Category: Uncategorized

“surely i am able to write poems

celebrating grass and how the blue

in the sky can flow green or red

and the waters lean against the

chesapeake shore like a familiar

poems about nature and landscape

surely        but whenever I begin

“the trees wave their knotted branches

and…”      why

is there under that poem always

an other poem?”

–Lucille Clifton

            Within a poem itself, Lucille Clifton expresses the difficulties in her writing process due to one specific condition: recursion. Whenever Clifton begins a poem, she finds that there is “under that poem always an other poem,” suggesting that within literature, within nature, within life, there is always recursion: a repetition of similar and sometimes seemingly identical instances, yet unique in their own way. Clifton cleverly uses nature’s most recursive symbols as imagery throughout her poem: the overwhelming repetition and quantity of blades of grass, the continuous drove of waves hitting upon a shore, and the branching out of tree limbs that all stem from one single trunk. While these natural structures are offered as subjects of Clifton’s poems, they also speak to the larger presence of how recursion in our lives can be immense and never-ending. The themes and structures we see in literature (such as recursion) are undeniably connected to the themes and structures we see in everyday life. For instance, one could relate to the theme of recursion in Clifton’s poem by personally identifying with the narrator’s literary struggle to contain the endless build-up of poetic possibilities. On the other hand, a reader can also relate the structure of recursion to their life, whether it be the repetitive nature of the work-a-day world or the recognition of the physically recursive structure of grass, waves, and trees. When dealing with recursive literature, it is hard to not acknowledge that each real-life instance is either birthed from or gives life to a similar but unique instance; but especially in the realm of African American culture and literature, it is vital to recognize the importance of recursion’s relation to reality.

            The most literal definition of recursion is a concrete, mathematical term. Merriam-Webster defines recursion in mathematical terms as: “the determination of a succession of elements (such as numbers or functions) by operation on one or more preceding elements according to a rule or formula involving a finite number of steps.” Ron Eglash takes this very technical definition and applies it broadly in his book African Fractals: Modern Computing and Indigenous Design. Eglash explores the mathematical and technological possibilities of recursion in its relation to fractals, which are structures “created by repeating a simple process over and over in an ongoing feedback loop,” or in other words, a visual design created precisely by recursion at various scales. However, he does not do so without paying close attention to cultural recursion and fractal roots in Africa, and especially how the computing possibilities of these should relate directly back to cultural uses of recursion.

            Eglash explores recursion in various forms throughout African culture and highlights its importance. He first looks at recursion in African construction. Some forms are for practicality such as braids and some of which were used for aesthetics like textile designs. Eglash also highlights the “cultural meaning” that is “often attached in these techniques,” acknowledging how recursive construction techniques have cultural identifications such as labor and prestige (Eglash, 112-113). Eglash also notes how recursion has been used in African culture to represent a process in time, such as a growing scale of recursive eyes in a mask could represent “scaling iterations of knowledge” gained over time or to represent a specific clan’s divination in their descent (Eglash, 123-124). African cultures even use recursion to explain cosmology, some suggesting that God has created three iterations of the world, each one similar to and dependent upon the last (Eglash, 132). The theme of recursion is all around in African culture. It illustrates how iterations of small structures “are spun into whole cloth, and the patterns that emerge often tell the story of their whirling birth”; how the parts make up and influence the whole (Eglash, 109). Eglash acknowledges this aesthetic and cultural theme within Africa, so it’s also important to explore how modern Black authors in America have examined both tangible and intangible recursive symbols.

Elsa Barkley Brown uses African American women’s quilting to “center” others in the African American female experience in “African American Women’s Quilting” (Brown, 921). One may not initially understand recursion in the frame of African American women’s quilting due to its rather sporadic and unsymmetrical patterns, but it is in the more intangible, cultural facet of quilting in which recursion surfaces (Brown, 923-924). Brown explains that she uses these quilts to teach African American women’s history because they stand as symbols of how the lessons of each class individually “stand alone, like the contrasting strips of the quilt, and at the same time remain part of the group” (Brown, 928). In other words, Brown uses the comparison to a quilt as a symbol of recursion in African American culture: how individuals can be unique and diverse yet contribute a recursive “strip of the quilt” that, repeated over time with a multitude of other unique “strips,” creates a “whole.” The “whole” in this sense is African American women’s history in general, which may seem disorganized or nonsensical to Western eyes but is truly strongly bonded and self-empowered from the individuals that comprise it (Brown, 926). Brown’s method of teaching this cultural recursion through a physical representation of something so un-recursive such as an African American woman’s quilt lends itself to Lucille Clifton’s insinuation that each iteration of something is the result and the cause of something else; that each individual thread, color, or pattern combined in repetitive patterns can create something wholly different from, but influenced by, its parts.

Just as Brown breaks the boundaries of recursion, James A. Snead in “On Repetition in Black Culture” also analyzes recursion in an African American cultural sense based upon repetition. Snead argues that in cultural repetition, we are not seeing the “same thing” over and over as we may see in fractals; instead, it is a similar “transformation” that uniquely contributes to “the shape of time and history.” Snead argues that culture is never a stand-alone entity because it is “both immanent and historical”: it is created and influenced by the past (Snead, 146-147). In this piece, Snead uses historically Euro-centric scholars such as Hegel to accentuate that despite their predictions, Black culture is now actually more recognizant and appreciative of repetition than European cultures. African cultures were initially not seen by Europeans as cohesive enough to hold on to their culture and pay homage to it. Snead cites, though, that modern day Black culture is particularly reliant upon this, such as in dance, percussive and melodic patterns, cosmogony, ceremonies, holidays, etc. Not only does Black culture incorporate recursion but it even invites space for the “accidents and surprises” that inevitably come with new iterations, whereas Snead feels European cultures are solely interested in a perfect repetition that accumulates and exponentializes into profit and progress (Snead, 149-150).

Recursion in African American culture has often been represented by the Sankofa bird. The word “Sankofa” comes from the Ghanaian Akan tribe and translates literally to “it is not taboo to fetch what is at risk of being left behind,” signifying that in a pursuit of further knowledge, one must look to the past for “critical examination, and intelligent and patient investigation.” The Sankofa bird also has a visual representation: the body and feet of the bird are facing forward, while the head is facing backwards. Not only does this represent the African/African American consciousness that all instances in life are influenced by the past and will influence the future, but it also recognizes the cultural importance of applying the lessons learned. It is an acknowledgment of the existence of recursion, but the simultaneous acknowledgement that every iteration is transformable.

Lucille Clifton does not accentuate whether the poetic recursion she experiences is a positive or negative thing. Based on different perspectives, I can understand it as both. I believe that recursion is the same in African American culture. The work of Eglash, Brown, and Snead, as well as the representation of the Sankofa bird, represent the empowerment behind the roots, the present, and the future of the Black experience. These are all positive interpretations. But it must be acknowledged that recursion has played an overwhelmingly negative role in African American lives, specifically when it comes to what has been done to them. For example, the history of discrimination, oppression, brutality, and murder of African Americans has shown a recursive pattern, almost in the form of a tree. First, the roots represent the countless entangled thoughts against African American existence that lives underground but has a strong and seemingly indestructible foundation. The main tree trunk that spurts from the ground represents an outbreak of a single incident that makes its way into public sight or knowledge, such as a racial slur, a beating, or a murder. Then, the recursive nature of sequential branches that sprout new sequential branches represents the multitude of related incidents that spark in its aftermath. As the branches grow, they drop acorns which in time plant new trees. Eventually, a whole forest of these trees becomes a dense culture against African Americans.

This is where, in the frame of my semester’s story, we wrap up with the novel The Trees by Percival Everett. The main plot of this novel is based entirely upon recursion: mysterious murders continue happening in a small town where a white people are murdered and at the scene is the body of a dead Black person with the testicles of the white of people clenched in their fists. Soon, these murders begin multiplying and repeating in similar iterations all around the country, sometimes involving Asian or indigenous bodies at the scene instead of a Black body. Just like a fractal, the instances multiple out of control. It turns out that the murders started as a statement by some of the radical African American population in the original small town of Money, Mississippi where they attempted to make a statement (and possibly start a movement) that accentuates the historical continuation and utter horror of African American lynching but from the other side in which the white population experiences the recursion of murder and brutality (Everett, 291-293).

I interpret that one of Everett’s main messages in this novel is the duality of lynch recursion. On one hand, the repetition of Black lynchings over the course of the past few hundred years does not seem to disturb the country at large. It disturbs the small pockets of activists and the affected, but the recursion of murders has created mass desensitization, especially amongst the people of Money, Mississippi where the story takes place. Many white characters even recount past lynchings with either great ease or admiration (Everett, 280-281). The sheer number of racially based lynchings only comes as a surprise to the few that actually review Mama Z’s records of every American lynching since 1913 (Everett, 153). It would likely not have the same impact upon the white population of the town because they witnessed and took part in the country’s lynchings (Everett, 185-194). On the other hand, this same population (as well as the country at large) is acutely attuned to the horror of the lynchings against white people in the novel. The white characters often use exclamations such as “what the freegone fuck is going on” in response to this type of recursion (Everett, 41). When the murders spread around the country, news channels pick up the stories and excite horror into the masses (Everett, 232).

When confronted with the recursion of white populations lynching minorities across the country, it is part of a unifying and righteous culture (just look at the Ku Klux Klan). In these cases, “no one was interviewed. No suspects were identified. No one was arrested. No one was charged. No one cared” (Everett, 161). When it is now the recursion of an unknown population (but presumed to be the Black population) lynching white people, it is a horrifying national epidemic. In these cases, the white characters are “scared to death” that a race war is beginning; they speak highly of the white population and call for protection; they caution the “good White” population to “be wary of any Black individuals” (Everett, 240; 260-261). Both are types of lynch recursion, but the white population gets to name the game.

I also view Everett as a master of recreating social interactions and attitudes in which he has realistically yet fictionally recreated much of the recursive racism, microaggressions, and sentiments that African Americans experience. While these repetitive instances are almost secondary to the overarching theme of lynch recursion that we see throughout the novel, added together they are wholly just as significant and true-to-life. For instance, Everett does not shy away from the casual racism that still plagues much of the United States. When in private, almost all the white characters use the N-word and try to restrain themselves in the presence of Black folk (Everett, 170). Recursion appears when Mama Z claims that Teddy Roosevelt warned “the main cause of lynching was Black men raping White women” out of pure racial bias (Everett, 215). We see the same logic in contemporary characters such as Charlene when she tells Jim and Ed, “I got every right to be scared of you. I could shoot you if I wanted. Could say you scared me real bad and I had to shoot you,” implying that it would be an acceptable excuse to kill a Black man just for knocking on the door of her home (Everett, 62). Braden also implies that the Black population of Money is going to “take over” and is worried that the white population will be too slow to stop them (Everett, 217). Everett portrays that the white population is too skeptical of Black people while they are alive, but once they are dead, they are negligent of their condition. For instance, the white people that discover each crime scene are more focused on the brutality committed against the white people rather than the black person. Even in the cable news report of the murder scene in Hernando, Mississippi, the details of the unidentified Black male barely received any coverage (Everett, 232-233). Each of these instances are marked by a deeply rooted problem that, like a tree, merges into open air and multiplies itself into more widespread iterations until it gets tangled and out of control.

When searching the definition of “recursion” on Google, a notification will appear asking, “Did you mean: recursion.” Most users will likely click on the blue highlighted word, assuming that they misspelled the word, just to find that the redirected page asks the same question, ““Did you mean: recursion.” Some users may immediately get the joke, but some will certainly think something is wrong with the page. However, the more the user thinks about it, the more it makes sense: the link creates a recursion within itself. While each iteration of clicking the link may bring up an identical page, it is not identical: each iteration is unique because it causes the user to think differently about what they are seeing. Eventually, the question will become so expected that the user is desensitized to it. This is precisely the problem I see with recursion in African American culture. It should both be recognized as a source of empowerment and as a source of oppression, but instead the world becomes desensitized to its importance. The recursive roots of Black become muddy and the historical and modern state of Black lynching has become normalized. Recursion not only teaches us about Black culture itself, but it also reminds us to look at the past often and apply what we’ve learned to the present and remember it in the future; to not become accustomed; to not become desensitized.

IV 

I cannot recall the words of my first poem 

but I remember a promise 

I made my pen 

never to leave it 

lying 

in somebody else’s blood. 

–Audre Lorde 

Audre Lorde’s poem, IV, and the use of strong imagery creates a stark meaning in the minds of her readers. While poetry is typically up for interpretation, I find this poem to teeter almost into the literal, in the sense of sacrifice and authority. As the author, Lorde possesses a kind of responsibility for the reality she creates and the reality she writes of. Her vow to never sacrifice another for the sake of her truth and her writing is an obligation which may differ from the authors before or surrounding her. In her mind, while truth is imperative, so is the absence of spilled blood.  

An unfortunate fact of the history of the United States that remains true to this day is: This country was founded on blood and violence. Shying away from that fact is a dangerous falsity that has its own consequences. The often used saying that comes to mind is, “history is doomed to repeat itself.” Throughout the entirety of Percival Everett’s novel, The Trees, violence and death seem to make itself front and center. I believe this was a deliberate choice on the author’s part, to call to attention this fact. As Audre Lorde- the renowned poet, a feature in our course epigraphs- put it in one of her famous rallying cries, “Your silence will not protect you.” By using language, these two writers (among many others) make it difficult to remain in complacency with history. 

Words hold power. Despite the idea that I have heard countless times- typically from those trying to excuse their own actions- that words only hold the power you give them, language is one of the most compelling forces that human beings have to offer. I believe it is the main reason humans have come so far as a species in the first place. Literature is but a vessel for this power and there are those that wield this power in a purposeful manner. 

Everett’s novel, though full of humor and can be seen as somewhat fantastical, is a serious look on the horrors perpetuated by people in this country- not only of the past, but currently, as well. Emmett Till’s (among hundreds and hundreds of others) death is a marker of a not-so-distant history that unfortunately seems to remain intact. While I am somewhat familiar with the trial, taught in my high school history course, I feel that the murder of Emmett Till has gone largely underdiscussed. It was a highly publicized case at the time, in 1955 and subsequent years, with his mother calling for justice for her 14-year-old child. Unfortunately, justice was not served, and the perpetrators lived their lives in freedom and without due consequence. As Percival Everett’s novel deals directly with the case and even using the actual names of the individuals that incited the violence against this child, it was clear to me that he understands the power he holds with language. 

Everett’s ability to bring humor in to juxtapose the darkness he is speaking of is a way of keeping readers engaged, despite the heaviness of the subject matter. The reality of this is that it can be severely depressing, and I imagine that people would avoid this book if it were any less entertaining and any more serious. In recent years, with the constant onslaught of horrible injustices being thrown onto the internet where millions of people can access it with a click or even come across it involuntarily, escapism is ever more prevalent. Speaking from experience, I tend to rely on comedy and “comfort shows” about nothing to relieve myself of daily stressors. I think this is a common practice among my generation and the younger generations as well (though I cannot speak to those before me). Everett being able to use comic relief without shying away from the tragedy in the book is insightful and crafty, and I believe it mirrors “real life” slightly more realistically.  

To use one example that showcases this spectacularly, in chapter 42, beginning on page 126, readers join the Doctor Reverend Cad Fondle and his wife Fancel, for dinner. The entire scene renders very comically, with their southern vernacular and straight hypocrisy in their actions and words. However, not one full page in, and their hypocrisy turns frightening, with Fancel asking her husband how a cross burning went as if it were just another day at work, or a simple outing with friends. His response, “It’s called a lightin’, a cross lightin’. It ain’t right to burn a symbol of our Lawd Jesus H. Christ. I would think you knowed that by now” (126). Fondles’ correcting of his wife and slight change in the words he used was an attempt to change the meaning of his actions, but what he did remains the same. He burned a cross to insight fear and weaponized his religion in the process. The deceit in his language is one that I believe Everett deliberately showcased to call to attention the way people use language to their advantage, whether in good or, in this case, extremely bad faith.  

Another interesting facet of the language yielded by Everett is his choice of names. As mentioned previously, some of the names were true to the original case from 1955. Carolyn Bryant, the woman who lied about Emmitt Till and was ultimately responsible for his death, remained, as well as J.W. and Roy, the perpetrators of the boy’s murder. In the sense of staying true to history, and not shying away for the sake of fiction, I can appreciate the fact he kept the right names. The names of the invented characters, like Jim and Ed, were somewhat simple, so two that stuck out to me, specifically, are Gertrude and Damon. I don’t think that these names were notable on accident. The name Gertrude has its roots in Germanic words that mean spear, or strength. Given that Gertrude helped to orchestrate murders and other violent crimes to send a message to the world, her name is fitting. Despite not knowing the depth of exactly what she got into, she exhibited strength and cunning as we see her elude the police while being with them multiple times throughout the investigation. Damon is brought in as a tool for their cause. The Greek origin of his name means to tame, but it is also associated with loyalty. However, in English and Scottish definition of the name, it also means to kill. While Damon himself does not commit murder, he is tasked with writing the names of the lynching victims of America; and though the end of the book may seem fantastical, he seems to summon the dead from their graves with the help of Mama Z. Mama Z herself is also a fascinating use of language. A self-proclaimed witch with a message to get across and justice to serve is certainly a dangerous woman to behold. The Germanic and Hebrew definitions of her true name, Adelaide, means noble. Her surname, Lynch, is a tad more obvious in the context of the novel. The conflicting feelings that may be brought on by her actions may not be necessarily considered noble, though Everett may or may not disagree. Adelaide Lynch is the true orchestrator of the murders and placing of the Emmett Till look-a-likes from the beginning, and her name demonstrates the meaning behind it. The chosen names at the hand of the author seem to deliberately speak on the roles of each of the characters. 

Throughout this novel, it is clear that Everett has a deep understanding of language and what power it holds. The Trees is a very bloody book in terms of the deaths of characters and the violent actions that are showcased throughout. To connect to the course epigraph, with Lorde’s sentiment on sacrificing people and leaving her pen in someone else’s blood, it leads me to wonder if she would appreciate or despise this novel. Would the use of Emmett Till’s body (later proven to be not his, but in fact multiple others), be considered insensitive? Too violent? Writing the names of lynching victims was an important part of the book to be sure, the reality of the matter is, a reader may not fully comprehend the prevalence of lynching and police brutality throughout the country. However, like Lorde, could some see issue with the way Everett presents the conflict? I think that Everett may have metaphorically left his pen in someone’s blood, but perhaps that was necessary to convey his message. That may be up for debate, though I believe The Trees succeeds in its attempt to call to attention America’s past, as denying the past dooms the future. 

In my thinking essay, I focused on N.K. Jemisin’s use of earthquakes or “shakes” and the node stations in The Fifth Season. Jemisin begins world-building by showing readers symptoms of the society our main characters Essun, Damaya, and Syenite exist in. This is a world of oppression, control, and racism that is constantly one disaster away from a Season. Orogenes are people that have the innate ability to control and quell earthquakes which makes them both helpful and dangerous to “stills” or people that cannot control the earth. Orogenes are helpful because of their skills in quelling the shakes of the earth, helping prevent a new “Season” of death. Seasons are times when natural disasters caused by Father Earth lead to an apocalyptic environment and abundant death for those to live in it. Jemisin begins The Fifth Season with the story of the beginning of the end of the world, continuing throughout The Obelisk Gate, and The Stone Sky. 

Jemisin gives the reader background information about the Stillness or continent that this series takes place on, and Yumenes a government city where the end of the world begins. Earthquakes in this world are constantly happening even if stills cannot feel most of them. “Here is the Stillness, which is not still even on a good day.” (The Fifth Season, p. 7) The end of this world is set off because a huge earthquake up North in Yumenes triggers a Season, making it an incredibly important geological event ending the world for the last time. “So he reaches deep and takes hold of the humming tapping bustling reverberating rippling vastness of the city, and the quieter bedrock beneath it, and the roiling churn of heat and pressure beneath that. Then he reaches wide, taking hold of the great sliding-puzzle piece of earthshell on which the continent sits. Lastly, he reaches up. For power. He takes all that, the strata and the magma and the people and the power, in his imaginary hands. Everything. He holds it. He is not alone. The earth is with him. Then he breaks it.” (The Fifth Season, p. 7)

Jemisin gives readers a peek into the society that our characters live in right away, using a non-linear timeline to build an unstable world of “The Stillness”, immediately throwing the reader into the tension between orogenes and stills. With this worldbuilding, we immediately and rightfully sympathize with our orogene characters; Essun, Syenite, and Damaya (later revealed to be the same person at different points in her life). Jemisin shows the horror of a world constantly afraid of its ending and another Season beginning threatening the livelihood of all the communities or comms of the stills. 

The Fulcrum is characterized as a safe place that takes orogenes away from the hatred of stills and trains them to be useful instead of dangerous. However, through the eyes of one of our characters in The Fifth Season Syenite, we are shown a much less polished version of propaganda the Fulcrum uses to control orogenes and stills alike, node stations. Syenite is under the impression that grits (students training at the Fulcrum) who will not listen are sent to node stations to quell local shakes and protect comms as a punishment. “Is Crack’s control really a problem? Or is it simply that her tormentors have done their best to make her crack?” (The Fifth Season p. 204) “It could be worse, though. No one ever sees or mentions Crack again.” (The Fifth Season p. 211) In the eighth chapter, we are shown what the node stations really are. “Even the least of us must serve the greater good,” (The Fifth Season, p. 139) “The body in the node maintainer’s chair is small, and naked. Thin, its limbs atrophied. Hairless. There are things- tubes and pipes and things, she has no words for them- going into the stick-arms, down the goggle-throat, across the narrow crotch. There’s a flexible bag on the corpse’s belly, attached to its belly somehow, and it’s full of- ugh,” (The Fifth Season, p. 139) We find out that these stations are a gruesome use of orogene children who could not be taught or refused to be controlled by the Fulcrum. These node stations are used by Jemisin to show not only how powerful orogenes are as a people because they are so capable at such a young age, but also how violently the Fulcrum oppresses them. Throughout the trilogy, Jemisin references node stations as a way to remind us of the gruesome reality that few know of. We are reminded of node stations when Corundum was killed, when the tuners’ wire chairs are described, and when Essun thinks about the Fulcrum and their treatment of orogenes as a people.

Throughout the trilogy, Jemisin uses geological events and concepts to display power. While Jemisin uses the node stations and control of orogenes by the Fulcrum to display the power that the Guardians (people who can negate orogenic power) have over orogenes, Jemisin brings this idea back with the story of Syl Anagist and the briar patch that powers the city (the predecessor to node stations). Jemisin also makes a commentary on social issues of race and racism. This hatred of orogenes by stills is reminiscent of real-life issues of racism towards minority groups, specifically Black people. In The Broken Earth trilogy, Jemisin uses stills and orogenes to comment on racism and the use of racist language. Stills in this world are taught to be afraid of and hate those with orogenic powers, going so far as to make up the slur rogga which is mirroring the real-life use of the n-word which white people and other minority groups use to disempower those of Black heritage. In real life, there is no reason to be hateful against Black people, but Jemisin gives stills an excuse of sorts by making orogenes powerful and intimidating. While this doesn’t make it okay to treat orogenes as such, this does help contextualize the world readers have been dropped into. 

 Jemisin also uses geological events and concepts to display justice. Jemisin shows us the concept of justice throughout many events including the murder of Corundum in Meov, and the journey Essun makes throughout the entirety of The Broken Earth trilogy to avenge her son Uche and save her daughter Nassun from their father Jija. “‘I have to go now.’ Because you do. You need to find Jija,” (The Fifth Season p. 24) “You should have told Jija, before you ever married him, before you slept with him…Then if the urge to kill a rogga had hit him, he would’ve inflicted it on you, not Uche.” (The Fifth Season p. 272) Syenite chooses to kill Corundum rather than have the Fulcrum claim ownership over him because she knows they will turn him into a node maintainer. “You know what they’ll do to him, Syen. A child that strong, my child, raised outside the Fulcrum. You know.” (The Fifth Season p. 433) While murder isn’t necessarily a just option, with the context of the Fulcrum using Alabaster’s son as a node maintainer back in chapter eight of The Fifth Season combined with Alabaster begging Syenite not to let that happen to another one of his sons (Corundum) we can see how it is a murder of mercy, love, and protection. Essun’s journey to find Jija and Nassun is not only for revenge because Essun wants to kill Jija as an atonement for murdering her son Uche. Uche was an orogene, but also for justice because Uche should not have died just for who he was. “You cowards. You animals, who look at a child and see prey. Jija’s the one to blame for Uche, some part of you knows that-” (The Fifth Season p. 57) “No Nassun. And now no direction, no realistic way to find her. You are suddenly bereft of even hope.” (The Fifth Season p. 406) Jemisin’s focus in my interpretation of The Broken Earth trilogy was justice and how important it is in the world-building for the Stillness. Jemisin is not only trying to show how unjust the world is now, but she is also giving us background on how the world was unjust before the Stillness in Syl Anagist.

In The Stone Sky readers are given a look into the history of Syl Anagist and the reason behind the Seasons of death. Jemisin uses this history of Syl Anagist to show readers how tuners, or people capable of working orogenic power with the power of magic in harmony, are treated like they are not people, much like orogenes are treated by stills in the Stillness. Tuners in Syl Anagist are created for a purpose of powering the Plutonic Engine so that the conductors (like Guardians for the tuners) and people of Syl Anagist can harvest lifeforce from the Earth. “Life is sacred in Syl Anagist- as it should be, for the city burns life as the fuel for its glory.” (The Stone Sky p. 334) “No one would do this for a mere lump of iron… We drilled a test bore at one of the Antarctic Nodes. Then we sent in probes that took this from the innermost core. It’s a sample of the world’s own heart.” (The Stone Sky p. 325-326) “There’s not enough magic to be had just from plants and genengineered fauna; someone must suffer, if the rest are to enjoy luxury. Better the earth, Syl Anagist reasons. Better to enslave a great inanimate object that cannot feel pain and will not object.” (The Stone Sky p. 334) Life is considered sacred in Syl Anagist, yet they are taking life from the Earth without ever thinking if it was a living being. 

My understanding of the use of geological concepts to show power and justice in The Broken Earth trilogy has not changed much throughout the series. Jemisin uses these concepts to justify the actions our characters make by showing readers the reasoning behind them. Syenite chooses to murder her child Corundum when the island of Meov is attacked by the Fulcrum and Guardians. The tuners in Syl Anagist choose to revolt and break the Plutonic Engine because they are not treated as people and will be useless after its successful launch. Essun chooses to avenge Uche’s death and save Nassun because Jija killed Uche and kidnapped Nassun out of fear and hatred of orogenes. Each different event is chosen intentionally by Jemisin to weave a thread of justice, and the choice between love and hatred throughout every integral moment in the trilogy.

The Epigraph:

Oh, no. No, no, no. There’s too much to learn from examining that tension between the power and the impact of the art and realizing where that art comes from and what the impetus behind that art is. The best way to engage with twisted or otherwise problematic art, in my opinion, is to first off acknowledge that that art has an impact, hurts people, and understand that engaging with it could perpetuate some of the harm that that art is capable of doing, but flag it, warn it, put it off to the side where people can engage with it at their leisure, at their choice or at a point where they’re strong enough or capable of doing so, but then engage with it. There’s a line between respecting the work and honoring the person. You can respect the craft. You don’t have to put that person on a pedestal. Artists are human beings and that means you need to examine them in all their facets. You have to recognize that these are people and that the things that make them sometimes horrible people are sometimes the things that make them good writers or good artists and that’s what you want to engage with.–N.K. Jemisin, “N.K. Jemisin on H.P. Lovecraft”

On the first day of this class, we were presented with a collection of epigraphs to give us a peek into what we would be learning and focusing on for this semester. An epigraph is a short quotation or saying at the beginning of a book or chapter, intended to suggest its theme. This class is a study on African American Literature and our epigraphs reflect that by, for the most part, focusing on African American voices and issues. Throughout the semester we have returned to these epigraphs again and again because they are a common thread throughout all of our texts and assignments, therefore, allowing us to make deeper connections between works than just “they both have a Black author.”

How it relates to Percival Everett’s The Trees

My chosen epigraph is the quote from N.K. Jemisin on H.P. Lovecraft and engaging with problematic art. Jemisin discusses art and its impact on people interacting with it. No matter when or how art is created, it is never created in a vacuum. Art is a product of its time as well as its artist’s personal beliefs and views. Over time views on different social issues shift and change as new generations establish themselves. H.P. Lovecraft is a great example of art being a product of its creator. While Lovecraft was one of the most influential authors of his time and a talented artist, he was also “a man who, in a 1934 letter, described ‘extra-legal measures such as lynching & intimidation’ in Mississippi and Alabama as ‘ingenious.’” making him one of the most racist authors of his time. These extreme views and the horror content of the majority of Lovecraft’s stories made his work difficult to engage with at times because it left the reader disgusted and uncomfortable. 

As Jemisin says in the epigraph above, “The best way to engage with twisted or otherwise problematic art, in my opinion, is to first off acknowledge that that art has an impact, hurts people, and understand that engaging with it could perpetuate some of the harm that that art is capable of doing, but flag it, warn it, put it off to the side where people can engage with it at their leisure, at their choice or at a point where they’re strong enough or capable of doing so, but then engage with it.”  throwing oneself into art can be harmful, and it is a good idea to slow down and read or engage with it at a pace that makes it more digestible. This epigraph overall reminds me that you cannot ever fully separate the artist from the art because it is a product of who the artist is and where they came from. Jemisin said, “You can respect the craft. You don’t have to put that person on a pedestal.” reminding us as readers that we can enjoy art and still criticize the artist, or vice versa because they are still human and they will make mistakes. One of the first pieces of text we engaged with as a group that supports this epigraph is Barkley Brown’s African American Women’s Quilting. The article on the different art of quilts reminds us that art can be misrepresented and misunderstood without context. One of the first things we discussed with the difference between the two styles- European quilt styling and African American quilt styling- was the visual difference of one following an expected pattern (European) while the other seemed almost random without understanding the culture behind the different rhythms in the quilt. (African American) Slowing down to remember the context between art and the artist has been integral to studying African American literature. 

 In the context of Percival Everatt’s The Trees, this epigraph reminds us to focus on the author and the reasons why he may write the way he does. Everett includes many uses of the n-word because he is making a point to his multiple audiences. He is using this repetition of an uncomfortable slur to be accurate and as authentic as possible for his Black audience. For his white audience that is not met with constant microaggressions in their daily life, Everett uses the uncomfortable fact that people in 2022 are still that racist and that slur is used in everyday conversations without a second thought. This proves the point by making white audiences feel the discomfort that Black people have had to live with every single day. Everett employs specific character dialogue to show characters starting to say the n-word and catching themselves partway through, further pushing the idea that they know it is not right to say it yet they still do it because they don’t believe that Black people are equal to them. This also shows the complexity of the language use because the characters are completely fine using the slur without a thought when around other like-minded people, but stutter to catch themselves when faced with a human being in the minority group that they are disrespecting. Everett knows that the use of the n-word on nearly, if not, every page of the book is uncomfortable for the reader because they are presented with the constant attack of the language. While Everett is writing for multiple audiences, he is especially focusing on giving his white audience a taste of how constant microaggressions in the life of a person who belongs to a minority group can affect them.     Percival Everett shows us as readers that the purpose of art is to evoke emotions; be those good or bad. Everett displays this power through the use of the n-word. Art is often born out of pain and suffering; it is not meant to be entirely positive or beautiful. Everett knows that the purposeful consistent use of such an ugly and degrading word would weigh on the reader’s emotions. Often as a reader, I forgot that The Trees is set in the present era of 2020, and not way back in the 1920s. This was something that Everett wanted to evoke from his readers, he wants to bring attention to issues that are uncomfortable, and gruesome. In The Trees, Everett brings attention to the subject of mass lynchings across the country in the form of a murder mystery. These short chapters, usually two to six pages long give The Trees a fast and confusing pace. This is an entirely calculated choice on Everett’s part because it gives his white audience something to grasp and struggle with as they try to follow the plot and abundant character perspectives. This confusion is mirroring the feeling Black folks had when there were mass lynchings this uncertainty of never knowing who, or if you were next to be accused of a false narrative and sentenced to death. This discomfort for the multiple audiences is an integral part of Everett’s purpose in writing The Trees, he wanted to write a book everyone hated.

Upon finishing the trilogy The Broken Earth by N.K. Jemisin, it seems I am left with more questions than answers when it comes to injustice and power. While some observations I made early in the trilogy remain true, I am also forced to reexamine some of my initial thoughts I had when first introduced to the characters and their emotions. The buildup of stress and friction when it comes to societal issues is an aspect that is prominent very early on in the trilogy, and continues to be present to the end. The personal consequences for characters such as Essun, and her daughter Nassun, as well as the environmental consequences are huge and long lasting. However, I did find myself reexamining the equivocality of terms such as power and injustice as the novel continued, as well as how love ties into these two concepts. With this being said, while my stance on the negative consequences of ignoring problems in society remains very similar, Jemisin has also pushed me to reexamine the ambiguity of terms such as injustice and power.

The bleak consequences of high pressure, tension and force in a society presented in my first essay remains, both on an environmental level and individual level. I still believe that the inability to face, and thus ignore a problem, will ultimately lead to disastrous results. As stated in my first essay, an apt similarity would be the stress of plate tectonics constantly rubbing against each other underneath earth’s surface, waiting to break. This point seems even more prominent at the end of the trilogy. In order to save the earth, and end what is termed the “seasons,” a time where all are fighting for survival, the moon must be brought back into orbit. However, despite Nassun bringing back the moon, the “Stillness” (the name for the landmass the characters reside on) will still face the consequences of ignoring issues and not creating sustainable long term solutions. In essence, “Plate tectonics will be plate tectonics” and “Season like disasters will still occur.” (Jemisin, The Stone Sky 393). While this fact is certainly preferable to the alternative of millions of years, the consequences are still very much real. Like so many others, Nassun remains without a home, and no longer has a family. Despite her enormous power throughout the trilogy, “she’s still just a little girl. She has to eat and sleep like every other little girl, among people if she hopes to keep eating and sleeping. People need other people to live” (Jemisin, The Stone Sky). Not only has Nassun lost her home and her family, but also her ability to be a child, which is compounded by the multiple traumas she has faced. Even her orogene, a genetic variation which allows her to control earth’s vibrations, is now gone, a huge part of what was once her identity. Perhaps it is at this moment that Nassun, like her mother, has finally reached her breaking point.

The end of the trilogy does not leave the reader with a clear conclusion, allowing them to ponder what kind of justice was achieved. While the moon is now back in orbit, and thus the seasons will eventually stop, Jemisin does not illustrate the societal effect of the characters actions. Though the guardians, the cruel gatekeepers of orgenes are all killed, such individuals are only one part of a larger societal problem. However, what about the rest of society?  What about the ideals so deeply embedded within societal norms? Individuals must make a conscious choice to make a change. Nassun doubts a change is possible stating, “They’re not going to choose anything different” (Jemisin, The Stone Sky 396). Jemisin seeks to remind the reader that changing injustice requires active rather than passive action. Perhaps the latter is just one part of the answer to the question posed in my earlier essay; What happens when the system breaks? The non definite ending of the trilogy leaves room for interpretation, and in a way, reminds the reader that the need for justice is ongoing. 

After finishing the trilogy, I also found myself more closely examining the ambiguity of injustice and power. While I by no means went into this trilogy with the notion that power and injustice is black and white, with no shades of gray, I now see a much larger spectrum of possibilities. Though Alabaster destroyed the “Stillness”, he did so in the hopes of creating a better life. How much can the reader fault Alabaster for wanting to break the society that ostracized him as “the other,” in hopes of building a better future? While Essun killed her infant son, Coru, who shared her orogene gene, she did so in the hopes that he would not be subject to the horror of other children like him. The notion itself of killing a child may seem unjust, but Essun did so in the name of love and protection. If Coru would have been taken by the guardians, they would have turned “…his body into a tool and his mind into a weapon and his life into a travesty of freedom” (Jemisin The Fifth Season 441). Can the reader truly fault Essun for wanting to save her son from such suffering? While the stone eaters, characters who resemble statues, eat Alabaster and Essun when they begin to turn to stone, it is a necessary action for all involved. When looked at without taking into account the fact that such is necessary for the stone eater’s survival, the reader may say this too is unjust. However, can they be faulted when stone eaters have no control over this biological component, especially when taking into account the verbal permission from Alabaster and Essun? Moreover, who deserves the reader’s forgiveness, and how is such a conclusion determined? There is no clear cut definition, and it is ultimately up to the reader to determine who may be justified in their actions.

When discussing the ambiguity of power and injustice, I also find myself reexamining the position of love in the novel. When completing my first essay, I very much positioned power with a negative connotation; The power of one group having power over another. The dynamic and implications is certainly still relevant throughout the rest of the trilogy, as for the  orogenes,“Every season is the Season…The apocalypse that never ends” (Jemisin, The Stone Sky). However, upon the closing of the trilogy, it is also apparent that power can be seeded in love. For example, it is Nassun’s love for Schaffa, her guardian, that pushes her to initially sacrifice the rest of humankind in a desperate hope to keep him alive. Schaffa has become Nassun’s family, and as a result “…she clings to him because she has nothing else” (Jemisin, The Stone Sky 382). Perhaps not the most selfless example, but a point worth noting nonetheless. It is also Essuns’ love for Nassun that drives her to sacrifice herself for her daughter. Though Essun may not have shown the physical affection Nassun yearned for during her childhood, by the end, she “…wanted to make a better world for Nassun…to live” when all her other children had died. Essun realizes there is only one solution, as “To keep fighting will kill…both” herself and her daughter, and thus “The only way to win, then, is to not fight anymore” (Jemisin, The Stone Sky 385). Despite the way Essun’s traumatic past has influenced her ability to make Nassun feel loved, she will do anything to keep her daughter safe. Ultimately, the use of power, detrimental when yielded in the wrong hands, can also provide the motivation to do what is in the best interest of all.  

Overall, N.K. Jemisin has taught us the need to pay attention to building tension, and the role injustice, power and love play in a society. Power, injustice, and love are not exclusive of another, and may work together to drive actions. Furthermore, ignoring a problem only serves to perpetuate the tension and stress that is already building. Jemisin shows us that in any society, such an action will only be to the detriment of its citizens. Within the Broken Earth trilogy, society’s choice to ignore the octraszication of the “other” leads to building resentment among orogenes. When the system finally snaps, the “Stillness” is plunged into a world nearly impossible to survive. The road to fight injustice and those with unfair power can be difficult, and not as clear cut as the reader may like. Throughout the trilogy, characters act in ways that seem unjust, yet are understandable given their past trauma. What does this mean? Who do we forgive? If the actions were done in the name of love, does this change anything? It seems the end of the Broken Earth Trilogy has left me with more questions than answers as I contemplate what may be coined as acceptable in the name of change, as well as who defines what those “terms” may be.

MOVE 1 – Percival Everett’s The Trees

I will be analyzing Percival Everett’s novel, The Trees, to explore what I have learned this semester and how it has impacted my thoughts and ideas on both life and literature. Throughout this piece, I will connect course concepts to the themes established in Everett’s novel. One of the main course concepts that I will circle back to is the idea of literal and figurative repetition. The literal repetition found in The Trees would be the repetition of the method behind each of the murders described in the novel. The murders consisted of barbed wire wrapped tightly around the neck, brutal beating of the body, mutilation of the testicles, a gun shot to the head, and a dead Black man accompanying each murder scene. Each murder was gone about in an almost identical way to bring attention to the greater atrocities that went unnoticed in America for decades. Everett’s mysterious character, Mamma Z, tracked every lynching in the United States since she was born in 1913, totaling up to an inconceivable 7,006 lynchings of 7,006 individual Black Americans. This horrific redundancy of 7,006 unjust lynchings exposes America for its rooted history of violence and racism, which brings about the figurative repetition that I mentioned before. 

An integral concept revisited throughout the semester is the idea of straddling the line between what is right and wrong. In Everett’s novel, detectives Ed, Jim, and Herberta straddle the line of morality as they investigate and uncover the truth about the killings in Money, Mississippi. The detectives have a duty to the government to arrest those who disobey the law. In The Trees’ case, the detectives have an obligation to put away those involved in the killings of White Americans. However, the detectives also have an internal responsibility as Black Americans to defend their fellow Black Americans. In the novel, Jim found out that Gertrude was involved in the killings of racist White men in Mississippi whose ancestors were involved in lynchings. Although Jim had an obligation to his job to arrest Gertrude, he instead brought her back to Mamma Z’s house to continue to uncover the mysteries of the unsolved murders. These moral, internal conflicts and outlooks on justice serve as the causes of many difficult decisions that Ed, Jim, and Herberta had to make throughout the novel. 

MOVE 2 – Lucille Clifton’s surely I am able to write poems

I have chosen to analyze and explore the following epigraph in relation to my reading of The Trees, by Percival Everett:

“surely i am able to write poems 

celebrating grass and how the blue

in the sky can flow green or red

and the waters lean against the

chesapeake shore like a familiar

poems about nature and landscape

surely        but whenever I begin

“the trees wave their knotted branches 

and…”      why

is there under that poem always

an other poem?” 

-Lucille Clifton

Lucille Clifton’s poem, surely I am able to write poems, interested me because Clifton’s attention is brutally interrupted as if she is too distracted by something to finish a line, a thought, or an idea. For example, “and the waters lean against the / chesapeake shore like a familiar / poems about nature and landscape” (lines 4-6). In the first two lines, Clifton is about to compare the waters of the Chesapeake shore to something similar until she is suddenly transfixed on other poems about nature. Clifton’s train of thought is interrupted in another instance where she writes, “surely        but whenever I begin” (line 7). This white space signifies to me that Clifton is unable to maintain focus on her thoughts because she appears to be too busy thinking about “an other poem” (line 11). I wonder if Clifton is working to emphasize how many poems sound the same or have the same idea hidden within them. This reminds me of the brutal, discouraging fact that although every lynching is different because it involves distinct individuals with unique lives, passions, and backgrounds, each murder is blended together with another within the word “lynching”. Although the word “lynch” has a distinct meaning (an extrajudicial killing by a group), there are a multitude of different aspects to consider when distinguishing one lynching from another. One has to take into consideration who is performing the lynching, who is being lynched, who is affected by the lynching, how the lynching is performed, and a myriad of additional aspects. I believe Clifton is emphasizing the sad reality that although poems can be written by authors in their own way, they will forever be grouped together with other poems coinciding with the same theme, idea, or memory, no matter how unique the author attempts to create it. 

A strong message ingrained in The Trees is the power of names. Damon Thruff, an intellectual writer, is tasked with going through all 7,006 lynchings that Mamma Z has recorded, and writes a book with a new perspective: outrage. When Mamma Z and Damon Thruff first met, Mamma Z was surprised that Damon was able to “construct three hundred and seven pages on such a topic [racial violence] without an ounce of outrage” (Everett, page 152). From the start, Mamma Z challenged Damon to write about racial violence in a meaningful and passionate way. Mamma Z taught Damon how the unknown names are more of a name than those who were able to be named because, “a little more than life was taken from them” (Everett, page 215). This powerful message of the novel emphasizes the fact that life was not the only thing taken from the lynched men and women. To be unnamed means to be forgotten, and Mamma Z and Damon are trying their very best to remember the men and women so wrongfully and brutally expelled from life. By the end of the novel, Damon became captivated in his new devotion as he worked on his book with complete focus on avenging all of the Black Americans who were unjustly lynched in America. 

MOVE 3 – Classroom Ideas and Concepts

Dr. McCoy emphasized the importance of “attending to how things are framed and packaged” (class notes, 2/28) in writing pieces. Therefore I will unpack how The Trees was framed by Percival Everett. Firstly, the novel’s main setting was in Money, Mississippi where Emmett Till was lynched in 1955. Emmett Till was a 14-year-old Black boy who was kidnapped, tortured, and lynched by White men who accused Emmett of offending a White woman. This White woman, Carolyn Bryant, is depicted in The Trees as Granny C, an old lady who “always looked a little sad” (Everett, page 6). We find out later that she feels this way because she is constantly reflecting on the horror she set in motion in 1955: accusing Emmett Till of offending her. In the novel, Granny C died from the shock of looking at the disfigured, lifeless body of a Black man that was fixed in her room. From her perspective, a quick glimpse of this dead Black man instantly reminded her of Emmett Till, and she too became lifeless. In fact, the entire town, including the detectives, was afraid that the ghost of Emmett Till was taking his revenge on the racists that ended his life. 

Throughout the semester, the class has been returning to the theme of sustainability. Firstly, we examined this concept literally by exploring a heating plant and studying the triad of ways to maintain sustainability: social, environmental, and economic. Secondly, in a small group discussion, my classmate pondered the idea of the sustainability and unsustainability of race depicted in Everett’s novel. It is apparent that Everett is portraying the visceral need for White Americans to sustain their race by eliminating that of the Black race by any means possible. It can also be argued that Black Americans are working to sustain their race by defending themselves against the racists that poison America. This battle of the sustainability of race is deeply fixed in America’s history and Everett illustrates this battle by creating a fictional, yet realistic world of “what if’s”. 

MOVE 4 – Perspectives Gained

One key takeaway from this class and especially from Everett’s novel is that a reader must always respect an author’s artistic vision. My peers and I questioned the frequent use of the n-word in Everett’s novel, as we felt that it was thrown around with an empty meaning throughout the novel. We learned that Everett is working to characterize the many racist White characters in his novel. It is hard for us students in Geneseo, New York to believe that there are so many people who continually use the n-word in their dialect, especially in 2022. However, the fact is that Everett is emphasizing that not only is the problem of racism and violence still present in 2022 America, but in some places it is expanding inexplicably. 

My peers and I also questioned Everett’s endgame with his novel. Was it Everett’s artistic choice to create the novel in such a confusing and overwhelming way? What is the purpose of Everett ending the novel in the way that he did? In the end, America has mobs of vengeful Black and Asian Americans storming the streets and attacking racist White Americans. I believe this ending makes readers think about the “what if?”. What if all of those unjustly treated rise up? What if all of those misrepresented rise up? What if all of those discriminated against rise up? What if all of those who lost family members to racism rise up? The amount of people who would rise up would be immense, and America may not be able to redeem itself for the horrors of its history. Another possible purpose of Everett’s novel’s ending would be Damon Thruff. Damon is still typing profusely by the end of the novel and does not even notice the detectives who have walked into Mamma Z’s house. Perhaps the reason Damon is continually typing is to signify that the killings may never stop and for that reason, Damon will never stop typing the names of those lost.

MOVE 5 – So What?

From both Lucille Clifton’s poem, surely I am able to write poems, and Percival Everett’s novel, The Trees, I am learning to apply these lessons in real life. A concept that I am battling with after taking Dr. McCoy’s class and after reading The Trees is the distinction between good faith and bad faith. Good faith relies on persuasion to convince someone to agree with you whereas bad faith relies on intimidation or coercion to convince someone to agree with you. Throughout the book, the reader is faced with the question “is murder justice?”. It is difficult to answer this question as a White American because I have never experienced discrimination because of my race. Therefore, when I try to step into Gertrude’s shoes and determine if the killing of racist White men is justice or not, I find myself going back and forth between thinking this murder is right and wrong. On one hand, the brutal mutilation and murder of these men is a gruesome way to ultimately rid the world of inherently bad people. However, on the other hand, it is always wrong to kill another human being, no matter how horrible of a person they are. In terms of good faith and bad faith, it is difficult to understand if Gertrude recruited Damon Thruff to write about and publish the 7,006 lynchings because of respect or revenge. It is also important to recognize ​​that many of the overarching problems discussed in The Trees remain unsolved today, just as many of the mysteries in the novel remain unsolved for the reader. The reader gets a taste of how frustrating it is to read through a whole book and only have some questions answered. For many Black and Asian Americans, they have to go through an entire lifetime of frustration because their country refuses to accept the problem at hand and work to solve it or take responsibility for it. Overall, I learned a lot about perspective, injustice, and the distinction between right and wrong from my time with Dr. McCoy and Everett’s novel The Trees.

According to Britannica, the timeline of the Chile earthquake of 1960 is as follows; On May 21st, 1960 A series of foreshocks, including one of an 8.1 magnitude, warned of the coming disaster and caused major destruction in Concepción. The fault-displacement source of the earthquake extended over an estimated 560–620 mile (900–1,000 km) stretch of the Nazca Plate, which subducted under the South American Plate. The next day, May 22nd, 1960 at 3:11PM an earthquake with a magnitude of between 9.4-9.6 hit approximately 100 miles off the coast of Chile, parallel to the city of Valdivia. National Geographic says the entirety of Chile shook violently for more than 10 minutes. About 15 minutes later at 3:26PM an 80 foot tsunami rose high on the expanse of Chilean coastline that paralleled the subducting plate. The combined effects of the earthquake and tsunami left two million people homeless. Though the death toll was never fully resolved, early estimates ranging into the thousands were scaled back to 1,655. About 3,000 people were injured. Two days after the foreshocks warning of the coming disaster, on May 23rd, 1960 at 6:00AM waves that arrived nearly 15 hours after the earthquake in the Hawaiian Islands—6,200 miles (10,000 km) away—still crested at nearly 35 feet (11 metres) at landfall in some places. The waves caused millions of dollars of damage at Hilo Bay on the main island of Hawaii, where they also killed 61 people. Seven hours later at approximately 1:00PM waves reach the main Japanese island of Honshu. The waves had subsided to about 18 feet (5.5 metres) and laid waste to over 1,600 homes and killed 138 people. In the Philippines, tsunami waves left 32 dead or missing. Though the oblique angle by which the waves approached the Pacific coast of the United States mitigated their force, Crescent City, California, saw waves of up to 5.6 feet (1.7 metres), and boats and docks in Los Angeles, San Diego, and Long Beach were damaged. Three days after the earthquake that caused two million people to lose their homes, on May 25th, 1960 the Cordón Caulle volcano in Chile’s Lake District erupted after nearly 40 years of inactivity. While this isn’t fully supported as directly related to the earthquakes aftereffects, some seismologists think it is to be linked to the quake.

This earthquake affected many different places in the hours and days following the subduction of the plates that the earthquake originated from. These places include all of Chile (There was especially bad effects in Valdivia, Lebu, and Puerto Aisen), Japan (Honshu), The United States, (several cities in California including Crescent City, Los Angeles, San Diego, and Long Beach as well as several islands in Hawaii including Hilo Bay) and the Philippines. This disaster caused roughly 3,000 injuries and around 1,655 deaths. Two million people across the world also lost their homes. Many Chilean cities sustained significant damage, including Puerto Montt, where noticeable subsidence occurred, and Valdivia, where nearly half of the buildings were rendered uninhabitable. Most casualties resulted from the descent 15 minutes later of a tsunami that rose up to 80 feet (25 metres) high on the expanse of Chilean coastline—bounded by the cities of Lebu and Puerto Aisen—that paralleled the subducting plate.

The life effects of surviving a severe earthquake such as the Chile earthquake of 1960 reminds me of Jemisin’s description of the Seasons. While the timeline for this earthquake followed by tsunami (and then possibly causing a volcanic eruption) brings the thought of Jemisin’s choices in the timeline of the end of the world within The Broken Earth trilogy. This real life disaster was preceded by foreshocks the day before the major earthquake hit. Much like how Essun’s connection to the obelisks in times of need before disaster could be seen as a warning of her strength in wielding the Obelisk Gate within Jemisin’s work. The reader experiences the beginning of this new Season along with Essun; starting with the rifting causing majorly destructive shakes across the Stillness, followed by volcanic eruptions, animals behavior changing to become survival of the fittest, and the development of the environmental changes. These environmental changes include ash clouds, acid rain in the desert, and boilbugs; one major issue for survival followed by another and another and another. The rifting combined with the murder of her son Uche cause Essun to be forced from her comm, becoming homeless; much like the disastrous earthquake in Chile caused 2 million people to lose their homes.

Those lucky enough to survive the Chilean earthquake in 1960 and only be left with injuries and disfigurements remind me of several characters in Jemisin’s work. Alabaster succumbs to the magic eating away at him and loses his life after both causing the Rifting and saving the people of Castrima-under from Essun’s power. Essun toward the end of the trilogy ends up losing an arm (and ultimately her life to the power of the Obelisk Gate). She finds herself at first struggling with how to function as an individual with these new limitations including the loss of her orogeny without cost to her body. In the Stone Sky we also re-meet one of the other grits from Syentite’s time at the Fulcrum in The Fifth Season, named Maxixe who during the Season has also been through many adversities and lost both of his legs. While there was not much art created because of the disaster in 1960, there are photographs of the carnage left afterward. I think that it is important to focus on what was left behind after the disaster rather than focusing on what or who is missing because it is only as a group or community that people survive not only the physical effects of natural disasters but also the mental toll. As someone who has never lived through a natural disaster, I feel incredibly lucky to have lived in such a safe area for my entire life thus far. This essay helped focus on the after effects of a real life disaster in order to amplify for us as readers the cost paid for ending the Season in N. K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy.

By: Noah Taylor, Laura Boysen, Jessica D’Antonio, Ryan Silverstein, Zoe LaVallee, Marin Goodstein, Kevin Reed, Connor Skelton, and Charlie Kenny

On January 12th, 2010, an earthquake measuring 7.0 on the Richter scale hit the island of Hispaniola. This catastrophic event was followed by two consecutive aftershocks with magnitudes of 5.9 and 5.5, which devastated the Haitian capital of Port-au-Prince and surrounding areas. According to the United Nations, 220,000 people lost their lives and 1.5 million were left homeless in the aftermath of this earthquake. The source of the quake was a deep sea fault line known as the Leogane. Due to its hidden location, seismologists ignored its danger in favor of the more obvious Enriquillo-Plantain Garden fault zone, which runs through the country. This miscalculation contributed to the overall mishandling of the disaster. The response to the disaster was not much better, and this ended up causing more issues when the 2021 quake struck. There seems to be a cyclical nature to these natural disasters. N.K Jemisin’s Broken Earth Trilogy asks readers to examine the parallels between the cyclical nature of fictional tragedies and natural disasters. In doing so, readers may be informed enough to prevent repeating this history. 

The Broken Earth Trilogy implements a fictional apocalypse to draw attention to the devastation resulting from natural disasters in our reality. One only need look at the ways in which Haiti was ravished by the 2010 Earthquake to understand the parallels this series draws attention to. The numbers of those killed are harrowing, but the reality of these deaths is best felt through the words of those affected. 38 year old father, and business owner Jean Fanfan Vital spoke to NPR: “My child is dead. My father was carrying him, and as they passed by the building, some debris fell down and landed on them. The child was so young, only 4 months. And maybe that’s the only reason why he’s dead. He was so young”. This loss of life is a vivid representation of the impact that natural disasters have on humanity, especially those most vulnerable. The Broken Earth Trilogy confronts this understanding head on. The vulnerable in the Stillness are also the most affected by tragedy. A recursive example of this is the constant abuse of children that is proffered as a means to prevent disaster. That being said, one of the most poignant examples of vulnerability is through a man named Maxixe. He is a double amputee who finds himself in a near death condition. Maxixe sa ‘Rusting look at me, Essun. Listen to the rocks in my chest. Even if your headwoman will take half a rogga, I am not going to last much longer.’ ” (Jemisin 127). The vulnerability Maxixe experiences due to his disability causes him to experience the rifting in a harsher manner. He finds rocks forming in his chest, and he is less likely to be accepted into communities that might be able to aid him. The Broken Earth asks the reader to focus on how the most vulnerable are affected by disaster. Another real world example of this is how access to water exacerbated the effects of the 2010 Earthquake. 

Furthering the parallels between The Broken Earth Trilogy and the 2010 Earthquake, another major impact has been the lasting damage to water treatment, causing a mass increase in water insecurity in Haiti. In a US Geological Survey report from 2010, scientists reported that prior to the quake, the water supply system in Port-au-Prince (which supplied roughly 1,000,000 people) was already unreliable since it lacked proper treatment. In the aftermath, existing treatment facilities had become infiltrated, damaged, and none were left working as a result of the natural disaster. The inherent dangers of not having access to clean drinking water are disastrous. Cholera is an infectious and often fatal bacterial disease that spreads through contaminated water supplies. In Haiti, given that they have been left with no water treatment, and contaminated supplies/access, ShelterBox had reported a serious outbreak of cholera that “affected over 6% of the population and caused the further loss of thousands of more lives,”. The tainted water supply also had a major impact on the children of Haiti, the most vulnerable group. In 2021, UNICEF measured that around 540,000 children in the area hit by the 2021 earthquake were left with a potential “re-emergence” of waterborne diseases. While this report came from the 2021 earthquake, it highlights that there could be a “re-emergence”, referencing the waterborne illness issues caused in 2010. Looking again into The Broken Earth Trilogy, readers are shown an impact of damaged water supplies when Essun meets Tonkee in the first novel. In this section, as Essun and Hoa are traveling they come across a supply station that has been ravaged. Upon encountering Tonkee, she tells Essun that the rifting “‘Probably breached a lot of aquifers. They’ll repair themselves over time, of course, but in the short term, no telling what kinds of contaminants might be around here…You know what kinds of nasty things cities leave behind when they die?’” (Fifth Season 181). In this fictional world, cycles of destruction and world-ending events are constant over time. This parallels what the country of Haiti has experienced because of the 2010 earthquake and its traumatic history. Jemisin’s work in the Broken Earth Trilogy emphasizes the impact geologic catastrophe has on humanity, specifically in this case the impact that a tainted water supply has on a community or people. While the geological event of the earthquake might have been the final blow to Haiti’s clean water access, a dysfunctional political system is also a contributing factor.

Haiti has been suffering from political instability for centuries. To understand why these earthquakes were so disastrous, we begin with the historical issues at the core of the country’s difficulties: colonization. The Spanish, French, and British all vied for control of the region using barbaric methods of submission that left the populace hungry for freedom and sovereignty.  Independence was gained in 1804, but that did not stabilize the region as it has seen volatile shifts in sources of power ever since. Practices of ruthless dictatorships have strengthened the divide between the working and ruling classes, suppressed opposing viewpoints, and left the country at the mercy of foreign involvement. For all of these reasons, it is clear that true and lasting authority is lacking within the country.

Haitian gang violence is deeply embedded in its history. Gangs contribute to and result from political instability. According to an article from The New Humanitarian published in 2022, “the number of gangs has in the capital has skyrocketed since the assassianation of President Jovenel Moïse in July…it’s unclear which gang is in control…or if an area will suddenly be engulfed in gunfire.” This situation is similar to the 2010 earthquake, and has crippled humanitarian efforts, leaving people without access to assistance.

Stability is required for making a nation’s homes, hospitals, and schools resilient during seismic events. It is impossible to have adequate healthcare in nations that are politically insecure. Prior to the 2010 earthquake, Haiti appeared to have the “oldest HIV/AIDS epidemic outside Sub-Saharan Africa . Infrastructure was then devastated after the 2010 earthquake, namely insufficient water and sanitation. This precipitated the largest cholera outbreak ever recorded in a country. The earthquake destroyed “50 healthcare centers as well as the Ministry of Health building” and  part of Haiti’s primary teaching hospital, disrupting the education of future healthcare professionals”. Without adequate healthcare developments, Haitian citizens were unprepared for the 2021 quake. Since the recent earthquake, Haiti’s healthcare system remains destabilized. 

There are many political parallels present between this trilogy and Haiti’s history. For example, there is a connection between the slave uprising and the orogenes’ desire for autonomy. This desire is most distinctly represented through Essun’s actions towards those that would deny her people’s legitimacy as human beings. When leaving Tirimo on page 57 of The Fifth Season, Essun encounters difficulties at the gate and concludes that the people of her community are not innocent; “The kind of hate that can make a man murder his own son? It came from everyone around you.” Just as the enslaved people of Haiti were significantly oppressed and exploited, orogenes face constant discrimination that they are forced to push against. Another key comparison concerns the codified apparatus of Stonelore as it relates to the recurring censorship of information in Haiti. Stonelore provides truth. However, Alabaster on page 125 of The Fifth Season pokes holes in Syenite’s beliefs about the unshakeable nature of the text; “But what was on the tablet was different, drastically so, from the lore we learned in school.” As one should not express doubt about the political propaganda emanating from dictatorships unless they want their head cut off, Stonelore should not be considered anything but immutable.  However, dictators must die and stories supporting their oppressive rule must be challenged. 

And what better way to challenge oppressive rule than through art? Art has always been a significant part of Haitian culture, as it serves “as memory for a country that has suffered” from dictatorships, failed governments, and poverty. It not only operates as a way to fight against the hardship of the country’s circumstances, it also functions as an economic lifeline for the country as 85% of the population are unemployed. 

In a similar sense, orogeny is an artistic outlet also used as a survival outline, as only the most controlled orogenes can survive. In Jemisin’s The Broken Earth Trilogy, orogeny can be viewed as an atypical artform. It is something that takes both innate talent and practiced skill, and the way it is done is wound tightly with the little orogene culture that exists. And, ultimately, orogeny is used to fight against corrupt government structures, as seen in The Fifth Season when Alabaster causes The Rifting which effectively destroys the Fulcrum. The Fulcrum acted as a governing body for the orogenes and was one of their many sources of oppression. Fulcrum trained orogeny is discussed more in the latter half of the series, as it becomes clear that their way of teaching this innate art is perverted, lacking the freedom of expression that someone like Nassun ends up expressing later in the series when she explores orogeny on her own terms.

Similarly, Haiti received an outright destruction of their artwork as a result of the 2010 earthquake. Musee Galerie d’Art Nader held some of Haiti’s oldest artworks, making it a center of both Haitian culture and history, and was reduced to rubble within seconds due to the natural disaster. The loss of this museum and countless pieces of art signifies an overall loss of culture as Haiti became a country marked by repeated devastation, as demonstrated by the recent 2021 earthquake. In fact, many of the pieces that were lost helped to signify the survival of Haitian citizens after being faced with these disasters, making the loss of such pieces all the more heartbreaking. As it was put by Camille Scully, executive director of Iowa’s Waterloo Center of the Arts and co-president of the Haitian Art Society, “They’re painting their lives. They’re recording their history,” With the loss of these museums, pieces of the country’s history were lost to the rubble. 

Jemisin’s series is a testament to how history can be lost to natural destruction. The old ways of orogeny were lost in the original Shattering, wherein the moon was hurtled away from the earth, which led to the survival based society we see depicted in the Stillness. The original form of orogeny was once called tuning, which merged magic with orogeny. Much like orogeny pre-Rifting, tuning was used by the government in order to fulfill their own needs, namely a utopic city that was powered by gemstone obelisks. The artforms of orogeny and tuning, while placed under the control of governing bodies, represents working within a system in order to break the binding rules. Essun was raised as a Fulcrum orogene and she imbued these teachings onto her daughter, Nassun. Yet, both of their stories are marked by how they learn to view and use their orogeny outside of the troubling context in which they first learned to control it. Essun’s relationship with Alabaster and her own personal journey involves her learning to use her orogeny in ways that she never would have thought to under the Fulcrum, moving beyond these boundaries. Nassun, on the other hand, reinvents the art of tuning due to the freedom of expression she is given in Found Moon. Despite the oppressive systems forced upon them, both mother and daughter learn to work outside of these systems to reinvent the art form integral to their humanity as orogenes.

Art is born from and shaped by calamity in a similar way. Look no further than Haitian artist Michèle Voltaire Marcelin. She revisited her home in Port-au-Prince after the 2010 earthquake and was surrounded by destruction that inspired her to create three paintings and a series of poems that evoked the fear and pain of the devastation. But Marcelin refused to create any more art of the event, stating: “Whether their lives and deaths were for hope, a new beginning or for nothing, we will decide. Let the dead bury the dead. The living must change the world.” A hopeful message in a time of sadness that is reflected in the final moments of Jemisin’s work, “This is the way a new world begins” (The Stone Sky 398) with the determination of the few. 

When considering the havoc associated with both of these earthquakes, Jemisin’s lesson rings true: History repeats itself. More specifically, those who rule with tyrannical power will remain in their position with a total disregard for the well-being of all people unless removed. We, in support of Haiti, must abandon archaic ways of thinking in favor of prioritizing justice and equity. Natural disasters will strike, but the promotion of progressive policy will lessen the damage. Artistic expression is a crucial means of advancing these ideas in hopes of a better future.

By: Maria Pawlak, Abby Anderson, Makayla Williams, Elizabeth Roos, Hallie Edic, Francheska Colon, Emilee Coughlin, Lidabel Avila

More than a decade after the infamous Boxing Day Tsunami left hundreds of thousands dead, the Krakatoa caldera threatened to once again bring death and destruction to Indonesian shores. The area is extremely seismically active, particularly in the Sumatra region. As the region’s residents and those throughout the country received warnings that their worst day might be one-upped by a similar volcanic force, many found themselves forced to face the possibility that everything they had worked to rebuild could be washed away by something over which they have no power. Considering how long the Krakatoa caldera has been active, and how many deadly natural disasters occur in the area, one could wonder why generations of people choose to stay, suffer, rebuild, and stay again and again. However, it’s a very human instinct: to react and rebuild. This instinct is on display throughout N.K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy. 

This sci-fi/fantasy trilogy features a world called the Stillness, which experiences cataclysmic events with an alarming frequency. Entire cities, continents, and peoples are wiped out and rebuilt and yet, Jemisin’s characters continue living doggedly on, through grit teeth and white knuckles, but also through love, family, and culture. A mirror of that same human instinct is found when considering the caldera itself. Recently after the initial, extremely lethal tsunami of 2004, the caldera exploded again, bringing new death and destruction with it. Strangely, this new destruction arrived with a new name: the Child of Krakatoa. Humanity’s instinct to map patterns of familiarity onto trauma is stark, made evident by the generations of people living where their ancestors perished, people who had the instinct to call a consecutive event of destruction a child. As a way to refer to the repetition of destruction and the generational experience communities have within it, we will use the term “generational trauma.” This term has become a buzzword, which strips away meaning, but it’s our aim to use it specifically as a way to refer to generations of people and land who survive through repeated ruinous events. Through examining how art intersects with trauma in seismic events of death and destruction, we can investigate humanity’s determination to make sense of suffering and rebuild generation after generation.

To fully understand the seismic generational trauma of the area, we must first detail the repeating history of the cataclysmic events in the Krakatoa region. Starting the morning of December 26th, 2004, a 9.1 quake ruptured a 900-mile stretch of fault line where the Indian and Australian tectonic plates meet. The quake caused the ocean floor to suddenly rise by 40 meters, triggering the massive Boxing Day Tsunami. More than 100,000 people died in the city of Banda Aceh after the first of several hundred-foot waves hit the shoreline, pounding the city into rubble. By the time the water receded, nearly 230,000 people were killed, making this one of the deadliest disasters in modern history—claiming casualties in Thailand, India, Sri Lanka, and even South Africa. Since this disaster, many governments and aid groups have prioritized disaster risk reduction and preparedness. However, years later, in December 2018, the volcano of Anak Krakatau, the ‘Child’ of Krakatoa, underwent ongoing eruptions in the Sunda Strait that caused undersea landslides, triggering a tsunami that struck beaches in Sumatra and Java. However, there was no warning prior to the disaster, resulting in the deaths of over 400 people. Since this occurrence, the Indonesian government is now working to add volcano sensors to its warning system. Data now shows that the Anak Krakatau has continued to erupt as frequently as every year since 2018, and research shows it will continue to do so for many years. This record of the area’s seismic activity depicts not only the repeated damage done to Indonesia and its surrounding areas, but also the human efforts to rebuild after each of these devastating events.

Before continuing to speak about the human story of the Boxing Day Tsunami, it’s important to pause and examine the environmental story. Beginning with a  prologue, the effect the seismic event had on the environment right before the tsunami hit is compelling. According to the presentation Social and Economic Impact of December 2004 Tsunami, just before the tsunami struck the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, there were “changes in bird calls,” as well as an overall shift in bird and marine animal behavior. After the tsunami hit, however, there was a decrease in local fish populations, as well as salt intrusions into freshwater water sources. Additionally, there was “severe damage to ecosystems such as mangroves, coral reefs, forests, coastal wetlands, vegetation, sand dunes and rock formations, animal and plant biodiversity and groundwater,” as well as a “spread of solid and liquid waste and industrial chemicals,” greatly polluting the water of islands hit by the tsunami that would not clear until years afterward. Thankfully, eight years later, the ecosystems of the islands hit by the tsunami have greatly recovered. The changes in the photos of locations such as Banda Aceh, Sumatra, Indonesia, waterways have been cleared of debris and greenery such as grass and trees have returned, even as these locations have been developed by humans.

Moving from the environmental impact to the human impact allows us to witness the instinct to react and rebuild. The first novel of N.K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy opens with the quote, “Let’s start with the end of the world, why don’t we? Get it over with and move on to more interesting things.” The blasé tone the narrator takes demonstrates his repeated exposure to massive destruction, similar to the people of the Krakatoa region. It’s commonplace. While that apathy is not identical to our world’s reaction to destruction, there is something to be said for how areas of repeated seismic events carry “generational trauma” with them. In terms of the 2004 Tsunami, the human impact was overwhelming, with 220,000 human lives lost. Countless more were deemed missing. To make things worse, in the 2018 tsunami, Jakarta’s tsunami detection buoys were mysteriously non-functioning, leaving people scrambling at the last minute to find safety when the disaster was imminent—resulting in more deaths. 

However devastating the human impact, it was not ubiquitous throughout the region. Countries with more funds, greater access to western support, and charity found themselves in better positions. Thailand suffered more losses than that of Sri Lanka or Indonesia, though they were able to rebuild their country, but places like the Banda Aceh in Northern Indonesian are in real need of assistance to rebuild. By 2014 Indonesia had been fully rebuilt, but it took an entire decade. Regardless, the trials for the Indonesian people haven’t ended with the rebuilding of infrastructure. In Jemisin’s world, many mental illnesses plagued the people of the Stillness; for Indonesia, after the tsunamis the rate of post traumatic stress reactivity increased significantly, and remains in the minds of those who underwent this disaster.

The death and destruction of the tsunami have been transformed by artists as a means of finding peace in chaos, showing humanity’s need to create something beautiful from pain and rebuild the community. In The Stone Sky, Houwha the tuner learns the difference between art and utility upon encountering an engine created differently than others: “It had the same fundamental structure as other plutonic engines. Only its purpose is different—no, no. That’s too simple an assessment. What’s different here is…philosophical. Attitudinal. The Plutonic Engine is a tool. This thing? Is…art.” Examples of art are seen through the events that occurred after the Boxing Day Tsunami. For example, in the Aceh provincial community, World Food Programme personnel developed a school meals program for survivors in which children were allowed to sketch images of their experiences. Ten of the children were reunited with their drawings a decade after the life-altering event. Fir, a survivor, made a sketch of loved ones he had lost. He reveals, “It was bittersweet. I am really glad that my house and [immediate] family were not affected, but on that day I lost something greater, my relatives.” Fir uses this experience as a way of finding peace in what he lost in the tsunami. As most humans do, Fir employs art as a means of recovery from trauma and loss. These creations show the necessity of the human race to find beauty in destruction and use art as a method to comprehend and heal. 

In examining the colossal seismic events at and as a result of the Krakatoa Volcano, and the art that has emerged from the events’ equally destructive aftermaths, our attention is brought to a variety of issues which trace a pattern of human response and resilience to natural disasters throughout history. Additionally, we see that some people are vastly limited in their access to resources to combat these ramifications. Those who are responsible for this lack of accessibility, or for the practices that lead to the catastrophic event themselves, are never the ones highly affected by either. While attempts were made in relief efforts after the tsunami in 2004, they were not adequate for the community of people in the area that were already subject to external discriminatory factors before the event. Exploring these impacts can highlight the necessity for better safety education and accessibility to resources. 

Lastly, it’s difficult to reconcile our explosive, violent planet with the gentle image of Mother Earth, which is why N.K. Jemisin’s depiction of the planet is not only male, but aggressive. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy takes this long-upheld personification and twists it; in the Stillness, Father Earth is fully alive, completely aware— endlessly bent on revenge after being exploited. In doing this, Jemisin emphasizes humanity’s need to keep personifying the earth, but their contradictory practice of dehumanizing it in its treatment. At the same time, her protagonists also feel the effects of dehumanization; Essun spends her formative years being polished into a weapon, and her fear of how orogenes are treated causes her to train her daughter, Nassun, in the same emotionless way. This reiteration of abusive methods of control is just one way Jemisin acknowledges the cyclical way trauma takes effect. In the same way the earth and orogenes alike are and have been taken advantage of with no consideration for their safety, people in impoverished and underserved communities devastated by the tsunamis in the Krakatoa region are not fully supported before or after decades of destruction. Talk about generational trauma.

Not very gneiss.

By: Cheyanne C., Hannah F., Isabelle C., Marlee F., Mia D., Peyton W., Sarah P.

Chronicling the Mount Pinatubo Eruption: From Myth to Magma Flow

The major Pinatubo eruption occurred on June 15th, 1991. But as early as March of 1991, there were signs that the mountain was waking up. A series of earthquakes shook the area over a period of several months, alerting the locals that Mount Pinatubo might become active for the first time in living memory. These frequent, low-magnitude earthquakes continued until the second of April of the same year, when there was an explosion on the north side of the mountain that opened up steam vents and a fissure, emitting sulfur fumes. The next day, locals led scientists from the Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology (PHIVOLCS) to the site of the explosion. The scientists brought five seismic monitors and, realizing what the activity could mean, called the USGS Volcano Disaster Assistance Program for help monitoring the situation. On April 23rd, the USGS team arrived and set up a home base with PHIVOLCS using seismic and volcanic tracking and predicting technology. Over the next few weeks, the team determined that Mount Pinatubo was capable of a very large eruption, but they couldn’t tell if or when the volcano would erupt, or how big the possible eruption would be. By late May of the same year, seismic activity was fluctuating daily and more and more craters were appearing at the base of the mountain. It was still nearly impossible to tell when it would erupt, but they were able to map the areas of the island that would be hit by a worst-case scenario eruption (which unfortunately ended up being very close to what actually happened). At this point, they still couldn’t officially recommend evacuation because the team wasn’t sure when the volcano would erupt. 

In early June, the activity really started to ramp up. On the sixth of June, a swarm of low magnitude earthquakes accompanied the inflationary tilt, or puffing up, of the volcano, along with a continuous low-level ash eruption. A few days later, the first magma approached the surface of the volcano; on June ninth, the evacuation orders began, ordering 25,000 people to evacuate. Clark U.S. Air Base evacuated 14,000 “non-essential personnel” and their families due to the impending threats of growing lava dome, higher level ash eruption, and a worrying amount and magnitude of seismic activity. The first big eruption occurred on June 12th—Philippine Independence Day—at 8:51 a.m. The ash from this eruption went around 12 miles into the air. At this point, officials evacuated everyone in a dangerous range, for a total of about 60,000 people evacuated. After this eruption, seismic activity ramped up again and it was clear the volcano wasn’t stopping there. From the 12th to the 15th, there were three more massive vertical eruptions and 13 smaller ones, which produced pyroclastic flows down the slopes of the mountain. The team of scientists didn’t leave until the 15th, when the stop-and-go eruptions turned into one continuous eruption, that sent golf-ball sized pieces of pumice down over the Air Base, and lahars formed the ash and lava mixing with the rain from Typhoon Yunya, carrying boulders down the side of the mountain. That eruption led to the collapse of the peak into a caldera, which the scientists could feel from where they spent the night, 28 miles away.

The Range of Bacobaco’s Wrath

Most directly, the eruption of Mount Pinatubo affected the island of Luzon, where the volcano resides. As Live Science recalls, as Pinatubo erupted, the Philippines was already facing a natural disaster in the form of Typhoon Yunya, also known as Typhoon Diding. It is also remembered, in the context of how so many people were able to evacuate before disaster, that there were reoccurring earthquakes striking the mountainside which concerned residents and prompted Filipino scientists to contact the United States Geological Survey’s (USGS) Volcano Disaster Assistance Program to examine the tremors more closely. Thankfully, with these warning signs taken into careful consideration, many lives were saved as scientists  and officials called for evacuations, though the land surrounding Mount Pinatubo was ravaged. USGS documents that pyroclastic flows of lava seeped and exploded from the volcano, filling the surrounding valley, which polluted streams and destroyed crop fields. Even worse was the half-inch layer of ash, which Live Science reports covered 4,660 miles (7,500 square kilometers), but then spread further across the island and beyond the country of the Philippines because of Typhoon Yunya. It’s also explained that the ash falling from the sky mixed with the rains, creating lahars, a concrete-like mud, that collapsed roofs as far as nine miles (15 kilometers) away from the volcanic site, and USGS goes on to say that winds from the typhoon brought ash all across the South China Sea, affecting places as far as Cambodia. The initial effects of the eruption was not the end though, as there were earthquakes that followed and monsoons “eroded the thick pyroclastic deposits, recurring mudflows buried towns and farm fields, destroyed roads and bridges, and displaced more than 100,000 people,” as well as caused hundreds of deaths in addition to the original death toll.

Beyond the Philippines, USGS records that the ash cloud inoculated the stratosphere with nearly 20 million tons of sulfur dioxide, which cooled the global temperature by nearly an entire degree fahrenheit (half a degree celsius), causing weather patterns across the globe to shift and the effects of climate change to subside for a period of time.

Exploring Myth and Environmental Impact

Though the effects of Mount Pinatubo’s eruption in 1991 can be seen in modern times, there is a much older history of the mountain among the Aeta people of the Philippines. They believe that there is a god–Apo Mallori–who lives on the mountain and is the source of their sustenance. Some of the Aeta elders believe that Apo Mallori is angry at illegal loggers who have stripped the mountainside of its trees and also at the Philippine National Oil Co., who has allowed drilling into the heart of the mountain. For them, Apo Mallori is punishing humanity for its injustices by raining ash over the land. In this ideology, humans are the prime agents for the seismic events that unfolded in 1991. One villager, Victorio Villa, told reporters in an interview in June of 1991, “‘It is our firm belief that had the lowlanders not disturbed our volcano, it would not have erupted.’” Jemisin plays with this ideology in The Broken Earth Trilogy, using seismic catastrophism as a response to injustice by writing, “So where they should have seen a living being, they saw only another thing to exploit. Where they should have asked, or left alone, they raped.” In this trilogy, Father Earth is angry at humanity for being destructive and for the loss of his child, the moon. This triggers seismic events like earthquakes and volcanoes, the cause of the Seasons in this world. Myths, stories, and traditions are an integral part of people’s ways of life and are important parts of humanity. To understand Mount Pinatubo’s history in this way is to understand humanity’s role in the destruction of the earth. The language used by the Aeta humanizes the earth, just as Jemisin’s depiction of characters that utilize the earth for their powers and those that are formed from it, humanizes the earth. Both the history of the mountain as told by the Aeta elders and the beliefs held by the villagers living on the mountainside after the eruption lays blame with humans. No matter the cause, the effects of this eruption were very real.

The effects of Pinatubo continued to impact the people and environment in the  surrounding areas 25 years after the initial eruption. The Aeta people lived on the highlands of the island Luzon in the Philippines and approximately 20,000 of these Indigenous people were displaced during the evacuation process. During this horrible process, the Aeta people tried to hold onto their livelihood. Many chose to bring pets, while others arranged to be married to their partners prior to leaving behind what they knew as home. These people had been living on the slopes of Pinatubo for centuries and had grown their community to a population of 60,000 before the eruption.

Displacement refers to the forced moving of people from their home country because of war, persecution, or natural disaster. This being said, displacement is more complicated than just being physically removed from an area, especially when the Indigenous people relied on the vegetation surrounding the volcano to survive and build tradition with their youth. Because the state of their environment directly correlates to the state of their community, the Aeta people are still living in resettlement camps until they can return to their home. To this day, the fields encompassing Pinatubo are still unable to produce crops for the Aeta people and this also impacts the traditions that they have developed over the years. There are no means of farming left available for the Indigenous people to grow food and other materials necessary for survival, so harvesting traditions cannot be passed on to the younger generations when they come of age. Ecotourism efforts have attempted to restore some Indigenous practices, but this often leads to the shifting of focus onto satisfying foreign tourists instead of the well-being of the Aeta people, proving it ineffective for this community. Ecotourism is defined as “responsible travel to natural areas that conserves the environment, sustains the well-being of the local people, and involves interpretation and education [inclusive of both staff and guests].”

Some of the people who once resided in the lowlands were able to return home, but doing so forced them to continue facing danger due to lahars burning settlements and covering rice paddies and sugar-cane fields. The eruption also had a multitude of financial consequences for the people of Pinatubo including $700 million in damage, $100 million of the damage cost being to the 16 aircraft flying over Pinatubo at the time of the eruption, and $250 million in property with the rest of damage costs from agriculture, forestry, and land destruction.

Art Emerging from Tragedy

Like with many tragedies that happen on Earth, whether natural or anthropogenic, humans tend to create art to memorialize these events. In Angeles, Pampanga, a museum has been created to teach and reflect on the volcanic eruption that occurred. It was opened to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Pinatubo and highlight the events before, during, and after the eruption. There are many murals for visitors to view, not only showing the timeline but also the negative impacts of the ash that spewed from the volcano. One of the most stunning, nonetheless tragic, pieces of art is titled ‘Lumud” (Drown). Its creator, Arnel Garcia, depicts a Filipino family buried in ash with their personal belongings. Their faces, which are incredibly lifelike, depict a wide range of emotions. Some seem to be calm and accepting, while others seem to be scared and distraught. Garcia shows us that not all Filipinos reacted to the tragedy in the same way. Although this museum is very much a “chilling reminder” of the eruption, it has been very beneficial to the Filipino community. The tourism industry in and around Pinatubo has increased, as people have traveled to visit the museum and to see the aftermath. Along with the museum, tourists enjoy appreciating the lake, Lake Pinatubo, that was created due to the eruption. 

Following the eruption, in 1991 and the years that followed, the sunsets became extremely pigmented and breathtakingly beautiful. The colorful sunsets were produced by the sun’s rays cutting through the sulfuric acid cloud, altered by the thickest layers. People within the Philippines sat on the beaches to view and appreciate the beauty around them. The eruption caused hydrogen sulfide and sulfur dioxide into the atmosphere, which did create incredible sunsets, but also contributed to climate change. This cloud accelerated the destruction of the ozone layer and lowered temperatures on Earth.

The Broken Earth of Pinatubo

When thinking about why this matters, it makes sense to reflect on Jemisin’s underlying motivations and why the messages threaded throughout The Broken Earth trilogy matter. We connect the ways in which the destruction of something, whether it be the environment or a societal system, is a tragic event; it is also an opportunity for change. It redirects a society towards new discoveries and a greater understanding of the world we inhabit. In other words, failing foundations need to break in order to catalyze the growth of a system. “And so it is the society that must change. There can be peace this way, too, but not before conflict. No one reaches this place without a false start or two” (Jemisin). Furthering the idea that allows us to find hope within failure, destruction and change. Jemisin’s storyline reflects a foundation built on racial and ecological injustice, modeling a system with which we are all way too familiar. Our conversation is important because maybe some things break because there is a need for it to be rebuilt with a better understanding.

In regards to our seismic event, the eruption of Mount Pinatubo, this applies to the way in which this event modified the way we approach and learn from volcanic hazards. It also alerts us as readers about the impacts of climate change and how necessary changes within society are, which connects to previous learning in this course, particularly our conversation with Dr. Reitz. If we do not begin to react to climate change now, we may end up relying on a poor solution in the future. Both the characters in the novels and us as humans have come to the conclusion that we are responsible for much of the destruction that happens around us. In local myth, the Mount Pinatubo eruption has been viewed as human-caused and allegedly occurred due to the exploitation of the surrounding area. Humans have also been found responsible for causing climate change: “The eruption helped scientists definitively declare that human emissions of greenhouse gasses are to blame for at least the past 60–70 years of warming” (Wendel & Kumar). Essentially, The Broken Earth trilogy ends within the realm of the same realization, who is at fault for all the turmoil: The humans who built the foundation in the first place. Even as old foundations crumble, we must remember them in order to build better ones in the future. As occurred in Jemisin’s novels, the loss of knowledge of what happened in Syl Anagist led the people of the Stillness to repeat the sins of their ancestors, in oppressing and enslaving a group of people, and led to their continual punishment at the hands of the Earth. We must always remember the cracks in the foundations we are rebuilding, so we’re sure we are making it better and stronger than before. As Jemisin questions throughout her trilogy, “How can we prepare for the future if we won’t acknowledge the past?”