Discuss: Night Shift

This essay brought back sweet/painful memories of growing up tent camping. I love that I shared the ground with lakes and mountains that we camped near—not like the high-rent RV campers who slept on mattresses above ground. But I still have discomfiting dreams about feces-strewn bathroom walls.

Having just finished The Hummingbird’s Daughter by Urrea, I was delighted to see this article in Orion. I find his authenticity refreshing.

Thanks for reminding me of the billions of my fellow humans who are struggling to survive, unseen and unthought of by myself and most of my middle class minority. You remind me that all the bullshit about the glorious free enterprise system is just an ugly lie told to justify the unjustifiable abuses the few are inflicting upon the many in our world. Until there is a widespread awakening of conscience we will continue to see war, poverty, cancer, and madness rule our misguided world. How can we do these things to each other?!
  I look forward to your future columns.

I echo the praise of authenticity. It’s what draws me to him. Urrea leaves an indelible impression with whatever he writes. I fell in love with Teresita in The Hummingbird’s Daughter and was at the front of the line to pre-order Queen of America. I’m glad you have him in here. I already subscribe but now will be purchasing extra copies to share.

The lack of comments and reaction to this piece makes me a little uneasy about Orion’s readership. Is it only the slick and pretty side of things that gets our attention? Is the material here a little too uncomfortable for middle class sensibilities?

He never lets us avert our eyes, does he? What he tells is always worth knowing. Thank you for adding him to your writers roster.

the appeal of wastelands are that they are not eternal. rather, vacant lots and dumps and other wastelands are transitory, shaped by irregular disturbance, nature/culture hybrid landscapes that are coproductions of both humans and nonhumans. I was left wondering what the skunk and raccoon thought of the campground.
http://marginalnature.blogspot.com/

The agricultural drainage ditch a few blocks from my grandmother’s house in Salinas was actually a conduit for raw sewage of every sort. On its dirt embankments we built wooden rafts from discarded pallets on which we explored the nether reaches of endless lettuce fields; knowing that if we touched the water we would probably die of a horrible disease. It was horrible, it stunk, but it was an adventure – it was, all the nature we had.