It’s hard to predict what the summer of 2020 will be remembered for. The coronavirus pandemic has brought tectonic change to almost every part of life, but with no specific triggering event to rally around, all we have are ripples: cancelled plans, the claustrophobia that comes from pandemic fatigue, and the exhaustion that comes from a torrent of calamitous events in the news cycle. There was one blessing for me, though. Unable to travel, I had nowhere to go but my backyard. I got to sit and savor the beauty of my little patch of heaven--in my whole adult life, I’ve never had a garden to plant things in. Working from home, I got to see and actually interact with my neighbors. I learned to love Columbus, and the people in it. Other dramatic crises—wildfires, floods, civil uprisings, the ever-looming election—added to the uniquely exhausting power of the pandemic. But I’ll always remember sitting on my back porch with Jackson by my side, listening to the reassuring sound of hourly-striking church bells, a vestige of regularity from another time in an upended world.
The truth is out there
The X-Files debuted in September of 1993, the same year Bill Clinton took office. Most female law enforcement characters today have been informed by Gillian Anderson’s shoulder-padded, eye-rolling, Scully. An iconic pop-culture phenomenon in the 90s, The X-Files was a landmark in feminist screenwriting and groundbreaking in its presentation of a truly equal TV partnership. Dana Scully was the skeptical rule-follower led by logic. She was brilliant and capable with her feet firmly on the ground, diametrically opposed to her partner Fox “Spooky” Mulder’s head-in-the-clouds, follow-the-spaceship approach. Critics have decoded The X-Files in manifold ways, including as an allegory of illegal immigration. Indeed, it hardly seems coincidental that the show’s climb to cult status took place during a period marked by nationalist discourse obsessed with borders, so-called “illegal aliens” and immigration. The topicality of both The X-Files and paranoia about an “alien nation” were symptomatic of the political moment. The X-Files was popular in the 90s because it expressed the high degrees of complexity emerging with the post-industrial era. Its characters were alien and alienated. The visual aesthetic became, in turn, a touchstone for the distrust, tension and angst of the nineties. The X-Files premiered right around the time that the internet was becoming readily accessible. Because of this, it has a naively optimistic charm, a relic from a (relatively) innocent pre-9/11 era when America hadn't been so deeply threatened and could turn inward. It's about belief and faith in something that exists on a higher plane. But it also represents a full-blown default mistrust in the world as it was presented to us, an effective primer on recent trends in online misinformation. The show's infamous tagline, "THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE," may look a tad anachronistic in a post-truth world marred by internet-fueled conspiracy theories. Nostalgia-driven tv shows like The X-Files, firmly embedded in the cultural milieu of the 90s, serve as the ultimate emotional pacifier, an antidote to the increasingly unpredictable nature of daily life in the shadow of Covid-19.
Flag wars
Imagine a utopia. Queer paradise. A place where you are constantly surrounded by pleasant, like-minded people that all get along. A place where you never have to worry about discrimination or prejudice. Life is just easy-going without any unnecessary negative experiences. Theoretically that’s what a gayborhood, or a neighborhood with a large number of LGBTQ+ residents, is supposed to be. And while there are plenty of benefits to living in a place filled with people like you, there also comes some strong negative impacts.
Linda Goode Bryant and Laura Poitras’ 2003 documentary Flag Wars follows the conflict in a Columbus, Ohio neighborhood between the gay and African American communities as gay white homebuyers begin moving in and gentrifying the neighborhood. Filmed in Columbus’s Olde Towne East neighborhood over a period of four years, it looks at the casual way in which the displacement of the African American community occurs.
To give some historical context, Olde Towne East was once the crown jewel of Columbus. Back in the last half of the 19th century, the city’s most intelligent, creative, wealthy and powerful citizens all resided in this neighborhood. The so-called “white flight” began with the introduction of the freeway system in the 1950s, more suburbs, and desegregation. By the 1970s, the neighborhood had become a predominately African American community. The once grand and opulent mansions were either gutted of their expensive amenities (such as copper plumbing and porcelain sinks and bathtubs) or partitioned and converted into apartments and nursing homes.
LGBTQ folk began moving into the area in the 1990s—attracted by and renovating its relatively inexpensive Victorian homes—increasing property values and displacing the neighborhood’s working-class families, many of them African American. By the mid 90s people had stopped dying of AIDS thanks to major advancements in antiretroviral treatments. The AIDS epidemic had a devastating effect on the gay community. This period marks a moment in gay history when LGBTQ folk could once again allow themselves to look to the future with hope, a joyful new dawn after a decade of death and shame.
While shared experiences of oppression could have laid a foundation for solidarity between the two groups, that possibility wasn't realized. Instead, many of the new residents called on police to crack down on the slightest violations of city code committed by black residents. Throughout the film, newcomers use civil law to speed up the process of removing the African American community. This includes having parts of the neighborhood declared historic to create restricted housing codes, fighting the presence of low-income housing, and making code enforcement complaints. One such newly introduced regulation stipulates that longtime resident, Jim, must remove an African-style sign from above his front door while his newer neighbors are permitted to fly rainbow flags from their properties, hence the film’s title.
Extreme nonchalance best describes the prevailing attitude of the white newcomers towards the black community, which at times is hard to watch. At one point in the documentary, while attending a neighborhood meeting a member of the queer community states, “If you don’t want to renovate it, then don’t live in it.” Jim explains that most of these people do not have the money to allocate funds to the upkeep of their homes.
As the new residents restore the beautiful but run-down homes, black homeowners fight to hold onto their community and heritage. The inevitable clashes expose prejudice and self-interest on both sides, as well as the common dream to have a home to call your own. Winner of the Jury Award at the South by Southwest Film Festival, Flag Wars is a candid, unvarnished portrait of privilege, poverty and local politics taking place across America. While twenty years have passed since the film was originally shot, it could not be more relevant today.
Back to the land: the enduring dream of self-sufficiency
I started observing and documenting American utopian movements several years ago, having always been drawn to the idea of pastoral simplicity myself. On further investigation, it became clear that the desire to carve out a space in the wilderness is the essence of the American dream, dating right back to when Europeans first “discovered” America in the 15th and 16th centuries; communes have popped up all over the continent ever since, often intertwined with spiritual movements.
By the mid-70s, the commune period had ended but the back-to-the-land movement was still in full swing: radical social experiments in group living had been replaced by individual families’ radical experiments in self-sufficiency. In the wake of the Covid-19 pandemic, reducing waste has resurfaced as a priority, with a renewed appreciation for sustainable living. Could this mark the beginning of a new evolutionary stage for communal living?
Homesteading taps into an ever-present American urge to reinvent ourselves in the semi-rural wilderness. In the 1970s, another "white flight" exodus consisted of white, well-educated college kids from middle-class or wealthy backgrounds going back to the land. For many, the choice to live a life of radical austerity and anachronism was certainly a rebellion against the comfort and prosperity of their Eisenhower-era childhoods, but that same background of comfort also offered a security and safety net that made such radical choices possible.
For some, trust funds and allowances actually financed their rural experiments; for most others, family support was more implied than actual—if things really went wrong on the farm, they knew, their parents could bail them out or take them in. But even those who had cut ties with their families altogether were still the recipients of a particular, inherited confidence.
Today, we are seeing another radical shift as working from home means that a rural life of self-sufficiency is possible, thanks to wi-fi. We are already seeing well-heeled residents leaving New York City in favor of the Hudson Valley and further afield. If the new normal is the distributed company, how will that impact cities? The rapid adoption of remote work and automation could accelerate inequalities if white collar professionals spark a mass urban exodus.
In the shadow of the Vietnam War and amidst widespread social upheaval, the 1970s remains the only time in the nation's history when more people moved to rural areas than into the cities. As author Kate Daloz maintains, “The sudden, spontaneous back-to-the-land movement emerged from the collision between this crushing, apocalyptic fear and the generational confidence that convinced its young people they were still entitled to the world as they wanted it.”
At no other moment in American history had anyone seen anything like the shift that happened as the 1960s turned into the 1970s. To a privileged generation exhausted by shouting NO to every aspect of the American society they were raised to inherit, rural life represented a way to say yes. Similarly, when this pandemic is over, our lives may never exist in the same way again.
The Marietta Earthworks
I first became fascinated with Indian burial grounds after watching The Shining. In the original novel by Stephen King, there is actually no mention of an Indian burial ground or any Native American influence at all really. But Kubrick’s movie is very clearly about the past impinging on the present and the desecration of sacred land opening up a sink hole to all the layers and horrors of history. The Shining is also explicitly about America's general inability to admit to the gravity of the genocide of the Indians -- or, more exactly, its ability to "overlook" that genocide. Not only is the site called the Overlook Hotel with its Overlook Maze, but one of the key scenes takes place at the July 4th Ball.
The idea that one could disrespect American Indians, that theirs was a history on which we had trampled, was, embarrassingly but truthfully, sort of new to much of the American public in the 1970s. And what could be scarier than having your worst mistakes come back to haunt you? The Marietta Earthworks site is a 2000-year old Hopewell culture ceremonial center constructed between 100 BC and AD 500, located in southern Ohio on the border of West Virginia. Ohio is considered to be the epicenter for the most impressive Hopewell earthworks. Incidentally, the name Ohio in turn originates from the Seneca word ohiːyo', meaning "good river", "great river" or "large creek".
The idea of Ohio becoming a state began as a business venture in a Boston tavern in 1786. At that time, the American Revolutionary War was over, the Brits had been kicked out, and the conversation turned to the wild west, which at that time meant Ohio and Kentucky. So when the Ohio Company landed at the confluence of the Muskingum and Ohio rivers in 1788, they didn’t know what these series of earthworks and mounds meant. Indeed, it is suggested that these first settlers attempted to plan their new settlement around, rather than over, the earthworks. The British government had previously attempted to improve relations with the American Indians already residing in the Ohio territory by prohibiting white settlement in the Ohio Country.
Starting with the Proclamation of 1763, as it is known, the British colonial government placed firm limits on westward expansion. They acknowledged that Indians owned the lands on which they were then residing and white settlers in the area were to be removed. Great Britain's action, which was by no means altruistic in origin, resulted in part in the American Revolution. It angered colonists because they weren't allowed to settle west of the Appalachian Mountains. The Treaty of Paris (1783) brought the Revolution to a close and Great Britain recognized the independence of the United States. By 1843, the last large group of American Indians in Ohio had been made to give up their land.
Independence was bad for Native Americans, who mostly sided with the British or stayed neutral. Indians’ collusion with the British during the American Revolution and the War of 1812 exacerbated American hostility and suspicion toward them. American colonists* refused to see Indians as fellow subjects. Instead, they viewed them as obstacles in the way of their dreams of land ownership and trading wealth. Faulkner’s famous line “The past is never dead. It’s not even the past” is perhaps pertinent here: these landscapes are loaded with meaning. The names of the Ohio tribes included the Illinois tribe (Illini), Iroquois, Chippewa, Delaware, Erie, Ottawa, and Potawatomi, Kickapoo, Kaskaskia, Miami, Wyandot and Shawnee.
*The inhabitants of the American colonies were from quite early on known as “Americans” starting in the early 1600s. However, that was more a term to distinguish British subjects of the American colonies from those born and raised in Britain, and was not a national identity as one might understand it today.
The Underground Railroad
Established in the early 1800s, the Underground Railroad was a network of secret routes and safe houses for those escaping slavery. The success of the Underground Railroad rested on the cooperation of former runaway slaves, free-born blacks, Native Americans, and white and black abolitionists who helped guide fugitive slaves. The southern Ohio town of Marietta is supposedly one of the Underground Railroad’s outposts, situated where the Ohio and Muskingum Rivers meet.
Evaluating history means dealing with a curious hybrid of exciting untruths/clever humbug. Which is to say, the story of the Underground Railroad is not quite wrong, but simplified; not quite a myth, but mythologized, cloaking white midwestern communities in a gauzy innocence. It took courage almost everywhere in antebellum America to actively oppose slavery, but the idea that Ohio welcomed fugitives with open arms is a fairytale—Ohio was split on the issue of slavery. It was against not only state law, but also federal law to help an escaping slave. Indeed fugitives were only marginally better off in the ostensibly free state of Ohio than across the border in Kentucky. The frontier was not a place of heroism and sweetness and light. It was a place of violence, injustice and devastation for many escapees.
Ohio has a complex historical relationship to slavery and racial capitalism. During the nineteenth century, the economy of Cincinnati—the capital of Southwest Ohio and bordering Kentucky—stood in stark contrast to Northeast Ohio’s. Its wealth was indelibly linked to slavery. Slavecatchers abounded as far north as Dayton, where they made a living catching African Americans seeking freedom and selling them back into bondage across the river. Abolitionists were not welcome in antebellum Cincinnati.
Fugitive slaves were largely on their own until they crossed the Ohio River. And those that did were mostly rescued by free blacks, not benevolent white abolitionists. Most runaways did not head north, and most slaves who sought their liberty did not run away. Only after the Civil War—when it no longer required vision or courage or personal sacrifice—did large numbers of white Americans grow interested in being part of the liberation story. You might call it an early example of retroactive reputation laundering.
That is not to say that there weren’t great men like the famous stationmaster John Rankin in Ripley, Ohio, who used the secret “sign” of a lantern in a window to signal that it was safe to cross the Ohio River to his home. However, this was not a common signal. If it had been, the slave catchers would have quickly learned of it, and used it to identify safe houses.
In the entire history of slavery, the Railroad offers one of the few narratives in which white Americans can plausibly appear as heroes. It is also one of the few slavery narratives that feature black Americans as heroes—which is to say, one of the few that emphasize the courage, intelligence, and humanity of enslaved African Americans rather than their subjugation and misery.
The UR reached its height between 1850 and 1860: slavery lasted for two and half centuries. Estimates are that about 40,000 slaves escaped to freedom on the network, but of them, for every one that made it, between five and 10 were caught, often brutally punished, and returned south to slavery.
Whispers of tunnels, secret rooms and runaway slaves have swirled around the Anchorage, Marietta, Ohio’s mysterious mansion on the hillside built in the 1850’s and completed in 1859, for more than a century. I guess if you look for “evidence” of the Anchorage’s Underground Railroad involvement you will “find” a network of large tunnels in the basement leading into the surrounding hillsides. Geologists, engineers and construction experts believe the tunnels were designed for drainage. I try to be a precise and compassionate observer of America, and this toes the feather line between fantasy and reality.
Inflated tales of emergency hiding places for fugitive slaves may temporarily distract us from tragedy with thrilling adventures, but when the history of slavery gets mixed up with folklore, the severity of the atrocities that took place become minimized. Likewise ghost stories construct a more genteel vision of the past: but they also deflect from the very real pain of racism and the suffering caused by the barbaric institution of chattel slavery. In the words of James Baldwin: “A complex thing can't be made simple. You simply have to try to deal with it in all its complexity and hope to get that complexity across.”
A note on language. By changing from the use of a name—slaves—to an adjective—enslaved—we grant these individuals an identity as people and use a term to describe their position in society rather than reducing them to that position. In a small but important way, we carry them forward as people, not the property that they were in that time. This is not a minor thing, this change of language.
Postcard from Montreal
With its magnetic mix of rugged individualism and European flair, Montreal exudes an irresistible French-Canadian joie de vivre. A short jaunt from most U.S. cities, Montreal feels like a quick trip to Paris. The blend of Canadian and French cultures can be seen throughout the city’s design, art, and food. While the gastronomy scene has always leaned toward high-end French cuisine, a new influx of immigrants is bringing a variety of tastes and textures to the mix. Montreal is also embracing the modern age with the opening of sleek luxury hotels, and avant-garde art exhibits from Quebecois designers and creators.
In an increasingly globalized world, Montreal venerates its deep-seated local culture. French colonists settled Quebec in the early 1600s, and their descendants have never forgotten that intrepid foray, hence the province’s enduring separatist movement and its motto, Je me souviens—“I remember,” rendered pointedly en français, which may or may not be a jab at the British. This city of 1.75 million, set on an island at the confluence of the St. Lawrence and Ottawa rivers, is infused with a pioneer spirit and an unpretentious pride in the homegrown. Here, what to do and where to stay in Montreal now.
Stay:
Discerning travelers will love Hotel William Gray, located in Old Montreal, with elegant rooms that look down on the fairytale rooftops and cobbled streets below. Meanwhile, the grand dame of Montreal’s hotel scene—the Fairmont Queen Elizabeth—reopened in 2017 after a $140 million facelift, with a new look that hearkens back to the middle of last century (think lots of gold and chrome), fitting given its 1958 debut. Make sure you visit the room where John Lennon and Yoko Ono had their 1969 bed-in.
Do:
For a reminder of Expo 67, check out Habitat 67, pictured, one of the first examples in North America of an eco-friendly and affordable apartment building. Designed by Moshe Safdie, the edifice is primarily occupied by renters and owners but it opens up for 90-minute guided tours from May 1 to October 31.
Postcard from Michigan
Back in its heyday, House of David was considered to be “Michigan’s finest summer resort.” The religious colony in Benton Harbor, Michigan consisted of an amusement park, zoo and baseball empire. Members abstained from all vices, celibacy was enforced and profanity was outlawed. Another tenet of their faith was that they must neither shave nor cut their hair. Co-founded by Benjamin and Mary Purnell in 1903, thousands of acolytes flocked to the colony until it all came crashing down in the 1920’s when the group’s leader, Benjamin “King Ben” Purnell, was accused of having sexual relations with minors. The colony split in two and slowly died off over the years. The policy of celibacy among followers resulted in a notable lack of new generations of acolytes to keep the commune going. There are only a few members left now, waiting for the day when Jesus returns and establishes the Garden of Eden on Lake Michigan.
With their utopian goals, messianic movements like House of David are seen by some as models of progressive communitarianism, in ideals if not in execution. But it’s worth remembering that America was shaped by religious renegades seeking a strategic retreat from society. “America began as a fever dream by those who abandoned everything because of their beliefs, dreams and fantasies,” says Kurt Andersen in “Fantasyland.” Every November, we celebrate the seventeenth-century Puritans who arrived at our shore with the desire to build set-apart communities in the American wilderness. The group that set out from Plymouth, in southwestern England, in 1620 included 35 members of a radical Puritan faction known as the English Separatist Church. America represented a fresh page. Throughout American history, religious groups have walled themselves off from the rhythms and mores of society. A hunger for the magic and drama of Holy Roller theatricality combined with the tendency to withdraw into small, private societies is, perhaps, as American as apple pie. And baseball.
Postcard from Roanoke
Tucked into the unspoiled beauty of North Carolina’s Outer Banks, Roanoke Island is steeped in history. In 1587, it became the first English settlement in America. Within three years, the settlers had vanished without a trace. The only thing the Lost Colony left behind was the word “Croatoan” etched into a post. These days it’s a vacation hotspot with paradise beaches and dramatic sand dunes. Sure, most people come here for the beachfront retreats, but I opted for the more tranquil Cypress Moon Inn on the shores of Albemarle Sound. Authenticity is a term that gets bandied around a lot these days, but this place is the real deal, located in one of the few remaining maritime forests in the world. It had an untamed, jungle-like quality which I loved.
Taking a dip from the Inn’s dock, I chose the water noodles over a paddleboard or canoe, which made for a pleasantly refreshing float. Drifting in the cooling water was like taking an aquatic safari through a lush paradise. Floating in between forest, sea and sky, I got a unique glimpse of the spirit and soul of this otherworldly place, with its ancient coastal rhythms. Submerged in the primordial waters, brimming with frogs and dragonflies, I felt connected to a primal energy. My dream state was soon disrupted when I remembered that alligators, water moccasins (cotton mouth snakes) and sharks could be lurking; should I be worried? “I’ve been swimming here all my life, and so far so good,” said North Carolina native Linda, one half of the husband and wife team that runs the Cypress Moon.
The Outer Banks is a 200-mile-long string of barrier islands that support a diverse ecosystem. Visitors are strongly encouraged to admire but not feed the wild horses of Corolla wandering near the beaches of Currituck. The story goes that these magnificent Spanish mustangs are descendants of shipwrecked horses from hundreds of years ago. With Dorian looming, the horses will gather under sturdy oak trees to shelter from the storm. Currituck comes from the Native American word carotank or “land of the wild goose.” The area remains synonymous with waterfowl. Situated on the Atlantic Flyway, Currituck Sound is an ideal stopover for migrating ducks, geese and swans. With sea-level rise and increasingly severe storms, North Carolina’s coastline is under threat. Long may this little slice of heaven remain not only a vacation wonderland, but also a habitat for vulnerable wildlife.
Postcard from Portland
Portland is widely seen as a redoubt of crunchy creatives and nonconformists, the place that the popular comedy Portlandia famously deemed ”the city where young people go to retire.” For some, Old Portland died on January 21, 2011 — the day Portlandia debuted. It tapped into the cultural Obama-era zeitgeist, highlighting contrived lifestyles, emerging technology, DIY mentality, and the organic movement. It poked fun at privileged, white, artsy liberals (“we can pickle that!”) in much the same way Absolutely Fabulous did in 1992 with a pair of selfish, self-indulgent, middle-aged women named Edina and Patsy. Like all of the great shows built on self-mockery, there was a good-spirited intention behind Portlandia that made us care.
But things aren’t quite as ambrosial as they may seem in the Rose City. In recent years, deeply blue Portland has become known for heated clashes between the militant left-wing group antifa and out-of-town, right-wing groups such as the Proud Boys and Patriot Prayer. While Portland itself is politically progressive, Oregon is not, and a white nationalist ideology remains prominent in neighboring Vancouver, WA (or “Vantucky” as it is not so affectionately known), which is just across the bridge. Anti-California sentiment also runs high in Portland. A lot of the time it gets a pass because it's usually leveraged by white liberals against other white liberals. But there is good reason for the resentment. The Portland metro area has been growing by 30 to 40,000 people annually since 2015 and a lot of that is Bay Area refugees. Portland is a dramatic example of a nationwide problem: white “urban pioneers” displacing black communities.
Nature surrounds you in Portland. The Columbia River Gorge, which separates Oregon and the state of Washington, is the crown jewel of the region, filled with tree-topped bluffs and thundering waterfalls including the popular Multnomah Falls. Mount Hood, home to the historic Timberline Lodge which became The Overlook in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, is a 1hr 30 drive through the Douglas fir-filled forest. In another direction, the Oregon Coast is home to the sweeping vistas and misty ferns of Ecola State Park with spectacular views of the iconic Haystack Rock. On North Oregon’s shores, towns like Astoria are the stuff of movie legend. When filming began on The Goonies in 1984, Astoria’s fishing economy was in crisis - and houses were indeed being sold back to the bank. The biggest industry today is tourism but Astoria, while embracing change, is careful not to be hipsterfied. It still has grit. It's a town that welcomes visitors but understands its sole purpose isn't to attract them. "We like to say, ‘Astoria for Astorians,’" said Brett Estes, the city of Astoria's community development director. "Do things that are right for the community, and people will come visit."
Postcard from Seattle
Before 1991, Seattle lingered in the shadows, known to few outside the Pacific Northwest. That year, Nirvana erupted onto the global stage, and Kurt Cobain became the reluctant voice of a generation, heralding the Grunge Gold Rush. This vibrant era, spanning from 1992 to 1995, was a whirlwind of roaring, anti-establishment bands that sparked a seismic shift in youth culture, making Seattle the epicenter of the zeitgeist.
Hollywood quickly caught on, weaving the city into its narrative fabric with hits like Frasier and Sleepless in Seattle in 1993, solidifying its status in the pantheon of pop culture. By the time the first Ace Hotel opened its doors in 1999, Seattle had unwittingly crafted an entire industry echoing the counterculture ethos of its grunge progenitors. Today, the echoes of this movement linger—can plaid flannel ever truly go out of style?
Nestled among the breathtaking vistas of Mount Rainier, Olympic National Park, and Puget Sound, Seattle offers a cradle of natural beauty. Yet, there's a lingering notion that Seattleites—often accused of their reticent demeanor—have also endured significant growing pains since the halcyon days of grunge. With the third highest homeless population in the US, trailing only New York and LA, and soaring gentrification rates, the city's landscape is shifting beneath its residents' feet.
The specter of Amazon, which took its first steps in 1994, looms large. A chorus of skepticism surrounds its influence as Seattle grapples with stark inequalities. A fly poster proclaiming “Make Seattle Shitty Again” encapsulates the growing discontent. Tesla-driving techies and freshly minted millionaires populate the streets, while the city boasts the tenth highest household net worth in the nation—yet this prosperity remains elusive for many.
As Amazon ascends to become the world’s most valuable company, Jeff Bezos's staggering wealth—over $160 billion—symbolizes a paradox of modernity. Seattle has undeniably transformed, but this evolution comes at a price. With job security waning and inequality on the rise, the city’s vibrant spirit is challenged. One thing is clear: Seattle has changed the world. Starbucks, anyone?
Postcard from Martha's Vineyard
"Martin, it's all psychological. You yell barracuda, everybody says, "Huh? What?" You yell shark, we've got a panic on our hands on the Fourth of July,” says the mayor to Chief Brody in one of the many iconic scenes of Jaws (1975), the original summer blockbuster.
Martha’s Vineyard, the white-picket idyll which became “Amity” through Tinseltown transfusion, is as much the star as the Hollywood celebrities (or shark). Shooting took three months longer than expected, and the film more than doubled its budget. Director Steven Spielberg has called it the hardest shoot of his career, but as the crew began filming in the spring of 1974, Jaws changed people’s lives.
Spielberg hired a lot of locals including Al Wilde (Harry in the swimming hat), estuary artist Carla Hogendyk (“Shark in the pond!”), Peggy Scott (Brody’s secretary) and the grieving Mrs Kintner (Lee Fierro) along with scores of extras. My heart always breaks when a young man (Stephen Potter) calls out for his dog “Pipet! Pipet!” the only sign of which is the animal’s stick, bobbing in the waves. Little did they know then that Pipet of Chappaquiddick would doggy-paddle her way into the annals of movie history.
Postcard from Provincetown
The dream of utopia is part of Provincetown’s allure. Located at the tip of a peninsula in the magical beauty of the outer Cape, surrounded by dunes and far from prying eyes, it has long been a haven for artists and writers. It is here, in a barn atop a sandy bluff, that Charles Webster Hawthorne started the Cape Cod School of Art in 1898. Norman Rockwell studied here. Norman Mailer, renting a house next door, attended parties in the space. Tennessee Williams danced and Jackson Pollock got drunk in the barn.
But it’s not just America’s oldest continuous art colony. “P-town”, as it’s affectionately known, has long been a queer enclave where an otherwise ironclad rule of life gets flipped to glorious effect. Instead of figuring that everyone is straight, you can figure that everyone isn’t. Fifty years after a police raid on the Stonewall Inn catalyzed the mainstream LGBTQ movement, gay people still maintain spheres of separation from the wider world: nightclubs, vacation spots, and dating apps where like can meet like. In Provincetown, folks who otherwise might edit themselves for the straight world find the miraculous-seeming freedom to directly pursue their desires. This pursuit can take forms as mild as dinner and a movie or walking down the street hand in hand with your new friend.
Provincetown is as much a refuge today as it was in 1620, when the pilgrims, fleeing religious persecution in Holland, landed first in Provincetown where they signed the 'Mayflower Compact' in Provincetown harbor, before fleeing the sandy, hostile environment for the more fertile environs across the bay in Plymouth. Yup, that’s right. The gayest place in America is in fact the birthplace of the nation. You don’t get greater than that.
Telling tales
My love affair with California started in 1994 when I discovered Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City. The story about a group of friends who live at the top of some wooden steps at 28 Barbary Lane in 70’s San Francisco opened up a portal to a magical land of possibilities, a gay utopia. Aged 18, I had never seen a depiction of a happy gay life. It touched my soul and gave me hope when I first watched (and then read) it.
A self-confessed nostalgia nut, I was nervous about the next chapter of TOTC which picks up 20 years after its last installment. Instagram references and knowing jokes aside, how could the magic of the original, itself a joyride through pre-AIDS halcyon days, created in the Golden Age of gay tv, ever be recaptured? Back in the 90s there was a real need for queer programming (thank you PBS and Channel 4). Shows like Special demonstrate there is still a need to tell nuanced gay stories, but my hypersensitive hackles were up for Tales 2019.
I had a bit of a meta moment when I realized I now live in the place where Mary Ann first escaped from in 1976 - the year I was born. Much as she once left her ho hum life in Ohio for greener pastures in San Francisco in the original, we learn that Mary Ann now lives in Connecticut. Her journalism ambitions have stalled giving way to hosting informercials. Finding a new way to earn a living is a professional reality for many recovering journalists these days, myself included.
Murray Bartlett is perfect casting for the role of Michael “Mouse” Tolliver. For me, Michael is just a more enjoyable character through a nostalgic lens. Watching the episodes with him and his younger boyfriend Ben was uncomfortable. As I get older I feel more invisible when I am with other gay men who put such a high value on the sexual attractiveness of youth. Intergenerational dating is less interesting to me than cross-generational conversation as a way of transmitting and preserving our history. What saved it for me was the stunning flashback episode (Days of Small Surrenders), which introduces trans actor Jen Richards as a young Anna in the 1960s. It is so good it could almost be a stand-alone movie. It highlighted how shallow some of the new characters are.
A recurring theme for Maupin is the lineage he invents between San Francisco and the magical civilization of Atlantis. Myth-making is baked into the Tales dna. If Maupin is our chief dream dispenser, the kooky commune of Barbary Lane represents the ultimate LGBT fantasy. A fictional realm purpose-built for those with an overdeveloped appetite for immersive make-believe. It was the first fairytale designed for our people in which we weren’t the tragic friend or sad uncle. It was also one of the first literary writings to deal with the AIDS epidemic.
A focus on family, both biological and logical, is central to Maupin’s work. With so much emphasis put on marriage, it is always refreshing to see other types of relationships being celebrated: deep friendships, roommates, chosen families and wider networks of kin that include anonymous hookups. The LGBTQ+ community depicted in the Tales universe of 2019 continues to provide a model for intimacy and care beyond the bounds of institutional marriage.
On the eve of the fiftieth anniversary of Stonewall, will this reboot feel like a romance gone awry for OG loyalists? Will a romantic portrait of togetherness resonate with a new generation of app-addicted woke gays/queers/whatevs? Maybe then, as now, Tales serves a greater community purpose to soothe a group of individuals who never felt celebrated in their family/hometown/body of origin. Fantasy and entertainment certainly helped this perpetually questing kid who still longs to belong.
Postcard from Kahiki
Built in 1961, the Kahiki in Columbus wasn't the first tiki restaurant in the nation (that honor goes to Don the Beachcomber's, in Hollywood, which opened in 1934), but it may have been the most elaborate. The New York Times dubbed the Kahiki "the grandest and best-preserved of a nearly extinct form of culinary recreation."
Placed in its socio-historical context, the Kahiki vividly recalled a time when America inhabited a sort of South Seas Camelot. Songs from the movie musical South Pacific (1958) were on everyone's lips, Hawaii had joined the union as the fiftieth state just two years before (1959), and Elvis was starring in Blue Hawaii (1961).
Tiki bars were among the original theme restaurants, dating from a time when Americans began to evince an apparently lasting appetite for the artificial over the real. If historic buildings serve as cairns that mark our path as we march resolutely forward through time, we should preserve places like the Kahiki in the event we ever want to go back. Alas, the time-worn relic was knocked down in 2000.
Postcard from Honolulu
Built in 1937 as the Honolulu home of American heiress and philanthropist Doris Duke (1912-1993), Shangri La was inspired by Duke’s extensive travels throughout North Africa, the Middle East, and South Asia and reflects architectural traditions from India, Iran, Morocco and Syria. Today, Shangri La is a museum for Islamic arts and cultures, with the purpose of improving understanding of the Islamic world.
Duke’s passions varied wildly. Briefly a news correspondent in the 1940s, she also played jazz piano and learned to surf competitively. Needless to say this was rather unusual for an upper-class white women in the 1930’s. After the war, she moved to Paris and wrote for the magazine Harper's Bazaar.
Duke acquired a number of homes including "Falcon Lair" in Beverly Hills, once home of the seductive sheik of early Hollywood, Rudolph Valentino. Sometimes referred to as the “the richest girl in the world”, twice-divorced Duke enjoyed a legendary life while her philanthropic work in AIDS research continued into old age. The events surrounding her possible murder remain shrouded in mystery (did the butler do it?) making Duke one of the most interesting and controversial celebrities of the twentieth century. Her estimated $1.3 billion fortune was largely left to charity.
Ohio horror
Cleveland's own Wes Craven would cement Ohio as the prime location for horror in A Nightmare on Elm Street. The iconic Freddy films are based in the fictional town of Springwood, Ohio but Freddy Krueger's roots are based in reality, inspired by an experience Craven had while living in Cleveland as a child. Other films took note and began treating Ohio as the perfect location for trouble in American paradise.
The darkly comedic Heathers and sci-fi monster flick The Faculty use Ohio as a means to dissect the horrors of the American high school experience. “This is a football town, let me remind you,” says the principle to her forlorn colleague at Herrington High (home to the hornets!); “you’re not getting out of Ohio.” A PTSD-inducing line for all the geeks in the audience who managed to escape the anti-intellectual jock culture of the Midwest. And the presumed safety of a fictional university in Ohio during Scream 2 fails to offer any sense of relief for the characters retreating from California. Turns out Ohio ain’t so safe after all.
While most of these films set in Ohio aren't actually shot here, (see previous post) Ohio serves as a more relatable location for someone in a state like Iowa or Oklahoma. To anyone in the Heartland, Indiana appears too rural, Michigan's reputation is plagued with grittiness from places like Detroit and Flint, and given that Illinois is often associated with Chicago (despite the state being predominately rural), it makes perfect sense that Ohio would take the crown for fictional horror settings. To anyone outside the US, Ohio is anonymous enough to provide a unifying viewing experience. You can project whatever you want onto Ohio.
Ohio is not only the heart of American horror, figuratively speaking, it’s also the birthplace of fantasy and science fiction. Growing up feeling like an alien in Cincinnati, Ohio served as the springboard that would catapult Steven Spielberg to becoming the most successful Hollywood director of all time. Laced with escapist fantasy, Super 8, set in a small town in Ohio, represents the transportive power of movie making for a kid with a camera who didn’t belong.
Manson murders
1969 is widely considered to mark the end of innocence for Los Angeles's bucolic canyons, Topanga, Laurel, Benedict and Coldwater, when beauty turned to brutality with The Manson Family murders. These mini Edens have a particularly macabre underbelly having served as the location for at least two other gruesome crimes including the unsolved 1981 Wonderland murders in Laurel Canyon and the 2000 Benedict Canyon execution-style shooting by New York real estate scion Robert A. Durst, as seen on HBO’s The Jinx.
Banked by steep ravines and narrow winding roads, it’s not uncommon to hear cayotes howling at night in the mist-filled, semi-wilderness of the canyons. Far away from prying eyes, the remoteness usually provides protection for the Hollywood elite. But in the early hours of August 9, 1969, that remoteness provided camouflage for a home invasion that would become one of the definitive cases of the late 20th century.
For true crime fanatics, the chilling event that took place at Sharon Tate’s Cielo Drive home in Benedict Canyon, is the holy grail of horror. Tate, who was pregnant and married to film director Roman Polanski at the time, was one of five people savagely murdered at the behest of cult leader Charlie Manson. He became synonymous with the darkness that lurks beneath the showbiz veneer of Tinseltown, but his story began in Ohio.
Born in Cincinnati on Nov. 11, 1934 to a teenage prostitute named Kathleen Maddox, Manson was renting his own room and supporting himself with odd jobs and petty thievery by the age of 14. In a world of sock hops, bake sales and kids knowing each other since they were born, Manson was an outsider. He ended up at a maximum security reformatory in Chillicothe. In 1955, he arrived in Los Angeles in a car he’d stolen in Ohio.
Popular culture in 2019 is heaving with tales of male killers, abusers, and psychopaths. Katrina Longworth’s podcast You Must Remember This refocuses our attention on the lives of the female victims, examining the culture and industry that made it so easy for a smooth-talking white supremacist to start a cult in one of the most tumultuous times in Hollywood history.
The photo that changed the face of AIDS
David Kirby (Dec 6, 1957-May 5, 1990) was 32 when he died at Pater Noster House, an AIDS hospice in Columbus, Ohio. This photo was taken by Theresa Frare, a journalism student at Ohio University. Peta, the half-Sioux, half-white, transgendered volunteer who cared for Kirby, is standing on the left. The gender rebel continued working with dying AIDS patients until his own condition worsened in 1991. Peta died of AIDS-related illness in 1992.
Kirby was born and raised in a small town in Ohio. As a gay teenager in the 1970s, he found life in the Midwest difficult. A gay activist in the 1980s, he learned in the late Eighties — while he was living in California and estranged from his family — that he had contracted HIV. He got in touch with his parents and asked if he could come home; he wanted, he said, to die with his family around him.
In November 1990 LIFE Magazine published Frare’s image. That year, Bush signed two pieces of legislation that helped people with AIDS — including the Ryan White Comprehensive AIDS Resources Emergency Act, which provided funding for AIDS treatment. But during Bush's time in office, the AIDS epidemic grew dramatically. By 1992, the disease had become the number one cause of death for US men aged 25 to 44. That same year, the Kirby family allowed Frare’s photo to be used in an ad campaign by Benetton.
Despite a backlash by many AIDS activists, Kirby’s father Bill stated, “If that photograph helps someone…then it’s worth whatever pressure we have to go through.” That angels like Peta exist, sent to us in our time of need, fills me with hope. It resonates with me today on an even deeper level because I now live in Columbus, Ohio. I am grateful to Kirby and other AIDS activists who fought to demystify the illness in a climate of fear and superstition. To me, Peta and David are heroes. They may be gone, but thanks to Frare, their stories live on.
Postcard from Fishtown
Are there any affordable boho enclaves left to be discovered? Where is the next Silverlake, East Austin or Williamsburg? Can Columbus or Charleston ever truly compete? Artists aren't just leaving New York for LA – they're also flocking to places like Fishtown in Philadelphia.
Fishtown’s warp-speed transformation, and the demographics fueling America’s new urban revolution, is magnetizing a new generation of young professionals who are rejecting suburbia, car culture and food deserts in favor of independently-owned retailers and farm-to-table restaurants, to move back downtown again.
Fishtown’s connectedness is the envy of every American neighborhood trying to reinvent itself thanks in large part to “the El”—one of America’s oldest elevated subways and Philly’s transportation crown jewel. Linking Fishtown with downtown Philadelphia in less than nine minutes, the El is the reason why home values here have nearly tripled since the Great Recession. At the rate things are going there won’t be an empty lots left by 2020.
Fishtown is now Philadelphia’s most energetic and innovative foodie neighborhood. Furthermore, it’s incubating dozens of other small-scale start-ups and retailers—like craft distilleries, brewers, organic markets, apparel and graphic designers—who are in turn attracting new talent, fresh ideas, and investing back into the neighborhood’s intellectual life.
For other cities seeking to re-imagine their own historic downtowns, Fishtown’s comeback is instructive. Sustainable development can leverage a community’s existing, working fabric without tearing the old-school threads apart. Of course the problem with gentrification, and the inevitable Airbnb rental properties bringing in tourists like me, is the impact “artwashing” can have on displacing diverse and working-class communities. The neighborhood's new vibrancy and allure are good things, as long as it doesn’t lose its character, which is why people want to move there in the first place.