Reflecting on place
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Dear friends,
I recently got to participate in a symposium at the University of Iowa to celebrate the conclusion of the Humanities for the Public Good program, led by Teresa Mangum. So many scholars and practitioners I admire shared in the conversations, and I got to hear from some incredible students who bring me hope in the future of the humanities. I had a chance to share my perspective, too.
Iowa carries so many connotations—political bellwether, America's heartland, flyover country. On returning to Brooklyn, I found myself reflecting a lot on what it means to me to live in NYC, and how this city exists in relationship with other parts of the country, particularly in our current sociopolitical moment.
While I was in Iowa City, I reveled in the beautiful wide open sky, the hawks soaring overhead, the beautiful river winding through the town. I spent one magical morning in a park that was a mix of forest and prairie, a serene landscape filled with vibrant and varied birdsong. It was deeply restorative.
But the quiet also caught my attention in other ways, such as all the empty playgrounds I passed. It's something I also notice when I visit my family in the Colorado suburbs—there are so many public places that are very lightly used, with much more of people's lives happening in private spaces—homes, backyards.
When I came back to Brooklyn, it was a beautiful day. It had gone from being 20 degrees when I left for Iowa to 65 degrees when I returned home, and from the moment I stepped out of the cab, I could hear that the nearby playground was packed. Families everywhere, enjoying the warmer air, kids running and playing and squealing. A delight.
I realized that sound has come to represent one of the benchmarks of what makes a place feel livable to me—a sign of people gathering in public, of public spaces being well used. Prospect Park isn't pristine, but it is full of life. Living in the city has also taught me to see the delights of nature in the brief glimpses that catch me by surprise. On this particular morning, it was a blue heron, languidly opening and closing her wings as people passed.
NYC is more than some people think it is—and so is Iowa. It was so easy for some of my Brooklynite friends to joke about how exciting my trip to the cornfields must have been. Especially after my time there, I feel frustrated by the way that reaction erases the people who don't fit the expected mold. The people of color living and working in the midst of a heavily white majority. The organizers working day in and day out to support their neighbors and change the political tenor of their communities. The folks I met in and around the university who are engaged in deeply reciprocal connections with public libraries, arts organizations, nonprofits.
None of this thinking is particularly new or unique, of course. There has been a surge in deeply engaged, place-based humanities work in recent years. Mellon's Humanities in Place program, established in 2020, is a powerful example of this trend. This builds on longstanding work by other organizations; for instance, the NEH's partnership with the National Humanities Alliance has long supported this kind of work through state humanities councils and public programs. While my own work has often focused on embodiment and people's lived experience, I have to be honest that sometimes I forget about the ways our thinking is shaped by place.
I feel grateful—grateful to live in a place where I can hear kids laughing down the block, even if it also means I hear traffic noise and sirens. Despite my deep introversion I feel grateful to live in a neighborhood so dense that I always cross paths with someone I know; that people know one another's kids by sight and have an eye out if something goes wrong. And I'm grateful that despite all the bustle I can sometimes have my breath taken away by the unexpected sight of a heron on my morning run.
Thanks for reading, everyone. Happy spring—
Warmly,
Katina
