, and asked the name of the man who knocked down the police officer.  He declined to share any information.  The officer who questioned him said he thought Roosevelt's father, the President, would have advised him to give the name.  Roosevelt, Jr. answered, "I don't think he would."

The contrast between the two affairs, both unfolding over the same fall, is too extraordinary to ignore.

Source for Roosevelt, Jr's arrest and questioning:  NY Times, October 2, 3, 4, and 5, 1906
Source for Brownsville Affair: Affray at Brownsville, Texas; US Army; 1907

The Ortega Family of Santeros

Here in New York City, the word santero has a questionable connotation among many Christians.  It can imply a follower of the Yoruba faith, or even a roots worker who is casting spells for people.  In New Mexico it refers to the artists who create devotional objects such as paintings and carvings of the saints, altar screens, plaques for the Good Friday stations, etc.  As with the icons of the Eastern Church, in New Mexico these works are not idols but are windows to the spiritual world that is just beyond sight.  Many families of New Mexico santeros have been doing this work for many generations.  During the period of rule from Mexico City especially, there was a real shortage of priests in New Mexico and Church worship had to be carried on by lay leaders.  The objects of devotion in the Churches and in the chapter houses of the lay brotherhoods also had to be local, and a local style developed.

Over twenty years ago we were in Santa Fe for a conference of school leaders.  On a free day we were driving north toward Taos when we encountered a candy store next to an elementary school, El Dulce Hogar.  The yard was filled with large wood carvings, mostly of St. Francis and St. Pascal.  We stopped in and met the world-renowned santero Ben Ortega.  Unlike other artists in this genre he was first generation.  He was generous with his time and we spoke for over an hour, mostly about his children, of whom he was very proud, and who had followed him into this work.  The encounter haunted me, and I carried a photo of Judith with Ben and one of his works in my wallet for years.  I only took it out when I first got an iPhone and digitized that photo.

Years later we were in Santa Fe during the summer Spanish Market.  The first tent we saw was for a young artist named Mateo Ortega.  Judith got excited about the surname, but I -- being a big idiot -- warned her not to make too much of the coincidence.  It was not a coincidence: Mateo is Ben Ortega's grandson, working still in a family style as well as creating his own original work.  That day we went on to meet nieces, nephews and grandchildren, as well as sons and daughters of Ben Ortega, who sadly passed away a few years after we met him.

The story "Warrior Princess" is about a woman who is refurbishing the carving (or bulto) of St. Michael for his feast day on September 29.  The village is San Miguel del Vado in San Miguel County, New Mexico.  I found a photo of what the original statue, now in a Colorado Springs museum, looked like.  I also found a photo of its late-nineteenth century replacement, a seven-foot tall figure which was probably made in Brooklyn.  In writing "Warrior Princess" I was much more influenced by the older statue.  But I also kept thinking about the San Miguel figures carved by Ben Ortega's son, Pete.  The work of the Ortega's continues to haunt me.

A Snowy Day

It was just starting to snow when we went out this morning shortly after sunrise.  Yes, the sun did rise.  It disappeared into the clouds moments later but I really did see it.  It was in the mid twenties and dry, so I was optimistic about a nice walk with plenty of Prophet's little homies to keep him company.  I forgot that when the weather report warns about six inches of snow, people have to prepare for Zombie Apocalypse.

No.  I did not go to the store to see the Bottled Water Battles or the customers stripping the shelves of ammunition.  All I had to see was my fellow dog walkers rushed to get through what may be the best time of the day.  Today they had places to go and things to do before battening down the hatches and barring their relatives at the door.

We had a good time anyway.  Prophet has been begging to go into a little valley that is almost totally blocked by downed trees and their branches.  One trunk was easily five feet high and I had to hoist myself over.  He whined for a second, but by the time I looked over he had found a way to leap up on it and was already jumping off the other side.

He met a new yellow Lab who really interested him for a few minutes until Prophet realized this guy was going to stay ON THE TRAIL instead of clambering down into his favorite marsh and crashing through the newly re-formed ice.  Then is was "See Ya!"  There was a quick hello for the dogs who were being brought back home and then a tug-of-war on a stick with me, instead.

When Prophet was a little pup I worried that the red-tailed hawks might consider him a possible meal.  Now they want no part of a 90 pound dog.  They don't stay nearby, even fifty feet up in a tree.  They take a look and then find a different place to perch.

Its sixteen degrees now and the snow is falling steadily.  I am sitting indoors and writing this post.  But I am looking forward to going back out and making fresh tracks.

GSD Adventures

I have written a little before about how Prophet, our GSD, likes adventures.  He will settle for anything, even a short ride in the car, but his favorite seems to be bushwhacking off-trail during our regular walks.

This morning, like most mornings, we went on the trail along the Hudson for about three miles from W. 232nd Street up to the Riverdale train station on the MetroNorth.  It was 25 degrees and dry, so the ground was frozen hard without being icy.  The first off-piste stop, a small valley filled with rubbish from teen beer parties, takes us down a hill that is steeper than the angle of repose.  Prophet likes to wait exactly at my feet, waiting for me to dislodge pebbles that he can angrily chase.  If I am bold enough to step down without hesitation, we are not at cross purposes.  If I hesitate, anxious about a misstep, he blocks my path and we stand frozen: me looking at him, him looking at my foot.  This morning we went down, and then back up the other side with little hesitation.

We also usually drop down a similar hill to a creek mouth with a small marsh which culminates in a sump where the water enters a pipe under the railroad right of way.  Today, the water had the beginning of crystallization on the surface.  Prophet has become leery this winter of thin ice that he might break through.  He apparently has no hesitation about leaping into freezing water.  He only jumped across when I started throwing a ball across for him to retrieve.

The northernmost mile, a loop from the Riverdale Lower School to the Salanter Akiva Riverdale School, is usually where he meets his homies and can chase, wrestle and play up and down the trail.  It was empty this morning.  Prophet almost always wants to clamber down another steep, loose hill to the tracks near a retaining wall.  It is largely invisible from the path above, but has large dramatic graffiti painted on it for the entertainment of Westchester and Putnam commuters… I guess.

Prophet will never go down these embankments alone or in the company of his wilder friends.  If we are alone, he stands at the edge, beseechingly.  "Can we please, please, PLEASE go down," is the message I read in his eyes.  If I walk past, staying on the trail, he comes over to demand compensation (in Zukes!) for cooperating with my stupid plan of skipping all the fun.  This is what I think of as full DNH mode: Deutsche Nudnik Hund.  He walks very close to me, head in front of my left knee, face turned toward me, eyes insistent.

Sometimes Prophet will drop a tennis ball over the edge, initiating a game of "fetch"in which I am supposed to recover what he throws.  I rarely go along with this role reversal, but the truth is that I have done it sometimes.

If his friend run down unaccompanied, Prophet stands near me, looking directly at me.  At those moments I imagine that he is asking, "Do you see what a good boy I am?"  I have on two occasions instructing him to "fetch" his friend.  He actually did it once.

Today I went along with all these off-trail requests without hesitation.  I even initiated a new one myself, which really made Prophet smile.  I am so grateful to have a companion for daily walks.  They are easily as much fun for me, but I am quite certain I wouldn't take them alone.