EP5A | The Naming of Parts in a New Normal

As our host, Susan Travis, reports on the fires and floods in her hometown of Ruidoso, New Mexico, the Summer of 2024 roars through its own tumultuous times, and for both, a new normal emerges.  This episode is a prelude to Episode 5B: Sorting the Language of Governing, and includes a reading of the poem, "The Naming of Parts," by Henry Reed.

Topics Discussed in this Episode:

• [00:50]  Ruidoso, New Mexico fires
• [02:05]  Ruidoso, New Mexico floods
• [11:25]   "The Naming of Parts," by Henry Reed

Donations to Ruidoso Fire Victims


Episode Music:   An Epic Story, by MaxKoMusic | https://maxkomusic.com/
Music promoted by https://www.chosic.com/free-music/all/
Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported (CC BY-SA 3.0)
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ 

Transcript

Episode 5A: “The Naming of Parts in the New Normal"

Welcome to American Musecast!  I’m your host, Susan Travis, exploring American politics using the construct of the hero’s journey and the archetypes of the psyche.  Thanks for sticking with this podcast during the two months that I’ve been away.

I’ve a newfound appreciation for the struggles of your day, because they can be epic.  Personal. Financial. Relationships. Health. Caretaking, workplace and community, our daily struggles occur against the backdrop, the specter of a diminishing democracy looming in the background – and then there’s me, trying to entice, lure, and scold you into the quest.  So, as of June 17th, 2024, I have a new respect for how that may fit into your day. 

As many of you know, I’m from the village of Ruidoso, New Mexico, recently declared a national disaster by President Biden.  On June 17th Ruidoso, our population of over 8,000 souls, was fully evacuated as the threat of red billowing smoke from two major wildfires filled our skies, and every bit along the way we heard of other fires, around 5 smaller satellite fires that sprung up surrounding our town. From the moment they started, the rumor was arson.

It would be a week before we were allowed to return, perhaps somewhat prematurely, as there were still 60 cadaver dogs still looking for our 29 loved ones as yet unaccounted for.  In the end, it seems we lost “only” two people . . . well, we grieve 4, 2 to the fire, and 2 to the final days of existing cancers that took them in the midst of their evacuation.  

When we returned, over 2,000 workers were rebuilding our utilities and placing new poles, rebuilding our internet infrastructure, and many are still at it.  At last count, the fire took 1400 structures and close to 26,000 acres.  I got my internet back last week, though some are still boiling their water, and SO many people are without homes or businesses.  A lot of homes and businesses spared by the fire were taken in the floods that followed.  Last I heard 800 homes to the fire, and over 200 homes and businesses to the floods.

Since our return, we’ve faced multiple flash floods, and we’ll continue to do so throughout this summer – we understand this will continue for as much as five years.  At this point, I think we all pretty much jump together at the crack of thunder because it’s just dread and trauma for us at this point.  The worst is when the sirens go off at night, alerting our residential canyons and neighborhoods to evacuate, and even now, it’s supposed to rain for four more days.  Our summer monsoons heap water for hours onto the burn scars, one day we had 6 inches of rain in 5 hours.  The burn scarred earth now has a waxy sappy surface into which the water is unable to seep.  So the run off is full of sooty ash, 6 highway lanes wide in places, 30 ft deep in others, and we’ve watched those walls of water carry houses, pavement, gas tankers, and trucks; porches and furniture, and all manner of things that might have been spared by the fire, now roar past us in rushing black water thick with debris and toxins.  Almost a month since the fire, and the National Guard, FEMA, Red Cross, and a host of disaster crews and support personnel are still everywhere. Flood sirens go off every day or so, often more than once.  It’s monsoon season – in any other year, my favorite season. 

Our economy is a wreck.  We are a tourist town, famous for our hiking trails, fresh mountain air and beautiful vistas.  Yet, in almost every direction, within a few streets, we’ve lost well over 50% of the forest, and that’s affected our businesses beyond the actual fire and flood. Downtown looks the same, and people can visit, but those sirens just keep going off.

For the town, the fires and floods stole not only our surrounding woods and neighborhoods, but also our tourists and customers. Even as we’re finally opening our shops and stores, many of our business owners show up every day, despite their homes lost to the fires and floods. Our villagers put forward brave faces in spite of it all, but they’re as vigilant for customers as they are for the floods, because, well, expenses and overhead continue to accrue despite our situations.  

From the moment the fires started, arson was on the lips of everyone.  Recently an FBI and multi-agency investigation ruled that the cause of the first fire was lightning, but not many of our villagers believed it, and tensions have been high.  What are they covering up and what if they’re still out there?  “Give us their names,” people yelled in all caps from their Facebook posts.  A former police officer of 36 years argued with me that vigilante justice was too, justice, and I should do my research.  Finally, this week, 16 fires in our area between May and June were officially attributed to arson.  

I think we are in some ways, America’s Mini-Me, sharing its weariness and exhaustion born of trauma and drama, concerned for our environment, uncertain of the future, in economic distress, distrustful of information, desperate for an elusive justice, and however determined and resilient, our options and choices are not as inspiring as we might hope. 

All around, it feels like our little bubble of America is in heightened sensitivity, and I have a new appreciation for what is being asked of us. Across America, many towns like ours have endured trauma from which it is difficult to recover.  Fallen bridges, mass shootings at schools, churches, and events, wildfire, earthquake and flood, serial killers, an assassination attempt, an insurrection . . . mercy!  Because in the midst of whatever tragedy has befallen us, we have the added tasks of rebuilding our homes, our town, our economy, and our collective mental health.   

And in the background, looms the dwindling of our freedom and those hard at work undermining our democracy.  Right there, in the midst of local and personal tragedies, we have the added stress of our country being stalked with lies, threats of violence, and election subversion.  And, oh yeah. We were supposed to be stewarding democracy.

So, in the wind is the wailing and gnashing of teeth.  The rending of garments.  And despite the local and state support, FEMA and the TikTok well wishes from around the world, we’re going to have to be the heroes of our own story.  We’ll have to reach into our cellular memory for the fortitude of pioneers headed west, of enslaved peoples fighting against oppressors, and those putting one foot in front of the other on the Trail of Tears.  Whatever our lot, the umbrella of democracy shields our little town from worse, at least for now.  This isn’t happening to us in Somalia, it’s happening in the United States, where we have resources, well, at least for now.  

Things . . .  for many of us, our environment, our homes, our towns, and our country, lie in the space of change, of transformation.  But, you know, we can do this, because human history shows a capacity for recovery through a resilience we rarely are called to employ.  

So.  Clearly, the gap in the production of American Musecast, is bigger than the dog ate my podcast.  While my village has been busy, the nation has been busy, too, and I’m back on my steed ready to resume my own stewardship of democracy.  As our village faced down fires and floods, the nation slapped its forehead after the debate, rumbled over who would be the Democratic candidate, reeled from an assassination attempt, offered mixed reviews to the Republican national convention, and suddenly, President Biden stepped away from a second term of office. The summer of 24. Wow.  Life, we all know, turns on a dime. 

So, even as the village of Ruidoso pulled together, waging a war against the elements, wielding backhoes, shovels and sandbags . . . suddenly outside the bubble of our smoke and mud, America had a new candidate for president.  For many of us, it was a joy to know that outside, the hero-populace had also sprung to life, and this quest for preservation held greater hope than imagined by those of us intent on saving democracy.

But for others caught up in fire and flood who have pushed against democracy, these are especially dark times, come all at once, and their suffering is particularly acute.  I wish them peace and strength, and pray that the amazing array of public assistance will go smoothly for them, because this is the moment in which they might truly see the benefits of a generous and compassionate democracy. 

Ruidoso residents are still learning the language of fire behavior and flood mitigation.  The language of insurance and FEMA regulations. We’re building our response and recovery with a new vocabulary, building the plane while we’re flying it - rebuilding the community while we’re living it.  How does this thing work? What parts are broken? How do we fix it?  What are the preventative changes we need to make for a better way forward?

Similarly, any peace and new appreciation for the American rule of law, our diversity, and our economic safety netting requires a boosted understanding of the true nature of those features.   Our citizens only vaguely have a sense of how and why the United States is organized as it is, and their political distress is born out of that knowledge gap.  Aside from our opinions on the matter, how does this thing really work? What parts are broken? How do we fix it?  and what are the preventative changes we need to make for a better way forward?

So, the upcoming episode will explore the language of our politics – a vocabulary that sorts these initial discussions.  I’ll be uploading the new episode in a day or so, and through that episode, I think we’ll find that the value of democracy well surpasses the alternatives, and it hasn’t’ been totally burned to the ground, so, that’s a joy I’ll take! 

I’ll start here, with a poem which has long been one of my favorites.  It offers a literary cast to understanding the terminology of any subject. This poem, written at the beginning of WWII, is called, The Naming of Parts, by Henry Reed. It’s about the language and function of hard basic tools prepared for war, witnessed amid the abstract wonderment and beauty of the dreamer who just wants to love the day.  It’s the practical mentor and the dreaming hero at the moment of the lesson, one the strategist, and the other the visionary.  Far removed from the teaming buzz of the life-force, there is the weapon, simultaneously the tool of destruction, preservation, and survival, and, around it all, in the beauty of the dya, there is the “why.” So, without further ado, “The Naming of Parts.”  

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday 
 We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, 
 We shall have what to do after firing. But today, 
 Today we have naming of parts. Japonica 
 Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, 
 And today we have naming of parts. 

This is the lower sling swivel. And this 
 Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, 
 When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, 
 Which in your case you have not got. The branches 
 Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, 
 Which in our case we have not got. 
 
 This is the safety-catch, which is always released 
 With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me 
 See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy 
 If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms 
 Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see 
 Any of them using their finger. 
 
 And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this 
 Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it 
 Rapidly backwards and forwards; we call this 
 Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards 
 The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: 
 They call it easing the Spring. 
 
 They call it easing the Spring. It is perfectly easy 
 If you have any strength in your thumb; like the bolt, 
 And the breech, and the cocking piece, and the point of balance, 
 Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom 
 Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, 
 For today we have naming of parts. 

The poem tells our story. The story of our humanity, our nation, and my little village.  It’s one of preparation, the importance of a common applicable vocabulary, stiff and somewhat pedantic, or boring, but necessary to the journey.  And even as our hero-populace prepares for the hard work of the quest, most of us really just want to live the outcome in the abstract beauty of a thriving democracy, the easing of spring in a world fresh with a braiding of hope for the future and a loving respect for ourselves, our fellows, and our structure of conduct.  But first, we have the naming of parts.

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