We Learned to Fear Tiger and to Love Squirrel – Lisa Lee Herrick
Emergence Magazine Podcast
Emergence Magazine
4.7 • 627 Ratings
🗓️ 23 October 2019
⏱️ 45 minutes
🧾️ Download transcript
Summary
Transcript
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| 0:00.0 | Welcome to Emergence Magazine's podcast. |
| 0:04.0 | I'm Emanuel Vaughn Lee, executive editor of Emergence Magazine. |
| 0:08.0 | In each issue, we feature in-depth interviews, narrated essays, and stories, |
| 0:14.0 | exploring the threads connecting ecology, culture, and spirituality. |
| 0:22.6 | Lisa Lee Herrick is a writer, artist, and community organizer. |
| 0:27.6 | In this essay, Lisa recalls growing up in California as the child of Hmong refugees. |
| 0:33.6 | Though her parents wouldn't speak of the family's past, |
| 0:36.6 | she encountered the stories and traditions of her ancestors on the afternoon she spent cooking with her grandparents. |
| 0:44.0 | As she became aware of her family's traumatic history in Laos that led to their migration to the United States, |
| 0:51.4 | she also came to know the power of food to sustain cultural traditions |
| 0:55.3 | and carry forward legacies of resilience. |
| 1:06.9 | I was born into a storied universe, into a demon cosmology of sound and ether that passed from mouth to ear for generations, |
| 1:16.0 | and the walls of my father's house were raised by the excavated bones of ancestors whose names lacked shape or form, |
| 1:23.5 | save for the pursing lips of the old storytellers. |
| 1:27.7 | My ancestors died, never holding a pen, only shovels and sticks, and then guns. |
| 1:34.4 | We did not have an alphabet until the Christian missionaries arrived. |
| 1:37.8 | Before then, all words were sacred and committed to memory. |
| 1:41.7 | My ancestors' stories traveled by breath alone, like the seeds of future |
| 1:45.5 | forests carried upon unseen wind. This is how we survived chaos, by speaking the names of our |
| 1:52.1 | fathers from time immemorial. Today I struggle with how to tell my family's storywrite because |
| 2:00.4 | the elders are already gone. |
| 2:02.8 | Their memories haunt me, but their faint shadows will not turn to ink. |
... |
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