Stories:

• Faculty Journal Adirondack Semester Fall 2007
• Faculty Notes - A Day in The Life
• A Day in Matamoros, Mexico
• Popcorn
• Tracking in Coralles, New Mexico
• Honoring Diversity
• There Is No Typical Day
• Expedition Notes

Faculty Notes - A Day in The Life

Faculty member, Jeff Rogge, documents his day:

Setting: Washington state's Olympic peninsula, Makah Nation. The beach-front yard of Wes Lyons (our Makah host). A clammy cool 50 degrees. The smell of salt air and old fish.

7:00 a.m.

wake up, roll up sleeping bag
make coffee on the propane stove
read Social Ecology and Community Development in preparation for a student-led workshop

8:00 a.m.

walk down the beach, use my cell phone to call the office in Maine - talk to Penny Floo
check my voicemail (4 messages)
talk to Coleen O'Connell about meeting with her when she comes to Oregon, and the upcoming fundraising auction
walk back down the beach

9:00 a.m.

Community Announcements with the group

9:15 a.m.-10:30a.m.

undergraduate (Ann) presentation on Social Ecology and Didactic Naturalism

10:30 a.m.

break... I slip away to call the office in Maine and speak with Lily Fessenden about Lesley University's commitments and behavioral policies for student issues

11:30 a.m.

return to the group, catch the tail end of the group's preparations for our Interview Project

12:00 p.m.-1:00 p.m.

lunchtime... I use the time to help Wes open the valve on a rusty propane tank, do a pre-drive safety check on the bus, wash my hair and shave using the water tank under the belly of the bus, change out clothes that have whale's blood on them (that's another story completely)

1:00 p.m.-1:20p.m.

students board the bus and I drive to the town of Neah Bay

1:20 p.m.-1:30 p.m.

the group meets to discuss the immediate logistics of the day

1:30 p.m.-2:30 p.m.

meeting with my co-faculty Karin. Together we outline a rough schedule for the upcoming days while students do their Interview Project in town.

2:30 p.m.-3:15 p.m.

at the Deli counter of Washburn's grocery store, write feedback for an undergraduate student's (Andrea) Learning Community Journal.

3:15 p.m.-3:30 p.m.

Karin and I talk with students (Katie Mike and Liz) about the results of their Interview Project. Eat lunch with Karin in silence.

3:30 p.m.-4:00 p.m.

walk back to bus and we talk with the rest of the students

4:00 p.m.-4:30 p.m.

community meeting in the parking lot of Washburn's to decide what we will do in the evening

4:30 p.m.-5:00p.m.

I drive the bus to Cape Flattery (the northwestern most point of land in the continental U.S.)

5:00 p.m.-5:15 p.m.

circle up, decide a return meeting time, review safety protocols and hiking systems with the students

5:15 p.m.-6:30 p.m.

experience Cape Flatter
Have informal discussions about:
the Makah's use and habitation of Tatoosh Island
cultural oppression and the role of Christian missionaries
natural aesthetics and the art of Andy Goldsworthy
ethnobotany and white cedar
We see:
two bald eagles
a score of Sea Lions
one Gray Whale

6:30 p.m.

sundown, get on the bus, Karin drives us all back to Wes's house where we are camping

7:00 p.m.-7:45 p.m.

I take personal time (walk down the beach)

7:45 p.m.-8:00 p.m.

eat dinner (a stir fry prepared by the students)

8:00 p.m.-8:45 p.m.

we have a Community consensus meeting to approve the schedule

8:45 p.m.-9:00 p.m.

break... I brush my teeth and put away my food bowl

9:00 p.m.-9:30 p.m.

meet with the graduate students to discuss seminars, outreaches, and lesson plans

9:30 p.m.-10:00 p.m.

debrief the day's events with my co-faculty

10:00 p.m.-10:10 p.m.

find one of my graduate advisees (Khiet) and schedule a meeting with him for tomorrow, take two Learning Community Journals to my tent, unroll my sleeping bag and set my alarm

10:10 p.m.-10:20 p.m.

finish up my accounts of the evening

10:20 p.m.

head hits the pillow

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A Day In Matamoros, Mexico

For many, the word Mexico conjures up luxurious images of golden beaches and cool, crisp water. For me, luxurious images such as these do not come to mind. Rather, I remember a hot, dry day in December when I traveled to Matamoros, Mexico with my fellow graduate students. We were accompanied by a dedicated and passionate activist named Domingo Gonzalez who works with the Texas Center for Policy Studies, an Austin-based environmental think-tank. He frequently takes people to Matamoros to show them the reality of life for the 45,000 maquiladora factory workers.

This trip motivated me to do research and educate myself about this runaway industrial system. My research and subsequent conversations with activists have made me realize there is a way to change the system, but people need to know it exists in the first place. Perhaps the consumerism which provides the sustenance for industry (i.e., demand) might be reconsidered in light of the enormous human and environmental costs of producing the goods.

I was appalled and angered by what I found in Matamoros, and shocked to learn that Matamoros is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the abuse generated by multinational companies in foreign countries. My broadening awareness means struggling on a deeply personal level with these glaring inequalities, and with the fact that much of what makes my life so comfortable comes at the expense of poor workers such as those in Matamoros. My day there began with a powerful physical reaction and ended with a profound psychological readjustment concerning how I consume and how I frame myself as a privileged person in a world where so many people struggle to make it from one day to the next.

This was also a day which clarified for me why I was participating in the Audubon Expedition Institute program. Before this day, I was having difficulty grasping the value of choosing, myself, the direction I wanted my education to take. I thought a lecture at Georgetown, with a professor in front of a blackboard laying out the issues for me, was the best and only way I could learn. Certainly I have been inspired by traditional education, but being right in the middle of the issue inspired me to action: to do research, to write about it for publication, to buy stock and become involved. Not for a grade, but for me. The experience of seeing people's faces, hearing the noise and smelling the air were more profound than any book I could read. I learned I could take an experience like that and make it my own personal education-something that would direct me in a new way.

An opportunity such as traveling to Matamoros, Mexico with Domingo Gonzalez is nowhere to be found in "traditional" education. I learned and felt things I would have missed had I simply educated myself by reading a book or attending a lecture. The value of experiential education is immense, and allowing your experiences and emotions to be your teacher is, in my opinion, an unparalleled way in which to educate yourself. Such eye-opening experiences do not come without pain and grappling, but if we do not open our eyes and see reality then we will falsely be calling ourselves "educated." I would not trade in the struggles which arose from such an intense experience for anything. I carry that day in Matamoros with me at all times and try to make adjustments in my own life which will, in small ways, help with this rather large, and seemingly overwhelming problem.

Theoretically, this system has the potential to provide jobs where they might not otherwise exist. Yet, presently all these companies do is reinforce poverty, exploit people and degrade their environments. For those of us in the "developed," consumer-oriented world, it behooves us to contemplate how our purchasing power propagates and encourages the abuses mentioned in this article. Next time you buy new Reeboks, a General Motors car, or use AT&T think about where the products are made and whether you want to support a system which thrives on exploitation. When I told my father about my experience in Matamoros, his suggestion was to buy a share of stock in General Motors which would enable me to attend the annual stockholder's meeting. It is imperative for each of us to do whatever is in our power to address this problem. Stay tuned for a report from the stockholder's meeting. It should be interesting...

- Mary Niles, Graduate Alum

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Popcorn

Imagine a pan of Jiffy Pop popcorn, fresh from the store, not yet popped. That's how I was when I graduated from college with a B.A. degree in biology. I was a product of my society: packaged to sell; flat, not rounded. Although I possessed many kernels of knowledge, those kernels had not yet become full-blown understanding.

Add heat to a pan of Jiffy Pop, and the kernels begin to expand inside their aluminum shell. At the Audubon Expedition Institute, heat is generated from real-life situations, and with heat comes expanded understanding.

For example, in college I committed to memory the theory: as species diversity decreases, so does the stability of an ecosystem. It wasn't until my Expedition group spent a day slogging through a Florida swamp searching for tell-tale holes drilled in downed cypress trees, however, that I understood what we really lost with the extinction of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker. Pop.

In school I learned why the moon goes through its monthly phases. But until I spent a full-moon night outdoors with my Expedition group, I hadn't seen a moonshadow or experienced its magic. Had I ever been outdoors on a moonlit night? Sure I had. But I never paid much attention. Pop. Pop.

I thought that coming onto the Expedition after college would be easy. I found, however, that directing my own education was not so simple. I had to face my own lack of direction, apathy and prejudices. I learned that while the Expedition provides an opportunity for incredible learning and growth, fulfillment of that opportunity was in my own hands. Pop. Pop. Pop.

I learned that the cultures I studied in college textbooks were made of real people, who were, though different in some ways, not unlike myself. Pop. Pop. Pop.

I spent a night alone on an island in Maine, listening to seals bark in the bay and watching fog roll in off the ocean. I had no human companions, books, or television, but I was certainly not alone. Pop. Pop.

It takes a lot of heat and shaking before a pan of Jiffy Pop becomes a hot, steamy mound of popcorn. But eventually it does, and when the aluminum wrapping is finally pulled back, we find something natural and good inside. It is the same with life. Inside the aluminum of my technological upbringing is a natural being. Though it may take me a lifetime to become fully popped, I am expanding every day. And I am glad to be on the stove.

- Benji Knisley, Graduate Alum

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Tracking in Coralles, New Mexico

In Coralles, New Mexico, there is a huge black stone mesa next to a new housing development. John Stokes has brought us here to a place that is a tangible metaphor for the shape the earth is in, so we can learn about tracking, seeing, listening, and working together, watched by ancient petrogylphs and freshly painted vinyl siding.

He directs us to park where a white driveway tapers off into dust, and hops from the bus with a cat's grace. We follow, several people looking askance at the bland subdivision surrounding us. John pads down the sidewalk until it ends in fine powdery dust, and his posture changes, grows looser. Tracks of mice, dogs and birds are brilliantly visible in the dirt, backlit by the sun. This is John's turf, the edges where past and present meet, where nature and humanity rub up against each other gingerly or boldly.

Our group wanted to meet with John to learn about tracking. We just experienced a seminar given by a student fascinated by the marks that lives leave behind as they go on their way. He introduced us to basics like moving slowly, scanning the land in front of you, and looking for the next track. We're here with John to get more detailed instruction. Now he is leading us past tracks to our own ability to see.

"Where did you learn all this?" someone asks, and John tells of his years with the aborigines in Australia, how they laughed at him when he wanted to outdo them at their own skills, how they led him past his arrogance to a place in himself where he could teach. He says teaching is letting go of what you expect your students to learn so they have room to learn it themselves. It is clear he believes this because much of the technical tracking skills we learn while with him are taught by his partner, Louis, who is twenty years old. John asks Louis to lead us in exercises, show us what stride is, teach us breathing and centering movements. At these moments John sits back and watches, sometimes laughing as his teachers did.

At one point we pause and John sends four people off to gather tinder. He pulls out his fire kit, and asks if we want to make fire. Of course we do. Showing the various kits he has made to create a spark in different styles, he notes that many people who want to make fire rubbing sticks together try to do it alone, using raw strength to force out a spark. His favorite way is to work in a team of four, so each person can catch the stick and continue the spiraling motion when the last is tired. This is faster and more effective, cooperation easing the nature of any task people need to do.

Once the loose fluff from dried sticks is ready, four people squat and place the two pieces of wood in the middle. John starts the motion to demonstrate, then the next person twists her hands down the stick, then the next. Smoke begins to rise. We are still, holding our breath, watching a motion as old as our species' move away from raw meat and darkness. At the sight of the coal and sudden flames we all relax. This move through fire making gives us faith that we can create. John cautions that this skill is just that, anyone can learn it. We needn't take it as magic. We made fire. Not I, not she, not he. We. Fire is a force we humans fleetingly possess, in imitation of lightening and molten rock, and John Stokes had just showed us how to create it using one of the oldest methods known, together.

Alternating tracking tips with exploring the petroglyphs of spirals, animals, birds, plants and hands, we wander around the mesa. The carved hands are life sized; each of us can find one that fits our hand. John says, "These are the tracks of the people who lived here before we came. They left these marks to tell other people of what they knew, how their world moved." His philosophy is to bring together the pieces that have been lost in our separation from nature; rocks and dust, rain and food.

Under the hot sun we listen, and run in the loose dust, looking at the marks we leave, at how quickly the wind blurs their edges. Laughter binds us together, even when we are strung out over a quarter mile, scrambling to examine carvings, straggling back to the bus.

We drive to John's house, where his four year-old daughter Jade joins us. Her courage in the face of more than twenty strangers is a lesson in itself. "Track, track", she yells, jumping with both feet in the grit of her driveway, showing us the marks she left. We sit in the backyard, shaded by a tree, and John brings out his didgerido and other instruments from the lands he has visited. With hypnotizing skill he imitates the sound of Australian animals, speaking of the language of the music, and how it records the stories of the outback. The sound the mimic makes weaves us into a deeper spell.

There is nothing particularly amazing about what John says; we've even heard a lot of it before from other ecologists and teachers. But his laughter and his music, his easy manner soothes us all and as we break to eat dinner, roaming his yard and sitting in the driveway, we all laugh too.

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Honoring Diversity

Kira's studies with AEI found her away from family and friends during her favorite and most meaningful of Jewish celebrations - Passover. She grappled with the conflict, felt heavy with the loss, posed the possibility of returning home for the holiday, and in the end decided to offer to her non-Jewish bus mates the opportunity to participate in a Jewish Passover celebration designed and facilitated by herself. At first the task was daunting - she had always participated but never been the catalyst. Her family helped her by faxing readings, information and support. She called on community members to share in the meal shopping, preparation and service. Seated at picnic tables in a public campground in a California State Park, Kira became a spiritual leader, sharing her beloved Jewish traditions to an open, curious and energetic learning community. The risks she took in opening her heart and traditions in this non-Jewish environment, was the model for other students to begin to openly share their spiritual traditions and practices.

Two days later, while camped in a California Wilderness setting, a group of Christian students within the learning community conducted an Easter morning service open to everyone. The openness and trust of sharing spiritual practices was felt and appreciated. It was, but a few days later, when a sweat lodge was discovered on the bank of a creek, that the Earth spiritualists in the group went to work gathering wood and rocks for a purification/prayer sweat.

What Kira started had mushroomed into a wondrous, joyful sharing of who we are in our spirit lives. When the group exited the wilderness and learned of the death of a community member's sister, a Buddhist walking meditation was offered as the method to give reverence to the passing.

It is difficult in our quest for honoring diversity, to know how to speak about and celebrate our religious and spiritual differences. In education, spiritual and religious aspects of ourselves have been separated and ignored. This AEI Learning Community, ignited by Kira's willingness to share, delved into the hard place of sharing and speaking of who we are in our spirit selves. Each student was richer and affirmed by the shared experiences. It's one thing to talk about diversity, it's yet another to truly experience it. AEI students are ready for the challenge.

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There Is No Typical Day

After a short morning walk, I join my busmates for a delicious breakfast of pancakes before packing, loading cooking gear, tents, and sleeping bags. By 9 a.m. we're on the bus, checking to see that we're not missing anyone, and speculating excitedly about the day ahead.

After a short ride, past the stunning red rock typical of southern Utah, we pull into Glen Canyon Dam's parking lot alongside mobile homes and jeeps. A group of experienced student facilitators gathers us together to start our discussion.

What did Amy find out about L.A.'s annual electricity needs and consumption? Can John share with us his overview of desert ecology from his last English paper? Pat chimes in that she did some research while at University of Northern Arizona last week about how the many dams on the Colorado River affect the flow of water, and what the U.S. agreement with Mexico was regarding water rights and allotments.

The facilitators skillfully help us shape the wide array of questions, issues, reactions and emotions into a focused information-gathering session regarding hydro-electric power generation, U.S./ Navajo politics and the parties involved in supporting this project. Then, for three hours, we turn to the Park Service staff. We listen to, and ask them questions about why this dam exists, what it provides for residents and others, and what the proven and assumed environmental impacts are. We take care not to offend, but rather remain open to learn from them what they have to offer us.

After our meeting, we're hungry and a bit drained from the barrage of information. We eat a quick and easy lunch of veggie sandwiches, scatter into little clumps or wander off alone to re-examine the dam without the chatter of the guides.

By mid-afternoon, a new team of student facilitators leads us through a writing exercise in which we spill out our reactions to the sights we have just seen. We share and listen to each others' rage, fascination, arguments for and against, sadness, and confusion. One facilitator asks, "What would you do if you could do anything you wanted to with this dam?" A lively discussion ensues about the role dams play in society and in our own lives. In the end, we decide to find another resource experience with a different perspective of the dam. Someone suggests we contact the Navajo EPA and two people volunteer to work on setting it up.

We break, pile into the bus again, and head to Navajo National Monument to camp. On the ride some people read or write; several continue to talk about the dam; voices rise and weave together. A group in the back of the bus sings, accompanied by guitar. I look out the window at a landscape similar to what I've read was once a magnificent canyon.

Tonight is free, unless something pressing comes up. I'll work on my paper for my Water Systems class--maybe incorporate this experience. Later, I'll probably sit in the bus, glowing in yellow light, and talk with busmates about what lies ahead.

The bus rolls past Navajo hogans, more red hills, and sagebrush. Our learning journey continues...

- Louie Carl, Graduate Alum

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