Into the Soul of a Nation

In August, my wife, Stephanie and I drove across the country to visit our national parks, museums and see friends and family that we hadn’t embraced in many years. In the middle of our trip, we began what, in retrospect, what felt like a descent into our nation’s troubled soul. We traveled from New York to Maryland to DC to Nashville to Birmingham to Montgomery to Selma to Dallas to Roswell to Tucson.

As Steph and I were well-versed in our nation’s history, and George Floyd’s murder accelerated our anti-racism work, we did not expect to be so shaken by what we experienced. Below is a travelogue of each day from August 24 to September 5, 2021, and some reflections on the soul of our nation.

Day 11: Where Eagles Dare

We spent this day on separate adventures. Steph met up with her best friend, Cheryl, and I went into the city. After lunch with my buddy Mike in Brooklyn, I walked over the Williamsburg bridge to Manhattan.

One of my favorite things to do is to walk a city alone and without a plan. I people-watched my way through the East Village, Lower East Side, Little Italy, Nolita, the West Village and Union Square. When the mood struck, I sat down and had a coffee, a drink, or a cannoli.

Steph came into the city and we met up with Chris, his wife, Frances and their daughter, Artemis, for a margarita. We then had dinner with our friend, Stephen, in the financial district, and a night cap on the roof of the Conrad Hotel, with grand views of the Statue of Liberty and Hoboken.

The town felt about 1/3 full. Stephen said the restaurants are struggling for both customers and employees. Chris said the Lower East Side fell back about 30 years with rampant homelessness and drug-related trash in the street. Both Chris and Mike are on their way out of the city to the burbs for more space for their little ones. I only have a handful of friends left in Manhattan.

With Steph’s parents on the move south and my friends now in the burbs, I’m not sure what of the city is left for me. I’ll always have fond memories of Columbia and Central Park, but there is a lot less pulling me back.

Some reflections on the soul of the nation…

An honest journey into the soul of our nation would be incomplete without a stop in New York City. Like Pittsburgh and Chicago, it strikes me as a city from a former era. By the end of the night, I was flush with sadness.

Not that I miss New York — I was done living there after my first 9 months — but I now know too much about it, about Wall St., Madison Avenue, and the mentality of wealth accumulation as a defense against the cruel morality of the market and the shame of poverty.

Sure there are plenty of social enterprises, NGOs, places of worship, cultural institutions, universities, the UN, parks and philanthropic organizations, but the lion’s share of the economy is extractive. It’s selling people things they do not need, or financing it. There’s little in the economy that can be located on Maslow’s Needs Hierarchy or the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals.

It’s a city that serves the ends of a system — centralization of wealth for the few-, not the needs of the many — connection, meaning, impact, flourishing.

In essence, it is the ultimate nest of eagle’s nests — eagle’s devising new ways to swoop down for prey (via financial instruments on Wall St. and manufactured consent on Madison Avenue), to be later devoured in high-rises and the suburbs, spent on schools, plastic surgery, and servants. It’s artifice built upon artifice, from high heels to the Hampton’s, from the next hot restaurant to high rent.

As zenials return to school from their soulless internships, as women smash through glass ceilings only to find themselves in charge of soulless and pointless businesses, as customers, employees and investors demand purpose, belonging and net impact, as parents the world over face the fact that the old normal was never designed for their health, happiness or success, people are waking up.

I don’t think extractive capitalism and the culture of shuffling oneself between the boxes of home, office, gym, school drop-offs, soccer, tutoring and an endless portfolio of distractions are long for this earth. We are all aching for a better way to human.

What then is New York City other than a relic of our nation’s misspent youth?

Day 12: One Nation Under Jersey

We had lunch in Sommerville, NJ with our friend, Ed. We talked about Jeeps, organizational transformation, vax mandates, and the pros and cons of leaving the U.S. for Costa Rica. Of course, there is not a chance in hell I’d leave, but it’s always a healthy exercise to re-examine my feelings and thoughts.

We arrived in New Vernon, NJ in the early afternoon to see our friends, George + Rachel, and their son, Magnus. Their house abuts a forest preserve, so there is always something to watch, from hawks to deer to insects, and when lucky (and we weren’t), bear and coywolves.

Our conversation meandered and expanded over the course of several gin and tonics and many hours, from the education system, to socioeconomics, critical race theory, allergies, multiple personality order/disorder, the role of unions and whether progress is primarily driven by culture or economics.

Rachel made us a lovely dinner of Chilean sea bass, forbidden rice and spinach with shallots. Dessert included local peach pie, Sam Adams Utopias (a liqueur made from the world’s oldest beer) and Lagavulin.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

George and Rachel are perhaps the best example of a marriage between two folks with different voting records. There’s shared values and when they disagree, there are questions, healthy debate, stats cited, and always a few jokes to lighten the mood.

We have much more in common than not, and George and Rachel are living proof that you can love freedom and equality in different ways under the same roof.

Our conversation on the primacy of culture or economics was especially intriguing. George and I both recognize that systemic inequities exist. We both want educational and economic opportunities distributed equitably.

We both believe there is a role that public and private institutions play in distributing opportunity. We disagree on what those roles are.

I awoke this morning and found solace in us not needing to agree. What is needed is each of us doing what most fulfills us, regardless of what the other is doing, as long as it also fulfills the purpose and promise of the United States — from many, one; all created equal; life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

There are many paths up the mountain.

Day 13: Freedom?

After breakfast at George and Rachel’s, we hit the road to Freehold, NJ, the hometown of the Boss. We saw one of his childhood homes, his Catholic church, St. Rose of Lima, and high school, and then listened to the “Born in the USA” and “Born to Run” albums.

We entered Nanticoke Nation, and arrived in Pocomoke, MD, to visit with Steph’s grandparents, Bruce and Phyllis. We got a tour of their home with a detailed backstory for each heirloom. 100’s of years of Stevens’ and Redden’s history, e.g., the bed we slept in is the very same (frame) that Phyllis was conceived and born in, the bed they sleep in is very same that Bruce was conceived in, the bottle collection in our room was found in the soil at Aberdeen, a family farm that has been in their family for 200 years.

The oldest known of the Stevens is Col. Stevens, a lawyer and judge who was granted a plantation the size of 3 counties, in the mid-1600’s by Lord Baltimore. I’m not sure about the exact history of the area, but from the use of the word, “plantation”, its agricultural economy, the absence of the Nanticoke Nation, a historically black university, UM — Queen Anne, the knowledge that it was once one of the most prosperous counties in Maryland, and after the Civil War became one of the poorest, much can be inferred about the trafficking, torture, and enslavement of African people on this land by Steph’s ancestors.

In the late afternoon, we headed out to Assateague island to see the wild ponies, but we were unlucky, and then to an outdoor Ronald Reagan-themed seafood restaurant, Ropewalk, on Chincoteague Island.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation:

Freehold. Free. Hold. As U.S. citizens, are we free of everything and free to do anything? Or is our freedom sourced in what binds us?

I personally feel bound to my purpose, my marital vows, our nation’s purpose, and the purpose of the cosmos (as much of it that my tiny brain understands). I feel bound to say “yes” when asked for help, when asked for a dollar. I feel bound to share my gifts. I don’t feel bound to much else.

I feel bound to fulfill on contracts sourced in my purpose, but other contracts and norms, such as crosswalks, table manners, student loans, respecting my elders, ignoring our nation’s sins, and constricting my self-expression, desires, waste products and humor to bring comfort to the repressed, I selectively obey.

As my purpose and our nation’s purpose are inextricably bound, the extent to which our nation’s purpose is unfulfilled limits my freedom. Can I truly be free in a nation that hasn’t reckoned with its history, repented for the sins of its fathers and the ongoing sins woven into our society and institutions, repaired the damage and redeemed itself?

Nope. I’m in chains. Although my chain is much longer than that of many, I’m nonetheless bound to my sister and brother.

Day 14: First Principles

We began the day with a drive to Princess Anne for breakfast at the Washington Inn, where George Washington stayed while surveying the area. I had scrapple and eggs.

Over the next couple hours, we visited three cemeteries that contained Steph’s ancestors, including the grave and chapel of Col. Stevens, who I spoke of yesterday. Of course, Phyllis and Bruce shared interesting backstories and memories.

My favorite was after leaving a cemetery, Phyllis said, “That’s where I crashed my boyfriend’s car into a tree. I was 13.”

We visited the family farm, Aberdeen, and stopped at the Dryden farm for fresh peaches, cantaloupe and watermelon. We had such a lovely visit with Bruce and Phyllis. I especially enjoyed their dynamic, and saw a good deal of the dynamic between Steph and I, in how Bruce is always pulling Phyllis’ leg.

Another fun story. A month or so ago, Steph and I sent out a logistics email to everyone we were planning on seeing on this trip. Steph asked me to proof it, which I did, but I snuck in an Easter Egg — a joke that referenced Uncle Buck — “Do you know if we’ll have a problem cashing third party out of state checks? Also, Brandon has been eating a lot of cheese lately. Do you have a plunger?”

When we arrived, they let us know that their bank would cash any check as long as they knew who we were related to, and that they put the plunger out for me. We all laughed really hard.

We had car trouble in Bethesda — alternator went out. We spent the next 3 hours waiting for a tow. No electric, open windows, 100% humidity, skeeters, rain. Steph ubered to Hertz, rented a car and began leading her call poolside at the Marriott. By the time I reached her after getting the tow to AAA, I was spent. Laid in the shallow end of the pool, scotch in hand staring at the sky.

We landed at Mike and Sue’s, Steph’s Aunt and Uncle, in Aldi, VA at 9. I then visited my friend, Nick, nearby for an aged rum as we watched the moon-rise. We talked about our fathers, religion and entrepreneurship.

A few reflections on the soul of our nation…

History is a story we tell about the past. In our nation, at its best, its the peer-reviewed hearsay of the victors. At worst, it’s fiction. Since reading Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz’s “An Indigenous People’s History of the United States”, Nikole Hannah-Jone’s “1619 Project” and Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History of the United States”, I have learned that the history I was told, and built an identity around as a citizen, was the latter.

I was told the country was empty, save a few bands of roaming hunter-gatherers. It wasn’t. 5–15M natives lived here as part of 100’s of independent nations. They had sophisticated cultures, cosmologies, agriculture, trade and governance, as well as lawful claim to the land. The English decided they needed more cotton and tobacco, so they began a centuries-long forever war against the rightful inhabitants and caretakers.

There is a town called Rehoboth in 9 U.S. states. It means “open spaces”, which was wrong, but great marketing for Europe’s land-hungry peasants.

If we’re being honest, perhaps our first principles were greed, genocide, deceit, exploitation, and marketing? Our declared principles are of course different, but to love something means to know it.

Are you prepared to *really* love this nation?

Day 15: Civic Religion

Quote from Mary McLeod Bethune, 1939.

Steph and I split up for the morning. I had coffee with my buddy Kyle, a conservative friend from grad school and a public servant. Steph had coffee with her liberal friend Sara from grade school and a public servant.

My conversation with Kyle meandered through “wokist” terminology, the death toll of settler colonialism, our brushes with cancel culture, and the role that blockchain can play in creating more trust in our society.

Steph and I then spent the day at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture. Incredibly well done — we’ll be back again on our next visit. We got about 75% through it in a day. IMHO, it really needs two days.

The lower concourse floors cover the slave trade through Civil Rights. The upper floors look at how Black culture evolved in various times and places throughout the country in the 20th and 21st centuries.

I especially loved overhearing Black folks connect with each other. I know I moved through anger, disgust, grief, pride and hope — I can’t even imagine the feels shared in their gaze.

We picked up our car, went for a swim, and then met a dear college friend of Steph’s, Alan, a liberal public servant, for dinner in Bethesda, MD. Our conversation moved through systemic racism, the role of capitalism in perpetuating it, and how we might study the civic virtues of fairness and enoughness across socioeconomics.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

Our nation has a religion, yet it isn’t explicitly named or taught. It is a set of shared beliefs around freedom, justice and equality. It is the conviction that no matter who you are, who you worship, how you love, what you look like or who your daddy is, that you belong, you matter and you can achieve your dreams here. It’s the belief that diversity is our strength.

It’s a religion that extends beyond our shores. It is the belief that our nation is a refuge for the world’s unwanted. It’s why Obama was given the Nobel Peace Prize despite having done little other than preach and embody our nation’s promise.

Unfortunately, many of us are lapsed congregants. Some left the church because of its hypocrisy, some because of our biases, selfishness and sin, and some are actively trying to drown it in a bathtub.

Then there are folks like Alan, Sara, and Kyle who attend services every day and are devoted to protecting and defending these ideas. As lay ministers, they work to ensure our national promise is available to everyone who calls this place home.

Day 16: Blue Ridge Wild Heart

After an awesome breakfast with Mike and Susan, we hit the road for Nashville. We drove through the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia and Tennessee. So wet, lush and verdant.

We rolled into Nashville around 9pm on Saturday night and hit Broadway, which was going off entirely maskless. A cacophony of newgrass, rock and country. Live music in every bar-front, shoulder-to-shoulder young folks, rooftop lounges, and what felt like a parade of loooong overdue bachelorette parties. Hourglass belles in lace, Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots.

Steph and I found a rooftop dance floor and shook our tail feathers for old time’s sake.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

Living in the desert of Kumeyaay Nation / San Diego and spending most of my life in cities, it’s easy to forget how ecologically intact and muscular our nation is. Yes, there’s a 6th mass extinction, drought, fire, pollution, top soil erosion, lead in the water and rising seas, but you wouldn’t know it in Tennessee. Much of the east coast and mid-east still feels wild and uninhabited, almost like the world outside of it is a fiction.

It’s muggy and buggy, but that’s only a problem for the 2-leggeds. It’s f’n paradise for everything else. The mid-east feels like the Amazon in that regard. Loud mating, eating, death, circle of life. Stunning play of misty sun beams, blue shadows, river and air. I can see why artists call this place home. I can see why folks feel God’s presence here.

I can see why folks want to conserve this land and way of life. I can see why folks feel like their government doesn’t represent them, when the news is about climate change, critical race theory, billionaires in space, cancel culture and yoni steaming. I can see why McConnell and Manchin want to slow the roll of sustainability, social progress, and government infrastructure — they weren’t elected on that platform.

Perhaps it is the thick air that keeps the coastal noise out. Perhaps, it’s a connection to all things here — to land, family, faith and tradition — that straightens the moral arc of the universe. Perhaps it is the sense of having been forgotten and disparaged for centuries by the elites that makes people ornery and defiant of public health guidance.

Although, it’s problematic in so many ways, I feel the strength and solidarity in it. I can see why politicians who tell them they matter and that they will fight for them engender such loyalty and support.

Day 17: Antebellum & Adolescence

We began the day with the “Journey to Jubilee” tour at the Belle Mead plantation in Nashville. 136 enslaved people worked 5,000 acres for a couple centuries to entertain white people. The plantation produced thoroughbred racing horses (their main money maker), as well as the pig, cattle and whiskey they needed to throw parties. They constantly entertained, hosting events with thousands of white guests.

The enslaved that worked the horses got one day off every two weeks, and those who worked the dairy and in the house got zero time off and were on call 24/7. The enslaved jockeys were between 8 and 16 years of age, who were starved and kept drunk to suppress their appetite. 10% of their enslaved people we’re mixed race, meaning the white men raped them. They were forbidden to mourn their dead and grieve the injuries to their souls, so they did it in secret and at night.

As I entered the quarters of the enslaved, one of dozens that once stood on the property, and on the final step, stood up right into the door frame. I heard a crack and felt concussed, but didn’t lose consciousness, nor feel any pain, tingling or nausea. Steph cared for me and I spoke with a teledoc who confirmed that I’m probably ok.

After the tour we walked the grounds, and Steph and I had a pray behind the quarters. When I opened my eyes I saw the tip of this broken cartwheel sticking out of the earth. I turned it in.

We went to the Black part of town, where we had Everclear lemonade slushies and amazing vegan soul food.

We ventured back to downtown, visited the Johnny Cash museum, rode scooters around town and sat in an open air honky tonk to watch a couple live bands, one who delighted my adolescent heart with my new favorite dirty song “D*cked Down in Dallas”.

A few reflections on the soul of our nation:

I felt pride that Belle Mead was run by white and black folks, that the historian who led the tour is white and didn’t sugarcoat any of this history. He owned it like an adult and communicated it with fidelity and care. He acknowledged what he knew and didn’t, his team’s latest discoveries and the big questions that drive his research.

Upon learning that half of the enslaved stayed on as paid workers, and that some said they preferred slavery to the insecurity of at will employment, I saw parallels with the internalized oppression and fear I hear when talking with women who experience harassment and discrimination in the workplace.

I encourage them to file HR complaints, retain lawyers and change the system to ensure others don’t have to experience this BS again. They don’t. They tell me they fear what will happen to them and their families if they lose their income and healthcare. Easy for me to say, but hard for them to do.

Like this broken cartwheel, our national soul is not whole until the injustices have been reckoned with and repaired. Redemption and righteousness shall ever be on the horizon until each of us does what is in our power to ensure every soul here feels they belong and can fulfill their potential.

Day 18: White Heritage

We walked the Civil Rights Heritage trail in the rain in Birmingham, AL. It was powerful for us. What moved me most was the role that children played in sparking the Civil Rights movement.

Emmett Till’s beaten and bloated body.

The four girls killed in the 16th St. Baptist Church bombing.

The two boys who were also murdered by whites that day.

The thousands of Black children who marched in the streets of Birmingham, were attacked by white policemen, their dogs and fire hoses, arrested, placed in jail and then held in animal stockades, on orders from Bull Connor, the Democratic Public Safety Commissioner.

After our walk, we drove into Ida’s forward front and landed in Montgomery. We drove around the grey and empty city, found the only open restaurant, and then settled into our AirBNB to re-watch “Best of Enemies”.

A few reflections on the soul of our nation…

Why does white heritage mean doing nothing about obvious injustice, and then only after a Black person is executed, we do little but offer prayers, issue statements and make performative gestures, e.g., National Juneteenth Holiday?

Why do we drag our heels on every single issue that matters to Black children? E.g., affordable education, M4A, living wages, small class sizes, sustainability.

Why do we harden our hearts, and thereby sanction the apartheid that puts 1 of every 3 black men in prison, that diminishes Black brilliance and robs Black dignity and wealth ($.01 of Black wealth for every dollar of white wealth)?

Why isn’t reckoning, repair and redemption the #1 priority in each of our hearts?

Day 19: Groundwork

We visited the Rosa Parks and Freedom Riders museums in Montgomery. The Rosa Parks Museum had a similar level of attention to interactivity and engagement as the National Museum of African American History and Culture.

The scale and impact of both the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Freedom Rides really blew me away. I had it in my head these were more symbolic and less enduring, sizeable and sophisticated strategies. I was wrong. They both involved years of dedicated groundwork by Baptist ministers and NAACP volunteers.

When they were decided upon, they had the networks and the skills to execute them and endure the long-lasting and violent resistance by whites. Whites were caught entirely off guard. Of course white folks did assemble, violently attack, publicly shame, persecute and arrest the activists, but it was no match for the solidarity, groundwork, self-sacrifice and spiritual fortitude of the movement.

We also walked along the waterfront, and were delighted by hearty vegan and non-vegan soul food (helloooooo shrimp and grits). I ate a Chris’s hotdog with special sauce, a favorite of F. Scott Fitzgerald, MLK Jr., George Wallace and FDR.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

Solidarity. I was overwhelmed by the sense of solidarity involved in both efforts. The late nights, the enduring of criminal violence and inhumane imprisonment (rats, bugs, etc.), the spirituals that drove the guards crazy and had them remove their beds. The community that was forged in these hardships is something I cannot even begin to fathom.

White allies. I was left with the question of what was the inner journey for white folks who supported and co-led these efforts. How did they go from complacent conservators of racism to activists? What opened their hearts? What caused them to risk life and limb for Black folks?

Day 20: Get them out

We visited the EJI Legacy Museum in Montgomery.

We began by watching / listening to the holograms of enslaved Africans inside slave market holding cells. We listened to mothers plea for their children who they could hear crying out, but could not see, nor would ever see again. We watched them wail and lament through song.

The scale and scope of the New England’s trade of the enslaved was astounding. At one point half of NY homes enslaved.

Broadway in Manhattan was cleared by the enslaved.

The wall in which Wall Street gets his name was built by the enslaved. Slavery was the most lucrative industry in the world, built upon white thirst for luxury — tea, sugar, rum, cotton. Aetna and NY Life insured the trade. Citi and J.P. Morgan financed it and accepted people as collateral.

We built a nation by granting white men 75 acres for each enslaved human they owned, accelerating their capture, and driving up demand — we despoiled and murdered millions for our (and the world’s) amusements.

At the end, I watched and listened in a prison visiting booth, to the stories of black prisoners serving life without parole for crimes they didn’t commit, many doing hard labor 6 days a week in freezing rain, blistering heat, day and night, in places like Angola Penitentiary. For a few cents an hour, producing goods for companies like Starbucks and Bank of America.

Women raped by guards, carrying their babies to term only to never see them again.

This is the greatest stain. It keeps getting wider and wider and pushes the edge of my cognitive dissonance to its breaking point. Can I call myself a man any longer? I wailed and shook, muttering “Get them out.”

We then visited the Peace and Justice memorial commemorating our nation’s other pastime — lynching and terrorizing Black folks.

On our way to Texas, we stopped at the Edmond Pettis Bridge in Selma, where John Lewis had his skull cracked open.

Stopped at a roadside diner / hardware store in Mississippi that has been open since 1884. Fried chicken, beans, turnip greens, cornbread.

A reflection on the soul of our nation…

Get them out. End the second slavery. Make reparations.

Day 21: Books and Covers

We spent the day visiting with Lauren, Steph’s friend, and her family. They live in Highland Park, a white neighborhood in Dallas, the Beverly Hills of Texas, complete with its own schools, police who will escort you home if you’ve had too much to drink (vs. a DUI arrest), luxury shops and limited edition automobiles.

This neighborhood is filled with monstrously large homes (a 5-bedroom would be considered modest), brunching wives and power-walking moms and plenty of BIPOC folks to attend to the indignities of domestic life.

In light of Texas’ anti-mask and abortion laws and anti-evolution and anti-BIPOC education system, to say I had some preconceived notions about our visit would be an understatement. I was prepared to endure shallow conversation, obscene displays of wealth and boiling rage.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Turns out these folks are part of the Texas contingent who care about truth, life and our multicultural brethren (they moved to the area for the schools only and aren’t part of the anti-intellectual, anti-science, anti-climate, anti-women, pro-gun, hyper-individualist vibe that permeates Texas public life).

Our conversations were deep, authentic and tear-filled, ranging from the isolation and loneliness of the pandemic, to best practices for inclusive culture, to market volatility, to mystical and intuitive capacities, to the BIG question — is it too late to prevent a 90% die-off of humanity because of climate change?

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

Although the personal is most definitely political, I must learn not to demonize persons because of a state’s politics.

Because of the rise in progressive multiculturalism and the decline in absolute white prosperity and religion, now more than ever, beliefs (no matter how factually incorrect) held in common are all most folks have to hold onto. Challenging ideas is existential; foreign ideas are a threat to one’s existence.

I must learn to center myself in relationship, assuming positive intent, staying curious, blessing the good, speaking from personal experience and privileging relationships over righteousness.

Fuck Texas. God bless Texans.

Day 22: Wonder

We toured the International UFO Museum, did a “space walk” and a virtual reality experience of the Roswell crash. If you’re a UFO / ancient aliens fan like Steph and I, this pilgrimage is a must, especially the VR experience.

The museum had some new information for us, like how many different types of craft have been observed, and how many different modern and ancient cultures have documented their encounters. Makes me think we’re a tourist site in some galactic “Lonely Planet” somewhere.

We camped in Carlsbad, NM, went on a sunset walk and enjoyed Nigerian street food around the campfire. Steph and I have become a well oiled road-tripping / camping machine. Of course we’ve had breakdowns in communication, but I’m grateful that we can have the car packed in 15 minutes, pee anywhere, get hurt, get fixed and be back in action in no time.

I tease Steph about being a basic white girl from Greenwich who likes wine, restaurants, Pinterest, table manners and shopping, but knowing she is also game for adventure, and has the grit and resourcefulness to learn on the fly, and handle adversity, increases my love and appreciation for her.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

To live on Turtle Island is in some sense to be enchanted by possibility. The possibility that we can have a better life, that we’ll no longer have to endure poverty and oppression, that a fairy tale romance is coming our way, that the next disruptive business idea will visit us in our dreams, on a walk, or in the awe of wild nature.

Roswell and many other places like it, allow us to dance with the beyond, the transcendent and infinite. Without an enchantment with possibility, I doubt many folks would continue to call this place home.

Other places have a far better quality of life, but there is something in the soul of us that’s willing to endure the indignities of market morality, political corruption and being denied basic human rights (healthcare, clean air, water and soil, safety, parental leave, healthy food, affordable education, etc.) in the name of wonder and possibility.

Perhaps we might turn our gaze and enchantment with the possible towards safety, human rights, sustainability and brotherly love and have the best of both worlds?

Day 23: Diaspora

We visited Carlsbad Caverns National Park, a park I haven’t been to in 30 years. Giant underground caverns with multiple types of structures, formed as water seeps through cracks in the limestone.

We stopped to wade in the salt pools in NW Texas (and then almost ran out of gas), before meeting up with my family in Tucson for a fully-vaxxed pool party potluck. We feasted, played, swam and caught up, after 2 years of only seeing each other over zoom.

Tucson is becoming the de facto center of the Peele family, with 2 aunts and 4 cousins and their families. It didn’t used to be that way. We all lived in and around Chicago, had great big family birthday parties and holiday celebrations. Due to at least 3 generations of unprocessed and unspeakable family trauma, the family gradually needed space from each other. And one-by-one, everyone left Chicago.

A couple folks moved east, but most moved west to the San Francisco Bay Area — for work, for fun, for love, for personal growth. And now, slowly folks are leaving the Bay as well, many of which of which are now in Tucson.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

Are happy, healthy and whole people always on the move? No.

Our nation’s shadow is one of cut and run. We don’t look at our shit, face the music and make things right. When things get bad, we leave, hit the bottle, pipe or try to upgrade our hardware — job, car, apartment, partner or appearance. Instead of upgrading our operating system, healing and discovering who we really are, we project our BS onto others. Why is it this way?

From the first oppressed, dehumanized and traumatized settler colonialists to reach the shores of Turtle Island, we have become of nation of oppressors and those fleeing oppression from other countries.

Because our original intact cultures and cosmologies were destroyed first by the Romans, then by Christianity, monarchy, feudalism and The Enlightenment, over time we forgot our heritage and humanity — our deep, embodied connection to our souls, each other, the land and the divine.

By the time the colonies were advertising in Europe for “free land”, white Europeans had been thoroughly dispossessed, degraded and dehumanized by their rulers. Of important note are the Scots-Irish who were kicked out of Scotland to murder and dispossess the Irish, and then forced to leave for the states to form the first frontier mercenaries/rangers/scalpers, slave patrols, and strike breaking militias.

Whiteness was invented and whites filled roles to keep them just a paycheck away from the poorhouse, and with their boots on the necks of non-whites. All that murdering, rape, genocide and enslavement were never reckoned with, repaired, healed or atoned for. Whether the oppressor or the oppressed, after the deed was done, we simply cut and run for safety or greener pastures, hoping to forget our shameful/painful past.

We all want to thrive, be connected, and truly belong. Until we start doing our inner work, healing, atoning and making reparations, we’ll always be a nation of escapists and opportunists — alone, unmoored and unwell — paying forward all the oppression of the past upon each other.

The way forward is down and in.

Day 24: Eyes on the Prize

We met up with my cousin who has had probably one of the toughest years I’ve heard of outside of someone who fought and lost the covid battle. Although he’s never had so much as a speeding ticket, he made a mistake in his early 20’s (vs. the hundreds I made), and has spent the last year wrestling with the legal systems in two states. This has also meant he’s not been able to live with his family or see his kids.

Of course, they’ll get through it, and emerge the better for it, but what he experienced on the inside made my heart sink. He shared that he was always treated like a criminal, despite not having gone to trial, much less been convicted. He was dehumanized by the conditions and guards, and robbed ($) by judicial officials at every step in his journey.

He shared that about 3/4 of the folks he met inside don’t belong there. 1/4 need mental health services, 1/4 need drug rehabilitation, 1/4 need money to pay for minor legal services. The remaining 1/4 are folks for whom crime is a way of life.

We said our goodbyes and embarked on the final leg of our journey — home, a straight shot down the 8 through sand dunes and 109-degree heat. We settled in for some Laotian take-out, cat cuddles and re-watched “Just Mercy”.

24 states, 7 museums, 6 National Parks, 2 concussions, 2 oil changes, 2 hurricanes, 2 fires, 1 bison, 1 new alternator, 1 order of scrapple, and 1 order of Rocky Mountain Oysters. Not to mention countless bug bites and long embraces with friends and family. Thank you all for hosting us and being on the journey with us.

Some reflections on the soul of our nation…

This is a self-portrait Steph painted in college. When we were going through her art in Connecticut, she was going to throw it away. I couldn’t let her, so now it hangs in my office. For those of you who know Steph, she is the quintessential no-BS fighter, who will not suffer, nor permit any injustice, and always sees the hope and possibility in the moment. She counts no one out and sometimes fights harder for others than even they are willing to. It is what makes her a great coach, leader, friend and partner.

That’s what I see in her eyes, and that’s what I want to invoke in myself.

I’ve hardened my heart too many times. I’ve looked the other way. I’ve played cut and run in my professional, civic and love life. I’ve failed to show up as a friend, partner, son, cousin, nephew and citizen. I need her will, perseverance, her undying commitment to the possibility and greatness she sees in others, and her absolute resolve in the fight for truth, justice and equity.

We must all fight — poverty, pandemics, climate change and racial justice are not going to blow over. There will be no return to 2019, to American exceptionalism / denialism.

The last 5 years of political opportunism, fake news, media hyperbole, police murdering our BIPOC brethren, escalating income equality, fires, floods and viruses has laid bare our great wound — the breakdown in our national purpose, social fabric, ecological empathy and moral imagination.

This is the work ahead on our path to redemption. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize, and know that good people across the nation are with us in the fight.

“One characteristic of Americans is that they have no tolerance at all of anybody putting up with anything. We believe that whatever is going wrong ought to be fixed.” — Margaret Mead

About the Author

Brandon Peele (he/him) is a best-selling author, the CEO of?Unity Lab, and an expert in purpose, leadership + culture change. He’s trusted as a keynote speaker, consultant and program leader by organizations such as Google, Johnson & Johnson, Stanford University, JDRF, Morgan Stanley, U.S. Marine Corps, University of California — Berkeley, LinkedIn, the U.S. Navy, Slalom Consulting, the U.S. Coast Guard, and the University of Minnesota.

He has written / co-written four books on purpose and leadership and has a new book,?Purpose Work Nation, coming out in Q1 2022. His work has been featured by news organizations such as USA Today, U.S. News & World Report, and Forbes.

Brandon holds an MBA in Leadership from Columbia Business School, is an Imperative Certified Purpose Leader (TM), and serves on the Council of the Global Purpose Leaders and the Leadership Council of ManKind Project San Diego.