Who's Actually Howling?

Thoughts on hunger, heritage, American borders, and humanity.

It began on a Wednesday morning. No, actually at 10 pm the night before, when I put too much butter on the banana bread that I knew was unloving to begin with. Maybe it started at 4 pm that same afternoon when I drank the tequila I only half wanted? Or a couple of years ago when I secretly texted him at 2 am?

I have a tendency to eat unloving amounts. I tend to do everything in unloving amounts.

Sometimes I wonder who is actually hungry. Have I been reacting to the yearning of a lot of angry ancestors? Hangry bitches? Not just the women, but the men too. All of them. How many of them howled for this kind of systemic freedom and satiety? I am their wildest dream, maybe. Or maybe they’d take one look at today and about-face for the fields and caves from which they crawled.

On this particular Wednesday morning, I decided to delve into my origin story. Celtic music because I am 50% Irish. Clan Kenney. Fiddles, drums, lilting melodies. Cool.

Next, wolves howling? Alexa, listen to wolves howling. I hoped that it would awaken the 25% of me who hails from Estonia. Have you seen the flag? Imagine a rectangle cut into thirds horizontally. A thick white base along the bottom resembles a snowy Baltic blanket. Then, a black stripe to symbolize the dense, black woods. A clear blue rests on top—the sky.

I know for certain I come from a long line of sky watchers, people captivated by the clear blue.

Then I remembered I am American, too. Very “American.” Mayflower American via William Brewster, the minister on that fateful trip over. You’re probably related to him too, the lines are so blurred. Alexa, play Americana Essentials.

Howwwwllllll.

Speaking of canines. During the Estonian howling session my dog had to be let outside because the sounds were so distressing to her. I had to release my beast back out into the wild to escape the synthetic sounds of the wild. She was confused; didn’t know who she was, or who she was supposed to be. Why was the black box on the kitchen counter activating cells and stories she had no clue existed?

Well, now we’ve got something. Heritage.

I think about the headlines and headaches involving the influx of people coming into the United States of America. I understand why people want to “protect and defend” their cells and stories. My heritage informs and clarifies my hunger. I appreciate knowing I am 50% Irish, 25% Estonian, and 25% Mayflower Mud.

Mud. A-muddy-can. Ah-mudi-khan. A-meri-can. American.

Don’t they see that we’re all already covered in mud? That the lines have blurred. America: An Extremely Muddy Experiment. The last handful of hundred years have just been…data collection. Does this work? Can this work? Can we value the kind of freedom we hope (pretend?) to exemplify and still have a nation? A nationality?

They are correct, sturdier borders will alleviate some of the discomfort. But it will not erase our hunger; the deep, visceral howls of fear and existential dread.

So much worry…

How human our desire to keep things organized and knowable is. I feel brave and warm when I imagine my kin gathered around a fire on the greenest Irish grass. Sometimes I pretend to hear the wolves on a cool, crisp Estonian night— it makes me want to growl and smile and cold plunge. There is peace in being able to place myself within a lineage.

Is being American something to be proud of? I am! Sometimes! We are the epitome of "fuck around and find out.” We are a bull in the china shop of “shoulds.” You know why Brewster left England, right? How funny of us to cling so tightly to it all…

Who is howling from the black boxes on our counters and in our hands? Who am I? Who am I supposed to be? I must hold two truths.

My heritage matters to me.

And.

I am mud.

What I want to whisper goes something like this: You’re all right. All of you. That was confusing, let me clarify. You are all correct. Of course, knowing our origin story matters. How foolish to erase our heritage—the extent to which you reject any one thing is the extent to which you can reject your own Self. Our heritage informs our hunger. My need for butter and big skies goes way back.

And.

Aren’t we silly for not seeing our muddy reflections in the white polished stone of our national monuments?

Where do we go to escape the noise? Is peace possible? “Cleanliness” cannot cure our anxiety, though I am sure it allows for a bit of perceived control. Control over an experiment and a world and an existence that has not only escaped our grasp—but was never actually ours to hold.

Don’t they see that at the beginning and the end, it’s always just been us—naked, staring up at the clearest sky?

You’re alright. We’re alright. Keep howling. Keep dancing. Keep fighting, munching, figuring, and praying. Keep doing all the things we humans have been doing since Day 1. That is, hoping and believing that whoever allowed and put us here knows what the actual fuck is going on. Hoping and believing that the thing we call God loves us as much as they all say. We are the wildest dreams come true.