FAUNA 2021

FAUNA

An Environmental Humanities Literary and Art Magazine

Spring 2021

Environmental Humanities Student Advisory Board

Grace Neumiller ‘21

Pen Hallowell ‘21

Lucia Middleton ‘22

Matt Rocha ‘23

Chloe Shader ‘24

Rory Hallowell ‘24

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Izzy Tonneson ‘24

Letter from the Staff Editor Dear Reader, Welcome to the third edition of FAUNA, an environmental humanities literary and art magazine created by the Colby Environmental Humanities (EH) Student Advisory Board and the EH Program Coordinator. The goal of this magazine is to highlight extraordinary environmentally themed creative works by Colby students, and to spread the message of EH across campus and beyond.

This has been a hard year, perhaps the hardest year many of us have lived through. The pandemic has kept us isolated from loved ones, barring us from participation in the community activities that strengthen us and bring us joy, while the nation has been rocked by political unrest and serious threats to social justice. It is in times like this that we have to stand firm by our convictions, to find new ways to connect with others and express ourselves creatively, and to plan for the future.

You might notice as you page through the magazine that this year’s edition has a seasonally themed layout. We move from the forests of fall, to the snows of winter, to the flowers and birds of spring, and finally to the warm waters of summer. The goal of this layout is to represent in text and image the natural order of which we are all an intrinsic part, and to embrace the cycle of decay and rebirth. This spring, as daffodils bloom and vaccines are distributed, we want to celebrate a new beginning. We hope to move forward unitedly, taking into account the lessons 2020 has taught us and doing our best to acknowledge and tackle the systematic inequalities that plague both society and environment.

If you too feel a connection to the natural world and concern for the issues facing it, and find happiness in expressing this connection creatively, then the environmental humanities are for you. If you turn to the last two pages of the magazine, you’ll find information on the new English with Literature and the Environment concentration, a list of all twenty-one EH courses you can take next year, and information on how you can join the EH Student Advisory Board and submit your own work to FAUNA. Warmest wishes, Ayla Fudala Environmental Humanities Program Coordinator Center for the Arts and Humanities

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Table of Contents Front and Back Covers: “Forest” by Cal Waichler ‘21 Page 4: “Runnals Hill Forest” by Chris Rodiger ‘22 Page 5: “The Tallest Tree on Campus” by Rory Hallowell ’24 Page 6: “Late Evening Maple” by Chris Rodiger Page 7: “Curated Nature” by Nimco Isack ‘23 & “Red Hour” by Selim Hassairi ‘21 Page 8:“Rockport by Sunset” by Selim Hassairi Page 9: “Magellanic Missed Connections” by Cal Waichler Page 10: “Three Trees (after Rembrandt)” by Nicholas Malkemus ’21 Page 11: “Reflections of the Kennebec River” by Sophia Reyes ‘23 Page 12: “The Careful Brown Trout” by Pen Hallowell ’21 Page 13: “What Remains” by Francesca Nardi Pages 14-15: “Snow Barn”, “Messalonskee Stream” & “Color Study 1” by Chris Rodiger Page 16: “Winters in Winslow” by Sophia Reyes Pages 17-20: “Disappearing Glaciers: From Peak to Puddle” by Francie Treadwell ’23 Pages 21-22: “Glacier Women” & “Wolverine Scroll” by Cal Waichler Pages 23-24: “Naomi Klein: Rallying for Change Through Stories” by Lucia Middleton ’22 Page 25: “Floral” by Chris Rodiger Page 26: “Flower Box” by Nicholas Malkemus Page 27: “Fiddle Leaf Fig” by Annie Muller ‘22 Page 28: “Black Redstart” & “Magpie” by John Shamgochian ‘21 Page 29: “Castaways” by Emma Goldberg-Courtney ‘21 Page 30: “Banggai Cardinal” & “Flame Hawkfish” by Selim Hassairi Page 31: “Aquarium” by Chloe Shader ‘24 Page 32: “Frequencies” by Selim Hassairi Page 33: How to become a part of EH at Colby Page 34: Upcoming EH Courses

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Runnals Hill Forest Chris Rodiger

The Tallest Tree on Campus Rory Hallowell Despite the extraordinary geographical diversity of New England, from the coasts to cranberry bogs, from the lakes to the mountains, from the rivers and the forests to the farmlands of Northern Maine, one tree is found nearly everywhere: the white pine, Pinus strobus. Thus, it shouldn’t be surprising that the white pine is a classic symbol of New England. In Maine, the white pine is the state tree and its cones are the state flower. During the colonial period, the Royal British Navy, then the strongest navy in the world, used the tall and sturdy trunks of white pines as masts for their ships.

Native Americans created a starchy and nutritious flour by grinding white pine bark.

From Maine to Connecticut, the white pine is a symbol of our history, and our continued dedication to the preservation of nature. On Colby’s campus alone, there is probably no outside space where a white pine isn’t in sight. For those looking for the tallest white pine, however, a walk on the blue trail in the arboretum is necessary.

According to Assistant Professor of Environmental Studies Justin Becknell, the tallest tree on campus is a white pine. To find this colossal tree, walk south from Colby on Mayflower Hill Drive. Past the Rugby field there is a pull-off area and a field with two tall trees in its center. From there, walk towards the woods, where you’ll find a marker for the blue trail. On the blue trail, walk until you see the stream (no more than a three minute walk without snow). This towering white pine stands separate from others, and blocks one’s view of the stream from the blue brail.

Despite its name, the white pine isn’t white at all. Like any other pine, Pinus strobus keeps its needles, of which it has five per bundle, through the winter. White pine bark is grey and wavy, with many cracks separating the pieces of bark.

Facing the tree, feeling the cold air on my cheek, hearing the rush of water in the steam, I am at peace, and I feel a connection to the Native Americans, colonists, and modern New Englanders who walk this land. The white pine reminds us of the enduring power of the land we live on. To me, New England is harsh soil, unforgiving winters and the summer sun that shines down on our lakes, blinding our eyes and warming our backs. In the winter, the white pine gives us wood for heat. In the summer, the white pine gives us shade for keeping cool. The white pine is a fitting symbol of New England, its history, its geography, and its strength throughout the cold winter. We are fortunate to have so many on Mayflower Hill.

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Late Evening Maple Chris Rodiger

Curated Nature Nimco Isack Geometrically-perfect lines, each blade of grass is approximately two inches, a testament to the meticulous landscaping to maintain aesthetics. It feels eerily artificial, despite the reality of being out, amongst nature. Nature is not quite natural, and the perfect lawn and strategically placed trees lead me to believe that even the animals are planted, the squirrels’ eyes cameras. They witness the various procedures done to make the lawn perfect and the trees well-placed.

They witness how the leaves are raked and lined up, contained in black bags like bodies off to the morgue. They witness how the sprinklers water the grass in timed intervals, and how the rain is bitter that it must share its job. With a slight hum, their joints move them in the direction of an acorn, which they hold to symbolize their squirreliness. For approximately thirty seconds, they pause and stare blankly at the food they hold, then rapidly dart up the tree. They glitch when someone walks near, then remember they are squirrels and scurry away. Everyone tells me I am out enjoying nature, but I feel I am in a museum display and the nature I walk among is one large project.

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Red Hour Selim Hassairi

Rockport by Sunset Selim Hassairi

Magellanic Missed Connections Cal Waichler

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Three Trees (after Rembrandt) Nicholas Malkemus

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Reflections of the Kennebec River Sophia Reyes

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The Careful Brown Trout Pen Hallowell The brown trout is one of the more popular species of trout. When the fish swims naturally, it is graceful. It appears to be the most passive being on earth.

When it jumps, there is no other fish which can be as careful as a brown trout.

It is the most delicious fish. This is because it never stops swimming. It is restless; it is thoughtful in every way possible. This fish controls its temptations. Only when a brown trout eats is it aggressive. As it comes near a dragonfly, it pokes its snout up to smell the insect, then ducks back underwater.

Then, as calm as a lion stalking its prey, it slowly approaches the dragonfly again. This is the moment when a brown trout’s inner devil is released. In a short, quick, and precise movement, the trout bursts out of the water, snaps up the dragonfly, and dives back into the water. This same process is what the brown trout does to a fly attached to a fisherman's line. The one exception is that it smells the fly and doesn't know if it is fake or real. The fish is calm when it comes up and touches the fly, then runs away. Almost instantly, the fly fisherman becomes an ill-tempered person.

Bishop, CA, Jan-Plan‘19: EN 238: The Art of Fly Fishing 12

What Remains Francesca Nardi

Connor leaves his group of friends, a can emerges from the melting snow. mud is what remains after all that white. other paths than roads, though the pond still frozen - reminds us of the months before

hear, how your voice responds to the willows, crows are calling, grass vibrating isn't just wind? this morning the snow was whispering and I didn't reply. I fear it was a farewell

I started thinking of the snow as a defense do not step on - space untouchable nature shrinks in winter while we pile our bodies among beds and tables

I cannot say which is the color of the sky but I am learning how footsteps differently sound on different matters. wrists and calves is what of my body I offered - my daily erosion - cold wind's price, the offering for the warm sun.

I was laying on the concrete my down jacket wadded the Taiwanese words from my friend laying next to me

cars just pass, overcome one to the other how can you recognize their brand by the noise? we do not name trees by their names

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Snow Farm Chris Rodiger

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Messalonskee Stream and Color Study 1 15

Chris Rodiger

Winters in Winslow Sophia Reyes

disappearing glaciers: FROM PEAK TO PUDDLE Francie Treadwell

This graph shows the steadily increasing concentrations of carbon dioxide (in parts per million) in the atmosphere from 1959 to 2019. This atmospheric data was gathered over 60 years at NOAA’s Mauna Loa observatory in Hawaii.

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This graph, from the NOAA National Climatic Data Center, shows global average temperatures from 1880 to 2014.

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Artist Statement Francie Treadwell

Disappearing Glaciers: from Peak to Puddle is a collection of digital collages which outlines the processes of climate change that have led to the declining of glaciers worldwide. Featuring photographs from my time living and skiing in Chamonix, France, the collages include France’s largest glacier, Mer de Glace (“Sea of Ice”), and its surrounding peaks. Mer de Glace, a 200-meter-deep glacier which flows for almost seven kilometers down the side of Mont Blanc, offers one of the most striking examples of climate change in action. In 1988, when a cable car station was built to facilitate visits to the glacier, it took tourists only three steps to reach the ice after stepping off of the cable car. When I visited the glacier in 2018, it took 430 steps. Mer de Glace is now melting at a rate of 40 meters a year and has lost 80 meters in depth over the last 20 years alone. It is estimated that 90% of glaciers in the Alps could disappear by 2100 if nothing is done about reducing carbon emissions. While data and graphs are deemed the backbone of the climate crisis, it seems we have grown numb to their significance. In our 21st century climate, which is simultaneously datadriven and data-denying, it could be argued that the divide between the arts and the sciences has become increasingly defined. By transposing the beauty of Alpine landscapes onto graphs which are clearly forecasting their destruction, I hope to bring the data to life, and to remind my audience of the direct consequences of the data represented.

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This graph depicts the average cumulative mass of glaciers worldwide. The negative numbers indicate the net loss of ice and snow compared with the base year 1945. For consistency, measurements are in meters of water, and represent changes in the average thickness of a glacier.

Glacier Women (right) and Wolverine Scroll (opposite page) Cal Waichler

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Naomi Klein: Rallying for Change Through Stories Lucia Middleton

Naomi Klein is a New York Times best-selling author, social activist, and filmmaker known for her ideas and critiques of corporate globalization and free-market capitalism. Klein was selected by the Center for the Arts and Humanities to do double duty as the 2020 Mellon Distinguished Fellow in Environmental Humanities, and the Fall 2020 keynote speaker for this year’s humanities theme, Boundaries and Margins. As part of her virtual residency, Klein visited multiple classes. On Tuesday, October 6th, she also held a public event. In this webinar, she discussed the global climate crisis and some steps we should take to tackle the problem. While she covered many topics such as jobs, social justice, and the disparity between developed and developing countries, the main point that I took from her talk was that inclusivity is key. In order to turn this crisis around, we can’t just leave all the decision-making to those in governmental and corporate power. Climate action needs to be embraced and considered in all aspects of society, as well as broadened in order to include those whose voices have historically been marginalized in the movement.

Klein delves further into these ideas in her documentaries The Shock Doctrine and This Changes Everything, both based on two best-selling books that she has written of the same name. Because This Changes Everything focuses specifically on climate change, I decided to watch it as a continuation of her talk. The film was made over four years and spans five continents, and documents Klein’s visits to areas that have been impacted by climate change and destructive land use.

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She chronicles the stories of land activists in New York, Montana, Canada, Greece, India, China, and Germany. Throughout the film, Klein emphasizes the point that humanity’s scientific prowess has led us to think of mother nature as a machine and ourselves as the engineers.

Since the Industrial Revolution, human society has been stuck in an endless cycle of feeding industry with fossil fuels, all without replenishing what we have plundered from the earth. Of course, this cycle is unsustainable, which Klein illustrates with stories of land, human, and resource exploitation in the name of economic growth. This elusive goal of economic prosperity, Klein argues, is what will ultimately be our downfall unless we can change the current cycle. While Klein does say at the end of the film that this crisis is ultimately about all of us coming together to stop climate change, the film consistently pushes an “us versus them” narrative, specifically in regards to the people living on the exploited land, and the governments and corporations looming over them. While I can see why this narrative would be utilized in order to best tell the stories in the film, I fear that this tactic could alienate some viewers, especially when this narrative is combined with Klein’s critiques of capitalism. In addition, I wished that the film had delved further into ideas of how to change the current system in place, which she had mentioned in her talk. Granted, solutions for this problem are extremely complex, but I still would have liked to hear more about her ideas regarding systemic change, rather than briefly mentioning Germany as an example of positive climate action.

Overall, it was a good film that showcased moving stories of people impacted by the government’s incessant need for economic growth. Klein is a masterful storyteller who knows how to draw people’s attention, and in order to stand a chance in fighting climate change, we need more people like her at the helm.

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Floral Chris Rodiger

Flower Box Nicholas Malkemus

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Fiddle Leaf Fig Annie Muller

Black Redstart and Magpie John Shamgochian

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Castaways Emma Goldberg-Courtney My home, my home is the ocean. Wherever I go, the sight of swelling waves, dipping, blue crests, tells me I am home. I cannot breathe underwater, I cannot truly see underwater, so I do not know if I can explain this feeling of belonging to you, but I will try.

I do not recall my first memory of the ocean, but I can tell you about the place. A place that never fails to take my breath away and simultaneously bring me home. The Harraseeket River, running into the sea, around the islands, Bustin’s, French’s, Pound of Tea, and back up into the harbor. The tides, pulling in and out.

I remember one summer, we had sailed up the river, from the ocean harbor, to see where all the water came from. It was a muggy day, the air was heavy and grey, and my hair stuck to the nape of my neck. I could feel a storm rolling in, a high pressure system sitting out at sea, lurking behind the bank of islands, waiting. That day, I remember the water looked different, darker somehow, and it was warm and humid. I was suffocating.

And then I saw them, floating past in undulating globs of frothy pink, white, and purple. Jellyfish. There were so many, too many. I was young, but I had heard the stories of the rocky inlets, harbors, the coastline warming; my home was heating up, panicking or trying to expel us from its waters, I did not know which. Maybe both.

I had heard my friend’s father, a lobsterman, talk about smaller catches, lighter loads; the oceans were too warm, and the lobsters were leaving. But that day, I saw it. Jellies, jellies where they didn’t belong, floating up the river from the sea. Most of them already dying. Belonging, as if I belong here anymore than they do. I too am just floating up the river, drifting, untethered. Little packages of translucent pink warning flags, and we just kept on sailing past, ignoring them.

Later, when we had returned to the dock and derigged for the end of the day, I saw a boy stab a jellyfish with a driftwood stick through its fleshy heart. More violence, violence in the moment, immediate, tangible, purely for the sake of violence against creatures we had already driven from their homes. We were slowly cooking them alive.

It is a secret people don’t like to think about, let alone discuss, but lobsters can feel pain, can feel it as we boil them, every last agonizing second.

One of my racing coaches drop-kicked a jellyfish off the end of a dock. He flung it up into the air, and then split it into two quivering globes. I wondered if it could feel its body tearing apart? Did it know it was going to die? If the jelly could have chosen, would it rather we boiled it alive in our warming oceans, or granted it a quick, but equally atrocious death?

I do not know which I would choose, boiled alive, or torn in two, but that is the thing, I do not have to choose, no one is asking me to. I am not a jellyfish, but then, no one is asking them either.

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Banggai Cardinal and Flame Hawkfish Selim Hassairi

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Aquarium Chloe Shader I know the ocean ends eventually & gives up her endless to the shore but I love the songs and odes and plays and dances dedicated to her infinity.

The ocean is not infinite, but she does wave to everyone when she sees us.

But still-- I look at the ocean and see horizon lines that hold bleaching coral reefs and struggling humpback whales and disappearing vaquitas. I see waters warming: overwhelmed and overflowing.

Except--inside the aquarium, I float my fingers on jellyfish smooth like wet gummy bears. Smiling and surprised, children grin as people walk wonderstruck by windows full of infinite extraordinaries. I help them notice the two-toed sloth hanging overhead and toddlers and teenagers and grandmothers all breathe and watch and wonder.

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I read a study about metaphors: the ocean as the climate’s heart, it said, circulating heat and nutrients, with river arteries and heartbeat tides.

Aquariums are the stethoscopes, I think, or maybe the telescopes-those ones you put a quarter in to see farther across the waves.

The water is so wide we forget how close we are to each other.

There are brain wave oceans inside all our heads. We are so full of thoughts that rainforests grow out of our ears; there are rivers of works-inprogress that spurt out of our fingers every time we touch the pen or the protractor or the watercolor paints. We look at the ocean and we are overwhelmed by how much it holds. We forget how much we can hold, together.

Frequencies Selim Hassairi

Become a Part of the Environmental Humanities at Colby Delve into the Environmental Humanities with the new English with Literature and the Environment Concentration!

We are delighted to announce that the English department has created a new major concentration, English with Literature and the Environment (ENLE). English majors at Colby now have the opportunity to focus their research through the lens of the environmental humanities (EH). Colby is one of only a handful of colleges in the US to offer an environmental literature concentration, so being a part of this program is truly a unique opportunity. To learn more, visit the EH website at web.colby.edu/environmentalhumanities/ and click on the English with Literature and the Environment page under the Students tab.

Want to submit to FAUNA? Email your environmentally-themed art and writing to Ayla Fudala at arfudala@colby.edu and you could be published in our next edition. No writing submissions over four pages please.

Want to join the EH Student Advisory Board?

Go to the Colby EH website and click on Student Advisory Board under the Students tab.

Fill out the application there, and email it to Ayla.

Another great way to get involved in the Environmental Humanities at Colby is to take one of our fantastic EH classes. See the list of upcoming EH classes on the next page.

You can also like us on Facebook, or follow us on Instagram @colbyenvhumanities.

The Environmental Humanities Initiative of the Colby Center for the Arts and Humanities is made possible by a generous grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.

To learn more about the Center for the Arts and Humanities, like us on Facebook, or visit our website at www.colby.edu/centerartshumanities/

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Upcoming Environmental Humanities Courses Fall 2021 AY256: Land, Food, Culture, and Power, Mills AY365: Space, Place, and Belonging, Tate CL153: Environmental Approaches to Antiquity, Taylor EN283: Environmental Humanities: Stories of Crisis and Resilience, Walker EN314: 17th-Century Literature and the Natural World, Sagaser HI348: U.S. Environmental History, Jacobson IT244: Pastoral Cookbook: Classic Recipes and New Cooking Techniques, Cannamela PL126: Philosophy and the Environment, Peterson PL328: Radical Ecologies, Peterson RE218: Global South Asia: Literature, Art, Environment, Singh WP115I: First-Year Writing: Landscape and Place, Megan

Jan Plan PL297: Vegan Studies: Animals, Politics, Environment, and Health, Peterson

Spring 2022 AM228: Nature and the Built Environment, Lisle AY229: Reading Ethnographies of Climate Change and the Crisis of Capitalism, Besteman EA120: Nature in East Asian Literature and Culture, Besio EN283: Environmental Humanities: Stories of Crisis and Resilience, TBD EN 357: Literature and Environment: Mobile Subjects in a Planetary Crisis, Walker EN363: The Enlightenment and the Anthropocene, Hanlon FR326: Sustainable Development in/of the French-Speaking World, Cornell RE232: American Spirituality and the Environment, Harper WG339: Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities, Sibara

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