Recently, I spoke with Sheryl St. Germain about my plans for my thesis next year. I told her how I wanted to write something about why I'm so intrigued and fascinated by the neotropical rainforests, and why I enjoy exploring them so much.
Knowing that I'm from south Florida, what she asked in response was, "why are you not engaged by the Everglades or some other landscape close to home?"
My response was that I've always enjoyed the Everglades when I've visited, and for a few years in high school I went quite frequently. I've also had wonderful experiences in other natural places, like the Adirondack park and the greater Yellowstone area when I lived out there one summer. But I just liked those places. I didn't love them.
A voice summoned me to that part of the world, and beckons me to return even now to continue discovering its secrets. The voice is as clear as a clarion call.
And so I wish to make sense of that summons, to better understand why it sounds so imperatively in my ear. One reason I'm aware of is that I'm completely enthralled by the biological diversity of the region, the highest in the world. There's seemingly no cessation to the wealth of creatures to be discovered personally and observed. I am a biophile, and this stream of life is extremely nurturing for me. Though I understand that desolate landscapes can earn the love of people too, for me I crave the bounty of life observable in the equatorial forest.
Somewhat contradictorily, I love the violence of the forest, a confession I'm aware has a very macabre ring to it. Just among the animals, there is much daily violence, and I think it's healthy for people to accept that animals hunt and kill each other. Too often, I think, nature is thought of as a place of complete serenity, of safety. In truth, it is not. I was once camping in the forest, and I heard the death howls of a monkey in the canopy above me in its final throes. Surely some jungle cat had killed him in the night, and it was a terrifying sound, but I was completely absorbed by that mortality. In just my shorts and sandals, I went searching in the jungle with my flashlight to see what I could see, but there was only darkness.
The jungle is such a mysterious force. It's not like other ecosystems farther north or south that have clear seasons and easily observable natural phenomenon. The rainforest is difficult to understand, and that makes it more engaging for me, more challenging.
I love, too, the exploration involved with visiting the forest. I love disappearing into those seemingly impenetrable tangles of verdure, and reemerging triumphantly. And finally, I love exploring internally why I crave that exploration.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Place Entry 2
As I sit in my chair beside the pond, I begin observing a female cardinal foraging in the retreating snow to my right with seven or so house sparrows behind her even closer to the road. I believe they're house sparrows because of their overall color and disposition, but I can't be entirely certain. Twice in the past couple weeks I've observed at least one white-throated sparrow on campus. In the time it takes me to squint and wish I had brought my binoculars, a white-throated sparrow actually does land next to the cardinal, now close to a large rock, and joins it in it's search for food. Then another. I clearly make out the black stripes along their skull and the even clearer distinct white throat that distinguish their race.
In the background, there is the song of more house sparrows emanating from somewhere behind me towards the Mellon Building. There is also a black individual of the gray squirrel species, which before arriving in Pittsburgh I had only observed in Ottawa, rummaging through the small section of woods immediately behind me and towards my right. A morning dove, previously concealed in the boughs of a tree despite its winter bareness, alights across the field, only to veer around and join the party of foragers on the grounds close to me.
I am wondering what companionship, or perhaps camaraderie, these birds might feel for each other, when a flash of familiar color catches my eye from beneath the ice in front of me. Half the pond remained frozen despite the increased warmth of last week, and that half is covered in some snow. The other half has refrozen and the ice looks different, clear and veiny. Beneath that second half, close to the fountain, there is orange beneath the ice. I forget the birds and focus on the orange fish-shaped wedge vaguely visible in front of me, and wonder why I hadn't noticed it before. There are three other oranges slightly closer to the fountain. As I puzzle over them, wondering if they were perhaps frozen solid under the ice, the single wedge lunges forward a half foot or so, undoubtedly by its own industry.
They live! I had been convinced the fishes were dead, but here there was irrefutable proof at least some members of their race soldiered on beneath their frozen world. I stare at all four, awaiting the next outburst of activity, but they are still. I resolve to survey the perimeter of the pond as I had done before and see if the bodies I had observed were still there. In the section closest to the road, there are ten corpses close to the surface. All the individuals I see are of a mix of orange and gray complexion, curious considering that the four I had seen beneath the ice just moments before all seemed starkly orange, although perhaps I wasn't able to see them clearly beneath the ice. As I swoop around and check the rest of the perimeter I count nine more corpses before reaching my chair again. I sit to ponder why some fish have died while others seem perfectly healthy, and notice that the four orange wedges from before are gone.
In the background, there is the song of more house sparrows emanating from somewhere behind me towards the Mellon Building. There is also a black individual of the gray squirrel species, which before arriving in Pittsburgh I had only observed in Ottawa, rummaging through the small section of woods immediately behind me and towards my right. A morning dove, previously concealed in the boughs of a tree despite its winter bareness, alights across the field, only to veer around and join the party of foragers on the grounds close to me.
I am wondering what companionship, or perhaps camaraderie, these birds might feel for each other, when a flash of familiar color catches my eye from beneath the ice in front of me. Half the pond remained frozen despite the increased warmth of last week, and that half is covered in some snow. The other half has refrozen and the ice looks different, clear and veiny. Beneath that second half, close to the fountain, there is orange beneath the ice. I forget the birds and focus on the orange fish-shaped wedge vaguely visible in front of me, and wonder why I hadn't noticed it before. There are three other oranges slightly closer to the fountain. As I puzzle over them, wondering if they were perhaps frozen solid under the ice, the single wedge lunges forward a half foot or so, undoubtedly by its own industry.
They live! I had been convinced the fishes were dead, but here there was irrefutable proof at least some members of their race soldiered on beneath their frozen world. I stare at all four, awaiting the next outburst of activity, but they are still. I resolve to survey the perimeter of the pond as I had done before and see if the bodies I had observed were still there. In the section closest to the road, there are ten corpses close to the surface. All the individuals I see are of a mix of orange and gray complexion, curious considering that the four I had seen beneath the ice just moments before all seemed starkly orange, although perhaps I wasn't able to see them clearly beneath the ice. As I swoop around and check the rest of the perimeter I count nine more corpses before reaching my chair again. I sit to ponder why some fish have died while others seem perfectly healthy, and notice that the four orange wedges from before are gone.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Prompt Entry 1
The culture that nurtured me is the displaced Cuban exile culture of Miami. Both my parents are Cuban. My mother is from outside Havana, and left as a young child, and my father is from Oriente, the eastern side of the island, and left I believe as a young man about my age or maybe a little older (I don't know exactly because he doesn't talk about it).
Importantly, unlike many other immigrants from Latin America, they never return to visit their homeland, partially because they can't and partially because they would never want to. Unlike many other Cubans, they don't romanticize what Cuba used to be like before 1959, and have no illusions it can somehow go back to being that way. They have devoted themselves entirely to becoming Americans, and proudly think of themselves as such. Although their home definitely retains certain strongly Cuban characteristics, like a lot of their principles for raising children for example, it definitely has many more typically suburban American qualities as well.
The landscape that nurtured me is really nothing more than my mother's garden, which she's always been very devoted to. There is much to say about her garden, which has gone through many different phases from orchids to herbs to butterfly gardening to now fruit trees. That small perimeter of our house was where I got essentially all of my natural exposure as a child, and even though her garden is very small, it may have been enough! There were many interesting animals that would visit, my favorite being these rather large lizards called Knight Anoles.
The interesting parallel that can be drawn between my own cultural upbringing and the natural landscape that surrounded my childhood is the fact that one of my mother's favorite things about her garden is that it happens to straddle the line between tropical and temperate. What this means is that she can grow some trees from the temperate region that can only grow in Miami as part of their southernmost territory, like Magnolia. Meanwhile, she can also grow some tropical trees in their very uppermost northern territory, like Lignum Vitae and Guanabana.
A fact which perfectly coincides with my own upbringing. While I'm as American as anyone else, part of my upbringing and identity now and forever is that my family is Cuban. Not only that, they are Cuban exiles, which is a whole unique circumstance, especially among Latinos in the United States. Just as my mother delighted in growing Live Oaks next to Papaya trees, I straddled both my Cuban ancestry and American identity, and even now still do.
While I don't under any circumstance wish to identify that as my predominant and most important defining characteristic, it is a huge part of who I am, and I don't shy away from being Cuban. Just like my mother's garden, I am a hybrid.
Importantly, unlike many other immigrants from Latin America, they never return to visit their homeland, partially because they can't and partially because they would never want to. Unlike many other Cubans, they don't romanticize what Cuba used to be like before 1959, and have no illusions it can somehow go back to being that way. They have devoted themselves entirely to becoming Americans, and proudly think of themselves as such. Although their home definitely retains certain strongly Cuban characteristics, like a lot of their principles for raising children for example, it definitely has many more typically suburban American qualities as well.
The landscape that nurtured me is really nothing more than my mother's garden, which she's always been very devoted to. There is much to say about her garden, which has gone through many different phases from orchids to herbs to butterfly gardening to now fruit trees. That small perimeter of our house was where I got essentially all of my natural exposure as a child, and even though her garden is very small, it may have been enough! There were many interesting animals that would visit, my favorite being these rather large lizards called Knight Anoles.
The interesting parallel that can be drawn between my own cultural upbringing and the natural landscape that surrounded my childhood is the fact that one of my mother's favorite things about her garden is that it happens to straddle the line between tropical and temperate. What this means is that she can grow some trees from the temperate region that can only grow in Miami as part of their southernmost territory, like Magnolia. Meanwhile, she can also grow some tropical trees in their very uppermost northern territory, like Lignum Vitae and Guanabana.
A fact which perfectly coincides with my own upbringing. While I'm as American as anyone else, part of my upbringing and identity now and forever is that my family is Cuban. Not only that, they are Cuban exiles, which is a whole unique circumstance, especially among Latinos in the United States. Just as my mother delighted in growing Live Oaks next to Papaya trees, I straddled both my Cuban ancestry and American identity, and even now still do.
While I don't under any circumstance wish to identify that as my predominant and most important defining characteristic, it is a huge part of who I am, and I don't shy away from being Cuban. Just like my mother's garden, I am a hybrid.
Place Entry 1
I fear I might have been a little too interactive with my nature spot this first week.
As I made my way to my nature spot for my first prolonged sit, I could already see dead blotches of orange on the edges of the pond. At first I saw just two, but as I got closer I noticed two more, then three more, and so on until I could see dozens of their floating bodies on the edges of the pond. Most were about six inches long, white and orange, and there were more closer to the fountain part of the pond, where the ice had melted. Around the edges, the ice had also melted about three inches deep.
I guess the fish froze, but really it looked more like some environmental catastrophe that should be blamed on an oil mining corporation. In a few places, I could see orange beneath the ice. Even though I was really 90% sure they were just more dead fishes, I resolved to find out. Since there wasn't even that much snow left on the ground, I looked around for a rock I figured I could toss and would shatter through ice. First I gathered about five small rocks that could fit in my palm, and tossed them hard onto the spot in the ice where I could see the most orange. They didn't even really make a dent, so I looked for something bigger. I got a rock about the size of my fist and threw that one hard too, but it still didn't break.
So, in my final attempt, I picked up a flat stone about the size of my chest that may or may not have been part of the walkway that runs between the pond and the driveway, and chucked it. This time, the rock actually cracked into three pieces that spread out on the ice, still not penetrating the sheet, although there was finally a small dent.
Well, I shrugged and figured the mysterious orange blotch beneath the ice would remain a mystery, and sat next to the oak tree. I noted the muted color of the emerging lawn, the obnoxious squawks of blue jays, and the other students ambling by (two of which stared quite intently, no doubt wondering why I was out in the cold). But my eyes kept being drawn to that orange beneath the ice...
As I made my way to my nature spot for my first prolonged sit, I could already see dead blotches of orange on the edges of the pond. At first I saw just two, but as I got closer I noticed two more, then three more, and so on until I could see dozens of their floating bodies on the edges of the pond. Most were about six inches long, white and orange, and there were more closer to the fountain part of the pond, where the ice had melted. Around the edges, the ice had also melted about three inches deep.
I guess the fish froze, but really it looked more like some environmental catastrophe that should be blamed on an oil mining corporation. In a few places, I could see orange beneath the ice. Even though I was really 90% sure they were just more dead fishes, I resolved to find out. Since there wasn't even that much snow left on the ground, I looked around for a rock I figured I could toss and would shatter through ice. First I gathered about five small rocks that could fit in my palm, and tossed them hard onto the spot in the ice where I could see the most orange. They didn't even really make a dent, so I looked for something bigger. I got a rock about the size of my fist and threw that one hard too, but it still didn't break.
So, in my final attempt, I picked up a flat stone about the size of my chest that may or may not have been part of the walkway that runs between the pond and the driveway, and chucked it. This time, the rock actually cracked into three pieces that spread out on the ice, still not penetrating the sheet, although there was finally a small dent.
Well, I shrugged and figured the mysterious orange blotch beneath the ice would remain a mystery, and sat next to the oak tree. I noted the muted color of the emerging lawn, the obnoxious squawks of blue jays, and the other students ambling by (two of which stared quite intently, no doubt wondering why I was out in the cold). But my eyes kept being drawn to that orange beneath the ice...
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