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When a Region Tells Its Own Stories, That’s ‘New Territory’

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“Get out of Missouri,” was the professional advice Tina Casagrand received as a young journalist fresh out of college. Instead, she hunkered down in a small city and started a print magazine for people who love the Lower Midwest just as much as she does.

Places matter to Tina Casagrand. So do journalism and culture. So do anthropology and science. So do readers, writers, books and magazines. And the Ozark mountains and the river basins of central Missouri. And other parts of the lower Midwest, too — places like Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas.  

Casagrand is the founder and publisher of The New Territory, a reader-supported print magazine she created in 2015. In that role, she brings literary, anthropological, and ecological voices to a region that has challenges but ample optimism.  

Tina Casagrand
Tina Casagrand

Casagrand launched the magazine about two years after graduating from the University of Missouri. With the talents of a small team of volunteers, the magazine puts its mission into practice, “to connect the land, people and possibilities of the Lower Midwest.”  (The magazine has no digital version, but it does publish a blog, which occasionally includes a free sample article.) 

Like many people living a creative, purpose–driven life, Casagrand didn’t start out knowing she wanted to be what she is now, although there were some early hints. She was raised by her great-grandparents in Dixon, Missouri, a town of about 1,500 southeast of the Lake of the Ozarks. She’d always loved to read, particularly magazines. In high school Casagrand didn’t realize that “magazine publisher” was a career path, but she worked on student publications and did other activities that suggested she might have a future involving the written word. She developed a strong interest in world culture and international travel. That led her to major in both journalism and anthropology. She minored in art, and then added another minor, biology.  

Casagrand started freelancing in college, focusing on environmental writing. She was hungry to experience new cultures and places, to tell stories she discovered along the way. She “hit a high point early” in her freelance writing career when a story she wrote was published on the National Geographic website. It dealt with the epidemic of emerald ash borers killing trees and what could be done about it. 

“That was cool and awesome, but along with the byline was the realization that I didn’t want to be doing that kind of work for very long,” Casagrand says. The problem was that so much context needed to be provided for a national story that there wasn’t much room for depth.  

“I was in 1,200-word count hell,” she recalls. That’s when she came to terms with the fact that the outlet for what she wanted to do didn’t exist.   

Instead of giving up, Casagrand saw an opportunity to both serve readers and improve the “writer ecosystem.” She wanted journalists to have a publication where they could pitch long, thoughtfully crafted stories with love for place at the forefront. She developed a prospectus for The New Territory and ran it past her peers in the Society for Environmental Journalists. They gave her encouragement and suggestions. Then she was ready to put out a “bat signal” that there was a location for in-depth narrative that would treat stories with care.  

Casagrand now publishes The New Territory from her office in Jefferson City, Missouri’s capital. The editors, designers and others work remotely, scattered around the country. The magazine is distributed almost entirely through subscription and contains no advertising but does include a sponsorship section. This allows the bills to be paid, and the contributors, too. But the staff is all volunteer, including herself. 

The New Territory just released its seventh issue, titled “Sanctuaries.” It includes stories about a Primitive Baptist Church in Arkansas that has seen years of declining membership; a farm family in the Ozarks that has expanded its activities to make ends meet; Native Americans and non-natives coming together to save a Kansas wetlands from highway construction; a photo essay on how Oklahomans are finding new ways to protect public lands as state park budgets erode; plus art, poetry and fiction.  

Having lots of hands helping on the magazine allowed Casagrand to step away from daily editing duties. As publisher, she can focus on finding continued financial support. She sees convincing people to pay for quality journalism as a challenge that needs a solution. An added challenge is her location in the middle of Missouri, which is foreign ground to financial supporters that mostly cluster in the big cities. That’s why much of her effort is going into what she describes as “strengthening the friendships and partnerships we’ve made so far and telling more potential subscribers about the magazine.”   

Casagrand is determined to stick to her focus creating an “autobiography of the lower Midwest,” even if not everyone is on board yet. She had numerous mentors in the journalism world who encouraged her to apply for opportunities around the country. One individual she barely knew told her that she’d never really be successful as a freelancer until she got out of Missouri. 

“It was humiliating to be told this by an older person, but I couldn’t corroborate it. I didn’t think of myself as not being on track.” In what she calls a moment of clarity, Casagrand realized that versions of success are different, a viewpoint she conveyed to that person later the day.  

It’s expected that people who are invested in her success might be a bit confused by her choices. In their experience, they see the best opportunities in bigger places. But Casagrand says she would “rather be rooted in a place” instead of having a “fragile existence” in a place she didn’t particularly wish to be. 

Growing up she appreciated the natural beauty of the Missouri Ozarks but also took it for granted. When she went to college, she experienced different landscapes through travel and came to new ways to “process ideas about culture,” she says. 

“If you’d told me at start of college I’d live in and love Missouri after graduation, I would have laughed you out the door. But it is beautiful and unique, and there aren’t a lot of journalists writing about the environment in Missouri. There is so much to cover you could make it a whole career, as a beat, and not touch everything.” 

Still, it isn’t for everyone. 

“There is high attrition of talented people leaving here, and I was on track to be one of them.” But she knew she had important and personally meaningful work to do. She paraphrases Senegalese forestry engineer Baba Dioum about caring for places and protecting them to make a healthy community. “You have to love it, but you can only love it by understanding it, and you can only understand it if you learn about it.”  

She pictures readers of The New Territory as people who already love the Lower Midwest, care for it in their own way, and support regional journalism in myriad ways. “That’s who we sit down at our computers and make this magazine for,” Casagrand says. She and the team envision The New Territory being shared with people informally, and even formally in the classroom as teaching material guiding readers to understand the region better. “That why we imbue each issue with so much love.” 

As Casagrand puts it, it’s true love, not just boosterism. “People see that it’s not fluffy content. An intelligent reader knows when they’re being sold something, and that’s one of the fastest ways to erode trust.” 

Casagrand tells the life story of this state that is bounded by the Mississippi River on the east and partly bordered and bisected by the Missouri River. The rolling farmland of the north, the rugged and forested south, the flood plains of the southeast and the Great Plains to the west offer plenty to learn about and love.  

Even the boundary between rural and urban spaces speaks to Casagrand. She carries a tangible emblem that reminds her of each, in the form of body art. On her left bicep is a tattoo of a whippoorwill, and on the right bicep is a blue jay. She calls the whippoorwill the “soundtrack of evenings sitting on the porch” in Dixon. The bird is sensitive to environmental conditions, such as habitat loss. “Even now when I hear one there’s an emotional homecoming sensation because it represents rural life for me.” On the other side is the blue jay, the adaptable and assertive bird whose constant energy and voice are an emblem of the comparatively urban life she’s leading now in Jefferson City. “The tattoos represent the balance I’ve found between contemplative focus and assertive action. In my ‘ideal’ world, nothing’s at the expense of the other.” 

One of the things she’s realized is that being in an area some consider too remote to matter means Midwestern voices are left out of important national conversations. “What I wanted to do with The New Territory is have the freedom to talk to other Midwesterners about what’s important to us without having to filter our message for a national, largely urban and coastal audience and defend the mere right to be thought of as important.”  

Magazine feature content has already been scheduled for two future issues, relying on local and regional voices who know the stories and how to tell them. They’re still open to accepting literature, photography, reviews, interviews and personal essays for the “Here” section. 

One goal for 2019 is get into communities more, by designing events and workshops for the public to attend. The focus would be on writing and art, which could have the twin outcomes of increasing readership and building a larger freelance contributor pool. She’s also cooking up ideas about a traveling photography gallery that would be hung in different places in the region. Another project taking shape is a reading group series. 

These ideas are enmeshed with other things she does, such as working with the group Missouri River Relief and serving on the Missouri Invasive Plant Task Force. Recently, she started as community manager at Campus Coworking Space, a new community-driven office space for people who would otherwise work from home. 

“Most of this other work is centered around helping people find their place in the place that I know and care for,” she explained. 

In an effort to encourage young Missourians, Casagrand teaches a three-week stint each June for the Missouri Scholars Academy, a program for gifted students. She teaches a nature writing class and a class called “Print Isn’t Dead.” Casagrand herself participated in this program as a high schooler. “That’s when I started to chill out about Missouri, and see how awesome it was to be surrounded by other smart people in the state and to broaden my horizons.”  

Things do change. Casagrand’s great-grandfather passed away in 2016. But not before he caught sight of the bird tats. She’d tried hiding them because she guessed what his reaction would be, and it wouldn’t be good. But one hot Missouri day in the smoking area of the parking lot outside of the VA hospital where she waited with him, she couldn’t hide them under long sleeves any longer. “I took off my outer shirt and his mouth flew open, and he asked ‘Are those real?’” 

Casagrand is working to keep them real both on the literal habitat level and the deeper emotional level. As she explains simply, “It would be a huge loss to the ecosystem if either was gone.” 

Julianne Couch is a writer in Bellevue, Iowa. Her feature story on private property hunting as a form of rural economic development in Kansas will appear in The New Territory later this year.

This article was originally published by the Daily Yonder.

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Maryland Has Created a Truth Commission on Lynchings – Can it Deliver?

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State delegates work in the Maryland House of Delegates chamber in Annapolis, Md., Monday, April 8, 2019, the final day of the state's 2019 legislative session. Photo: Steve Ruark/AP Photo

Between 1850 and 1950, thousands of African American men, women and children were victims of lynchings: public torture and killings carried out by white mobs.

Lynchings were used to terrorize and control black people, notably in the South following the end of slavery.

Yet despite the prevalence and seriousness of the practice, there has been an “astonishing absence of any effort to acknowledge, discuss, or address lynching,” reports the Equal Justice Initiative, the leading organization conducting research on lynchings.

Until now.

In April 2018, the National Memorial for Peace and Justice – the first lynching memorial in the U.S. – was opened in Montgomery, Alabama. In December of the same year, the U.S. Senate unanimously passed a bill that defined lynching as a federal crime.

More recently, in April 2019, the state of Maryland established a truth commission to investigate the lynchings of at least 40 African Americans between 1854 and 1933.

The legislation that authorized the truth commission, Maryland HB 307, was sponsored by Maryland House Delegate Joseline Peña-Melnyk.

Speaking before the House Judiciary Committee in February 2019, Peña-Melnyk said that the commission would be an opportunity “to send the message that the lives of the 40-something people really mattered.” Written with the help of the Maryland Lynching Memorial Project and endorsed by the Equal Justice Initiative, the bill passed with strong bipartisan support just two months later.

The commission has the potential to educate the public about dozens of lynchings – some of which occurred with the knowledge or direct involvement of local, county and state government entities. The commission can also provide the opportunity for reconciliation between the families of those who were responsible and the families of those who were killed.

Can it live up to its promise?

Death certificate for George Armwood, 22- or 23-year-old lynched in Maryland by a mob. Photo: Maryland State Archives/Flickr

Truth commissions around the world

I study human rights, with a particular interest in institutions that hold individuals, organizations and governments accountable for human rights abuses. My current research focuses on truth commissions and how they can be designed to be effective.

A truth commission is a temporary body that investigates different forms and systems of violence that happened in the past. Examples include the commissions that investigated apartheid in South Africa, the civil war in Timor-Leste and the dictatorship in Chile.

Generally, governments establish commissions to examine documents and collect witness testimony. A key goal of commissions is preparing a report that details the facts and traces the legacies of violence and abuse. A second, related goal is reconciliation. In Maryland’s case, this would mean working toward respect, understanding and trust of those of other races and their experiences.

Based on my research and analyses of truth commissions in Chile, South Africa and Timor-Leste, I believe that the commission in Maryland has the potential to succeed.

But it faces some big obstacles.

Truth commissions in the US

The commission in Maryland will not be the first in the U.S.

In the 1980s, a national commission studied the government’s relocation and internment in camps of people of Japanese ancestry during World War II. The commission’s work led to both apologies and reparations for victims.

In addition, there have been commissions at the local level – for example, the 2004 commission in North Carolina that examined the killing of five anti-Ku Klux Klan demonstrators in Greensboro in 1979. There have also been commissions at the state level – for example the 2013 commission in Maine that investigated the separation of indigenous Wabanaki children from their communities since 1960.

However, the commission in Maryland will be the first to research lynchings, which investigative journalist Ida B. Wells in 1909 called the U.S.‘s “national crime.”

Lynchings happened across the U.S., including the 1916 lynching of Jesse Washington in Waco, Texas. Photo: Shutterstock

The truth commission in Maryland

The Maryland law establishing the commission calls for “full knowledge, understanding, and acceptance of the truth.”

How would a commission accomplish this?

I have found in my research that a commission needs support from politicians, access to information, and community knowledge and involvement. It appears that the commission in Maryland has – or will have – each of these characteristics. In this regard, it is similar to previous successful commissions.

First, similar to South Africa, the commission has support from politicians on both sides of the aisle – in this case, Democrats and Republicans. Bipartisan support affords the commission public legitimacy as it seeks access to court records, historical archives, and local and statewide newspapers. So, it may be harder to politicize the commission’s work.

Second, as in Timor-Leste, where the commission held hearings in the villages where violence occurred, the commission in Maryland will hold hearings across the state, including in communities where lynchings occurred.

By operating throughout the state, the commission can more easily reach victims’ descendants and collect their stories. Collecting information from as many sources as possible is important to ascertaining the truth.

In addition, the commission will be well positioned to broadly share its work and findings, through the hearings themselves, local news reporting and more. This is key to both truth and reconciliation.

Third, as in Chile, the commission in Maryland will receive recommendations from the public, including from victims’ families, about erecting memorials and historical markers where lynchings occurred.

Getting families and the wider community involved in this aspect can help provide healing and closure. For more than a century, the pain and trauma they experienced went unacknowledged.

Now, not only does Maryland have the potential to address this pain and trauma, it has the opportunity to memorialize the lynchings so others, too, can know what happened.

Obstacles to truth and reconciliation

There are, I believe, obstacles that may prevent the commission from accomplishing all of its goals.

To start, the commission’s limited focus may lead to limited reconciliation. Lynchings represent just one form – the most extreme form – of race-based discrimination and violence.

Other forms – which persist today – include the over-policing, over-criminalization, and mass incarceration of African Americans. The commission hasn’t been designed to address these issues or the broader context of racism and violence. So, it’s unclear how the commission will lead to widespread reconciliation.

In addition, while the families of those responsible for lynchings can work with the commission and take the opportunity to make amends to the victims’ families and communities, they may decline to do so. And victims’ families may not be prepared to forgive.

Finally, the commission has been created in a fraught social and political environment. Hate crimes have increased in recent years throughout the U.S. Some elected officials have trivialized racial violence – including lynchings. And some race-focused policies, such as reparations, are widely unpopular among Americans.

So, while the commission benefits from broad support from government leaders in Maryland, it may not enjoy similar support from the public.

Whether the obstacles I describe will overcome the strengths of the commission remains to be seen. Nevertheless, the commission represents an important first step, and offers a guide for similar efforts in other states.

Kelebogile Zvobgo is the Provost’s Fellow in the Social Sciences and a Ph.D. Candidate at the University of Southern California – Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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Opinion: An Agnostic in the Bible Belt

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St. Anthony’s Church located on Park Avenue in Monongahela, Pa. Photo: Kat Procyk/PublicSource

In my small town, not all of us believe the same thing. But that doesn’t stop us from believing in each other.

Growing up in the South, we always congregated around churches. Believing in God felt a lot like believing in each other. For many years, I equated the belief in a higher power with the presence of hope.

I lived in a mid-sized city, Rome, Georgia, which prided itself for its distance from the interstate but still had its fair share of rush hour traffic. You couldn’t easily walk from one end of town to the other, but you could navigate downtown on foot. Three rivers met just behind Broad Street, and people were usually standing down by the banks fishing as the clock tower announced each passing hour.

If you get in a car on Broad Street and head south, passing the fairgrounds, which fill up each October, and continuing past an iconic lot filled with stone statues, another filled up each holiday with inflatables, and finally past the expanses of woodlands beset in recent years by controlled burns — you will reach Kingston, Georgia. Growing up in Rome, we told local legends about avoiding Kingston at all costs. We said it was haunted or dangerous, the sort of place you’d get lost in forever.

Always curious, I longed to find out if the stories were true. Then, in my early 20s, I met a man who had recently opened a scenery studio in Kingston. Seeking refuge from the madness of Atlanta, he’d traveled north to a former lumber yard that before that had been a railroad wye – an important transportation hub during the Civil War.

Kingston has felt a lot like a forgotten town. You can walk from one end to the other. There is a park in between. Railroad tracks, on which trains still run, cross through the center of the town. We are known for our high number of Civil War landmarks and not much else. There are churches on many of the corners, and the conflation of religion with hope there feels almost as practical as fanciful. Specifically, churches provide evening childcare for many children of working parents and give food and clothing to a population in need.

When I married in 2007, a pastor from a local church officiated the ceremony. Four years after that, I found myself sitting on the town’s active railroad tracks. Some of me wanted to die. Nonetheless, I chose to live. I also began the long process of quietly losing my religion. This wasn’t because my troubling circumstances caused a lack of faith. Rather it was because, while sitting on those tracks, my inner will inspired me to go back inside, hug my child, seek out treatment for depression and ultimately be brave enough to leave what grew to be an unhealthy marriage. I had called out to God and received the clear message to call upon myself instead and rise beyond the stories of my childhood. I had not so much renounced my faith in God as found my faith in myself.

For many of my neighbors, that still sounds a lot like blasphemy. For others, it sounds like an opportunity for them to put me in their prayers. I greet both attitudes toward my agnosticism with a smile. There is no need for it to stand between us, and it doesn’t most of the time. At 10, my daughter can safely walk to local stores by herself and have picnics in the park with her friends. Mine is the house where local children come to pass hours and eat chicken nuggets and cookies before pulling out flashlights and making their way home at dark. We help each other plan parties when it comes time for them to celebrate birthdays. We share folk remedies and food. Within our community, there is a lot of love. There is also a lot of poverty, addiction and emotional pain. Whether or not our comfort comes from religion or elsewhere, we show each other kindness and respect.

I am writing to share that revelation. During a time when the United States is divided pointedly along party lines, I’ve found security and peace in rural America. In many ways, my small, taboo town has become its own nexus of hope. The simple fact that we keep showing up daily, bearing witness to each other’s lives, is enough.

Kelli Lynn, a native of Northwest Georgia, is an author, activist and entrepreneur. More of her writing is available on Medium.

This article was originally published by the Daily Yonder.

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A Millennial (and Friends) Rethink Rural

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Participating in the 2019 Loyalty Day Children's Parade in Ilwaco, Washington, from left to right, are Quincy Moore, Lynn Dickerson, Thandi Rosenbaum, Cella Rosenbaum, Willa Tantisook (wagon), Jessika Tantisook, and Leah and Scott Hunt. Photo: Madeline Moore

What if we sent a different message to our rural young people? “Leave, but remember you can come back later and create a good life.” Rural millennials are forming a national organization to connect and support young adults who are making a difference back home.

When I graduated from Ilwaco High School in a class of 69 students, the resounding message was “Do well in school. Do everything you can to get into college. Get out of this town. Be successful, and you’ll never come back.”

In fact, teachers and other members of my community in southwest Washington state had pounded the same message into me since kindergarten.

The author with at her first Ilwaco Farmers Market with her small bakery, Pink Poppy Bakery. Photo: Damian Mulinix, 2012

I did the first three things, and then the fourth, too. But I did come back, at the ripe age of 22, to start a small bakery. I remember my mom telling me once, shortly after starting the bakery, that people kept saying, “We heard Madeline moved back to town. Is everything OK?” Something had to be wrong for me to want to move back to the town that had raised me.

This is a familiar story for many millennials who make the choice to move back to or stay in the rural, often downtrodden, small communities they grew up in. Success equals getting out and staying out for good. But many millennials are changing that narrative. We see the potential a small community offers to build a lifestyle that urban areas cannot: a slower pace of life, an appreciation for dirt over concrete, the chance to wear many hats and the ability to directly see the change you can make, to name a few.

Six years after diving head-first back into rural life, buying a home in Chinook, a community of 450, and running a successful small business, I realized I wanted to connect with others my age who cared about rural livelihoods as much as I do. Serendipitously, I connected with two women from Port Townsend, Washington, a city of about 10,000 in the northeast corner of the Olympic Peninsula. These women wanted to do the same thing I did, and from there, Rethinking Rural was born. Together, we’re building a national network of millennials who want to create stronger, more resilient rural communities.

In March 2018, we invited 50 millennials who were active in rural communities across nine states for two days of conversation in Port Townsend. We focused on why our communities matter and how we can work together to make them better. By the end, many tears were shed. These were people like me, who wanted to fight hard for their town but, more often than not, felt as if they were banging their head against a brick wall. But maybe if we started working together as like-minded young’ uns, we could get more done and affect more than just our individual communities.

Aerial of Ilwaco, Washington, the town the author went to high school. Photo: Madeline Moore 

From those conversations, we created a three-year plan, which includes three more of these place-based celebrations and conversations about rural, all led and hosted by participants from our first event in their own towns. 2020: Nauvoo, Alabama. 2021: Indian Country, Pacific Northwest. 2022: TBD based on preceding symposiums.

To do all of that, we’ve partnered with a national nonprofit that has led the way on rural community development issues, the Rural Assembly. This partnership will broaden our reach and allow us to work under a larger umbrella. We’re also building many smaller, regional partnerships across the country to help guide our work. And now, we are launching a crowdfunding campaign to propel us towards our larger goals. We plan to raise $40,000 in start-up funds to use as leverage for other funding opportunities.

Quincy Moore at the author’s home beach, Chinook, Washington. Photo: Jacob Moore, 2018

I now have a 1½-year-old and she is being raised in the same community where both of her parents grew up. We recently pulled her in a wagon with all of her cat stuffed animals in the Loyalty Day Kids Parade – a parade I walked in every single year as a child. I now have similar hopes for her as many in my community had for me. I hope she moves away and goes to college. I hope she is successful and finds something she loves to devote her life to. But I also hope that one day, she decides to move back and invest in the place that raised her. Rethinking Rural is about making sure there is something for this generation and the next, and the next, to move back to. And that rural America is a thriving, culturally diverse, healthy place for people to set roots.

Madeline Moore is a mom and founder of Rethinking Rural. She studied photojournalism at the University of Oregon and works as a private chef for artists in residence at Willapa Bay AiR in Oysterville, Washington.

This article was originally published by the Daily Yonder.

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