My Native Land
Being Displaced
My Adopted Land
"On Being Invisible" Series
On Being Invisible
On Being Invisible: Our Elderly
On Being Invisible: Our Nation's Veterans
"Dear Elvira" Series
Dear Elvira: Regarding [Literary] Diets and Cats
Dear Elvira: Bad Writing and Every Beholder's Eye
Cold and Hungry and Far From Home
1. Making Soup
The Story of a Story
2. Home Furnishings
4. Winter Wonderland
5. The Microclimate of Trees
Nation of Hereos
Anna Noon
Preface; Part I, Chapter 1
Migration, Nature, Politics
The Nativists and Me
19 April 2016 Ilse Munro	3 Comments
Some common seed-dispersal systems. (Illustration: David Plunkert)
Certain aspects of spring make me squirm. Particularly those related to advice on what I should and should not plant. Even what I should actively eradicate. Insistent voices and ubiquitous manifestos inform me that I must limit myself to native plants—that is, those established before European and African settlement—and wage war on all others. Which you might think is mere hyperbole on my part, but that is not so. The desire to make my local environment resemble what it might have looked like before 1492, when Columbus crossed the ocean blue, is what drives the definition of "native" in a booklet just published by the Maryland Native Plant Society. Which makes me wonder why this document was not produced by a printing press, invented circa 1440, instead of some digital device available only recently.
On the surface, I have at least two problems with people who espouse this sort of nativism. First, I am not convinced that they love nature nearly as much as they claim. If they did, they would readily embrace an essential aspect: constant change. Which is particularly important these days since phenomena such as global warming are rapidly accelerating the rate of this change. Meaning that trying to make current vegetation resemble that of previous centuries, where the natural and man-made environment was decidedly different, is maladaptive, at best. If they must mess with Mother Nature, they might better ask what her future needs were and attempt to meet them. Second, they do not seem to understand the inherent futility of their efforts. Both plants and animals, including the human kind, are set up to spread. The salient difference between flora and fauna is that the former relocate by more subtle means. Say, through seed dispersal. And between autochory—most notably the use of gravity—and allochory—wind, water, animals and humans—them flora sure do get around. Of course, much of seed dissemination is polychorous, which makes those nativists that come down particularly hard on the human-vectored sort of dispersal come across as somewhat silly.
Deep down, there is another problem that I do not bring up with such nativists. Much like my father, who seemed to fear for his manhood each spring that my mother made him to lop off tree limbs and prune bushes, I—a non-native Marylander (here by way of Latvia, Austria, Germany, Michigan, Massachusetts and Alabama), a merely naturalized US citizen and a former displaced person—fear for my place in my present community, my adopted country and even the world as a whole at the start of each growing season. Because, invariably, I get sucked into discussions with those finding the likes of the multiflora roses and butterfly bushes on my riverbank offensive and then wonder just how they find me. You see, there is a political form of nativism that seeks to preserve or reinstate status for established inhabitants against the claims of newcomers and seems disturbingly similar to that of those seeking to reinstate some prior status of the riverbank.
The arguments used are certainly similar. And similarly questionable. They say, for instance, that the trouble with non-natives is that there are no natural predators to keep them in check. And that unchecked growth decreases biodiversity. Try telling that to our native beavers, who indiscriminately destroy the Japanese cherry trees, non-native but beloved, planted along the Tidal Basin and the native dogwood that I planted in memory of my mother. And to those humans, presumably native-born, who attack immigrants in our area and made life miserable for my family and five-year-old me when we arrived in Michigan. If diversity really is at issue, those nativists would beat on beavers, not butterfly bushes, which beavers blessedly leave alone. But they do not, any more than the other sort fights anti-immigration groups. Most would readily revert to 1965, when white people still comprised 85 percent of the population rather than rejoice that non-Hispanic whites will no no longer represent the majority by 2044.
Of course, nativists rarely seem to commit to reinstating the status of all plants or all people to anywhere near that of pre-colonial days. Few, for instance, show any interest in pushing for legislation restoring the status of Indian tribes. Even those who refer to them as "Native Americans" and admire their artifacts. And while dandelions are anointed by the Maryland Biodiversity Project and touted by the University of Maryland as nutrient-rich plants used by said Native Americans to treat a range of disorders, not many refrain from ripping those pretty but pesky natives from their lawns. Much like my mother in Michigan, who sought total annihilation as my father and and I stood by and smirked. (Monoculture lawns seem to be suburbanites' sacred sites. When I worked in Washington, a colleague from posh Potomac said in all seriousness, "We have been invaded by violets.")
Undogmatic by nature, I was pleased to learn that organizations such as the The Nature Conservancy now take a nuanced stance. Altering the orthodoxy that assumes that non-natives are guilty until proven innocent, points such as the following serve as rational replacements:
Non-natives can have devastating impacts, especially on islands,
But they can also provide much-needed habitats for endangered species and be the best bet for erosion and mudslide control.
Trade restrictions and border controls have reduced the flow of known pests, and some eradication programs have succeeded
But millions of federal dollars have been spent without any measurable impact on either biodiversity or ecosystem function.
It is important to protect against certain highly invasive species
But novel ecosystems are increasingly common and, going forward, will need to be viewed as part of the total ecosystem.
Not only are these points applicable to, say, my multiflora roses, which were, in fact, introduced to control erosion on riverbanks such as mine, but also to non-native humans such as me. Substitute some words in a Conservancy statement, and you will see. "Science-based conservation cannot be about knee-jerk platitudes and simple views of good and evil" any more than evidence-based immigration or refugee policy can be about knee-jerk platitudes and simple views . . .
The mixed blessings of introduced species are well-illustrated by the Columbian Exchange, that widespread transfer of not only people but also plants and animals and microbes, not to mention culture and science and technology, that took place between the American and Afro-Eurasian hemispheres as a consequence of the colonization and trade that followed from that somewhat ill-considered trip Columbus took. While non-native diseases certainly contributed to precipitous declines in indigenous populations, benefits accrued, as well. There was, for instance, no honey bee here back then. The same one that now is undergoing colony collapse and causing us to wring our hands about how we will feed ourselves in the future without this important pollinator. We probably will figure out a way, since humans—arguably the most invasive species of all—and ecosystems do eventually adapt.
Meanwhile, I will continue to root for those dastardly multiflora roses and butterfly bushes since those beleaguered bees sure do like feasting on their flowers. And that useless grassy hillside—it could barely be called a lawn—behind my house that I turned into some semblance of a rain garden, full of non-native shrubs and small trees selected not only for their shade tolerance but also because they are not too tasty to our native white-tailed deer, who eat everything in sight. And those non-native lettuces and carrots that I plan to plant in our community garden. And the native tobacco plants, but only when they are restricted to the colonial garden, co-located with our own at the Benjamin Banneker Historical Park and Museum, which is dedicated to the first African-American man of science and son of a former slave.
I will also continue to support the Syrian refugees, not only because I was a refugee once myself but also because I cannot imagine how I would be able write another word without the elegant digital devices developed by a man whose biological father hailed from Homs. And the migrants who enter the country from the south, not only because part of the States once belonged to those below the border but also because one is my next-door neighbor. And to oppose those nativists who believe that closing borders and building walls will somehow "make America great again." Not only because I cannot countenance their irrational hatred but also because they ignore their own history. Particularly the part where the Columbian Exchange and subsequent waves of immigration carried the seeds of greatness to their shores.
Some non-native plants, animals and microbes. (Source: Encyclopædia Britannica)
Anti-Immigrant SentimentIndigenous PeopleInvasive SpeciesNative AnimalsNative Plants
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3 thoughts on "The Nativists and Me"
clarinda harriss says:
I hear ya! If a plant is happy in your garden, let it be–and get more. I am particularly annoyed by distinction between "true native" plants and cultivars what have gone native over the centuries. I chuckle when I look at Bmore's glorious Sherwood gardens–their evil Dutch tulips sorrounding the kind of bizarr exotic evergreen trees that used to be prized by rich folks on both sides of the pond. One of the fondest memories I have of the west of Ireland is seeing palm trees flourish beside thatched cottages. A person grows them there BECAUSE THEY CAN. One caveat: native species of hydrangeas weather extreme Bmore cold (never really all that extreme) better than the popular non-native blue ones.
Ilse Munro says:
Thanks, Clarinda. You always struck me as the live-and-let-live sort. BTW, my hydrangeas, which are called "Moonlight" and have chartreuse blooms are thriving in my rain garden. So much so that I have to cut them back each year. Which I should have done by now.
Pingback: Me, As Mammal | DISPLACED PERSON
Look and Listen . . .
W. H. Auden wrote the poem "September 1, 1939" during the first days of World War II. It deliberately echoes the stanza form of W. B. Yeats' "Easter, 1916" and similarly moves from a description of failures and frustrations to the possibility of transformation. (See text.) Here it is, as read by Dylan Thomas:
Note: Since I posted this, I have read Edward Mendelson's "The Secret Auden," which shows that Auden was a great person as well as a great poet.
An Affirming Flame
22 November 2013 Ilse Munro	Leave a comment
Taken literally, "Pūt vējiņi" ("Blow, winds") could be a sentimental folk song about the defiance of a reckless rake whose beloved's mother had broken a promise to give her daughter's hand in marriage because he drank and raced horses. ("I drank on my own tab / And raced my own horse. // And married my own bride / Without her parents' knowledge." But his longing to return home, as well as the reverend way that Latvians started to sing it made it a surrogate national anthem, sung during times of oppression, when something more provocative such as "Dievs, sveti Latviju!" ("God, Bless Latvia!") would have elicited harsh reprisal from authorities. Here it is as sung at the closing concert of the 2008 Latvian song and dance festival (Dziesmusvētki):
Blow, Winds
Brett Candlish Millier: "[Elizabeth Bishop's] 'One Art' is an exercise in the art of losing, a rehearsal of the things we tell ourselves in order to keep going, a speech in a brave voice that cracks once in the final version and cracked even more in the early drafts. The finished poem may be the best modern example of a villanelle and shares with its nearest competitor, Theodore Roethke's justly famous 'The Waking'—'I wake to sleep and take my waking slow'—the feeling that in the course of writing or saying the poem the poet is giving herself a lesson, in waking, in losing. Bishop's lines share her ironic tips for learning to lose and to live with loss." (See the full text of the poem.)
The Art of Losing
From 1944 to 1945, the approaching Soviet Army forced many Latvians to find escape routes to other countries. According to one source, about 250,000 people became refugees. Many got stuck in Courland, and some 50-60,000 were murdered by Soviet troops in Poland and Germany. After the war, approximately 6000 Latvians found refuge in Sweden, 120,00 in West Germany, 3000 in Austria and 2000 in Denmark. In later years, Latvian emigration spread to the United States, Canada, Australia and other countries. Some succumbed to forced repatriation by the Soviets; most expected to voluntarily return once Latvia was free, though that rarely occurred.
Leaving Latvia
21 November 2013 Ilse Munro	3 Comments
Although Tom Petty uses "refugee" metaphorically, his song captures the meaning of the word. "This was a reaction to the pressures of the music business," he said. "I wound up in a huge row with the record company when ABC Records tried to sell our contract to MCA Records without us knowing about it, despite a clause in our contract that said they didn't have the right to do that. I was so angry with the whole system that I think that had a lot to do with the tone of the Damn the Torpedoes album. I was in this defiant mood. I wasn't so conscious of it then, but I can look back and see what was happening. I find that's true a lot. It takes some time usually before you fully understand what's going on in a song—or maybe what led up to it."
Live Like a Refugee
21 November 2013 Ilse Munro	1 Comment
For the opening lines of The Member of the Wedding, Carson McCullers wrote: "It happened that green and crazy summer when Frankie was twelve years old. This was the summer when for a long time she had not been a member. She belonged to no club and was a member of nothing in the world. Frankie had become an unjoined person and hung around in doorways, and she was afraid."
An Unjoined Person
The following is an interview with 83-year-old Mirdza Balas, a librarian in the Sonoma County system. She drove the bookmobile and subsequently became manager of Sebastopol branch, from which she retired in 1989. Balas relates her memories of growing up in Latvia before and during World War II and moving through Europe as a displaced person before she came to the United States in 1957.
An Oral History
The Economist, 22 May 2008: "Being burnt in effigy on the streets of Moscow by nationalist hoodlums must count as a kind of Oscar if you are a Latvian filmmaker whose aim is to expose modern Russia's blindness to the criminal history of the Soviet Union. The ire of Young Russia's protest outside the Latvian embassy this week was directed at Edvins Snore, whose film Soviet Story is the most powerful antidote yet to the sanitisation of the past."
The Soviet Story
The musical Eslingena premiered in Toronto, Canada in 2004 at the 12th Latvian Song Festival. At the end, as Andris Straumanis reports, "the audience joined hands and, led by the actors and crew, sang again the closing song: 'Vai tu vari mani tagad pateikt, Kas mums dzīvē notiks?' Can you tell me now what will become of us? It is a question that is as relevant now as it was in the Esslingen DP camp, and as it has been in much of Latvian history. We don't know the answer. That's why I cried." Here is a parody of a Soviet attempt to convince Latvians in the DP camp to repatriate:
Forced Repatriation
Latvian-American artist Markus Rotkovičs (Mark Rothko): "I'm not an abstractionist. I'm not interested in the relationship of color or form or anything else. I'm interested only in expressing basic human emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on."
Tragedy, Ecstacy, Doom
Consider . . .
Salman Rushdie having a discussion with Emory University students.
"So my subject changed, was no longer a search for lost time, had become the way in which we remake the past to suit our present purposes, using memory as our tool."
Salman Rushdie, "Errata: or, Unreliable Narration in Midnight's Children," 1983
17 December 2013 Ilse Munro	Leave a comment
A barrack in Dolinka, a village at the center of the gulag system in Kazakhstan. (Source: Reuters)
"Dad always said a person must have a magnificent reason for writing out his or her Life Story and expecting anyone to read it."
Marisha Pessl, Special Topics in Calamity Physics, 2006
Magnificent Reason
Storage Battery Assembling Department, Thomas Edison's factory (Source: National Park Service.)
"There is no expedient to which a man will not go to avoid the labor of thinking."
—Joshua Reynolds, often misattributed to Thomas Edison, who liked it so much that he posted it around his factory.
An Apt Misattribution
3 December 2013 Ilse Munro	Leave a comment
Dinaw Mengestu in Washington, DC in 2012 (Source: Getty Images)
"What was it my father used to say? A bird stuck between two branches gets bitten on both wings. I would like to add my own saying to the list now, Father: a man stuck between two worlds lives and dies alone. I have dangled and been suspended long enough."
Dinaw Mengestu, The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears, 2007
Between Two Branches
11 September 2001, World Trade Towers, New York City, NY (Photo: Robert Clark)
"Imagining what it is like to be someone other than yourself is at the core of our humanity. It is the essence of compassion, and it is the beginning of morality."
—Ian McEwan, The Guardian, 15 September 2001
Imagining . . .
ILSE MUNRO
One month after I was born, my family and I were forced to leave our native land. In this way, I became what is officially called a "displaced person." When I arrived in the United States as a five-year-old, I learned that the term, shortened to "DP," could be used pejoratively. These days, I simply see it as an apt descriptor and even take perverse pride in having been identified as such. In doing so, I acknowledge that it continues to apply today.
I have lived in Latvia, Austria, Germany and, in the United States, many places in Michigan, Massachusetts, Alabama and Maryland. But being a DP is as much a state of mind as it is of residency. Often a solitary one, so I would be delighted if you shared my wanderings, as presented in the posts and pages of this site. And added your own unique voice, as well.
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Starting from Scratch 13 December 2021
Private Parts 13 July 2021
Ethel Street 13 April 2021
The Face of Extremism 2 March 2020
Steering Clear of Camps 24 November 2019
Are We Better Than This? 4 July 2019
My Many Names 29 January 2019
Season's Greetings 17 December 2018
Welcome to America 24 June 2018
To Leave Or To Stay 8 June 2018
A Book About Sentient Beings, Great and Small 11 April 2018
It Wasn't Always Like This 21 February 2018
Reading DH Lawrence in Grand Rapids, MI 26 September 2017
Monuments and Museums 22 August 2017
Bread, Salt and Water 3 January 2017
Before The Storms Begin 29 September 2016
Me, As Mammal 22 May 2016
The Nativists and Me 19 April 2016
No Big Deal 9 February 2016
So Long, Laima 19 January 2016
So You Know About Guns? 6 January 2016
Lost Lost Lost 23 November 2015
The Last Time I Saw Paris 19 November 2015
A Good Day 3 November 2015
Migrants and Thugs 15 September 2015
Debt of Honor 8 September 2015
Were You Ever a Refugee? 25 August 2015
Body Language 21 August 2015
Satirize Something 12 January 2015
My Cousin in England 23 December 2014
Reconsidering Sentiment 17 December 2014
From Playing with Food to Playing with Words 9 October 2014
What to Do When Stranded 2 October 2014
Bremerhaven Today 11 September 2014
A Formal Feeling Comes 18 January 2014
What Causes Us to Cringe 18 January 2014
Four Generations of Women 18 January 2014
Aspects of My Father 17 January 2014
Errata 17 December 2013
Magnificent Reason 16 December 2013
An Apt Misattribution 3 December 2013
Between Two Branches 2 December 2013
Imagining . . . 24 November 2013
An Affirming Flame 22 November 2013
Blow, Winds 22 November 2013
The Art of Losing 22 November 2013
Why I Write 21 November 2013
Leaving Latvia 21 November 2013
Live Like a Refugee 21 November 2013
An Unjoined Person 21 November 2013
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