Wisconsin People & Ideas – Winter 2022 by Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts & Letters

Te Amo, Te Veo: Graffiti to Art

Country Hunter • Reading the Land • A Good Death

MAPPED OUT A new podcast about gerrymandering in Wisconsin

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WISCONSIN ACADEMY

OF SCIENCES, ARTS & LETTERS

Editor’s Note

OFFICERS OF THE BOARD Tom Luljak • President Chan Stroman • President-Elect Patricia Brady • Immediate-Past President Richard Donkle • Treasurer Vacant • Secretary Roberta Filicky-Peneski • Vice President for Arts Steven A. Ackerman • Vice President for Sciences L. Jane Hamblen • Vice President for Letters Andrew Richards • Foundation President STATEWIDE BOARD OF DIRECTORS Kimberly M. Blaeser, Burlington Frank D. Byrne, Monona Joseph Heim, La Crosse B.J. Hollars, Eau Claire Robert D. Mathieu, Madison Michael Morgan, Milwaukee Kevin Reilly, Verona Rafael Salas, Ripon Tim Size, Madison Thomas W. Still, Madison OFFICERS OF THE ACADEMY FOUNDATION Ira Baldwin (1895–1999) • Foundation Founder Andrew Richards • Foundation President Freda Harris • Foundation Vice President Richard Donkle • Foundation Treasurer Arjun Sanga • Foundation Secretary FOUNDATION DIRECTORS Mark J. Bradley Patricia Brady Kristen E. Carreira Jack Kussmaul Tom Luljak Chan Stroman

Laura Camille Tuley

WISCONSIN ACADEMY STAFF Christopher Chambers • Editor, Wisconsin People & Ideas and Courses Coordinator Jody Clowes • Interim Executive Director and Director, James Watrous Gallery Lizzie Condon • Director, Environmental Initiatives Jessica James • Program Coordinator, Climate Initiatives Joe Lyons • Coordinator, Donor Relations Matt Rezin • Building Manager and Outreach Coordinator Sallie Anna Steiner • Events and Communications Manager Nikita Werner • Operations Manager Ann Wilson • Business Manager

I saw a blue moon this past August in Sturgeon Bay where my wife and son and I had escaped for a long weekend with my in-laws. It was a highlight in a year with few of them, sitting with family in camp chairs around a fire with a cooler of Wisconsin-brewed craft beer. I was familiar with the saying “once in a blue moon,” but only recently learned that a blue moon is the third full moon in a season with four full moons rather than the usual three. A “seasonal” blue moon appears just once every three years or so. I also discovered that the annual full moon in August is called the Sturgeon Moon. I like these kinds of synchronicities, and I hope you’ll bear with me. As most readers will know, this space in the magazine has for the past 13 years been the place where one would find editor Jason A. Smith’s musings on the current issue of the magazine and his thoughtful observations on the culture and state of our state. As it happened, I first met Jason about five years ago, believe it or not, at the Blue Moon Bar and Grill, a few blocks down from the Academy offices. I’d recently moved back home to Wisconsin after a good many years below the MasonDixon line, what an acquaintance down there referred to when I left as my “sojourn in the South.” After moving back, I happened upon a copy of Wisconsin People & Ideas, which served as my introduction to the Wisconsin Academy and to Jason. We talked about shared interests in writing, editing, music, and Wisconsin. Fast forward to the fall of 2021. I was working with Jason to develop the new Academy Courses when he was lured away by PBS, leaving some big shoes, and this page, to fill. I am honored and thrilled to find myself here. Jane Elder, our recently retired director, likened our work at the Academy to building a plane while flying it. This is a fine craft that Jason and the good crew here have built and set aloft. My aim is to keep it soaring high, continuing to serve and celebrate people and ideas from across the great state of Wisconsin, as Jason so ably did. I’m pleased to have you along for the ride. After all, an opportunity like this only comes around once in a blue moon.

Christopher Chambers, Editor

On the cover: Aisha Valentín and her mural, Te amo, Te veo, in the Walker’s Point neighborhood, one of five murals sponsored by the Milwaukee Bucks celebrating the city’s rich history and diverse communities. Photo by Steven Potter.

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CONTENTS 01 Editor’s Note 04 From the Director oo

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05 Letters

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06 Happenings Wisconsin Table

08 Landjaeger: Mispronounced, Misunderstood, and Delicious

Jesse Brookstein

Landjaeger from Gempeler’s Supermarket in Monticello.

Essay

14 Breaking into the Art World: Graffiti Gets Legit Steven Potter

Essay

24 A Story Written in Ice: Reading Wisconsin’s Landscape Rudy Molinek

@ Watrous Gallery

32 Emily Arthur: Prints, Books, and Bronze Multiples Jody Clowes

Emily Arthur, Remember, Owl (detail), 2021. Lithograph.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

VOLUME 68 · NUMBER 1 WINTER • 2022

Spray paint cans in car trunk.

Essay

42 A Good Death Keely Khoury

Fiction

50 Everything Burns • 2nd Place Contest Winner Kim Suhr

Poetry

58 2021 Contest Honorable Mentions Katie Chiquette, Moisés Villavicencio Barras, Mark Knickelbine, Judith Harway

Book Reviews

62 Holding My Selves Together by Margaret Rozga Reviewed by Angela Trudell Vasquez

63 A Door Opens by Richard Merelman

JayFlo

Wisconsin People & Ideas (ISSN 15589633) is the quarterly magazine of the nonprofit Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters. Wisconsin Academy members receive an annual subscription to this magazine. Since 1954, the Wisconsin Academy has published a magazine for people who are curious about our world and proud of Wisconsin ideas. Wisconsin People & Ideas features thoughtful stories about our people and culture, original creative writing and artwork, and informative articles about Wisconsin innovation. The magazine also hosts annual fiction and poetry contests that provide opportunity and encouragement for Wisconsin writers. Copyright © 2022 by the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. Postage is paid in Madison, Wisconsin.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS CHRISTOPHER CHAMBERS editor JEAN LANG copy editor CHARLOTTE FRASCONA ANDY MILLMAN cold reader JODY CLOWES arts editor HUSTON DESIGN design & layout

Reviewed by Mark Zimmerman

64 The Birdman of Koshonong by Martha Berglund Reviewed by Margaret Rozga

facebook.com/WisconsinAcademy twitter.com/WASAL instagram.com/WatrousGallery

Ideas that move the world forward Join the Wisconsin Academy and help us create a brighter future inspired by Wisconsin people and ideas. Visit wisconsinacademy.org/brighter to learn how.

Wisconsin Academy Offices 1922 University Avenue • Madison, WI 53726 ph 608-733-6633 • wisconsinacademy.org

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From the Director

I’ve had many conversations about priorities over the last two years. With my kids, the conversations have focused on balancing young adult fun with safeguarding the health of others. With my neighbors, the conversations have been about welcoming new affordable housing while preserving what we love about where we live. I’ve had heartfelt talks about physical and mental health with friends and family members who are grieving, facing job loss, or caring for elderly relatives, and often I find small talk with strangers suddenly veering into existential territory. It seems that, each in our own way, we’re all asking questions about what matters to us and how we want to spend our precious time and energy. Though the pandemic is certainly responsible for these questions and conversations, we are also grappling with climate change and taking a hard look at everything from travel plans to where we bank and how we cook our food. With increased awareness of systemic racism, we’re reassessing hiring practices, policing, and access to the ballot box. And as our politics and our society become ever more polarized, more and more of us are hungry for common ground, civil

discourse, and a renewed sense of the public good. I’m heartened that so many of the people around me are not only talking about these issues but are working toward solutions—for the profound challenge of climate change, for a more functional democracy, and for living up to our nation’s promise of liberty, equality, and justice for all. My hope is that the enforced isolation of the pandemic has underlined how much we really need one another, and that the gravity of the challenges ahead will be met by an equally serious sense of urgency and purpose. While remaining true to its fundamental mission, the Academy’s work has changed many times over the past 150 years in response to changes in the needs and interests of the people and the state of Wisconsin. With Erika Monroe-Kane taking the reins as Executive Director this February, our staff will be taking a fresh look at the Academy’s programs and priorities as we move forward into this next chapter together. How would you like to see the Academy respond to the challenges of the present moment? We’d like to hear what matters most to you right now.

Jody Clowes, Interim Executive Director

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Letters

Letters News for Members A NEW DIRECTOR We’re excited to announce Erika Monroe-Kane as the Academy’s new Executive Director. We look forward to her energy and leadership as we face the challenges and embrace the opportunities ahead. FICTION AND POETRY CONTESTS Wisconsin writers: send us your best short fiction and poetry! Contest awards include $1,700, publication in Wisconsin People & Ideas, a residency at Shake Rag Alley Center for the Arts, and a reading at the Wisconsin Book Festival. Deadline: March 15, 2022. ACADEMY COURSES Registration is open for our winter/spring Courses which provide opportunities for lifelong learning and personal enrichment in creative writing and the visual arts. Academy members receive a 10% discount on course fees. Space is limited. wisconsinacademy.org/courses. JAMES WATROUS GALLERY Emily Arthur's solo exhibit "Re-membering" and "Contemporary Indigenous Printmaking," curated by Emily Arthur, will be on view February 11 -April 3 at the James Watrous Gallery in Madison. Closing reception April 1. wisconsinacademy.org/ gallery. CLIMATE & ENERGY CONFERENCE Join us at Climate Fast Forward 2022, our Climate & Energy Conference on October 17, 2022. Save the date and watch the website for registration details this spring. Interested in being a conference sponsor? environment@ wisconsinacademy.org. FULL CIRCLE LEGACY PROGRAM Consider adding the Wisconsin Academy to your will or estate plans. Legacy gifts provide the foundation for better world inspired by Wisconsin ideas. Learn how at wisconsinacademy.org/legacy.

I write to commend you (Jason A. Smith) on your work at WASAL, especially with the excellent leadership in producing an ever-better Wisconsin People & Ideas magazine. While articles and visuals in this publication have always been interesting, you have moved the dial forward with excellence in both content and presentation. It is one of the few magazines I receive that I like to savor from cover to cover. Well done. We have several mutual friends who have given counsel and support including Bill Berry whom I have known since he joined the staff of the Stevens Point Journal in the 1980s. I value my acquaintance with Bill, who like you, keeps his head down making steady progress with beneficial results for the citizens of the State of Wisconsin—without receipt of the full credit deserved for his/ your contributions. With whatever you do I offer my best wishes and thanks. Don Last, Madison I am grateful to the Wisconsin Academy for sponsoring the WP&I writing contests in poetry and fiction. Showcasing local talent and judged by writers of national renown, the selected stories consistently reveal unique twists in plot, storytelling, points-of-view, and in general uncover new perspectives on our fragile and ever-changing (or not!) human condition. They are stories for aspiring writers like me to learn from, and for all WP&I readers to enjoy. Steve Fox, Hudson I work in environmental studies, and one of our greatest challenges is to communicate with a public audience about the issues facing our planet. The even greater challenge is to do this with something more than simply statistics. “The Last Glacier” exhibit (at the James Watrous Gallery) has an incredibly powerful message. The images are arresting in both their beauty and their implications for the warming world. I was overwhelmed by the show. Thank you for supporting such an endeavor. The arts are such an important way to change our world for the better. Heather Swan, Madison

Erratum In “Fellows in the News” in the Fall 2021 issue, the year that Bassam Z. Shakhashiri emigrated from Lebanon and the length of his tenure at the National Science Foundation were incorrectly noted. Professor Shakhashiri emigrated with his family in 1957 at the age of 17. He served as assistant director for science and engineering education at the National Science Foundation for 6 years. To keep up with Professor Shakhashiri’s activities in retirement, go to his website: www.scifun.org

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR We want to hear from you. Send your thoughts and comments about our programs and publications to: cchambers@wisconsinacademy. org.

WINTER 2022

HAPPENINGS

E V E RY STE P O F TH E WAY Lands’ End, the Dodgeville-based retailer, marked Breast Cancer Awareness Month last October with an Every Step of The Way Initiative that encouraged employees and customers to get active and support each other through activities like walking, running, hiking, and biking in honor of loved ones, sharing support on virtual bulletin boards, or making a donation. Though Lands’ End has supported the Breast Cancer Research Foundation for years, last year the annual campaign took on a new meaning. CEO Jerome Griffith’s daughter Samantha was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2020. Griffith and his wife, Elke, led the way on the initiative by embarking in late September on a 7-day trek up Mt. Kilimanjaro—the tallest mountain in Africa—to raise awareness and funds for breast cancer research. “Everyone tells you (climbing Kilimanjaro is) the hardest thing that you’ll ever do in your life,” says Griffith. “I was told that you’ll be freezing cold, and you won’t feel your feet and you won’t feel your hands. And you just won’t care because you’ve got other concerns, and they were correct.” The company donated over $100,000 in 2021 to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation (BCRF), UK-based Future Dreams, and Germany-based Pink Ribbon Charities, towards funding for research.

Elke and Jerome on Kilimanjaro

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Valeria Tatera, Healing

W I S C O N S I N A RTI STS B I E N N I A L The Museum of Wisconsin Art (MOWA) and Wisconsin Visual Artists (WVA) announced 52 exhibiting artists for the 2022 Wisconsin Artists Biennial, selected from more than 400 Wisconsin artists who submitted nearly 1,200 entries. The 2022 exhibition will showcase cutting-edge works by emerging and established Wisconsin artists from throughout the state, representing a wide spectrum of media and diverse perspectives. The Wisconsin Artists Biennial is a competitive exhibition open to all artists over the age of 18 living in Wisconsin with $10,000 in awards. The first-place winner receives $5,000 and a solo exhibition at MOWA in 2024. Previous Biennial winners include Nina Ghanbarzadeh, Mark Klassen, S.V. Medaris, Warrington Colescott, and Tom Uttech. The 2022 Biennial jurors are: Dan Gunn, an artist, writer, and adjunct Assistant Professor at the Art Institute of Chicago; Phyllis McGibbon from Isolde Press, an artist who works in a range of graphic media; and John Salminen, a renowned watercolor artist and art educator. The Biennial exhibition opens with a party at The Museum of Wisconsin Art in West Bend on Saturday, February 12 from 2:00–4:00 pm.

HAPPENINGS

Ce l e b ra t e d b i o l o g i s t Jo Handelsman’s new book, A World Without Soil: The Past, Present, and Precari o u s Fu t u re of t h e Ea r t h Beneath Our Feet, published in November, 2021 by Yale University Press, addresses a soil loss crisis accelerated by poor conservation practices and climate change. Writing for a non-specialist audience, Handelsman celebrates the capacities of soil and explores the soil-related challenges of the near future. The book describes the complex connections among climate change, soil erosion, food and water security, and drug discovery, and also considers lessons learned from indigenous people who have sustainably farmed the same land for thousands of years. Jo Handelsman is the director of the Wisconsin Institute for Discovery and a Vilas Research Professor and Howard Hughes Medical Institute Professor in the Department of Plant Pathology at UW–Madison. Robert Mathieu was one of fo u r p rofe s s o r s w h o received a 2021 Hilldale Award from UW–Madison for distinguished contributions to research, teaching a n d s e r vi ce . M a t h i e u , a leader in science education, founded the Center for the Integration of Research, Teaching and Learning in 2003 with a $10 million National Science Foundation grant. The center and its learning community train 500 future faculty each year to excel in both research and teaching. He helped expand the CIRTL network from 3 founding universities to 42 today. He was also a founding member in the development of the WIYN Observatory in Arizona, a major addition to the astronomical research capabilities of the university. “(Professor) Mathieu is a remarkable, transformative force within the University of Wisconsin–Madison. He has left significant, impactful and lasting marks through all of his engagements with the university’s research, teaching and service missions,” astronomy department chair Rich Townsend wrote in his nominating letter. Mathieu has also received a WARF Named Professorship for his research into the dynamics of star clusters, the evolution of stars and binary star populations.

Mike Lieurance, UWL University Marketing and Communications

Casey Nagy

FELLOWS I N TH E N EWS

WOMEN IN SCIENCE A new program to support women interested in pursuing careers in mathematics, sciences and engineering was launched in fall 2021 at UW–La Crosse. The first Women in STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics) Living Learning Community has 14 students majoring in biology, biochemistry, chemistry, computer science, mathematics or physics living in the same residence hall. Most of them are also taking a new first-year seminar course taught by Associate Professor of Biology Anne Galbraith. In the seminar, “STEM Strong: Why Women Matter,” students learn about historical obstacles such as the strategic abolition of women practicing medicine in the early 1900s, and about the accomplishments of female scientists and mathematicians like Jocelyn Bell, who discovered pulsars, and Katalin Kariko, whose research was part of the foundational work for COVID-19 mRNA vaccines. The students also participate in social activities such as a STEM scavenger hunt, hikes in the La Crosse River Marsh, and conversations with recently graduated female STEM majors and with female STEM faculty. The learning community was the brainchild of College of Science & Health Dean Mark Sandheinrich and Victoria Carlson of the UWL Residence Life Office. “Historically, and to society’s great detriment, women were discouraged from pursuing careers in mathematics, sciences and engineering,” notes Sandheinrich. “The Women in STEM Living Learning Community is meant to foster a supportive environment for students to develop personally and professionally in preparation for life-long careers in STEM.” The goal is to have a new Women in STEM cohort each September.

WINTER 2022

Wisconsin Table

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Wisconsin Table

LANDJAEGER:

Mispronounced, Misunderstood, and Delicious BY J ESSE BRO O KSTEI N

erhaps you’ve seen them before and wondered what they were. Or you’ve seen them and never given

them a second thought—the hanging pairs of sausages that look like rectangular sticks of meat, commonly displayed in countertop cases in Wisconsin bars, markets, and convenience stores, particularly in and around Green and Dane Counties. This is landjaeger, a popular regional smoked sausage snack, often confused with jerky, that can be stored at room temperature without spoiling. It’s fermented, cured, delicious, and often misunderstood and mispronounced.

WINTER 2022

Wisconsin Table

I’ve enjoyed landjaeger for most of my life, thanks to an uncle who would bring an upstate New York interpretation to our family camp in the Adirondacks. When I landed in Madison in 2018 and noticed the many different styles and brands in Wisconsin, I began researching this mysterious meat snack. Initially I found little information on the product or the process of making it. But what I did find was fascinating and the more I dove into the history of Green County landjaeger, the more inspired I was to dig deeper into the role landjaeger has played in Wisconsin towns such as New Glarus, Monticello, Monroe, and Fitchburg. I learned not only about the history and production of landjaeger itself, but also about the hardworking family producers that have been crafting this product for decades. According to every producer and expert I talked to, the proper pronunciation of landjaeger is lond-yay-gurr. It was fun to hear producers list the mispronunciations they’ve heard over the years, such as “land-jaggers,” “ingle-lingers,” and “landigoogle.” Spelled landjaeger in Swiss, and landjäger in German, the word roughly translates to “country hunter” or “land hunter.” Hunters in need of sustenance while traveling the early European countryside carried landjaeger because it’s packed with protein and altogether delicious. Landjaeger and jerky are only similar in that they’re both meat snacks. The process for creating jerky involves spicing and drying and can be completed over the course of a single afternoon. Things get more interesting when you start talking about sausages, and more specifically, fermented and smoked sausage snacks like landjaeger. Many people are surprised to discover that landjaeger is fermented. The process of crafting landjaeger is incredibly labor and time intensive, and the associated visits by state meat inspectors leave zero room for error, which helps explain why so few producers make it. The process of making landjaeger follows these basic steps: 1. Mix ground meat batter with spices, cure, sugars, and a lactic starter culture 2. Stuff the batter into pork casing to form a pair of sausages 3. Place the sausage into stainless steel molds or forms (specialized plates that give landjaeger its iconic rectangular shape) 4. Stack the formed landjaeger, and allow it to sit for a number of days in a cooler 5. Place the formed landjaeger into a smoker and conduct a fermentation process to develop unique flavors, textures, and the desired acidity (normally 5.2 pH) 6. Raise the temperature within the smokehouse to destroy any dangerous bacteria 7. Remove landjaeger from smoker and dry to 70% of original weight 8. Complete the process by vacuum sealing landjaeger or by hanging them in display racks Traditional landjaeger has five distinct characteristics: they come as a joined pair, are hickory smoked, are flattened, are comprised of beef or a combination of beef and pork, and are fermented and therefore shelf-stable.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

There’s a beautiful evolution of landjaeger’s flavor once it’s been removed from its packaging and exposed to oxygen. Most landjaeger I’ve tried came in pairs (though I have been to at least a half dozen spots where it’s served as singles or by the pound). A joined pair is required to hang in the wooden or acrylic display cases you often see around Wisconsin, which is reminiscent of the way landjaeger is displayed in open markets and brick & mortar shops in Europe. Hickory smoking seems to be the most common practice amongst Wisconsin producers. Apart from the well-known Nueske’s Meats in Wittenberg, Wisconsin (which prides itself on applewood-smoked meats), I have yet to speak with anyone who doesn’t use hickory smoke. The flattening of landjaeger is tricky. While most producers flatten their landjaeger in what they call molds or forms, others— such as Milwaukee’s Usinger’s Famous Sausage—create a rounded product reminiscent of a cooked brat. Usinger’s landjaeger is quite delicious, and they have over 140 years of sausage-making experience, but based on my research of old recipes and practices, I would still argue that flattening is part of traditional landjaeger production. The combination of beef and pork seems to vary widely. While some meat products you’ll find around Green County feature veal or venison, I have never come across a producer, recipe, or book that mentions any meats in landjaeger other than beef and pork. And while it does seem common to use only beef, I have also never come across a recipe calling for all pork. One of the key factors in landjaeger’s popularity is the fact that it is shelf-stable which allows “country hunters” to take it with them without fear of spoilage. While you’ll often find landjaeger vacuum-sealed, there’s no denying there’s a beautiful evolution of landjaeger’s flavor once it’s been removed from its packaging and exposed to oxygen. As any landjaeger fan will attest, leaving it out a few days or even weeks is necessary to explore its true depth of flavor and mouthfeel. Distinctive packaging by producers’ retail shops is also a part of the landjaeger’s appeal. Landjaegers labeled with paper tags, tied with string, and displayed in wooden and acrylic cases shaped like little chalets, convey yet another aspect of the sausages’ deep, Old-World Swiss and German heritage. Grabbing a pair of air-dried landjaeger from these racks is part of the experience, and undoubtedly one reason why landjaegers are so eye-catching and popular in shops across the state. Each producer’s artistic flair is revealed in the blend of spices they choose—blends that are strictly proprietary and help to play a large part in giving the sausage its unique and distinct identity (other major factors include acidity, smokiness, and shape). When talking with producers, their spice list was the thing they held

All photos Jesse Brookstein

Wisconsin Table

Clockwise from top: Chris Hessling checks the smoker at Ruef’s Meat Market in New Glarus. Ruef’s Landjaeger display case at New Glarus Oktoberfest. A rack of landjaeger drying at Ruef’s in New Glarus. Vaccum-packed Landjaeger from Zuber’s in Monroe.

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Jesse Brookstein

Wisconsin Table

Right: Dennis Hoesly with freshly-smoked landjaeger at Hoesly’s Meats in New Glarus. Left: Landjaeger display case at Hoesly’s, New Glarus.

closest to the vest. Spices most often used in landjaeger include caraway, coriander, black pepper, allspice, celery seed, garlic, cumin, and nutmeg. Some shops like Hoesly’s in New Glarus have their spices pre-mixed for them, and others, like Bavaria Sausage, mix their own by hand before each batch is made. These variations among producers make each brand of Green and Dane County landjaeger unique. And even if one landjaeger producer were able to see another shop’s spice bill, there is little chance they could replicate the same exact product due to other factors such as starter cultures, meat and wood sourcing, in-house protocols and practices, and general meat shop terroir. Small local meat producers are often important repositories of unique meat processing and preservation knowledge, passing their skills from one generation to the next. Yet each producer I spoke with mentioned the closures of multiple local meat shops over the years. I witnessed one of Green County’s most historic meat shops, Ruef’s Meat Market, close up shop in March 2020 (after a 106-year run). One issue is how to remain competitive in an industry that has become highly concentrated in the hands of a few large companies. Local shops are also challenged by a shortage of younger people entering the business. But states are taking action, including Wisconsin. Since 2010, The UW–Madison has conducted a Meat Science Extension class called the Master Meat Crafter Training Program, a first-of-its-kind workshop that hosts meat industry professionals from all over the world for two years of in-person classes, plant projects, homework, and a mentorship program. And in Minnesota, two community colleges have re-introduced meat-cutting programs to their curriculums. Central Lakes College in Staples and Ridgewater College in Willmar are launching their apprentice prep programs in meat cutting and processing this coming fall. It’s the first time in 20 years

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

that any meat processing programs have been offered at Minnesota colleges. Hopefully, programs like these will help guarantee a future supply of landjaeger, a fascinating and unique Wisconsin product that stands out in the world of meat snacks and sausages. Whether you’re a “country hunter” or just someone hunting for a snack that’s a little different, visit a local meat shop and pick up a pair of landjaeger for your next trek, wherever that might be. Enjoying delicious, nourishing landjaeger while supporting a small, family-run Wisconsin business is a win-win!

Jesse Brookstein is a product of Clinton, New York and a current resident of Madison. He has long dabbled in various artistic endeavors, often for fun, occasionally for cash, and always with passion and purpose. His most recent project is the book A Perfect Pair: The History of Landjaeger in Green County, Wisconsin, a book that shines a spotlight on one of Wisconsin’s most celebrated-yet-misunderstood sausages. He is also the founder of Karate Fight Publishing, where he has published three children’s books with local artist Jessalyn Mailoa.

Wisconsin Table

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WINTER 2022

ESSAY

An alley of murals on the far eastside of Madison where artists were given permission to paint.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

ESSAY

BREAKING INTO THE ART WORLD

GRAFFITI GETS LEGIT BY STEVEN POTTER

ilwaukee muralist Aisha Valentín vividly remembers the first time she picked up a

can of spray paint. “It was just so fast,” she says, describing how the paint erupted from the can unlike drawing with a pencil or painting with a brush. “It was addictive— and empowering—to see how quickly you could

Steven Potter

create something with it.”

WINTER 2022

ESSAY

That discovery came when Valentín was 13 years old. During that summer in 2004, she and an older cousin began taking classes about the history and creation of graffiti through a nonprofit youth program called True Skool on the northside of Milwaukee. “We learned how to map out a wall, about different letter structures and color,” says the artist, now 30. “I fell in love with how you could manipulate a letter and bend it and twist it.” After these classes, Valentín and her cousins would compete, filling notebooks with stylized words and short phrases. Soon, she was out at night, tagging her street moniker on buildings, dipping between street lights and painting in short bursts of action beneath the moonlight. “I did go bombing,” she says, referring to the act of putting one’s name or ‘tag’ on as many surfaces as possible to gain notoriety among other graffiti writers. “Vandalism does not detach from graffiti—it’s about challenging the structure of the space,” she explains. But tagging around town wasn’t enough for her. “I was more focused on taking my time, doing bigger pieces and mastering the art of the letters,” she continues. It was those large, elaborate and intricate designs that used multiple colors and stretched several feet wide and tall that drew her in, she says. “I really wanted more to embrace the craft of it.” “I got really into understanding how to make the colors work together, how to make a piece look like it’s popping off the wall, making a piece look 3D,” continues Valentín. She was also drawn to the size and scale of larger pieces. “When you’re using a paintbrush, you're just using your wrist, but with a spray can on a big piece, you’re using your entire body—it feels like a martial art,” she says. “If you’re laying down a long line, you have to be really confident and flow with it. It’s like that Bruce Lee quote: ‘Be like water.’” Over the years, Valentín’s reputation and skills as a street artist have grown to the point where she now gets tapped for big—and legal—art projects. Some of her recent work includes a large mural for the Feeding America–Eastern Wisconsin building last year and, more recently, a mural sponsored by the Milwaukee Bucks as part of a project to foster unity. She’s also done logo adaptations and signage for businesses and painted caricatures of prominent leaders around the city. She doesn’t lose sight that her success is directly related to her coming up as an artist who learned her craft outside normal channels. “I didn't go to art school but I learned so much doing graffiti,” she explains. “Like color theory and scale and how to manipulate paint effects by how you move your wrist while holding the can to create shading.” Valentín is an example of a new breed of artist breaking into the traditional art world. These graffiti artists-turned-paid professional designers and creators are finding success in new and exciting ways with their tenacity, fresh ideas and seemingly endless energy. These artists are younger and unencumbered. And in many cases, because of graffiti’s prominence in communities of color, they are also people of color. This has caused some friction in the art world which is not surprising considering that the pool of money available for public art of all kinds in Wisconsin is among the lowest in the nation.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

“The politics of public art is very suppressive, especially to young brown and black people,” explains Valentín. “The way that we express ourselves isn't acknowledged. We’re told we need to go by institutional standards or it's not art.” Still, the graffiti art movement is growing and artists like Valentín are being tapped for larger projects and gallery shows. Their voices are beginning to be heard and their art is being seen at more and more public places all around Wisconsin and the globe.

ne undeniable sign of recognition for any movement is when a museum is dedicated to it. For graffiti art, that happened in Miami in 2019. “The Museum of Graffiti opened to celebrate, preserve and elevate the art of graffiti,” says museum co-founder Alan Ket. Located in the Wynwood Art District, an area known for colorful street art and murals, the museum incorporates outdoor murals into its exhibits. “There's a tremendous audience here that visits the neighborhood to see this art, but there was no education about it,” he explains. “So now, we provide that. We dive deep into the history, the people, the culture and different moments in the movement.” “Humans have been doing this for thousands of years—we can't seem to stop writing on walls and professing our love for one another or writing about religion or making terrible jokes,” continues Ket, who grew up in Brooklyn. “But the type of graffiti that we're talking about is a bit different—it started happening in the late 1960s and was born out of the desire of children in New York City to create identity.” Ket notes that around 1971, “these teenagers started writing their names with stylistic intention, designing their names with flourishes and with ornamentation, bending and shaping the letters in ways that were unique to themselves. That’s when it really started to take hold with this design sensibility.” Soon, crews of artists were competing by putting their names up bigger and higher, in difficult-to-reach but highly-visible places in the city. As the quantity of graffiti exploded, the artistic quality improved as well. “Different styles were developed, like bubble letters and marshmallow letters, and there was the emergence of bar style [lettering] and wildstyle,” Ket explains, referring to complicated graffiti pieces that incorporate interwoven and overlapping letters, shapes and decorative elements. And it didn’t take long for these late-night artists to find a canvas that moved around the city like a traveling gallery: the NYC subway cars. By the mid-1970s, Ket explains, “there was the introduction of cartoons…and it had a mural connotation to it. And then, the trains became murals themselves.” From there, graffiti spread around America and the world. Embraced by Hip-Hop culture in the 1980s, along with breakdancing, beatboxing, rapping and DJ-ing, these new forms of graffiti began appearing with increased frequency around the world in places like London, Paris, and Sydney, Australia. Ket has mixed feelings when it comes to the commercializing and commodifying of the art. “Sometimes commercialization is welcome, when it’s something being done by artists from within the movement so they can support themselves and their families,” he says, adding that graffiti artists

All Photos Steven Potter

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Clockwise from top: Spray cans close-up. Spray paint can tips. Train car painted by Ras Terms, Madison.

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are infiltrating other creative spaces as well. “They’re in television production and film production and advertising and fashion, just about everywhere.” “And I love when they go and paint in the alley as well—they can straddle both worlds,” Ket adds. “I love to see people who want to operate in the streets and also in the galleries and everywhere else and want to conquer all kinds of territory.”

nother point of validation for graffiti is that businesses are being created to provide equipment and space to foster artist growth, like the Pumpkin Hollow Art Center, which opened late last fall in Wisconsin. Currently, the center, which is operated by artist and owner Margot Atkinson, sells anti-drip spray paint designed specifically for graffiti as well as markers, aerosol can tips of different sizes and shapes and sketch pads. She’s also created an art gallery within the center. “We make most of our money through paint sales and art supplies, and then because of those paint sales, we can have the gallery and with the gallery, we can give back money to the artists,” explains Atkinson, who grew up immersed in the graffiti culture of Long Island, New York during the 1990s. Located in the countryside north of Madison, the center includes a pole barn that Atkinson is transforming into a graffiti school where she and others will teach how-to workshops on creating spray can art and painting murals once the weather warms up. “It's so hard to get started in this because there’s nowhere to do it,” she says. “In order to learn the skill of spray painting, you need to have instruction. Sure, you can just Google something and look it up, but there's really nothing like one-on-one instruction with someone who knows what they're doing.” Atkinson says her end goal is to foster the creation of art to beautify drab surroundings. “This is the art movement of our generation. And as it becomes more widely accepted, we’ll see much better art coming out of it,” she explains. “It's no longer just going to be something that’s considered an eyesore or illegal or connected with gang activity or a bad neighborhood. It's beautifying otherwise ugly spaces. Especially in urban spaces where there aren’t trees or parks, a giant, colorful mural would be better than just buildings and cement.”

oni Sikes welcomes graffiti into the art world with open arms. As chief executive officer of CODAworx, a Madison-based agency that acts as an international liaison between artists and those seeking to purchase or arrange large art projects, she’s delighted to see graffiti emerge and be validated. “Graffiti is an example of where the lines are blurring and [it’s] helping to break down the barriers in the hierarchical art world,” she says. And while graffiti’s emergence in the traditional art world may surprise some, Sikes says, “it belongs because it's authentic.” “It's hard to really define it, aesthetically, but it’s edgy, it's urban. it's young, it's brash,” she explains. “Ten years ago, that did not sit well with the fine art world. But now I think the fine art world has embraced it.” The CODAworx website features a number of works related to, inspired by or created by graffiti artists, from the interior designs of

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graffiti artist Zero (Mohammed Zulkarnaen Othman) for the Singapore restaurant Neon Pigeon to three augmented-reality murals by Los Angeles graffiti legends Ryan “Yanoe” Sarfati and Eric “Zoueh” Skotnes depicting a hummingbird in flight, mythical gods, and a Somali woman wearing a traditional guntiino installed in Columbus, Ohio in 2019. Other pieces include “Lion Pride” —a trio of lions on a vibrant graffitied wall in a fitness center in New Jersey, the “Waterlight Graffiti” interactive installation in France where visitors can ‘paint’ a wall embedded with thousands of LEDs which light up when they’re touched by water and the “120 Clay 3D Graffiti Art” project in Portland, Oregon where over 300 hand-blown glass pieces secured to the ceiling cast graffiti-like shadows on the wall. Sikes says she’s noticed an increase in graffiti artists’ work or graffiti-inspired commissioned work over the past 7 years. Also, most recently, she says, graffiti has played a visible role during the Black Lives Matter movement and racial justice protests of last summer. In cities like Madison, Milwaukee, and others across the country, graffiti artists and muralists were sought out to create art that spoke directly to the BLM movement on the plywood used to board up businesses during protests. “From a very difficult and sad situation, they were brought in to help us heal,” Sikes says. “And that’s pretty special.” She adds that the resurgence she’s seen of murals is key to graffiti’s growth and acceptance. “The art world, like everything else in life, has its trends and things become hot,” she explains. “Today, murals are huge, just like in the 1980s. We get lots and lots and lots [of requests] for mural art. Cities are recognizing that every surface is available to be painted on and that people love it. And they're using a lot of local artists to do it, which is exciting.” “And a lot of those murals are being created by artists who do graffiti art,” she adds. She expects to see the growth of graffiti to continue. “It's already happening—it’s becoming accepted and championed by the traditional art world, by museums, galleries and the big art fairs,” continues Sikes. “And when that happens, the money starts to become very real. And that's when graffiti will become an accepted part of the establishment.”

ut it’s not just art fairs, museums and galleries that are validating graffiti as an art—it’s also happening on the individual level with art dealers and private collectors. And that’s where people like the husband-and-wife team of Scott and Shawn Smith, who operate the Wisconsin-based Art Elementals artist agency, come in. Through his deep dives into Reggae music and culture, Scott Smith noticed that he “kept seeing a similar image pop up—maybe it would be on an album cover or I would see it on a wall somewhere,” he explains. “After a while I started to put all the pieces together and I realized it's this artist Ras Terms, who does these angelic characters and was working a lot with the Reggae community in San Francisco. I just became fascinated with it.” After Smith reached out to Ras Terms to see if he would design a tattoo for him, the two got to know each other. “I realized that he and his circle of street artist friends didn’t really have anyone helping them. They had no gallery presence,” Smith continues. “Their art

Steven Potter

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Aisha Valentin and her mural entitled Africa, Milwaukee.

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Steven Potter

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Anthony ‘YNOT’ Denaro and his ‘S’ chair.

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wasn't even viewed necessarily as something you would pay money for. But at the same time, I’m looking at these pieces, thinking, ‘People need this in their life.’” In 2017, after a number of years as a tax attorney and then as an agent for professional football players, Smith founded Art Elementals. “Our goal was to help street artists get exposure and sell art,” he says. “So that’s what we did and we began selling art to folks who have probably never owned art before.” Most of Art Elementals’ sales come from online and social media interactions. “Instagram has been a huge way for street artists to get exposure and sell their art,” he says. For now, the Smiths are building their exclusive collection, which includes dozens of individually-painted, old boomboxes and skateboard decks as well as a couple thousand more traditional paintings and drawings from some 30 different street and graffiti artists. “A lot of the work we have is just because we love it so much,” says Smith. Smith has also been curating a collection of NFTs—one-of-a-kind digital prints known as non-fungible tokens—with Ras Terms. These NFTs pose to be quite beneficial for artists. “When they sell an NFT they don't have to ship it, it can't get damaged. It doesn't need to be framed. It's 100% authenticated,” explains Smith. “And when it resells on the secondary market, the artist gets a 10% royalty every time it's resold. That doesn't happen in the real world.” Smith acknowledges that there’s been a huge jump in the acceptance of graffiti into mainstream culture. “There was a consciousness shift globally, in terms of what this art can do. Go back a few years and you ask people about graffiti and they think of it as just vandalism,” he explains. “But now, aided in part by the Black Lives Matter movement murals, folks stepped back and gave themselves a minute to see what street art really is. It’s what art is intended to be, which is to be seen by the community, to tell a story about what's happening in that community—it goes all the way back to hieroglyphs.”

Graffiti is an example of where the lines are blurring and [it’s] helping to break down the barriers in the hierarchical art world. And while graffiti’s emergence in the traditional art world may surprise some, it belongs because it’s authentic.

ames Monk—aka Ras Terms—fell in love with graffiti when he was 11 years old. Growing up in Miami during the early 1980s, he was drawn to graffiti and quickly became a student of it, absorbing “the music and the movies like “Breakin’” and “Beat Street” and the book “Subway Art,” he says. “And there were the guys who would come from New York and paint, so I saw what they could do firsthand and that all influenced me.” Into his teen years, the craft of it consumed him. “It was graffiti all day, everyday,” he remembers. “I was writing and drawing in people’s notebooks and skipping school to go into abandoned buildings and under bridges to paint.” His growth as an artist paralleled his spiritual exploration. “I was also listening to a lot of Reggae, so the Rastafari movement definitely became an important aspect of my creativity,” he continues. That’s when he began developing the trademark character that’s been the foundation of much of his work over the decades. “That’s when I started drawing these Ethiopian-style angels mixed with graffiti.” A few years later, after moving to the Bay Area of California, Ras Terms joined a graffiti crew and continued to do small commission work like music album covers. Slowly, over time, he began painting not just on walls but also on canvas and soon his work was being

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“Graffiti was started in the Bronx by kids who didn’t have anything,” he says. “It’s deeper than just a word, it’s deeper than just a script. This gave those kids an identity. There’s emotional energy attached to it.”

JayFlo

JayFlo working on a mural in downtown Eau Claire.

shown in galleries like the Oakland Museum of Contemporary Art and as part of the "Discovering Rastafari" exhibition at the Smithsonian Institution. “We are starting to be accepted,” he says. “People were starting to wake up to it.” After connecting with Art Elementals, Ras Terms moved to Madison a couple of years ago. In Wisconsin, he did a few commission pieces, such as a large rendering of his ‘Street Angel’ at the Jiggy Jamz record store on the northside of Madison. He also continued to do canvas work as well as paint a few trains here and there. “I like the aspect of [graffiti] being illegal,” he says. “But I also like the aspect of people being able to live off it.” In 2019, Ras Terms painted a train car a couple of hours north of Madison with a huge yellow angel character. He expected the train to sit there in the country and be seen by few, if any people. Then, the train car rolled into downtown Madison last spring where it remains parked on the east end of the UW campus, behind the Kohl Center. The decorated train car caught the eye of passersby, many of whom began posting photos of it to social media. “Maybe someone from the train company likes my work,” says Ras Terms with a laugh. “I don’t know why it got moved but I’m glad it’s being seen.” For Ras Terms, whose commercial success as an artist has taken him around the world to paint murals and who has had his work printed on t-shirts and even made into a coloring book, paying respect to those who came before him is important.

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hile it may seem like a natural progression, not every graffiti artist who’s looking to develop their craft wants to paint murals. Case in point: Anthony ‘YNOT’ Denaro. He’s designed furniture and even cutlery based on the design skills he honed with markers and spray paint on the streets of New York and Philadelphia. Seeing so many varied styles of graffiti in those East Coast cities as a teen inspired him to push boundaries and create across multiple mediums. “Wood, paint, metal, charcoal, digital—I want to do it all,” he says. While his S-shaped chair is certainly distinct and different, Denaro says his creations begin like any work of graffiti. “The process started on paper and went from paper to the computer and from the computer to the wood cutter and now you have something in physical space.” Denaro, a dance instructor at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee specializing in breakdancing, says the expansion of graffiti from back alleys to art galleries shouldn’t come as a surprise. “All art movements do come from the street in some sort of way,” he explains. “It's no different than any other high art movement that I've seen.” Like other artists, Denaro notes that it’s important to recognize the contributions of the pioneers who blazed the trails for the current generation of younger graffiti artists who are getting commissioned projects and having art gallery shows today. “All of us are learning and trying to do it ourselves, yet some of the people who have really helped usher this thing in are still around,” he says, noting that he’s studied graffiti writers who are still creating like (Carlos) Mare, and others who have passed, like Rammellzee. “How I got to this point is by picking up where so many [graffiti] artists left off. Their ideology is living on and eventually, we're gonna pass it on to somebody else.”

nother sign that an art movement is expanding beyond its base is when it begins appearing in rural areas like the Village of Elk Mound in northwestern Wisconsin. Elk Mound, outside of Eau Claire, is where Jaden Flores—an artist known as JayFlo—first caught a glimpse of graffiti on train cars. “There’s a rail line that goes right through the center of town,” he says. “We would just watch the [graffiti] pieces come through. I didn’t understand the culture behind it back then—we were only 11 or 12—but I knew it was creative expression and that’s what drew me to it.” Like others, Flores got heavily into graffiti as a teen, but given his rural locale, there wasn’t an abundance of places to practice. Over the years, he’s used social media to connect with other graffiti artists elsewhere for inspiration and fellowship. “I’ve been in contact with artists from all over America, Mexico and Canada,” explains Flores, now 22. He’s taken thousands of pictures of graffiti on trains that have come through Elk Mound and his current home of Altoona and has shared those with the artists

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EXPERIENCE THREE GROUNDBREAKING P LAYS AT O V E R T U R E !

AN EVENING WITH C.S. LEWIS

STARRING DAVID PAYNE

An intimate evening with the author of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe JAN 14 - 16, 2022

PHOTO BY: JOAN MARCUS

who painted them. “They love to see that their work has gone as far as Wisconsin.” Over the years, Flores has taken every bit of paid work he can get in the Eau Claire area, including murals at a skateboard shop and a mechanic’s garage. He’s also been tapped to paint in the annual downtown Eau Claire mural project known as “Color Block.” Flores appreciates that he’s had to pay his dues over the years and hopes opportunities continue to grow as his skills and experience expand. “I had to do graffiti for a few years to get my skills up to where I feel confident with it,” he explains. “Then I had to do a year of doing free murals to get a portfolio together to have enough work behind me to show people so I could then get paid for them.” Murals and commission work are a chance for graffiti artists to contribute to the neighborhoods they’re in, says Flores. “It makes a place truly feel like a neighborhood. The people who live there are vibrant, the people are colorful. So, [those painted walls] can be a reflection of the community’s creativity instead of just a gray piece of infrastructure,” he says. But with these new opportunities for formerly underground artists—whether they’re art gallery shows or big commission projects—it’s important to note that the newfound acceptance would not exist without the decades of technical skill-sharpening and originality laid down by earlier artists. Artists like Valentín appreciate that. “Intent is everything,” says. “And having respect for the art form and its origins is really important. Some of my favorite graffiti artists have been able to show the world why graffiti needs to be understood and respected as a legitimate art form.” It’s through a combination of the groundbreaking work done by those pioneers and the creativity of newer artists that graffiti is gaining ground as a new force in the art world.

A Play by

Heidi Schreck Oliver Butler

Directed by

Schreck’s play has tears “ Heidi on its cheeks and the torch of liberty in its fist. ” -Helen Shaw, Time Out New York

JAN 22 - 23, 2022

Steven Potter has been a reporter in Wisconsin for more than 20 years, covering everything from crime and education to art and entertainment for magazines and newspapers throughout the state. He earned his master’s degree in journalism last spring and works as a public radio producer in his hometown of Madison.

PHOTO BY DAVID MONTEITH-HODGE

NASSIM An audacious new theatrical experiment by Iranian playwright Nassim Soleimanpour (White Rabbit, Red Rabbit)

MAR 8 - 12, 2022 Tickets on sale now! O V E R T U R E .O R G 6 0 8 . 2 5 8 .4 1 4 1

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A STORY WRITTEN IN ICE

READING WISCONSIN’S LANDSCAPE BY RU DY M O LI N EK

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Fredrik Turville Thwaites. Image courtesy Wisconsin Geological and Natural History Survey (University of Wisconsin–Madison)

Panorama of farmstead built into the top of a terminal moraine north of Waupaca, illustrating how Wisconsin’s human history is shaped by the glacial landscape. July 17, 1927.

andscapes are histories written in layers, tangled webs of cause and effect. From the deep, miasmal past to today’s

Anthropocene age in which human activity is reshaping Earth’s surface features, these layers aren’t just stacked flat, but are superimposed and intersecting. The landscape here in Wisconsin, where the web extends back more than 2 billion years, inspires and mystifies.

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It’s taken geologists over 200 years to piece together our landscape’s story, and that work continues unfinished today. Dedicated scientific research has revealed how climate’s repeating impacts have molded the Earth’s face over millennia, and how human activity is affecting changes over mere decades. To those listening, Wisconsin’s landscape begs the questions: What are these layers? And what forces spun them into this web? The foundation of Wisconsin’s landscape is bedrock that ranges from the very ancient Precambrian igneous and metamorphic rocks in the north, to the Paleozoic ocean-born sandstones and limestones in the south and east. In much of the state, these rocks are hidden from view, covered by a deposit called “drift.” Understanding the nature and source of drift was one of the first strands of our landscape web that nineteenth century geologists needed to untangle. Drift is a curious jumble of gravel of all sizes—from fine clay and sand to pebbles and boulders (often polished smooth), all mixed up and draped over the bedrock like a blanket thousands of square miles across Wisconsin and neighboring states. Geologists wondered if water had done this. In steep mountains, a swollen stream can push along boulders and easily move smaller debris like sand and gravel. But when a stream’s velocity slows, it begins to drop its load of sediments in a predictable way. Boulders drop out first, followed by pebbles on top of that, and then sand falls out and eventually silt and clay as the water becomes quiet. The rock debris is not jumbled. It is stratified or “sorted” according to the weight and size of the material. So, rock debris deposited by flowing water is orderly and layered with the biggest grains below and the smallest above. But this is not the case with drift. Even more perplexing, geologists found drift on hilltops above the reach of any river or stream, and this drift contained rock types that were not from the local watershed and could only have come from bedrock hundreds of miles away. At first blush, this didn’t make any sense. But early naturalists developed a theory to explain these seeming impossibilities: drift was the alluvium of the biblical flood, which would have had the power to carry rocks long distances and drop them on top of submerged hills. Or, the flood swept icebergs containing rocks far from their origins and stranded them here. Still, lingering questions remained. Where had all the drift gone in the southwest of Wisconsin and other areas that would presumably have also been inundated? Why were there different sheets, or layers, of drift with different compositions, if it had all come from a single great flood? Though biblical explanations of Earth’s phenomena still dominated thinking during the early years of European settlement in America, things began to change in the late 1700s. In 1785, Scottish geologist James Hutton proposed his “theory of uniformity”—that the geological processes at work today are the same ones that operated in the past. To understand what happened in the past, we need to look at current mechanisms of landscape erosion (such as wind, water, ice) and landscape creation (such as sedimentation and volcanoes). In 1830 another Scotsman, Charles Lyell, reiterated this concept even more forcefully, spurring new understandings in geology. Taking this message to heart, Wisconsin geologists looked for places where a material similar to drift was still being generated. Their clue to this strand of the web lay far away, in places that bore little resemblance to the prairies and rolling hills of the

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upper Midwest. It was in high mountains, like those in Alaska and the European Alps, that recent drift-like material could be found, surrounding active glaciers. Mountain glaciers tear and grind up rock on their slow descents from their originating cirques and ice fields. As the glaciers reach lower and warmer elevations, summer melting at the front edge releases the trapped rock fragments, creating a jumbled-up layer of glacial till—silt, sand, gravel and rock debris—in various shaped deposits called moraines. Most important for this story are terminal moraines—significant ridges of till that have been deposited over time along the leading edge of glaciers at the point of their farthest advance. Geologists not only recognized that valley glacier till was similar to Wisconsin drift, they also located several terminal moraines in Wisconsin, though on a scale much larger than the deposits in an alpine valley. These moraines trace a path from the Twin Cities’ eastern suburbs across Wisconsin to Antigo in Langlade County, and then south through Madison and Janesville. If the same mechanisms were at play here that glacial geologists had observed in the high mountains, then the radical implication was that much of Wisconsin had at one point been covered by vast sheets of ice. It was an incredible revelation considering that the nearest active continental ice sheet was on remote Greenland near the Arctic Circle. This solved the mystery of drift’s origin but was still only one strand of the landscape’s tangled web. The past presence of a continental ice sheet on North America raised more questions than it answered. When was it there? How and why did it melt? What did the ice look like and move like? These questions made it necessary to accept that our temperate midcontinent climate had not always been this way—a jarring notion at a time before we understood that the climate is always changing, today by means of anthropogenic global warming with its melting polar ice caps. Thomas Crowder Chamberlin, one of Wisconsin and North America’s most noted geologists, described himself as “born on a moraine” in 1843 in southeastern Illinois. His family moved shortly thereafter to southern Wisconsin, near Beloit. He was inspired to become a geologist by the glacial landscape upon which he grew up. His work provided foundational insights into this landscape. His career spanned many institutions, from Beloit College to the Whitewater Normal School (now UW-Whitewater), to UW-Madison, and the University of Chicago. He was president of UW-Madison from 1887 to 1892, the first from the Midwest. He was Wisconsin’s chief geologist, the lead glacial geologist at the U.S. Geological Survey, and founder of The Journal of Geology. Through it all, he focused on his home landscape in southern Wisconsin. One area that particularly interested him was the Kettle Moraine, a narrow region west of Milwaukee that trends northeast to southwest between West Bend, Delafield and Whitewater. Here, he figured, two lobes of the continental ice sheet had split around the high limestone outcroppings of the Door Peninsula. Further south, these lobes rejoined to create a wide swath of collapsed ice and glacial debris between them. But moraines aren’t the only glacial feature here. The kettle part of the region’s name comes from another conspicuous glacial landform: small, deep lakes called kettles by settlers after the cast iron pots of the day. Kettles form after the retreat of the main ice sheet, which leaves behind large chunks of remnant ice embedded in the postglacial tundra. These

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Moraines, kettles, drumlins, eskers, and outwash plains determine in part where we build our houses, develop our cities, and plant our crops.

A. C. Isaacs, The University of Wisconsin-Madison Archives Collections.

can be the size of large buildings and are covered in thick blankets of insulating sediment. The blocks can remain, melting ever so slowly, for thousands of years even after the glacier has retreated to the north. When they finally melt, they leave behind a circular depression, which often then fills with a deep, round lake—a familiar feature of Wisconsin’s landscape. In reading the web of the Kettle Moraine landscape, a story thus unfolds: here was the edge of an ice sheet, where the margin stayed stable for long enough to build up a massive debris pile in which large blocks of ice remained for hundreds of years, even after the retreat of what Chamberlin called “the intruder.” This left behind a gravelly ridge pocked with deep, isolated kettle lakes. In this story, Chamberlin saw another strand to be untangled: the drift of Kettle Moraine and points north is substantially different in character from drift continuing to the south. If Kettle Moraine is evidence of the terminus of a continental ice sheet, what does it mean that the drift of a different sort continues past that edge? Chamberlin believed, along with a growing consensus of geologists, that there had been not just one large ice sheet that covered northern North America, but several in a cycle of advance and retreat. They painstakingly parsed out the differences between units of drift across the Midwest, eventually identifying as many as eight major periods of glaciation. This confirmed the prevailing idea in Europe, where geologists had evidence of their own ice sheets, that the most recent geologic period was a “Great Ice Age” when glaciers repeatedly intruded to the south. For Chamberlin, this explained the “what” of his native Wisconsin landscape, but not the “why.” To answer that deeper question, it became necessary to dive into the messy, intertangled dynamics of Earth’s climate system. When Chamberlin first approached this question, there were two main schools of thought. The first, which hasn’t passed the test of time, held that elevation was key to the inception of ice sheets. This stemmed from the observation that the only existing glaciers in North America were mountain glaciers. The high elevation kept them cool enough to be stable and even grow. So, to explain evidence of glaciers at low elevations, this group believed that the land surface of Wisconsin had once been alpine in height. The climate hadn’t changed, they held, the elevation had just plummeted. The other prevailing idea, supported by Chamberlin and eventually proven correct, was just the opposite. The climate had been changing with temperatures cycling through cold and warm periods. When it was cold, ice advanced out of the Arctic, carrying with it the power to re-mold the landscape and bury it under drift. As is often the case in science, untangling this part of the web revealed another knot. For centuries, people had observed and recorded temperature, rainfall, and other indicators of climate. On average, they found a remarkably stable climate. So, to explain glacial cycles, scientists needed to discover what force could perturb the system enough to make temperate Wisconsin look like Antarctica. One explanation for glacial cycles was at the time called Croll’s hypothesis. A similar theory now referred to by paleoclimatologists as Milankovitch theory holds that slight variations in Earth’s orbit change the amount of solar energy that the land surface receives. Periods of low energy coincide with ice sheet advances. Conversely, when solar energy is high, the ice melts back, leaving behind moraines, kettles, drift, and other evidence of a glacial episode.

Thomas Crowder Chamberlin ca. 1890.

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Image courtesy Wisconsin Geological and Natural History Survey (University of Wisconsin–Madison)

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Geologists Dickinson and Thwaites and one of the Wisconsin Geological Survey’s cars. October 26, 1926.

The orbital change theory of the cause of ice ages explains much of the variation in Earth’s climate over the past 2.5 million years. Chamberlin, in 1897, identified another force that might be involved. Carbon dioxide had long been known as a greenhouse gas important to maintaining stability in Earth’s climate; Chamberlin’s insight was that its concentrations might have changed over time and in turn changed the climate system. Today, these two theories hold. Over timescales of about 10,000 or 100,000 years, climate is moderated by solar energy. In deep time, over millions of years, carbon dioxide concentrations can determine whether solar changes tip us into a hothouse or ice age climate. What Chamberlin didn’t know, and what we’re learning now firsthand, is that carbon dioxide can also change climate on timescales of decades when it’s released to the atmosphere in unnatural quantities. Inspired by his home in the Kettle Moraine, Chamberlin spent much of his career looking for the forces powerful enough to weave the web of his native landscape. The work of understanding the intricacies of how ice carved through Wisconsin, though, didn’t end with him. If there is one Antarctic glacier you’ve heard of, it’s most likely the Thwaites Glacier. About 75,000 square miles in area, Thwaites is known among sea-level experts as the “doomsday glacier.” The ice terminus’ tenuous stability in our changing climate means there’s a high risk of collapse. If this were to happen all at once, global sea levels could rise more than two feet, just from this one glacier. The Thwaites Glacier was officially named in 1967 for a Wisconsin man who never set foot on the Antarctic continent. Frederik Thurville Thwaites was born in 1883 in Madison, and after his college graduation in 1906 he became one of the best readers of

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the glacial landscape. His accomplishments came despite a tumultuous career, one in which he never earned his doctorate in geology and was long denied a faculty position at UW–Madison. He settled for a job as a curator of the University’s Geology Museum, with occasional opportunities to teach. He spent most summers in the field developing maps of glacial features in Wisconsin and he wrote one of the first textbooks on glacial geology. Thwaites’ work was accurate enough that even now, 60 years after his death, geologists still turn to his maps and interpretations as a starting point for their own research. Whereas Chamberlin was primarily focused on the causes of glaciations, Thwaites’ expertise as a field geologist was in looking at the land and mapping its web. Beyond moraines and kettles, the landscape features that Thwaites identified and mapped include drumlins, eskers, and outwash plains—all chapters in the story written by ancient ice. Drumlins are elongate, teardrop-shaped hills that are ubiquitous in southeastern Wisconsin. They form underneath ice sheets and point in the direction of ice flow. Glacial geologists use the orientation of these hills to determine where ice came from and how it moved over time. Eskers are like river channels in reverse. When water melts on top of a glacier, it flows through holes and cracks down to the bottom of the ice sheet where it forms systems of meandering subglacial streams. Instead of incising into the ground like a river would, these subglacial streams cut upward into the ice above. Later, as the glacier melts, the sediments on the bed of this internal stream drop out on the ground as a long, winding ridge of sand and gravel. Eskers are frequently mined for these construction materials.

Fredrik Turville Thwaites. Image courtesy Wisconsin Geological and Natural History Survey (University of Wisconsin–Madison)

Image courtesy Wisconsin Geological and Natural History Survey (University of Wisconsin–Madison)

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Top: Thwaites (right) and a colleague digging a test pit in search of drift north of Bonduel. July 17, 1928. Below: Road cut through drumlin showing drift near Tigerton, northeast of Antigo, August 26, 1926. Left: Map of the lobes and flow directions of the most recent advance of the North American ice sheet in Wisconsin.

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Fredrik Turville Thwaites. Image courtesy Wisconsin Geological and Natural History Survey (University of Wisconsin–Madison)

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Winding esker near Underhill made up mostly of sand, July 10, 1928.

Outwash plains are large, flat areas covered in sand that begin at the melting edge of the ice. As debris drops from the ice all along its broad front, multiple streams and rivers flowing off the melting glacier carry the lighter sediments along, spreading them out over a wide area that eventually becomes a level plain. The city of Antigo sits on one of these vast plains, bounded by the higher terrain of a terminal moraine. To skilled landscape readers like Thwaites, these features reveal a narrative of the deep past. Since the time of Thwaites, Wisconsin has continued its tradition of pioneering glacial and climatic research. Today, you can find these researchers in our colleges and universities, at the Wisconsin Geologic and Natural History Survey, at the Department of Natural Resources, and elsewhere. Why here? One answer is our geography. Wisconsin preserves the web of glacial landscape features because it happened to be right on the edge of the most recent advance of the intruding ice. The story is easier to read here, the web that much simpler to untangle. For this reason, the most recent period of glaciation in the cycle of ice sheet growth and retreat is called the Wisconsin Glaciation by geologists around the world. Though these glacial features seem endlessly enduring, they are not bedrock-type formations. They are mainly loose materials vulnerable to the natural eroding forces of wind and water—and susceptible to powerful earthmoving equipment. Moraines and eskers are quarried extensively for sand and gravel. In urban areas once distinct moraines are now covered by housing and industrial developments. While there is no shortage of glacial features in

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Wisconsin, there is also value in protecting the most significant for the generations to come. Chamberlin and Thwaites, and others, with a curiosity inspired by the place they called home, have helped us learn to read this story and to better understand the mysterious forces that shape the world around us. Here in Wisconsin, we live in a world shaped by ice. Features like moraines, kettles, drumlins, eskers, and outwash plains determine in part where we build our houses, develop our cities, and plant our crops. Instinctively, we adapt and nestle ourselves into the landscape’s web, into the inescapable imprint of ancient ice.

Rudy Molinek is a PhD student in geology at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. When not researching the ancient ice sheets that once swept across the upper Midwest, he’s also a writer and host of the podcast Under Our Feet, where he explores stories of the inextricable links between humans and the earth in Wisconsin.

WISCONSIN ARTISTS BIENNIAL 2022 In partnership with Wisconsin Visual Artists (WVA), this exhibition features works by fifty-two artists revealing the depth and diversity of contemporary American art viewed through the lens of Wisconsin. On View February 12–April 24 West Bend|wisconsinart.org

2022 BIENNIAL ARTISTS Luke Achterberg Hector Acuna Kelly M. Alexander Danielle Attoe Jennifer H. Bastian Anthony Baus Emily S. Belknap Lois Bielefeld SPOOKY BOOBS Barry Roal Carlsen Rebecca E. Carlton Mauree Childress Sandra Cipollone Craig Clifford Amy A. Cropper Phyllis Deicher-Ladwig Patrick M. Doughman Anthony Duvall Bozanich Scott Espeseth Aris Georgiades David Graham) Robert D. Jinkins David Najib Kasir Linda Kelen R. Klebesadel Leif Larson

Fatima Laster Matthew Ludak Christine B. Miller Lianne M. Milton Jose Morales Bethann Moran-Handzlik Susan L. Morrison Marjorie M. Mau Brandon Nacke Robert C. Osborne Melissa Paré Nirmal Raja Michelle Richeson Janet Roberts Dane A. Schumacher Trina May Smith Valaria Tatera Robert P. Ulrich Ariana Vaeth Shane Walsh Michael Westcott Charlie B. Wetzel John Whitney Christopher T. Wood Rina Yoon Larry Zamba

Generously sponsored by

James and Karen Hyde

Robert Osborne, Parking Garage in Downtown Fond du Lac, 2021

@ Watrous GALLERY

They Still Lie for the Land, 2015. Screenprint on dyed paper, 20 x 16 inches.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

EMILY ARTHUR PRINTS, BOOKS, & BRONZE MULTIPLES BY J O DY CLOWES

his solo exhibition by artist Emily Arthur examines connections between seemingly unrelated events, past and present, to make visible the land as a living matter that holds a story. This selection of work, which includes artist’s books, original prints and small, cast bronze objects, reflects contemporary legal struggles to protect wildlife from land development and modern-day arguments to delist threatened bird species. These struggles echo of nineteenth-century Manifest Destiny whereby the forced removal of Indigenous peoples was carried out through government policies. Arthur writes, “I see nature as an interdependent living force, rather than as the backdrop for human events. Displacement, loss and a concern for the environment are a result of my personal experience. The Cherokee and European descent of my family offers a multilayered perspective embodied in my work.” Printmaking is typically used to create multiple images, and historically these multiples have been used for both subjugation and as agents for change. Arthur’s printmaking practice, which encompasses etching, woodcut, monoprint, and screenprint, examines the complex relationship of people and the land, a dialogue that is fraught and that continues across generations. She often works with historians, ornithologists, mycologists, Indigenous scholars, and poets who integrate narratives between art, history, and natural science. Nancy Marie Mithlo, an Indigenous scholar of race and representation at The University of California, Los Angeles, writes in Visualizing Genocide: Indigenous Interventions in Art, Archives and Museums (forthcoming from The University of Arizona Press) that Arthur’s work “links land and people in an impulse that defines the hallmark of her artistic practice…Fragmented life histories are captured and lightly held for a moment, a firefly in Arthur’s cupped hands, for us to examine, to gaze upon, and to wonder anew at their very existence, given the impossible odds.”

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@ Watrous GALLERY

Nowhere Left to Go (Water Birds), 2021. Color lithograph with chine collé on Somerset paper, 34 x 24 inches. Editioned by Crow’s Shadow Institute of the Arts.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

Gnatcatchers and Sage with Tax Documents, 2017. Screenprint on glazed Rives paper and chine collé, 30 x 22 inches.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

Only Tree, 2019. Unique screen print on glazed BFK paper, 40 x 50 inches.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

Remember, Owl, 2021. Lithograph, 18 x 20 inches. Editioned by Crow’s Shadow Institute of the Arts.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

Carolina Parakeet, (extinct 1918), 2019. Unique screenprint on BFK paper with shot, 15 x 11 inches.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

Dark Bird with Moth, 2014. Etching on Gampi tissue attached to BFK paper, 20 x 16 inches.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

Final Determinations: Cherokee by Blood, 2017-2021, Vol. 1. Varied edition of 10 artist’s books with 10 unique lost wax casts of birds. Ash wood, screenprint, procion dye, silk organza, and bronze. Dimensions vary.

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@ Watrous GALLERY

SEE TH E EXHI BITI O N On view at the James Watrous Gallery in Overture Center for the Arts 201 State Street Madison

EMILY ARTHUR: RE-MEMBERING Prints, books, & bronze multiples

CONTEMPORARY INDIGENOUS PRINTMAKING

Curated by Emily Author FEBRUARY 11 – APRIL 3, 2022 Jaune Quick-to-See Smith, Four Directions, 1995. Lithograph and linocut, 44 3/8 x 30 1/8 inches, from Contemporary Indigenous Printmaking.

Closing reception April 1, 6-8 pm with an artist’s talk and a poetry reading by Heather Swan at 6:30pm Thanks to Wisconsin Academy donors, members, and the following sponsors for their support of this exhibition.

Emily Arthur is an artist and Associate Professor of Art at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. She received an MFA from Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts and served as Fellow at the Barnes Foundation for Theoretical and Critical Research. Selected collections of her work include Saint Louis Art Museum; Minneapolis Institute of Art; Denver Art Museum; Museum of Contemporary Native Arts; Museum of the American West, Autry Center; and Crocker Art Museum.

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Nine Koepfer

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WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

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A GOOD DEATH BY KEELY KH O U RY

he word “doula,” from the Greek for “female servant,” has come to describe a person

who provides emotional and physical support throughout the process of childbirth. This kind of care has been extended in recent years to the end of life, a passage as important and sacred as birth. Death doulas, as they are often called, tend to the needs of the dying person and to the needs of their family and friends. This important work involves non-medical, holistic care and support, with particular attention given to each person’s emotional needs.

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How do we move past our fear and ignorance of death to a point where we can discuss end of life plans in productive, supportive and loving conversations?

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As someone approaches death, touch can be the greatest gift, embodying as it does the comfort of human connection. During the past two years of the global coronavirus pandemic and the resulting distancing and isolation, last moments of connection like hugs and hand holding have not been an option for many families. Many have had to make the best of a terrible situation, often reduced to saying good-bye via video conferencing. Medical caregivers, too, have been distanced from patients, unable to minister the basic care of simply being present. Masked and wrapped in multiple layers of personal protective equipment, many have had to witness from behind barriers the tragedy of people dying alone. Dying a good death isn’t a regular topic of conversation, although a growing number of people believe that it should be. The idea of a good death is for many people difficult to articulate. As a society, we struggle to incorporate death, which is a natural part of the cycle of life, into our everyday lives. At one time, communities and religions attended to death and dying in people’s homes and though it is still legal in Wisconsin to care for the body of a deceased person at home, death now occurs most often in hospitals and other care facilities rather than in the home. As a result, for many people it is easy to avoid dealing with death, with loved ones dying in institutions where teams of professionals are available to remove the body and prepare it for burial or cremation. Much about dying has been hidden, ignored, and feared. But with the COVID-19 pandemic, it is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the topic. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the estimated 2020 age-adjusted death rate rose for the first time since 2017 with an increase of 15.9% from 2019. Life expectancy in the United States declined in 2020 by a year and a half to 77.3 years. This decline in life expectancy, attributed to the coronavirus, is the largest one-year decline since World War II. So how do we move past our fear and ignorance of death to a point where we can discuss end of life plans in productive, supportive and loving conversations? A group of passionate, and compassionate, caregivers is working to make death a meaningful, peaceful, and beautiful occasion for the person dying and for their loved ones. They go by different names—end-of-life doula, death doula, life doula, end-of-life companion—but they are all professionals who facilitate some of life’s most difficult conversations while offering practical, non-medical, holistic support, for individuals and their families. It is a delicate balancing act and one that these end-of-life doulas manage with care and wisdom, often gained from decades of work in other caregiving professions. In Wisconsin, a small group of end-of-life doulas is quietly working to reduce the fear so many of us feel when contemplating death. From helping people become more comfortable with the word itself to creating remembrances that keep memories and stories alive after a person’s death, this work is broad, deep, and complex. These doulas draw on education programs, local networks, legacy planning, grief counseling and a variety of means of practical support to provide individualized service for each person or group. Due to the intimate nature of planning for and facilitating a good death for someone, the doulas experience the emotions that

arise around death along with their clients and they need protective limits. “When you are compassionate, empathetic and not afraid of being vulnerable, it allows you to encapsulate all the forms of emotions that people feel and support them through that,” says Dorothy McElroy, a death doula, grief counselor and advanced funeral planner working in Sheboygan. She has been providing formal grief support and death doula services for eight years, having started the work informally when her husband died. McElroy missed the chance to say good-bye to her mother and several other beloved friends and family members over the years, and she didn’t want her son to have similar regrets. When her husband’s end of life was near, she gave their son the option of going to the hospital to say good-bye, rather than simply sparing him that emotional pain. McElroy says that it was a difficult decision to make, particularly as she faced pressure from people who disagreed with her. McElroy considers her husband’s a good death because he knew their son visited him and they had a chance to say good-bye. “Death is most certainly the dragon in the room,” she continues. “People are very afraid of it.” Marggie Hatala Moertl, a doula in Door County, concurs. “Our culture is terrified of death,” she says. “Yet contemplating death helps us see life more clearly. It is a sacred moment when a spirit enters the world, in a birth, and it is equally sacred when a spirit leaves the world. “We need to meet people where they are. Sometimes it is the adult children more than the patient themselves who need the most support.” “The fear of the unknown affects us all,” says Karin Medall, a Death Midwife in Monona. “However, if we face the fact that death is the only certainty in life, we have the opportunity to live fuller lives.” Moertl, who worked as a registered nurse for 47 years, says she is blessed to receive referrals from colleagues who offer her Doula services as part of a package of resources available to patients. Many end-of-life doulas work closely with hospice teams, and all say they view their work as an adjunct to health and to palliative care, which focuses on minimizing pain and maximizing comfort for dying patients. “Because of the amazing things that healthcare can provide today, palliative care is hugely valuable,” says Shanen Kazynski, an end-oflife companion in La Crosse. “I’m always advocating for people to [seek palliative care] much sooner than they usually do.” “Doulas are there to provide the non-medical support. We have no agenda other than to be present,” she says. Dr. David Ferguson, a doctor in eastern Wisconsin, often works with Door County’s Moertl, and highlights the doula’s role as a client advocate. According to Ferguson, doulas “create a deep presence that provides a space for [patients] to voice their concerns. Moertl meets our clients exactly where they are and helps to affirm their life lived. She celebrates the meaning that their life has brought to others. Life doula work provides the link that I felt was missing within medicine.” Doula services can include practical household support, logistics planning, legacy work, companionship, respite for other caregivers,

Becky Malkow

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Marggie Moertl

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Priscilla DuPreez

A good death means finding peace at the end of one’s life, and it is part of the beauty of the full cycle of life.

communication support, help navigating the complexities of the healthcare system and more. Sometimes the care can be as simple as sitting with someone while a family member naps or showers. Other times, doulas may tap into their extensive network of contacts and local knowledge to provide help for a family. Whenever possible, the doulas meet with potential clients in person to discuss each individual’s preferences and requirements. They then put together a list of options and work closely with the person or loved ones to develop the necessary care and support. “Each doula brings their own personality and preferences to the work,” Moertl says, “and all relationships are individual. So the services we provide vary. As I’ve gotten older, I know that I can no longer sustain overnight bedside vigils. I find other ways to help care for the individual and family.” McElroy’s grief support specialization means that she often works with a family or individual for many years. She may begin working with someone as a Death Doula and then transition into grief support afterwards. “Storytelling is a huge part of my work as both a death doula and a grief support counselor,” she says. “I help people start grieving before someone dies because it helps them think of questions to ask and stories to discover. Sharing someone’s stories creates a remembrance that can be revisited.” “This work is incredibly rich,” Medall adds. “I am a witness to someone else’s life and their process,” she says, “and I feel that spiritual companionship is as important as any other aspect.” Medall calls the people she works with friends, rather than clients. “I feel like I know most of my friends forever because there is something

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inside every human being that is recognizable—we are all fallible, vulnerable human beings who are messy miracles. But that kind of companionship does not always come easily. “Not every person has a good death,” Kazynski reminds us. “Family dynamics are so often complex, and of course, accidents and unexpected deaths occur.” “Family members who aren’t close don’t always understand the dying person’s wishes,” McElroy adds. “That incomprehension often leads to conflict over calling an ambulance or giving someone oxygen. “As a doula, we must always honor the wishes of our client, even if it upsets their family, including their children. It can be a tightrope of emotions to navigate.” Moertl, Kazynski, McElroy, and Medall each came to their doula work through other caregiving roles. Moertl as a community health specialist and registered nurse; Kazynski as an EMT, daycare provider, and life coach; McElroy as a grief support specialist; and Medall as a full-time parent. Along their different paths, each came to the realization that they wanted to provide care in a different manner. In the past, when end of life care remained within the family, it was a skill learned at home by younger generations as they watched and participated. What training is available now for end-of-life doulas is voluntary. There are no nationally recognized accreditations as there are for other caregiving occupations such as nurses, therapists, and cosmetologists. As a means of organizing and connecting doulas, and providing a more cohesive public voice for the profession, the National End-OfLife Doula Alliance (NEDA) was created in 2018. The Alliance provides a code of ethics, a model of care, and information on certification options. Some doulas embrace formal training, while others take a more informal route. Moertl and McElroy both trained with Doula Givers, and Kazynski attended the Conscious Dying Institute. “For me,” Moertl says, “the training was valuable because it provided mentor relationships and it can be a boost of confidence for clients who may be unsure about what doulas offer and how they provide care. “Although the work is emotional,” she continues, “it isn’t sad. I always tell people who enquire about it as a job that it is much, much more than that.” Most doulas work only with a few clients at the same time, and many work with only one at a time. The intensity and intimacy of the care they provide makes self-care an essential aspect of their work. For some doulas, that means journaling, time off between clients, time spent with close family and friends and other activities that provide rest and rejuvenation. The care they provide to others is equally important for themselves. “No one should die alone!” Kazynski states emphatically. This is one of the primary roles of end-of-life doulas—to ensure that someone is there at the time of death. “We need to bring death back into the family,” she continues. “We have lost that learning that was handed down as a regular part of life. Dying isn’t separate from living, it is part of it. “Time together at the end is sacred, yet so few people feel comfortable being there. People ask me what they should do, how

they can care for their loved one. Just being present is the number one thing!” When that isn’t possible, sometimes doulas step in to provide that companionship. The local connections they have built and the knowledge that they have accumulated are often the difference between someone dying alone and dying with the comfort of someone’s hand in their own. Kazynski says that her area funeral and residential homes occasionally call her when someone is in the final stages of their life and has no one with them. “Even when a person is unconscious, they know when someone is with them,” McElroy adds. “I have seen this many times. Those moments are a holding space.” It’s important to remember, McElroy says, that although “death is the end of a life, it isn’t the end of a relationship. If you have an incredible depth of love for someone, your grief is going to be equally deep.” She emphasizes that there is no correct way to grieve, nor is there a perfect length of time. “Life is full of trial and error but death is an absolute. It can’t be redone, which is why it is so important to make it a good one.” As death doulas show with every kindness, every empathetic moment they spend with an individual and family navigating the last months, days, and moments of a life, death is not something to be feared. Like birth, it is a natural passage in life. We will all experience it. Might we better serve ourselves and our loved ones by thinking about how we want to be remembered, and how and where we want to spend our last days? Today could be the day to start thinking about the many strands that make up our multi-faceted lives and to consider what possessions might we like to share with our loved ones and what stories we want to pass on, from ourselves and from our ancestors. A good death means finding peace at the end of one’s life, and it is part of the beauty of the full cycle of life, something to strive for, for ourselves and for those we love.

Keely Khoury is a freelance writer and editor who works with social enterprises, small businesses, and charities, and writes for a range of print and online publications that include The Daily Churn (agricultural technology), Springwise (innovation) and Volume One (the Chippewa Valley). Much of her writing focuses on good news of people making a positive difference in their communities.

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TEN16

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FICTION & POETRY CONTESTS

s r e t i r w n i s Wiscon ublication, p , s e z i r p win ! 0 0 5 $ o t p and u

Contests Open January 15 entry fees:

Fiction = $15 ($10 members) Poetry = $15 ($10 members) entry deadline:

March 15, 2022

enter online:

wisconsinacademy.org/contests

Get the attention your writing deserves through our fiction and poetry contests! Wisconsin People & Ideas magazine hosts annual writing contests for Wisconsin residents age 18 and over that provide cash, prizes, and publication. First-place winners in the Wisconsin People & Ideas fiction and poetry contests each receive $500 and one-week artist residencies at Shake Rag Alley Center for the Arts in Mineral Point. Second-place winners receive $250 and third-place winners receive $100. First- through thirdplace winning stories and poems are published in print and online issues of Wisconsin People & Ideas, and all award-winning writers are invited to read their work at a special Wisconsin Book Festival event.

Thanks to our 2022contest sponsors: 1

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WISCONSIN

BOOK

F E S T I VA L WINTER 2022

Kwon Junho

Fiction

2021

EVERYTHING BURNS BY KI M SU H R

efore I step through the doors of the cigar factory, I smell the aroma that has followed my

sister, Rosario, home since she started working here. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make out the figures of rollers already at their cutting boards.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Fiction

“May I help you?” a cold voice asks. “I am Ernesto López Famosa.” I lean toward the man sitting at a table. “Rosario’s brother.” A snort escapes him. This reaction is not unusual. I have experienced it since the moment Rosario was born. Longer really, since, before that, no one would believe that with my dark skin, eyes and hair, I could be fair, green-eyed Ezmeralda’s son either. Usually, if I do not respond, if I look patiently at the doubter, he will eventually see the resemblance. Rosario and I both have one droopy eye and high cheekbones. Those who have known us for a long time wonder why they did not see the resemblance sooner. “You two are the spitting image of your mother,” they finally say. The man at the table, however, is not so observant. “Tell the truth. Who are you?” “My sister is Rosario Fernández Famosa. She must now stay home to care for our mother.” I pull a slip of paper from my pocket and offer it to the man. “The supervisor said I may take Rosario’s place.” I follow him to a messy office with a window that looks out over the workers. “Señor, this is Ernesto. He says he is Rosario’s brother.” If the supervisor is surprised, he does not show it. He reaches across his desk. His hand is warm and so are his eyes. “Sit down.” He gestures to a chair. “Alejandro, stay with us a moment.” “Para servirle.” I sit. “I appreciate this opportunity. It means much to our family that we will not lose the salary, especially with Mamá’s accident.” “Si, si. Such a shame. How is she?” “We are grateful she is alive, but she needs constant care.” I do not say I am grateful not to have to care for her all day, not to be constantly reminded of her suffering and my failure to ease it. “Thank you for asking.” “We will miss Rosario, but it is right that she stay at home to care for her mother.” He writes on a card and hands it to Alejandro. “Alejandro, find Manuel and tell him to teach Ernesto how to roll.” We stand. “If you are half as good as Rosario, you’ll be fine.” The respect in his voice surprises me. I thank him and follow Alejandro to an empty chair in the midst of the other cigar rollers. Their hands deftly smooth brown tobacco leaves—layering, rolling, measuring, cutting. How had Rosario, with her damaged hand, become one of the best rollers in the factory? If she had a special technique, she did not share it this morning when she advised me to follow Manuel’s instructions. “He will make sure you get the best leaves, not too moist, not too dry. It all begins with the best leaves.” She said nothing about what to do once the leaves are in front of me. I watch the speed and precision of the other workers. The only thing I have taught my own hand to do is drag a pen across a sheet of paper in hopes of becoming one of the Next Important Cuban Writers. Mamá has fed this dream. Perhaps she created it in the first place, telling me stories about my father and his beautiful words. “Rosario’s brother, eh?” The gruff voice must be Manuel’s. I move to stand up. “Sit.” He reaches for a leaf. “Rosario got this quick.” I slide my chair to make room for the mountain of a man. He talks through each step. By the time he asks, “Any questions?” I do not have the courage to say, Could you please show me again? “I’ll check on you in a while,” he says over his shoulder. I watch the others work. They offer quiet smiles and brief words of welcome, but seem lost in the dance of their hands. Perhaps they don’t want to talk over la lectora, who reads the newspaper into a microphone, or they assume my presence in Rosario’s seat embues me with her skill. Either way, no one offers instruction, and I do not ask. By the time la lectora has finished reading the news, I have rolled five cigars that look like skinny dog droppings.

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Fiction

“No! No! No!” Manuel takes the cigar from my hand. “There is no way this will stay lit.” He tosses the cigar into the basket for waste. “Don’t you know how fire works, kid?” I know all too well how fire works. “Please show me again.” After the too-tight cigars comes a series of too-loose ones. Manuel speaks slowly and a little louder than normal. “When the tobacco is too loose, you get a fire hazard.” He flicks his lighter keeping the cigar away from his face as he lights it. Instinctively, I stand to evade the flame. My chair tumbles to the floor. Manuel laughs. “Hernández, put that thing out,” bellows a voice. The others stop rolling to chuckle and comment. “Manuel, give the kid a break!” “Don’t worry, ’mano. You’ll get the touch.” “You should have seen how loose mine were when I started out!” Manuel faces me, so I can read his lips, smell his tired breath. “Too much air around the tobacco leaves makes a fire hazard.” He throws the flaming cigar to the cement floor and puts it out with his boot. I fan the smoke from the air around us. His point made, Manuel’s eyes find mine and soften a bit. “Okay, Rosario’s brother, let’s try again.” He sits and rolls three more cigars. Slowly. He holds each one up to my face, then puts the last one in my left hand. “Compare it to your finger.” He squeezes my middle finger. “You, maybe your thumb.” He hands me another leaf. “You’ll get it.” He doesn’t say that Rosario is better at this than I will ever be.

i corazon, like this.” I am four years old and sit on Mamá’s lap. Her hand is wrapped around mine, which is wrapped around a pencil. “Make a loop here,” she says, “that will make it a B instead of a P. See? Like magic!” Rosario lies in her crib. Waving her arms and legs in the air, she looks like a pale cockroach, and I tell Mamá so. She claps her hands. “You are so imaginative. You will be a famous writer one day.” I can’t imagine how this making of letters could make me famous, but I do feel the love it stirs in Mamá, so I hold the pencil tighter and concentrate. Maybe if I make my writing good enough, it will take away her sadness when she looks at the portrait of my father. Maybe it will soften her face when she rocks my fussy sister. “Do not disappoint me, Ernesto,” Mamá would say. “Your father was driven from this country because of his writing. Now you must be his voice.”

fter two more days of wasted tobacco, Manuel puts his hand on my shoulder. “Old Orestes doesn’t have much time left. Why don’t you go sit with him for a while? Learn the ropes.” I don’t know what Old Orestes does at the table in the back of the factory. It seems he packs boxes then passes them on to Enrique before they go into shipping crates. But, just as there is much more to hand-rolling a cigar, there must be more to Old Orestes’ job than it appears. He grabs a handful of cigars. Using a formula only he seems to know—he pulls three from the bunch, places them into a box on his right and sets the others aside. The next handful yields four cigars acceptable for the box. Transfixed, I try to figure out what criteria Orestes uses to select the cigars. At first, I guess it has to do with their circumference. But, as far as I can tell, the ones he has not chosen are the same size as the ones he has. I measure a couple against my thumb to make sure. It might have to do with aroma because Orestes holds them close to his face. But, when I look closer, I can tell he is not sniffing them as I have seen aficionados in the smoking ritual do. “Figured it out yet?” His smile shows a darkened tooth. I shrug. “Keep watching.” He holds up a handful of cigars and chooses one.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Fiction

As I watch him at work, my mind drifts to Rosario. How can I admit to her that I have been demoted to watching an old man use a mysterious formula to fill cigar boxes at the back of the factory? Perhaps there is no secret to Orestes’ job. Perhaps this busy work is simply to give structure to an old man’s days. If so, what does this say about me? I can hardly ask Rosario without admitting my diminished status.

rnesto! What are you doing? You will burn the house down!” I am eight years old and standing over the gas burner with a piece of bread turning black and smoking on the end of a fork. Mamá’s hair looks like laundry left on a line in a rain shower, and there are dark smudges under her eyes. It’s the first time she has left her bed in three days. Then she sees the toast. “Oh, Ernesto, such a waste.” She turns off the burner, puts the charred bread on a plate. “Plain bread for you. I will eat this later.” She notices Rosario’s tears. “It’s okay. Everything is okay now.” She turns to me. “Did you give your sister breakfast?” I feel as if I have been giving my sister breakfast for my whole life. “Quiet as corpses, you two. I’m going back to bed.” She kisses us each on the forehead. “No more toast.”

kay, now you try it.” Orestes holds a handful of cigars in front of my face. “Look at what is already in the box.” I look. “Now, which ones will join them?” I concentrate trying to discern size, shape, texture, anything that will give me a clue. “I’ll give you a hint. Three of these will make the grade.” How he can see through those cloudy eyes I will never know. I squint. My vision goes out of focus, and I discover Orestes’ secret. Being half-blind is an asset. I can now see that three of the cigars are the exact shade of brown as the others already in the box. Uniform color, as well as size and shape, must be important. I gently pull the three cigars from his fist and lay them in the box. “A-ha!” His deep laugh relaxes my jaw. The first thing I have gotten right all day. I start to ask how he is able to do his work so fast. “Sh!” He turns his face toward la lectora. “She is back from her break.” Distracted by my own incompetence, I had lost awareness of la lectora’s reading. But I now see that Orestes has been listening, anticipating her return to the microphone. “Quiet now. She left off at a good part.” He puts a box in front of me, signals I should get to work. I am concentrating too hard on the cigars to listen to the story, but it must be compelling because Orestes occasionally mutters something under his breath, sometimes stops for a moment, cigars suspended in front of his face as he gazes into a distance I cannot see. By the time she closes the book and turns off the microphone, I have filled five boxes to Orestes’ fifteen. Still, he smiles. “Yes, Rosario’s brother,” he pats my shoulder, “you will work out just fine.”

J U D G E’S N OTE

CH RIS FI N K “Everything Burns” offers the reader an intimate and fascinating look at life inside communist Cuba. The young narrator feels the weight of his family, his race, and his gender as he navigates his mother’s illness and the expectations he feels unequipped to fulfill. Vivid scenes and characters in the Cuban workplace and in the domestic sphere will resonate with the reader of this fine story.

rnesto, can you make me like toast?” “You mean you want me to make you toast?” I should remind Rosario that the burner is off limits since the burnt bread incident. “No, I want you to make me like the toast. I want my skin to look like yours.” “Why would you say that?” I ask but I already know the answer. She can sense our mother’s soft spot for me and attributes it to the shade of my skin, not the fact that I am a boy

WINTER 2022

Fiction

or that my mother loved—still loves—my father, while Rosario’s father is a “dog” if he is mentioned at all. “You do not want skin like mine,” I say but not firmly. “I do, too.” I should scare her. I should tell her how dangerous fire is. I should threaten harsh punishment if she were ever to play with fire. I should tell her the truth. “It would hurt...,” I say. I tell myself we are playing a harmless game of What if? At the mention of pain, other girls would get big eyes and back down, but Rosario does not. Her spine straightens. She rolls up her sleeve. “I do not care.” Again, I have the opportunity to discourage her. Instead, I hang her school satchel from her shoulder. “Time to go.”

nother week at Orestes’ table and I have gotten to the point that I can listen to la lectora and work at the same time. She is reading a translation of the American book, The Invisible Man. I am sure she has been allowed to read it to us because it depicts the U.S. in an unfavorable light. The black people there are treated worse than dirt even though slavery is long over. The main character, the Invisible Man, has been betrayed by those around him— black and white—at every turn. I can tell the book has affected Orestes. These past days, his work has slowed, and he sits for long minutes, eyes closed, listening. Sometimes, my box is filled before his. “Just like here,” Orestes says while la lectora takes a sip of water. “Each one with his own kind.” He holds up a half-filled box and clicks his tongue. “This is what the revolution was supposed to do away with.” His voice holds such resentment I look around to see if anyone has heard. I try to act as if I have not heard either, hoping Orestes will just get back to work and forget about the bigotry all around us. The hardest, dirtiest jobs at the factory are done by those whose skin is darkest, whose ancestors were brought to Cuba against their will. It is only Orestes’ frailty, I’m sure, that has saved him from a more taxing job in the factory. At home, however, favoritism goes the other way. It is Rosario who might as well be invisible. In our house, the son has always gotten full favor and praise while the daughter and her manual work were dismissed. La lectora continues, and I am aware of the quiet that has settled over the factory. The Invisible Man has found himself in the belly of a riot, helping residents of a tenement gather fuel to burn down their apartment house, the only way they can express their outrage at their hazardous living conditions. How bad must circumstances be, I wonder, to burn everything? La lectora’s voice is the only sound I hear: “‘They’ve done it,’” she reads. “The decision their own and their own action. Capable of their own action.’” I finish one box and start another as she continues. “‘They did it themselves—planned it, organized it, applied the flame.’”

y school assignment sits on the kitchen table in front of me. I struggle to figure out how x can represent a number and how to work out what that number is. Rosario fiddles with the knobs on the burner. “Is this how you do it?” “Stop it and do your figures.” Part of me wants to see the bold Rosario try to toast her skin and give up at the first sensation of pain. I hear the strike of a match and a satisfying whoosh and I know I should walk to the stove and turn it off. I should order Rosario back to the table. Instead, I continue my quest to solve for x. From the corner of my eye, I see the flame as it catches the cuff of her sleeve and leaps up her arm. Oh yes, her body jumps back from the burner, and she runs silently in an odd figureeight. I watch like I am at the cinema. She caroms off the wall. The flames threaten to grab the yellow kitchen curtain. I have shirked my duty to protect her. It is as if I struck the match myself. Fire licks the ends of her braids. The scream that finally escapes goes directly to my spinal cord. I throw her to the

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Fiction

floor and fall on top of her, covering the side of her body with my own. I feel the heat of her blouse, smell cooked meat, hear my voice saying her name over and over.

hen I return home from the factory, I listen at the door. Quiet. No radio playing Mamá’s favorite music. No news that Rosario listens to while Mamá naps. My hand pauses on the knob. The door creaks as I push it open, but neither Rosario nor Mamá has heard it. They sit opposite each other at the kitchen table. Rosario’s dead hand rests on her lap, the other clenched in a tight fist next to the dish of mush in front of her. Mamá seems to stare at something in the corner; a greenish-tan stain runs the length of her blouse. The only evidence that there could be anything going on in her brain is the fidgeting of her thumb. Tap. Tap-Tap. Tap. Tap-Tap. I recognize the beat of her favorite song, La Bayamesa. Perhaps she taps so the rhythm can transport her out of her worthless body. Perhaps she is like the Bayamo woman looking at the green pastures until tears well up in her eyes. I fear speaking, but this silence is worse. “Why don’t I cook supper tonight?” Before the final word crosses my lips, I know I have said the wrong thing. How long have they sat with the bowl of mush between them? Since lunchtime? My stomach growls despite the tension in the room. Rosario slams her good hand on the table rattling the spoon in the bowl. She shoves her chair back. It topples to the floor with a thud. She picks up the bowl. Stupidly, I expect her to rinse it in the sink. “Eat this!” She hurls it at me and it glances off the side of my head leaving me with mush on my shoulder and a smarting temple. She slams the apartment door so hard that Mamá’s favorite rooster sugar bowl falls from the shelf and shatters on the floor. I look at Mamá to see if she has registered anything. Her eyes blink slowly, steadily, as always, her thumb keeping time with music only she can hear.

When I turn the corner toward our apartment, I half expect to see the building in ashes, but it stands as always, weathered shutters closed against the afternoon sun. Tears of rust stain the concrete façade.

restes holds up a handful of cigars, accepts my nod before laying them in their box. “Just testing you,” he says. But I know he wants me to confirm he has made the right choices. It must be difficult for him to make out colors in the drab factory today. The sun that streamed through the windows earlier has disappeared, and the bosses haven’t turned on the overhead lights. La lectora clicks on her reading lamp and begins the next book, The Count of Monte Cristo. Orestes smiles. “Ah, I like this one! This was to be my last week, but now I will stay until she finishes the book.” My shoulders drop. “What’s the matter?” As I look for the right words to tell him I will miss him, I glance at la lectora. The book in front of her is huge, over 500 pages easily. Orestes will be here awhile longer after all. “Nothing.” I pull an empty box toward me and begin to fill it. “I am looking forward to this book. I have never read it.” He snorts. “And you call yourself the son of a writer?” I haven’t called myself the son of anyone, not to him or anyone else in the factory. Somehow he knows of my father and has chosen this moment to let me know. “May I speak freely?” He asks this from time to time. If I say, Yes, he tells me something innocuous that cannot be misconstrued as unpatriotic. If I say, Of course, he will tell me what’s in his heart. I look around. “Of course,” I say. “I have read all of your father’s books. He was a man of vision and principle. I want to know: what are you doing to honor his name?” Again, I am silent. I should tell him the truth—that I haven’t picked up a pen since I started at the factory, and that, actually, I have felt a liberty in this. I should admit I am surprised by how satisfied I feel when a box is filled with perfectly uniform cigars, much more satisfied than the son of a Great Cuban Dissident Writer ought to be.

WINTER 2022

Fiction

hen I turn the corner toward our apartment, I half expect to see the building in ashes, but it stands as always, weathered shutters closed against the afternoon sun. Tears of rust stain the concrete façade. At the top of the stairs, I hesitate. The door opens before I can grab the knob. Rosario has a scarf wrapped around her head and clutches her handbag. “I need to get a few things.” I step aside and let her pass. I kiss Mamá on the cheek. Change into a clean shirt. Put the kettle on. Rosario has left a pan of beans and rice on the burner, its pureed version in a bowl on the counter. So she has planned to miss dinner. I fasten a bib around Mamá’s neck. “We will eat without Rosario.” I wheel Mamá to the table. Since she returned home from the hospital, I have never had to feed her. In fact, I have done my best not to watch as Rosario fed her. Now, I must get the food past her lips. I hold the spoon under her nose, then touch it lightly to her lips. This is how I would get Rosario to eat when she was a baby and Mamá was too exhausted to get off the couch. This method does not work with Mamá. With my thumb and fingers on either side of her mouth, I squeeze gently creating a small opening and push in some of the mush. Her mouth moves though, judging from the amount that lands on her bib, it’s hard to believe anything has gone down her throat. We go on this way until the bowl is half empty and I give up. I wheel her to the balcony, so she can look out over the neighborhood. Her glazed eyes cannot see the couples strolling hand in hand, but I pretend she is among la matronas smiling down on the young lovers, remembering the days when her cheeks were pink and her eyes were clear. I find my notebook and look at the date of my last writing, the day before I started work at the factory. I settle onto the couch to try to write something worthy of my father. The words come slowly and without fervor. I begin as Mamá has told me he did, from the perspective of a small person. Someone like her. Someone like me.

boy sits on a bench with his mother while the other children play in the park. He doodles in a notebook wishing to make her proud. His sister plays jump rope with the other girls, her bandaged arm no impediment to the tricks she shows off. They are playing a version of tag that requires the child jumping the rope to turn around three times before running out to chase the next victim. Most of them stagger a few steps before catching their balance, but not his sister. How can she be so steady? “Ernesto.” His mother taps his knee. “Look over there. Señora Garcia.” The old lady is propped in a wheelchair staring straight ahead. The left side of her face droops. A line of drool stains a turquoise bib. “If I ever end up like that, promise me you’ll kill me.” A surge of fear and sadness rush through him. “No, Mamá—” She puts a finger to his lips. “You must.” She doesn’t wait for an answer. In her mind, a vow has been made. No explanation of how he should carry out her request. No guidance for how to find the courage.

ith the memory of my broken promise, a surge of guilt washes through me. How could I have forgotten? I close my notebook and set it aside. The sun has started to set. Mamá could catch a chill. As I wheel her inside, I gag at the stench from her diaper. I leave the door half open and turn on a lamp hoping to find that Rosario has returned home, knowing she has not. Mamá’s eyes are open, her thumb tapping. She would rather die—literally—than to have me deal with something so personal and undignified. But what is worse: having me change her diaper or sitting in her own mess? I lay a towel on her bed, find a clean diaper and some old washrags. I fill the bucket with warm water, dawdling with the preparations hoping that Rosario will return.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Fiction

I roll Mamá’s wheelchair to her bedroom and begin the awkward process of moving her to the bed. She weighs almost nothing, but even so, how is Rosario able to do this with only one good arm? I expect Mamá to realize what is about to happen and that she will resist, but, no. She simply lands on the bed with a flop. I rearrange her hips and gag again. How is she not retching with the stench? Her eyes gaze at the ceiling. Her thumb continues to tap. Still, no Rosario. “Okay, Mamá, I guess it’s my turn after all the diapers you changed for me.” As I work, I remind her of the embarrassing stories that were part of my childhood. How I was nearly four when I finally gave up diapers. She told me: “Your caca was so stinky, you smelled like an old man.” She’d wave a hand in front of her face and pinch her nose. “Finally, I handed you a diaper and said, ‘Change it yourself.’ And what do you know? The toilet looked pretty good after that.” Whenever she relayed the story, her voice had a note of annoyance, but her face betrayed her. She felt nothing but love for her son, poopy pants and all. Even now as I recall it, my cheeks warm, but I retell it anyway hoping to lessen the embarrassment she must feel. I fold the soiled diaper in half and try to wipe away the mess without looking. I’m probably not cleaning her as well as I should, but Rosario will just have to take care of that when she returns. I close the clean diaper and pull Mamá’s housedress over her knees. “I’ll be back in a minute, Mamá.” I need to get this stinking thing out of the apartment, get this out of my mind. I place the diaper in the trash can. I return to sit on the bed beside her. I brush her hair from her forehead and give it a small kiss. Her skin is cold, as if she is already dead.

Kim Suhr is the author of Nothing to Lose (Cornerstone Press, 2018) and Maybe I’ll Learn: Snapshots of a Novice Mom (2012). She holds an MFA in fiction from the Solstice Program at Pine Manor College where she was the Dennis Lehane Fellow in 2013. Her writing has appeared in various publications. She is Director of Red Oak Writing where she leads Writers’ Roundtable critique groups, provides manuscript critiques and coaching, and leads the summer Creative Writing Camps for youth. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys reading, gardening, time outdoors with her family and being a fan-girl for her grown children in their various pursuits.

Read more award-winning fiction from Wisconsin writers at wisconsinacademy.org/fiction.

WINTER 2022

Poetry

New Wisconsin Poetry Honorable Mention Poems from our 2021 Poetry Contest

Sometimes the Red in Wisconsin Sometimes the red symbol on a white background is a swastika on a Sheboygan garage in 2017 sometimes it is the Kimberly High School “K” on the KHS_white_club Instagram account posted on the first day of Black History Month in 2021 terror remains, alive today: it did not die by cyanide in a Berlin bunker in 1945; it was not crushed by the crowd surrounding King below Lincoln’s gaze in 1963 the stain is darker than the paint more vivid than the graphics on the screen not dead and gone, not distant memory it spreads like a virus, appearing here now there, no matter how quickly we scrub it, delete it, or wish it away.

Katie Chiquette

Katie Chiquette is an educator and writer in Appleton. Her work has recently appeared in First Review East, Bramble, Wallopzine, Portage Magazine, and Anti-Heroin Chic, and the anthology, Halfway to the North Pole: Door County Poetry. She is a live storyteller and emcee with Storycatchers, and works as an English teacher for at-risk young adults at Appleton’s public alternative high school, with hopes they will remake their own stories and become friendly with at least one poem.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Poetry

Flying Home My father keeps samara seeds safe inside small matchboxes. He holds his hand out to me, a seed in his bark-like palm. This seed has wings like a dragonfly. I’ve had it for so many years that I don’t know if she will want to see the light. I touch one of her wings and it breaks. Don’t worry, son, I have many seeds of this kind. How did he become this tender man who gathers seeds and dries leaves between book pages? In my childhood he was a silent god who had no pity on my brother and me. As I step out of his kitchen my brother steps in like a cat, and in a quiet voice he tells my father: Stop collecting trash. I tell my father I have to go, my flight will leave the city at noon. When I arrive in the north this seed will feel the cold and awaken in its light.

Moisés Villavicencio Barras

Moisés Villavicencio Barras, is co-founder of Cantera Verde, one of the most significant literary publications in Mexico for the last 25 years. His poetry has been published in Mexico and the United States. He has two poetry books published, Mayo entre Voces / May among Voices (Oaxaca, Mexico, 2001.) and Luz de Todos Los Tiempos / Light of All Times, bilingual edition, (Madison, Wisconsin, 2013.)

WINTER 2022

Poetry

Stories My dear friend you are wrong to say there are only stories. Stories need bodies— larynx, tongue and teeth hands to scratch them down tympany and thalamus eyes to read and bundles of neurons in the heart and gut. Stories need bodies to devise them bodies to receive them and recognize. I know words seem to run things, that stories can control our lives. But these things were only ever tools So that one human body could figure another one out, could figure everything out.

Mark J. Knickelbine

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Mark J. Knickelbine is a lifelong Wisconsin resident and holds a bachelor’s in journalism and a master’s in English, both from the University of Wisconsin–Madison. His work has appeared in Milwaukee Shepherd Express, Wisconsin Happenings, and Catholik Guilt. He works as a writer and editor, and serves as practice director for the Secular Buddhist Association. He’s married, has three grown sons, and lives in Mount Horeb. More of his work can be found on his website, The Creature Who Can Hear This Song.

Poetry

In the Library The Haskell Free Library straddles the U. S. / Canadian border between Stanstead, Quebec and Derby Line, Vermont. The border is marked by a line of black tape on the floor of the reading room. Because people from countries like Iran studying in the U. S. on single-entrance visas cannot leave the country without losing their status and the previous administration’s travel ban prohibited their relatives from entering the U. S., the library became an unofficial meeting place for families who were separated, in some cases for years. Taking my face in her hands she strokes my beard, kisses my eyes. If I could, I would stop all the clocks in the world and keep her here, filling the absence that centers my life. In her wrinkled hands I am a child again rocking in memory’s cradle, in the cottage of stories she told me at bedtime: in one, a mother dwelled in a magical town with its own moon above, but her only son was taken from her. Every dawn, she walked out to the garden and watered a cedar tree she believed he’d been turned into, whispering into his leaves with the cardamom scent of her breathing— just as my mother comes to me, over the rim of the world, promising that home stays as I left it, a part of myself glowing still in the darkness behind things I hardly remember. She sobs into my chest. I’ve forgotten so many words now, but her tears remind me: to be fluent in love is to be fluent in grief. In the corner, an old man reads magazines. Children do homework. As her big basket yields up its bounty—containers of tahdiq and lamb, dates and halvah, a blue jar of apricot juice—the librarian tells us to take the food outside. What choice do we have but to sit side-by-side on cement steps, trusting that this spot belongs to no country, or maybe to both, or perhaps it’s a land that appears only every five years or so when the lost son steps out of his life’s story and clings to the mother, each word passed between them a droplet of nectar, unbearably sweet on the tongue.

Judith Harway is the author of three collections of poetry and a memoir. She is a two-time recipient of literature fellowships from the Wisconsin Arts Board, and recently retired from the faculty of the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design.

Here with all of the wisdom of ages surrounding us, Mother asks would the librarian snap a few pictures? Then she poses, her feet planted firmly on one side of the black line, reaching out to her only son—me— on the other.

Judith Harway

WINTER 2022

Book Review

Holding My Selves Together: New and Selected Poems by Margaret Rozga Cornerstone Press, 160 pages, $17.95 Reviewed by Angela Trudell Vasquez

Margaret Rozga’s latest collection consists of poems from three previous collections—200 Nights and One Day, Justice Freedom Herbs, Pestiferous Questions: A Life in Poems—as well as newer poems, some of which she wrote during the pandemic. Published by UW-Stevens Point’s Cornerstone Press as part of their Portage Poetry Series, Holding My Selves Together contains some of the most imaginative and refreshing poems I have read in a long time. Separated into four sections, the collection begins with “Alice Marathons,” a series of poems woven into the narrative of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. The poems in this section play with white space and employ breaks and em dashes, asking the reader to participate in the past, present, and future of this poetic dialogue. A poem titled “Bigger Questions,” like others in this collection, reflects a concern with social justice:

indent, creates a space for the reader to pause and reflect. Sometimes a reader needs a pause for words to land—and the poet needs to make space for that landing. Master poets such as Rozga know this, and can deliver their poems in such a way that the reader feels the gravity of each word. The Alice poems alone could make a collection, but there is much more here. We know from her time as Wisconsin Poet Laureate that Rozga is a generous poet, and in this collection, she gives us poems from all the times in her life. Sometimes we are in a memory, sometimes we are in the present, sometimes the poems collide in a beautiful and poignant way and offer hope for the future. The poems in this collection are exquisitely crafted, and I will be studying their construction—and what the poet has to share—for a long time.

Back above ground again, Alice asks what’s wrong with this world— obsessed with clocks, grinning without substance, an unwelcoming tea party, floods, rulers intent on deadly games?

In the final section, in “Future / Present / Past: A Cento,” Rozga has conversations with other contemporary poets who share her social justice concerns. And in the poem, “Awake,” she displays a fresh and imaginative take on Alice in Wonderland, bringing it into our current cultural moment: Alice, you just dreamed you fell and didn’t know when, how, or where you’d stop. Now that dream is playing out on our ground, not under.

Angie Trudell Vasquez is a Mexican-American writer and the current poet laureate of Madison. She holds an MFA in poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts. Finishing Line Press published the first half of her MFA thesis, In Light, Always Light, in 2019, and will publish the second half, My People Redux, in 2022. She became a Macondista (and alumni of the Macondo Writers Workshops of San Antonio, Texas) in 2021.

In the poem, “Grounding,” the poet writes, “One does not win. / The race is bigger than that.” Here, as elsewhere in the collection, Rozga’s use of white space is intentional. The caesura, the five-space Read additional reviews of new and interesting books by Wisconsin authors at wisconsinacademy.org/reviews.

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

Book Review

A Door Opens by Richard Merelman Fireweed Press, 54 pages, $10.00 Reviewed by Mark Zimmermann

Early in Richard Merelman’s poetry collection A Door Opens, a teenage boy appears surrounded by “A sea of images, language, / sensation” exploring sex and violence. And since this takes place in mid-20th century America, it’s no surprise that Casablanca, Playboy, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and the like, provide the fuel for his questionable explorations of Eros. The poem “How It Starts II” finds the narrator “sniff[ing]… panties” and “jeer[ing] the flabby stripper / at the Gayety Theater.” Later the poem turns from Eros to Thanatos: The photo doesn’t lie: GIs rip gold teeth from the corpse of a Japanese soldier at Peleliu. You’re transfixed.

This coming of age also involves a dawning self-awareness:

Merelman is a fine poet. His line breaks have linguistic spring, good timing, and drama. His lines are packed with vivid imagery and declarative force. He’s also a deft formalist when he wants to be, with several villanelles, ghazals, and sonnets attesting to that. Some of these poems, especially the ones about marital breakdown (“The Punch and Judy Show”) and parent-child estrangement (“Hope Against Hope”), are hard to take, and the heart breaks a bit when reading them. But as the poems accumulate and unfold, readers will also find poignant reminiscences, among them the title poem, “A Door Opens,” and “Coming of Age Twice: An Elegy.” On occasion there are even moments of playful and wild humor, as in “My Watergate: A Dream Journal” which features variations on a scene where the speaker is dicing carrots with Richard and Pat Nixon. It’s one of many surprising moments that reveal a skilled poet at ease in a variety of registers.

“Why do you wallow in the depths of the senses like a hog in mud? Do you think filth is beautiful?”

It’s a good question, for the reader as well as for the speaker, whose answer is: “Compose yourself; become a poet.” A Door Opens is Merelman’s fourth poetry volume since 2012. A Professor Emeritus of Political Science at UW-Madison, he has a worldly trove of travels and trials on which to draw for his frequently harrowing intimations, whether of a personal nature or more broadly addressing the sorry state of humanity at large. And some of the book’s poems make the early teen forays into the grubbier precincts of Eros seem, if not sweet sixteenish, surely mild by comparison. Infidelity, marital breakdown, addiction, mental illness, domestic violence. A Door Opens is a brave book, but the poet’s handling of these difficult experiences makes it something much more than that. He conveys sorrows and misfortunes that are at once intimately personal but that also resonate with a worldliness beyond mere confession. Merelman’s humanism, incorporating wide reading and a wealth of historical reference, spares the reader any sense that they’re merely reading someone else’s personal mail.

Mark Zimmermann is currently working on a book-length poetry manuscript focused on his life in Japan, where he lived from 1990-1991 and 1993-2001. His first poetry collection, Impersonations, was published in 2015 by Pebblebrook Press, and work from it has been featured on Milwaukee Public Radio’s “Lake Effect,” at The Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, and in Wisconsin People & Ideas, and was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His poems and prose have appeared in a variety of print and online venues. Currently he lives in Milwaukee with his wife Carole and two cats.

WINTER 2022

Book Review

The Birdman of Koshkonong by Martha Bergland Wisconsin Historical Society Press, 302 pages, $20.00 Reviewed by Margaret Rozga

After writing Studying Wisconsin, a biography of Increase Lapham co-authored with Paul Hayes, Martha Bergland was looking for another Wisconsin scientist whose life and work deserved more attention. She learned of Thure Kumlien in a poem by Lorine Niedecker, who, like Kumlien, lived most of her life near Lake Koshkonong. Research in the Wisconsin Historical Society Archives convinced Bergland that she had found her subject. In 1843, Thure Kumlien, son of an aristocratic family, left Sweden and came to Wisconsin where he and his wife built a cabin at Lake Koshkonong. A naturalist, he preferred a quiet life in the woods and chose for his farmstead a place rich in bird life and virgin vegetation. What he accomplished from this beautiful and then remote location merits the attention it receives in Bergland’s well-researched and beautifully written biography, The Birdman of Koshkonong: The Life of Naturalist Thure Kumlien. Bergland documents Kumlien’s lifelong dedication to fieldwork that advanced scientific knowledge of Wisconsin plant and animal species, the simplicity of his personal lifestyle, his love of beauty, his gentle and poetic spirit, and his care for the land. He maintained a section of his forty acres in their original wooded state, never clearing or plowing there. He also refrained from disturbing twenty-seven indigenous effigy mounds that are still intact today. As she makes the case for Kumlien’s contributions to ornithology and his extraordinary character, Bergland also describes life in the new state of Wisconsin and the changes to the environment resulting from damming rivers and breaking up prairie into farm and grazing land. Unlike Lapham who wrote extensively, Kumlien wrote only two papers for publication, one of them for the proceedings of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters, of which he was a member. Kumlien’s early letters and his 1843-1850 work journal, a key source, were mostly written in Swedish. He did, however, speak and write English, as well as several European languages, and exchanged hundreds of letters with other naturalists. Bergland discovered that “the facts of Kumlien’s early life can be put in a tea cup.” Even so, she concluded that his Swedish background and education are key to understanding not only Kumlien the scientist, but also Kumlien the person who required of life “beauty, discovery, and knowing.” One of the beauties of Bergland’s book is the inclusion of Kumlien’s fine drawings of the birds he studied. Kumlien studied at Uppsala University where Carl Linnaeus had established a system of taxonomy of plants and animals that is still

WISCONSIN PEOPLE & IDEAS

the standard today. Even before he graduated, young Kumlien was sharing his knowledge and specimens with scientists in Europe and America. With these impressive academic credentials he began his work in Wisconsin collecting the bird, insect, and plant specimens that formed the essential collections of major museums and universities. His was a well-rounded education with an emphasis on music, poetry, and Romantic ideas including the view that everything in the natural world has a soul. Bergland speculates that “perhaps more than anything else, it was Kumlien’s knowledge of Romantic literature and ideas that later separated him from the farmers who surrounded him in Wisconsin, with their hard-nosed practicality.” Perhaps Kumlien could have benefitted from more of that practicality. His letters to those who bought specimens from him show a reluctance to discuss how he would be compensated for his work. Bergland does not venture into a consideration of whether his compensation was fair, though she certainly provides evidence of his poverty. I could not help but wonder if this good man—whose keen observations and specimens from the field provided the means for better-positioned, better-compensated scholars to write books and advance their reputations—suffered from injustices in that system. Martha Bergland’s book at last brings Thure Kumlien’s life and work the attention it deserves.

Margaret Rogza was the Wisconsin Poet Laureate for 2019-2020. A native of Milwaukee, she is a poet, playwright, and emerita professor of English at the University of Wisconsin–Waukesha where she taught creative writing and multicultural literature. She is the author of 5 books of poetry: 200 Nights and One Day, Though I Haven’t Been to Baghdad, Justice Freedom Herbs, Pestiferous Questions: A Life in Poems, and Holding My Selves Together (reviewed in this issue).

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Wisconsin People & Ideas – Winter 2022

Articles inside

The Birdman of Koshonong by Martha Berglund

Everything Burns • 2nd Place Contest Winner

Holding My Selves Together by Margaret Rozga

From the Director

Happenings

A Door Opens by Richard Merelman

A Story Written in Ice: Reading Wisconsin’s Landscape

Letters

Landjaeger: Mispronounced, Misunderstood, and Delicious