WEBVTT

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I'm going to finish with a poem
by good friend, Janice Gould.

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And I want to say, something
I've been thinking a lot about

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and written about a lot
is this idea of in-seeing.

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Because so much of the
language of the United States

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is languaging over the
language of where we come from,

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the real stories of this land.

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And so when we look
to the land, we often

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don't see ourselves on the
maps as things are defined.

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So we have to learn how to
see with invisible maps.

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And this kind of
in-seeing, I think,

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is distinct from seeing form
or relationship or order.

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It's not referential.

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It doesn't say or name.

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It doesn't draw the
boundaries or define.

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It's a way of insight.

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It's a way of remembering
place internally.

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It's a visibility in a way
that holds love as evidence

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of our continuation.

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And that's really why I wanted
to read Janice Gould's poem,

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"Earthquake Weather."

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In this poem by Janice Gould,
who has incredible work

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and left us too
early in June, 2019,

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I hear the words of a
poet who has the knowledge

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and insight of love, the love
that exists by in-seeing.

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Janice Gould is a good
friend, a teacher,

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and a Konkow Maidu poet
born and raised in Berkeley.

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As it is autumn and fire
season in California,

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I wanted also to share
this poem for all

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who are suffering
from the many losses,

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to not lose faith in love.

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This is called
"Earthquake Weather."

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It's earthquake
weather in California,

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that hazy stillness
along the coast

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just before the Santa Anas howl
out of the east, hot and dry.

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There were days in September
when we drove down the fault

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line south of Hayward.

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We went where there were Spanish
names, Sunol, and Calaveras,

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La Misión de San José.

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I remember seeing the
cells of the padres,

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their faded vestments, the
implements of wood and iron.

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We were looking for
another country, something

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not North America, a taste,
a smell, a solitary image,

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the eucalyptus on
a bleached hill.

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Its blue, pungent leaves made
you long for another home.

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That was what you wanted from
me, to be your other home,

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your other country.

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Being Indian, I was your cholo
from the Bolivian highlands.

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I was your boy, full of
stone and a cold sunset.

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At night, seated at your
bedside, I was remote.

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I often made you weep, you
in the guise of an angelita.

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You lay on the low mattress,
a weaving beneath your head,

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and watched me with your
slow eyes, your sadness.

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When September comes with
its hot, electric winds,

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I will think of you and
know somewhere in the world,

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the earth is breaking open.

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