The Necessity of IRL Conversations

CJ and Hugo in Chicago and perfect Indian Summer nights

Under the cherry blossoms, there are no strangers.

-Kobayashi Issa

A good friend shared the above haiku with me a few years ago, and it prompted me to insist that we plant a cherry tree in our backyard. I was pregnant at the time with my youngest, and I had the lofty desire to build a birdbath and cover it in mosaic prominently featuring that haiku. I never built the birdbath, but the tree blooms something fierce every spring.

I’m lucky to be a part of a network of some pretty damn smart people. I don’t mean academic smart, although some of them certainly are, but rather smart in their approach to discernment and understanding of energetic shifts, like some top-shelf life sommeliers.

I feel privileged to be challenged in conversation with my friends. Debates are lively, but the discussions remain loving and distinctly kind. I forget sometimes how lucky I am. Sometimes, not only do I forget, but I trot out over to Normie Land Facebook and expect to have a civil exchange of ideas. What a silly, silly idea.

One of my last exchanges ended with me getting booted off my old college professor’s friend list. I’ve made plenty of attempts over the years to convince people that we should ditch social media and meet face-to-face; that it’s a poor medium for real discourse, hardly a novel idea. I’d tangled with this professor before and knew his rhetoric had a way of slipping into condescension, dripping with that good ol’ liberal smugness I once carried myself.

And here’s the thing: the man isn’t a fool. He’s well-read, and he’s an excellent writer. A few months ago, I even reviewed his play on this blog; he knows how to tell a damn good story. Yet he still finds the time to hop onto my social media, wag his finger, and attempt to “school” me. I almost took screenshots of our exchange to post here (low-key scoring points and feeding my own sense of superiority) but reason stepped in. I talked myself out of what would have been a bad-faith move, given my supposed desire to expand human consciousness. In the end, his own words did more damage to his credibility than anything I could have written.

Since my post was heating up with multiple points of view, I figured it was the perfect chance to drop a link to an event I was hosting in my backyard featuring CJ Hopkins and Hugo Fernandez on their Strangers in a Strange Homeland American road trip tour. The whole point of the gathering was to have real, face-to-face conversations with people holding different worldviews.

I messaged everyone from that fiery thread privately on Messenger, thanked them for engaging, and told them I hoped to see them in person. A couple replied that they’d try; most ignored me. That’s when I noticed I was no longer friends with the professor. I must have gotten too offensive with my conspiratorial thought crimes critical thinking.

Oh well.

With or without Mickle Maher, the event took place, and it was better than I imagined. First off, CJ and Hugo are delightful humans. CJ read a bit from his new book, which was funny and charming and had the rest of us who happened to remember the America he experienced nodding along.

Photo by Hugo Fernandez

After the reading, we took a break to eat some pizza, crack a beer, and presented an opportunity for those folks who couldn’t stay to depart. One of those people was an online friend I had never seen in real life who serendipitously happened to be in Chicago on the same day. I finally met Brian, who I got to know a little as part of Charles Eisenstein’s NAAS community and subsequently, a bit better on Substack. I just know our paths will cross again.

Photo by Mary Poindexter McLaughlin

I also got to meet folks whom the universe must have hinted at that we should meet in its own abstract language, either by realizing we had mutual friends or shared geographic locations. A few of my own cherished life-long pals showed up, creating a welcoming atmosphere with just the right vibe. There was some serious Substack representation. Marta from Becoming You/Me/We came! Mary Poindexter McLaughlin flew in from Florida! Getting to spend time with her was a treat all in itself. It was a gorgeous summer night, and even the skeeters who were on a prowl earlier that day went back to the hell they crawled out of with the setting of the sun. By the time CJ got on stage, we were eager to soak in the moment.

The intimacy of the crowd allowed us to circle up around the fire pit afterwards. Each of us shared an answer to the prompt of what we thought was happening in America, and other conversations spun out of that. No one tried to convince anyone of anything. We simply listened. Even as the evening wore on and dialogue reflected more of each worldview, there were themes that emerged consistently: language has been weaponized, we have more in common than we think, love and kindness still trumps all.

Photo by Mary Poindexter McLaughlin

Amongst the smoky spell of the fire pit, there are no strangers either.

Credit to Margaret for connecting me with CJ and making this happen. She is holding her own events at the end of the month in Oregon and reading some of her poetry:

And over in San Francisco, fellow Substacker Sane Francisco is holding her own event:

Gah! Is it too late to become a groupie?

Which makes me come to the conclusion that that’s exactly how the revolution is going to happen. It won’t necessitate violence or large protests. It will happen face-to-face in local pubs and dining rooms, in parks and backyards, in storefronts and gas stations in between, quietly, it will fill the emptiness lodged in our throats by isolation, and it will mend the wounds in our hearts sheared by the pixilation of social media. Something miraculous happens when people who want to move forward and shift the current paradigms get together to breathe the same air, talk, and listen to one another in real life. It’s vulnerable and powerful at the same time. And in between those oxymoronic feelings, trust begins to grow.

Photo by Brian, whose acquaintance I was so fortunate to make that night

Thank you for coming to my humble backyard, CJ and Hugo, and for undertaking this project that we are in desperate need of. I hope it inspires more gatherings across America. It has surely inspired me. I know it has inspired Mary.

The next day, as we were chatting about the event in my kitchen before driving to the airport, Mary and I kept circling back to the beauty of Indian Summers—a term that, in recent years, has entered the category of offensive language. Being the immigrant that I am, with sometimes clumsy understandings of American history, culture, and wounds, I confessed that until recently, I hadn’t understood why we weren’t allowed to say “sitting Indian style” but instead had to say “criss-cross apple sauce.” After all, what’s so wrong with meditating, and why would Indians be upset about being associated with it?

Yes, until not long ago, I thought the phrase referred to the actual Indians from India. You can see my confusion, right? Language is slippery. It becomes even more so when you encounter it stripped of cadence and intonation.

When you are looking into the eyes of someone earnestly trying to understand you, it is nearly impossible to feel righteous or superior while condescending to them. It is much harder, in that moment, to be vexatious to their spirit. Luckily, the fix is so simple.

Heartfelt thanks to everyone who came on Wednesday. Safe travels to CJ and Hugo. I’m looking forward to reading about your adventures as you traverse across our great country and talk with Americans of all stripes.

EDIT: Heartfelt thanks to Karen, Mary, David and Elizabeth, Brian 2, Diane for bringing goods and covering pizza and beer, and to Jane Dolan of BRMI for donating towards the event without even being able to attend. Talk about a community coming together!

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