Writing by Hong-Nhi Do

Epiphany 1: Vietnam’s Manzanar
Epiphany 2: Ranching in the West: What is at stake? Cattle Grazing and Eating Beef

Other Writing:
» Dehydration
» Desert Dust
» Monday, October 6, 2008 (inspired by Al Roker)
» Thursday, October 9, 2008
» Friday, October 10, 2008
» Lost
» What I Could Hear
» Little Girls Who Bug Me:
» Lost in History




Epiphany 1: Vietnam’s Manzanar

Imagine standing on a 1-½ foot wide ledge. When you lean over to look at the view, all you can see is the abyss of darkness…of war, of enemies, of life. All of a sudden you hear gunshots. First, at a distance, and every step you take, the sound of the gun blast gets louder and sharper. You cinch your helmet in your camouflage uniform, and you realize that your friend on your left and your friend on your right are both down…shot to the heart, clutching their chest as they slowly fall to their knees….gulping their last breath as their bodies finally hit the ground.

Imagine leaving your friends as you fend for your life, throw everything you believed in out of the window. You find an escape. The shots stop blasting in your ears. You question how you are still alive. You look down, and of everything that was lost, you find on the inside of your left shirt pocket, a tiger claw.

In 1988, President Ronald Reagan signed a bill that would give pensions to Japanese Americans who were interned behind U.S. barbed wires during WWII, for fear of espionage and sabotage. He said that the United States simply made a mistake.

I, too, have made mistakes in life.

This summer, I thought it would be cool to ask my dad for his tiger claw to add to my regalia – to share with friends, some flair to add to the mix. So I politely asked him for his tiger claw – the tiger claw that has been around his neck for as long as I can remember, yet I know nothing about. My dad, someone who has always told me “yes,” today simply told me, “no.”

He said “no” but the tone of his voice, the saddened look in his eyes, the nervous wrinkles on his forehead pinched my heart. He felt bad he said “no,” but I felt worse for even asking him in the first place.

In 1975 when the South Vietnamese lost to the North, my dad was forced to go to a reeducation prison. He took all he could: a pair of clothes, shoes on his feet, and the tiger claw that saved his life. He left behind feelings, purpose, and faith. For eight years, he lived behind barbed wire that made him question humanity and justice.

I am standing on the ground of one of America’s biggest mistake. The green, orchard-filled stretch of the Owens Valley before Manzanar is now a desert ever since its water started flowing south in L.A. in the twenties. At the beginning of WWII, over 10,000 Japanese Americans were forced behind barbed wire that dictated their lives, their being. Every family was identified by their number.

When my dad entered the reeducation prison he, too, was assigned a number. Once I asked him why he waited so long to marry my mother, and he simply said that he didn’t want anyone else to be associated with a number that became had become his identity.

At the Manzanar Visitors Center, I typed in the last name of my friend’s grandparents into a database, and they popped up first by family number, followed by their family name. I wonder if the number appeared first because names would mean that what had happened would be deem humanizing.

Three Japanese tourists passed me by – cameras in hands, full backpacks, looking at the pictures, facts, and then meandering over to the Japanese print paraphernalia, attempting to buy souvenirs. I stood there and a part of me wanted to run up to them, snatch the U.S. Forest Service pamphlet out of their hands, and ask them why are they here? How do you have the guts to come to a place that has humiliated, angered, and killed your people’s souls?

A part of me wanted to scream, but a part of me caught my tongue – it stopped the air from entering my lungs and I am faced with the question: Why haven’t I gone back to Vietnam? Has my frustration and humiliation rooted in my country’s history, in my dad’s tiger claw, what’s holding me back? Maybe the Japanese tourists just needed to be at Manzanar, and because they can, and because the land is there, and will forever be there.

Sixteen years is a long time to be away from my birthplace, but it’s never too late to go back. The land will still be there; the place will still exist.

In my home in the city where I identify place by the one block by one-block street corners within the city limits, I finally had the chance to leave, and found the West.

In the West, at Manzanar, I found a place where people laughed, danced, played, gave birth, and died. Behind the barbwires, lives were lived just as my dad managed to find life behind his barbwires. I think this is why he still holds onto his tiger claw. It reminds him of a place of friendships and values that will forever be vivid to him.

The tiger claw will have no value whatever to me because it has so much value to my dad. Those who visit Manzanar will find no value in it until they recognize what it meant to the 112,000 Japanese internees who had to live behind America’s barbwires, none of whom were convicted of sabotage or espionage.

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Epiphany 2: Ranching in the West: What is at stake? Cattle Grazing and Eating Beef

Steve and Robyn Boies, owners of Hubbard Vineyard and members of the Shoe Sole group, a holistic management collaboration are in a lawsuit with the Bureau of Land Management, which is being directly sued by Western Watersheds Project.

Jon Marvel, Executive Director of Western Watersheds Project, an organization whose mission is to protect and restore western watersheds and wildlife. Marvel and Western Watersheds believe that cattle grazing should be eliminated from all public lands. Cattle destroy riparian areas that are vital to the indigenous species, contribute to climate change, and whose waste damage streams and biodiversity. Ecologist Mary O’Brien and U.S. Forest Service hydrologist Suzanne Fouty have both taught me this. More importantly, I have seen the damage with my own eyes; however, I still eat beef.

As I walk through rancher’s Agee Smith of Cottonwood Ranch lush aspen stand that a few years ago was grazed entirely down until a fire ripped through the area, causing a lot of panic, yet restored the area back to a healthier landscape, I see the blood, sweat, and tears in Agee’s efforts and his excitement to share this healthy aspen stand with me. I watched as he became excited over changes I could barely see or have any knowledge to judge. The more time I spend with ranchers such as Agee and the Boies, I am convinced that their management of the land is headed in a positive direction. At its core, the Agee and the Boies’s commitment show that they are trying. They try because they truly love the land they live on.

I don’t know anything about ranching before my time in the West, but to what little knowledge that I do know, I honestly believe that the holistic management style will create change. The ways that I’ve thought about land in the West and the people have also greatly changed after meeting Agee and the Boies. They have opened my eyes to a culture that is about community rather than the iconic view that Hollywood has made the West’s cowboys to be.

Spending time on Cottonwood Ranch, I have began to see that the problems in the West are not as simple or rugged glamorous as the “western” movies I have seen in the comfort of my Seattle home. The more time I spend with the ranchers and cowboys, the more it became apparent to me that there were no villains, nor heroes like in the movies – just people. And the land is so much more complex when you’re standing on it then it appears in a magazine, photograph, or television screen.

By using the ecosystems and riparian areas as issues to litigate, natural landscapes are turned into political ones. By doing so, a diverse world is turned into a war zone of right and wrong, us and them, winners and losers. In this war zone, loyalty is demanded and change in position for whatever reason – even if it’s a good one – is not welcomed. Issues turn people into what author Dan Dagget call “confrontation junkies.” People fight against each other instead of problems. There is no wiggle room for change.

Issues also based on the assumption that what is needed is for those of us on the right side – whatever we perceive that to be – to tell those on the wrong side – whatever we perceive that to be – what to do. How does someone from Seattle or San Diego or L.A. or even Walla Walla, WA know enough about rangelands to tell a rancher how to manage his land in central Nevada when there’s less than fifteen inches of annual rainfall? In the words of Sharman Apt Russell, “Middle-class America is probably doing more damage than ranchers will ever do.”

As much as I love lush vegetation, beautiful aspen stands that are so high I can just see it’s round leaves blowing in the wind, and walking in high grasses without the fear of stepping on cow pies, I think I like eating beef more. Agee Smith and Robyn and Steve Boies are my western heroes because they are trying to restore riparian areas and manage their land back to health, while creating a livelihood for themselves. I’ve tried giving up beef once, but failed ands then I just gave up.

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Dehydration

"Go ahead without me," I said. "I'll catch up."

Two packed surburbans pull up the dusty road at 3 miles a gallon, no more.

Three asked, "Are you sure?" And followed the dust, out of sight.

I am alone, nestled between Owens Valley and the Sierra Nevadas.

The sun begins to set and rays of purple, blue, and red ambush the sky.

My two empty water bottles clank on the walls of the cup holders in the Suburban.

In fifth grade, I left the city for the first time to join my peers at camp. My counselor, Charlie, told me that 2 water bottles was just what I needed to keep my body hydrated.

Nine years later, in the desert, two bottles holds no adequacy for my hydration.

I am alone and the time has come.

I step to the side of the dirt,
squatted,
and peed.


The rush of water left my body to quench the thirst of the land.

I witness the tan, dry, bare dirt turn a mahogany brown as it hits the ground.

The color of my skin has turned the same shade of brown these couple of weeks in the American West.

This land. This place. These people. These inhabitants have cloaked my green paleness into its brown land, stroked my skin with layers of dirt, and finally…let me live.

Those of the West have dehydrated my body, yet showered my being with every last drop of its water.

I have invaded this land, ruthlessly forced what I can't physically contain onto its being.

I take so much, yet have nothing of value to give it in return.

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Desert Dust

Desert dust coats our cars as it crawls up the bumpy dirt road

Desert dust blows into the lungs of those who dare to cross its path, journey to find its wisdom, its history, its flaws.

The first time I found myself in the desert, I tripped and fell face first. I missed the cactus by a few inches, but not the dirt. I inhaled its dust residue, and voluntarily baptized myself into its culture.

Desert dust blows into the lungs of those who dare to cross its path, journey to find its wisdom, its history, its flaws.

Once you whiff the dust, you can never go back.

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Monday, October 6, 2008 (inspired by Al Roker)

Sorry folks. No rain showers in the desert today. Don’t worry moms, the kids will not be able to jump in puddles and get too dirty for dinner. There will be no chance of swimming underneath waterfalls of fresh rainwater today either.

Today there will be sun….and lots of it! Sunrise will be at 7:20A.M. Don’t blink if you’re lucky enough to catch this site, because just like that the ball of fire will turn night into bright day.

There will, of course, be the subtle wind throughout the day. It won’t blow your hat off fellas, but it will blow your hair, ladies…so make sure to use lots of hairspray.

The sun and wind will make rocks too slippery and cold to walk on yesterday: smooth, clean, and warm on bare feet. It will make your wet down sleeping bag dry in no time, and will miraculously turn the wetness between your paco pad and sleeping bag clean dry.

So, leave your things out and walk somewhere far. You won’t need to bring much because today, the sun’s got yo’ back.

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Thursday, October 9, 2008.

She decided to paint the sky a distinct line,
Red line on the horizon just before the sunrise.
Right before I opened my eyes to the light,
The thin line of a mechanical pencil drew a line in the sky – intentional, unlike the changing clouds.

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Friday, October 10, 2008

She decided to use her eraser today: flip her thin lead mechanical pencil upside down.
She erased the blue sky, leaving blue residue that became gray.

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Lost

Today, I got lost.
Confidence turned into doubt;
Courage into panic.
I wondered looking for old footsteps – but only created new ones.
I touched the threads of spider-webs that were so sharp, it could slice my finger.
I cringed every time the wind blew, held onto my camp, and hugged limestone: brittle Calcium Carbonate until chucks came off just like my hope.
I carefully watched every step I took, and prayed that the sweat between my feet and the bed of my Chacos wouldn’t slip.
I constantly wiped my sweaty palms on my shirt.
I looked directly into the depth of the canyon’s soul and asked “Why me?” with two fists in the air.
Finally, I began my way down to start at ground zero.

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What I Could Hear

Molecules in puddles of precious water evaporate, sacrificing itself to the sun.
Cars zoom by on the paved highway: drivers too eager to glare out the window to ooh and aah, yet too scared to stop.
Birds chirp to four surrounding walls.
Flies buzz, thinking to itself if it will be smart to finally land.
A tiny bug trembles as it strides across slick rock.
Subtle wind brush hair and whisper in ears.
Sounds of pigment getting a little browner as sun hits flesh.
Roots of Juniper trees dig into the ground,
And slabs of rock hold on for dear life.

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Little GIrls Who Bug Me:

Little girls in braided pigtails, a scrunched nose, and who ask questions they already know the answers to; Little girls who follow big girls around and mimic their every moves; Little girls who roll their eyes and stomp their feet in perfect unison; Little girls who think they are daddy’s perfect little princess; Little girls who think they are all that; Little girls who pick on other little girls: holding her fist in front of her face and the other clenching the collar; Little girls who whine about getting picked last in kickball; Little girls who chase poor little boys around the playground only to pin them down and kiss them; Little girls who only hang out with little girls who look and dress like they do; Little girls who lock arms with one another and never let go; Little girls who scream at the top of their lungs; Little girls who are mean; Little girls who sit by themselves to make daisy chains and allow no one else to join; and finally, little girls who make lists of things they don’t like about other little girls.

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Lost in History

I feel uneasy in new places, any place that isn’t Seattle. There is something to be said about knowing bus schedules by heart, knowing where one way streets start and end, having the ability to count down to the millisecond when a stop light will turn green or yellow or red, and knowing when the topography of a city street turns from being flat to steep. I have Seattle’s map painted in the back of my head.

When I was nine years old, I got lost. Clear skies and beautiful weather brought thousands of people to Lake Union in Seattle for the Forth of July fireworks. When the excitement ended, my younger brother and I, angered by the amount of aluminum cans that were just thrown in the trash after the festivities, decided that we would pick the cans up as a gesture to the environment. This became a contest to see who could pick up the most cans. Competition turned into what my mother calls “panic” when we lost grip of our parents’ hands and slowly drifted into the crowd. It took us the whole night to get reunited with mom and dad, but my brother and I never once cried or showed or felt any sign of fear. We weren’t scared because, regardless of being lost or not, we were still home.

Eleven years later, I found myself lost in the gooseneck of the San Juan River. As I clasped nervous, sweaty hands on limestone, chunks of rock sacrificed themselves from the wall of the canyon to tell me that I was not welcomed here; threads of thick spider web ran across my fingers as warning that if I ever made it angry, it would slit my fingers in half; and its rocky landscape did not care if I was lost or alone or scared. Standing on the ledge of limestone and fear, I looked at the canyon walls of the gooseneck eye to eye, determined to find comfort away from home in the river’s history.

St. John the Devine ended his Book of Revelation with “a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.” I think St. John would be greatly disappointed with the San Juan River. Cottonwood and tamarisk trees grow along its bank. Its water is dark with silt and has been polluted by oil. It flows not from a glorious throne of God but from the state of Colorado, where gold miners have found wealth more than spirituality. A broad anticline fold called the Monument Upwarp provides the setting for the entrenched meanders of the goosenecks. Comb Ridge, in the western boundary, occupies low mesas, buttes, and shallow drainages.

Native Americans have deep religious feelings about the San Juan River, as do Mormon settlers in river towns like Bluff, UT. However, these two groups have not lived together in peace. The river that is shared by two people has experienced bitter conflict. The San Juan has been a real river - true to the nature of human society: full of strife and sorrow, not some happy illusion in a dream. Its reality has created a sense of uneasiness and discomfort for the river. My mind turned fear into loathed misunderstandings as I grasped slick limestone to hold on for dear life.

In this part of the river, there is only one trail that will take you down the canyon to the river and back up again. I missed the Honaker trail coming back up, a trail not distinct from the landscape due to the small amount of use by humans over the past few years. As a result, it has learned to blend itself into the land. More than ten million year ago, the gooseneck section of the Honaker Trail section of the San Juan was a meandering stream flowing over a flat desert. When the country began to uplift, the San Juan kept cutting and incising. The gooseneck where I am standing below Mexican Hat monument is a classic example of the geological principle of an entrenched meander.

At the foot of the Honaker Trail on August 1, 1921, a flood loaded the river with so much silt that hundreds of sucker fish surfaced in the eddies, trying to grasp for oxygen. In the early 1900’s and during the Great Depression, miners would hike to Honaker base camp and transport food up and down the trail. Today, the trail is barely there, hidden by lack of human use and human importance for the land because of its lack of material resources. Lack of human use of this trail has left me lost and anxious.

I am lost in the walls of the canyon and terror strikes me. In this place I feel pleasantly uneasy. The San Juan River is not Seattle, and I am just slowly warming my feet to its history of its place.

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