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Saturday |
 I haven't bought a logbook yet for sailboat so I reckon this is as good a place as any to record all the nonevents happening down at Leschi Marina south moorage, my new home away from home. Ah, home. What a concept. Reading up on how Leschi got its name is yet another confrontation with Seattle's dark history of theft, displacement, and murder. Chief Leschi was hanged for crimes he didn't commit. The standoff at Standing Rock, the systemic oppression of people of color, and the rise of a proto-fascist white supremacist presidential candidate make it imperative to confront the foundations on which this pyramid scheme of a country was founded. Maybe getting a sailboat is my way of trying to break free of this blood-soaked land. But it's not an issue one should run from. To his supporters, Trump offers the same consolation as getting blind drunk--instead of drinking to forget, they are voting to forget. He is the princeling of amnesia, promising a return to a greatness that never was. Meanwhile I grapple with my role in all this. More and more the simple truth that we're living on stolen land hits me in the gut and I don't know what to do with that. |
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