These ought be printed.
Dear Reader —
What does it mean to be a self? Where does the self end and the world of not-me begin? Is identity … an illusion?
I imagine a three-panel comic, each frame zooming in on the face of a very confused man: me, Jasper, your loyal if intermittent correspondent, head-scratchily toiling over another installment of Lightplay, my newsletter about home cooking, the writing life, and—apparently—intractable philosophical questions.
Welcome to your late summer Lightplay! Please stay; I promise not to get too worked up over eternal questions of life.
Maybe it’s just been one of those weeks where I feel extra connected to the rest of humanity, the rest of planet earth. And not for joyous reasons, alas. Between the IPCC’s reiteration of the profound fuckedness of our climate emergency and the painful end of a war that began two-thirds of my lifetime ago, it’s been a long week. By Tuesday, my partner and I made a pact not to read the news the rest of the week. But still, the weltschmerz lay heavy on my heart.
So I went for a swim with an old friend who was visiting from out of town. In the Pacific: the biggest ocean in the world, and the most beautifully named. We splashed in the waves, dove under them. A million tiny bubbles. A single seal snoring some distance down the beach. Kids boogie boarding. Out beyond the breakers, a pelican splash-dove. A big wave crested. I jumped in with it, body surfing for a second, then tumbling, salt water shooting up my nose. Breaking the surface. Feeling like a seal myself. Laughing. We sat on the margin where the waves rush up the sand. Listening to the surf’s soft susurrus. Forgetting everything else.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re doing well, staying safe, and, if that’s what you need, taking yourself to the beach, getting in the water. It’s been a hard week.
I want to rap at you about espresso. Did you know that espresso is really good? Maybe I just think this because drip coffee makes me feel hollow and insane, while this concentrated coffee extract makes me feel sharp and warm and extra awake. I don’t know why that is, but I do know that I love espresso.
I don’t mean bad espresso of course, that bitter sludge that one is often served at non-coffee-snob cafes. I mean the coffee snob stuff, obvi.
The amazing thing is that you can make yourself coffee-snob-level espresso at home in under five minutes, with just a few (awesome) tools and a little practice. It’s really satisfying. Let me pitch it to you.
I. Meet the Moka Pot
Beyond how delicious espresso is, getting to use the ingenious and, frankly, steampunk contraption known as a moka pot is a big part of why at-home espresso rules.
This device was invented in 1933 by an Italian named Alfonso Bialetti. It uses the laws of physics to push hot water through coffee grounds at a rate over which you have significant control. The way it works is that you fill the lowest chamber, the “boiler,” partway with water. Then you fill the next component up (a funnel) with coffee grounds, tamped down just so. When you screw all the pieces together and light a flame under the moka pot, the expanding water vapor eventually creates enough pressure in the lower chamber that it steadily forces the water up through the funnel, through the coffee grounds, and up a further tower up to where it spills into the upper chamber, as espresso. Magic!
NB: Should you become interested in making your own espresso in a moka pot, I recommend that you get a beautiful stainless steel one, rather than one of the ubiquitous (and, I’ll admit, iconically faceted) aluminum models. Aluminum, unfortunately, is a reactive element that will both corrode over time and will leach into your espresso. Yuck! Happily, there are many stainless models available today. (Thank you Virginia for giving me my treasured moka pot almost a decade ago!)
II. The Three ‘Spresso Skills
Before I discuss the three things you can control in making espresso, can I just quickly say that I have come around to loving the way that some coffee joints call this sacred elixir “expresso”? I suspect my view is unpopular, but I think this purposeful misspelling is playful and silly and fun.
Okay, the three skills:
Grinding The size of the grind will determine how much surface area the coffee has, which in turn will dictate how easy or difficult it is for water to move through the coffee. For espresso, you want a really fine grind. But you also want it to be even, and this is really important for the coffee to extract evenly. There are many ways to achieve a good grind—the most obvious is buying a proper burr grinder. I do fine though with my $10 spinning-blade grinder. I shake it up and down as I depress the button, and I also pulse it on and off so the blade hopefully doesn’t heat the grounds too much. I don’t know if this makes a difference, but it works for me. What really makes a difference, I think, is that I’m always feeling the grounds with my fingers, looking at them, and generally trying to pay attention, noticing what works and what doesn’t.
TampingThis is the step where you compress the grounds into a perfectly dense puck in the funnel. The failure states are pretty obvious: no tamping at all and the water will create channels through the grounds by which it can avoid touching the coffee at all; too much tamping and the water will struggle to pass through and will end up over-extracting the grounds and making a bitter sludge. To tamp properly, you really do need a tamper. Luckily it’s a relatively cheap device. Once you have it, you just have to experiment and keep track of what works. I try to softly, evenly pack grounds across the funnel, then I push down firmly but not strongly (if that makes sense) with the tamper, rotating it as I go and trying to keep it level. Again, this is a skill built through making attempts and then reflecting on how it worked out as you slurp the results.
Heat Regulation Deciding how much heat to apply to the boiler is the last decision you make that will determine the success or failure of your stovetop espresso. If the flame is too high, the water will erupt through the grounds with a great deal of pressure, it’ll probably channelize, and the espresso will be both watery and bitter. Too low and it will take minutes for it to come through the coffee, over which time the coffee will overextract. The good news is, once the espresso starts dribbling out the top, you can always adjust the heat. You want the finished espresso liquid to come steadily but not gushingly out of the tower and into the top chamber. If it’s coming too fast, quickly turn down your heat. Too slow, turn it up a tad. We have a gas range here in LA, and I find that a low flame—low but not quite as low as it will go—works best.
III. Other Considerations
Picking Out Your Coffee In general, I tend to want a darker roast for espresso than for drip coffee. With lighter roasts, this brewing method tends to emphasize the bitterness. An espresso roast on the other hand will be darker, more balanced, and often a bit chocolatey. Lately, like a true arriviste Angeleno, I’ve been loving David Lynch’s A-Plus Organic Espresso.
Serving Espresso in a Nice Cup A key pleasure of espresso sipping is the little shrunken cup it comes in. The collapse of scale is delightful—and it’s important, too, to be able to brim-fill your vessel. After drinking espresso from an espresso cup, you will be horribly disappointed to return to drinking your potent but not voluminous decoction from a big ol’ mug. Don’t do it! Instead get yourself a special little sweetheart of an espresso cup.
Adding Milks Okay, philistine, let’s talk about the other espresso drinks: cappuccino, latte, macchiato, mocha, americano, red eye, affogato, and, uhhh… flat white? I still have no idea what that last one is. But for the others, this espresso is perfect! Add to boiling water, fresh brewed coffee, or over dense vanilla ice cream to make an americano, red eye, or affogato. And for the drinks that use milks, I heartily recommend getting a heating-frothing machine—a magical device in which cold milk becomes perfectly hot and insanely frothy. (This is the one we have.) I used to use a stovetop steamer but this baby is way less scary and less of a hassle. Just add your milk, press the button, and then combine it with the espresso in an appropriate vessel. (For cappuccino, I love a real wide bowl, so I can easily eat the foam!)
And that’s that on that. Do be in touch if you’re setting out on your moka pot journey and have any questions or need for hand-holding. I think you’ll eventually love making coffee this way. For me, the ritual of packing my moka pot and waiting for the espresso to burble out is one of my favorite and most relaxing moments of the day.
That’s it for this installment of Lightplay. Thank you for spending some minutes with me, your far-flung friend who is… just another part of the grand organism that is humanity, the whole of double-helix life on earth, the unity of the galaxy, universe, multiverses, and more. Here’s one part of the whole, wishing all the other parts well. Catch you next week.
22 August 2021
In June of 2020, I gave a webinar on behalf of Signet Education about the steps and thought process that go into writing a great college essay.
What follows is an installment of Lightplay, my email newsletter. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.
Dear Reader —
Hello and welcome back to Lightplay, the big email of your faithful if intermittent correspondent Jasper Luna Nighthawk. (Who was until recently named Jasper Nighthawk Henderson.) I’m delighted to return to your inbox, and I hope that wherever you’re reading these words, you and your family and friends are safe and doing okay. Happy Mother’s Day!
Here in Los Angeles, I’m spurred to write again by the blossoming jacarandas. Every May and June, these Brazilian trees produce luscious, thick-petaled purple blossoms—blossoms that bloom profusely, thousands per tree, a riot of purple. They epitomize the phrase, ‘embarrassment of riches.’ You’d have to be a stone-cold celibate not to blush a little, looking at the lovely sex organ of a street tree in late spring.
However that’s not the reason why the jacaranda across the street made me want to write to you, my sweet dear readers. Instead, it was remembering how when I sent the first installment in this run of big emails, I included in that one a picture of this same tree, in riotous bloom, just about a year ago. In that photo the tree is backdropped by the artificial bumblebee yellow of the panels that clad the building under construction behind it. A year on, that building has just been stuccoed in an off-white plaster. The scene’s composition, as framed by my office window across the street, is no longer quite as striking. But the jacaranda, indifferent, hoists its purple raiment just as before.
Though not quite as enthusiastically as last year.
The workmen have been hard at work, the tree has been hard at work, and so have I. This last year has been by far the busiest in my life as a writer so far. I just write all of the time now, like a maniac.
Which is great! It’s what I wanted!
But it’s also, you know, intense to abruptly succeed in turning your passion into a full-time job. I imagine a musician might feel the same way if they suddenly got work five days a week in a late-night comedy show band. Or a painter might feel this way if they got a multi-year commission to create dozens of municipal murals.
These examples come to mind because while I do now work full-time as a writer, I’m not precisely writing chatty newsletters for a living or—that holy grail—paying the bills by writing novels. My job title is ‘University Storyteller,’ and I work for my MFA alma mater, Antioch University. I now spend my days writing alumni profiles, reporting out news around the school, editing pieces by freelancers and work-studies, and producing and hosting a faculty interview podcast.
It’s interesting, engaging, difficult, and often satisfying work. And I have health insurance! Dental! Paid time off! This is what parents wish for their children.
Like a shift in latitude, it’s revealed a different constellation of problems in my life: how to find time to cook and clean, how to use vacation time to see family but also to recharge and keep from burning out, and how to make sure we hit next month’s metrics. (The dread metrics!) But maybe the hardest thing is figuring out how to sustain my own art, how to keep writing and working on my own projects.
For the last half-year, this big email has lost out in that negotiation. But now we’re back, baby. I’m really happy to be here in your inbox. And I’m excited to move to a model of sending this out quarterly or so. It’s going to be good. This ain’t no Substack. It’s low-fi social media. Welcome to your spring Lightplay. Thank you for joining me here.
There’s an essay that I think you should read. It’s called “Return the National Parks to the Tribes” and was written by David Treuer. The essay’s central idea is exactly what the title says. Here’s Treuer expanding his thesis just a bit:
“For Native Americans, there can be no better remedy for the theft of land than land. And for us, no lands are as spiritually significant as the national parks. They should be returned to us. Indians should tend—and protect and preserve—these favored gardens again.”
But the essay is more than just that. Its shape is part history lesson, part pandemic travelogue (along a remarkably similar route to the road trip I took last summer), and part proposal for a new way we could do things. I love this. Why don’t more essays include utopian proposals?
What makes this essay so important to me is the way it travels roads of thought I’ve glimpsed before but never pursued in my own writing: Are America’s national parks creepily empty? Does the concept of wilderness have white supremacist roots? And what wounds remain from the violently displacement of so many people from their land?
Treuer is a great writer and thinker. He’s also Indigenous—he’s Ojibwe, from the Leech Lake Reservation in northern Minnesota—and his senses are sharp to different things than are mine. To read the essay is to take a trip in another person’s car, mind, history—and possible future, too.
So go read it! Can I encourage you any more? Here’s the link one more time.
Okay, now that you’ve read it—or have ignored my entreaties and vowed never to—I can add my own thoughts. Which, I’m always trying to be more honest with myself as a writer, and to be frank I just don’t think I’m a great polemicist. Nobody opens a Lightplay thinking, Can’t wait, I’m gonna get my fix of political thought. You all are here for some other reason. Not sure what it is. But it ain’t for the hot political takes.
I suspect that part of what I am well-suited to is writing from life: thought embedded in experience. That after all is part of what makes Treuer’s essay so great. We love abstraction, but then we spend our days thinking with our bodies, as they move through time and space. The road trip essay, as a genre, is great because it’s embodied.
So rather than philosophize to excess, instead I present here two experiences from my own life, two moments that impressed me deeply at the time—and that have clicked into a new understanding since I read Treuer’s essay. Each occurs in a specific place and time.
I. Snow Mountain Wilderness Area, Lake County, 2014
In the late spring, I went with my partner at the time for a three-night backpacking trip around Snow Mountain, a peak just north of Clear Lake, in the Mendocino National Forest. It’s a beautiful, austere place to take a hike in the woods: broad hillsides covered in hardy wildflowers, dim paths through pines, pocket views of the lake gleaming far down below, and there were even wind-carved drifts of snow at the blustery summit. (In this part of California’s Coastal Ranges, the regular presence of snow is notable enough to give the mountain its name.) We dosed streamwater with tiny iodine pellets and then waited an hour before drinking. Each night, we stuffed our food into our sleeping bags’ stuff sacks, which I raised like piñatas into the understory. But we didn’t see any bears.
To be honest, we barely saw any animal bigger than a songbird. I think we spooked some deer one day. And there might have been ducks in the pond we slept by the first day. But the mountains felt empty.
And I think they felt particularly empty because the year before we had been in northern India, exploring the foothills of the Himalayas, which are many things but never really empty. On the day hike from Dharamsala up to Triund, you come around a bend, parched, only to find someone with a kettle, selling tiny cups of chai masala for a handful of rupees. And then around another bend there’s a small stone house, built into a crease in the steep, rocky slope, where you can get a bowl of noodles. If you make it a few more hours up to the pass, it’s mostly wind-swept rock, but there are also some tents, pitched and ready to be rented.
Yes, this is all capitalism—dirty commerce, spoiling nature. But also: the hills are lively. They are full of life. They don’t hold just ‘wild’ nature, but also humans. There’s something wonderful about it. And in my experience, this thing where beautiful, wild landscapes include humans doing human things isn’t just true in touristy Dharamsala. In remote Tibetan valleys or in the grassy foothills of the Tian Shan mountains in Xinjiang, you regularly cross paths with herders and pilgrims. You often find them at little restaurants or small monasteries, or maybe on the front steps of a general store. The landscape is often profoundly beautiful, but it’s also just home to people who live there and are going about their lives. It’s a different relationship with nature, and often people are interacting with the land in similar ways to how their ancestors did many generations ago.
This is not the case in the Snow Mountain Wilderness Area. And you can tell. The mountains feel lonely, pristine, almost like a ruins. As we walked through them, I was haunted by the idea that for thousands of years this had been a lively place. But not anymore.
On our third day, the obvious place to camp was near Bloody Rock, up in the oak woodlands above Lake Pillsbury, a man-made reservoir. But before the trip, I’d looked up how Bloody Rock got its name. The answer is not pretty: it was the site of an 1860’s massacre of about sixty-five men, women, and children of the Yuki tribe. A small group of armed ranchers had chased them to the rocky outcropping and then killed every last one of them. According to the internet, the bodies were never buried and lay exposed for many years.
Instead of camping there, we walked late into the evening, trying to get far away from the history of this empty place. And the next day, we pushed to get back to the car, not wanting to spend another night sleeping in the empty hills. We blasted the Mountain Goats as we drove away, and we never went camping there again.
Now, having read “Return the National Parks to the Tribes,” I am seeing that the emptiness of what the U.S. government calls “Wilderness Areas” isn’t just a consequence of my culture’s genocidal past. It’s also a choice that we as a country keep on making, year after year: the decision to keep these places empty of the people who lived there first. It’s a choice we could make differently.
II. Tahquitz Canyon, Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians Reservation, 2021
Not all of the beautiful and wild corners of this country are administered by the Bureau of Land Management or the National Park Service, though. In a handful of precious places, the future that Treuer describes is already here. Take the lush oases and austere desert canyons administered by the Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians. It’s located just a five-minute drive south of Palm Springs, this beautiful corner of California is open to the public year-round—though in the blazing hot summers, only Fri-Sat-Sun. You pay a modest entrance fee, get a map, and then you’re free to explore its extensive trails, visit its gift shop, or do whatever else you want to do.
This winter, my partner, her dad, and I walked far up one of the park’s canyons. We followed a small stream through lush groves of California Fan Palm, the only palm tree native to our state. The old fallen-off fronds, deliberately uncleared, made a thick litter under the palms. Smoking was absolutely prohibited, and still, many older palms had fire scars on their trunks. Further up the canyon, the stream went underground and we were once again in sere desert. Where the way narrowed, we scrambled up smooth-rock channels, the granite eroded by eons of flash floods into Brancusi swoops and swirls. The air was hot and dry and faintly perfumed with creosote. Larry took his shirt off.
Eventually we realized that it was too late in the afternoon to make it all the way around the loop trail, so we turned back and retraced our steps. We took more photographs. Saw a lizard. Shook a pebble from my shoe. By the time we got back to the car, we were filled with the beauty of the desert, knew more about the place’s past, and were hungry for dinner.
So Tahquitz Canyon is just like a National Park or Wilderness Area, right?
Well, not quite. For one, there’s no campground. The park closes promptly at 5pm every day, and signs threaten that cars left overnight will be towed. You are a guest. It’s expected that you treat the place with respect.
Other differences are more subtle. There are dozens and dozens of miles of trails, leading wherever you might want to go, linking and looping and well-marked. This contrasts with Joshua Tree National Park, down the road, which generally has just a single trail for each area. The picnicking area is also uncommonly clean and thoughtfully laid out; there’s a feeling of personal touch and pride of ownership. There are some old-style woven dwellings that kids enjoy exploring, and these are in good repair. A hand-dug little irrigation canal—to demonstrate historic agricultural techniques—is in good repair. Instead of being a pastiche of log cabin and logging camp, the architecture is simple and even a bit modernist. Instead of using a font chosen by bureaucrats in Washington, DC, the trail signs are stylishly local.
These are little things, and I don’t mean to trash the National Park Service, which I think is filled with people who love nature and want to make the parks a nice place to visit. It’s just that in Tahquitz Canyon there’s a pride and personality to the human elements. The place feels loved and lived-in.
Maybe my favorite part is the concessions shack. A big open window in the side of the gift shop building sells water, chips, hot dogs, trail mix. Nothing elaborate; just goodies you might want to stick in your fanny pack and eat out on the trail. There is none of the corporate-lunch-counter ugliness of the National Parks cafeterias, no long line, no complex point-of-sale system. The craziest thing: nothing is overpriced. The concessions feel less like a profit center for a park management company called Xanterra and more like a service tailored to the needs and desires of park guests.
Tahquitz Canyon is a relatively small park, but I’ve only walked maybe 3% of its trails. I can’t wait to return. The place just has a different vibe from government-run outdoor spaces. I only wish there were more parks like it. And maybe there will be soon—if we as a country can gather the bravery and resolve to return the National Parks to the tribes.
Find more shots in my latest gallery: Desert, March 2021
Three Film Recommendations
1. Bacurau, dir. Kleber Mendonça Filho and Juliano Dornelles, 132 minutes. (Available for rent on streaming services.)
If the history of Bloody Rock rightly curdles your blood, you might enjoy exploring those feelings—along with possibilities for Indigenous resistance—through this 2019 thriller from Brazil. The film is beautifully shot and wonderfully acted, but I think I was delighted most by its continual inventiveness. It kept surprising me right up to the end. Which is why I don’t want to say too much more, to spoil any of it. Bacurau is both bloody and deeply political, but it left me feeling smarter, more alive, and creatively nourished.
2. “The Story of ‘It Wasn’t Me’ by Shaggy,” dir. Dan Zabludovsky, 26 minutes. (Available for free on Youtube.)
This is the second episode of a series by Vice, posted on Youtube, called ‘The Story of…’ There’s a bit of a formula to this show. Each of its five episodes explores, oral-history style, the circumstance that led to the creation of a hit song: moments of inspiration, conflict with A&R guys, big emotions, twists and turns, stupid crushes, drug problems, and then, every time, world-beating success. Strangely, each of these hits comes from a quite specific couple of years: 1999-2001.
This happens to be when I first started listening to music on my own, and watching each episode I remember each song so clearly: “Blue (Da Ba Dee)” by Eiffel 65, “Last Resort” by Papa Roach, “A Thousand Miles” by Vanessa Carlton. The songs are so much of their time, and remembering this lost age of two decades ago is deeply transporting. None of it is to be missed, and definitely not the deep dive into “Thong Song” by Sisqo, where he just says some amazing things about the genesis of that piece:
“And for the first time in my life I saw a thong—or what was expressed to me as a thong. I didn’t know what it was. All I knew was that it was glorious. I was at a loss for words. I was like, “What? What is… what is this? What is that? What is this?” She was like, “you know, like a G-string; a thong,” and I was like “ow! it’s called a thong?” Pretty much, I don’t even remember what happened for the rest of that night because I could not wait to get back, you know, like around my friends and tell them of this glorious material that I witnessed.“
But the episode that moved me the most was the one about “It Wasn’t Me” by Shaggy. I first heard this song on my eleventh birthday. These other sixth-grade boys I was trying to fit in with had come over for a sleep-over, and one of them gave me the Shaggy album Hotshot, and I put on my new walkman, and I just couldn’t stop listening to this song. It had lyrics so dirty (“banging on the bathroom floor”) and emotionally wound-up (“Yo man / open up, man / my girl just caught me”) and ridiculously bravadocious (“Say it wasn’t you”), and they matched so well with its sick groove and Shaggy’s unique style of Jamaican dancehall sing-rapping. I’d never heard anything like it before. I loved it.
That night, the social dynamics of my birthday party eventually became overwhelming. So without saying anything, I just got in my sleeping bag and put on my headphones and put this song on repeat. I disappeared into it. Its vibe, its world—they let me in like a bath.
It must have been two or three in the morning when I slowly realized several of the other boys were crouched around me, lifting the foam ear-pads off my ears, laughing. They had found out that I had this one song stuck on repeat. It was hilarious. But I wasn’t cut in on the joke. It was, I realized, at my expense. I tried to defend myself. I insisted that I didn’t really like the song. It was just, I explained, it was interesting. I was trying to understand it. But they wouldn’t let it go. My blubbering just made it funnier. I’m sure I blushed as deep a shade of red as there is. Vermillion? Crimson? I don’t remember what happened after that. Did I cry? Did I try to laugh along? How did I ever get back to sleep?
The next morning, I vowed never listened to Shaggy again. I’d change the song if it came on. I convinced myself that I really, truly didn’t like it. And my intention stuck. I never willingly listened to Shaggy again.
It was another year before I figured out that those boys weren’t the friends for me, and in so many ways that decision to break up with them set the course of my life to who I am now. But even as I stopped trying to fit in, I never reclaimed Shaggy. It wasn’t till this week, in 2021, as I was watching this little film, that my scar around this song began to heal. Shaggy, I now see, was never a true avatar of those boys who refused to accept me. He was always something else, though I just didn’t know or was blind to see: he was a force for good, a thoughtful artist with a strange and expressive instrument and a great sense of humor.
The story told in “The Story of ‘Wasn’t Me’ by Shaggy” is amazing, including a mysterious Napster user and a heroic Hawaiian DJ. But I’m most thankful that it helped me see that I was right the first time: it’s a great song. And nerding out to it was never anything to be ashamed of. In its own little, weird way, this short film on Youtube helped heal something inside me.
3. Shirkers, dir. Sandi Tan, 96 minutes. (Streams on Netflix.)
This is a feature-length documentary about a feature-length film by the same name. That film, also directed by and starring Sandi Tan, was never released, for reasons that are still mysterious today. If the original Shirkers had been released, back in 1992, it would have been Singapore’s first ever indie film. But it wasn’t. Tan’s documentary, full of footage from the earlier film, is an investigation of grief, youth, fate, abuse, and resilience. It’s my favorite thing I’ve watched this last year—and an inspiration to projects I’m working on today. I really cannot recommend it enough.
That’s it for this week’s Lightplay. If you made it this far, you must be one of the Lightplay die-hards, so you might be interested to know that I’ve recently published many profiles of interesting people associated with Antioch University. And I also have been part of the team creating the university’s newest project: the Seed Field Podcast. If you want to give it a listen, I recommend starting with this interview I did with Jean Kayira, a brilliant professor of Environmental Studies who spoke with me about Indigenous Knowledge and the climate crisis.
Thank you for spending time with me. Take good care, and don’t be a stranger!
9 May 2021
Land Acknowledgment: I want to acknowledge the land from which I am sending this as the traditional homelands of Tongva, Tataviam, and Chumash peoples—including the Gabrieleño, Fernandeño, and Ventureño; members of the Takic and Chumashan language families; and other Indigenous peoples who have made their homes in and around the area we now call Los Angeles. Indigenous people continue to live in this area and celebrate their traditional teachings and lifeways. I further wish to acknowledge that Los Angeles is home to one of the largest Urban Native populations in the country, with an intertribal community numbering over 54,000—many of whom settled here after being forcibly removed from or otherwise pushed out of their own homelands. I want to express my gratitude as a guest and to thank the original and current stewards of this land. (Adapted from the Emerging Arts Leaders Los Angeles land acknowledgment and from that of the Newberry Museum, which was drafted in partnership with the Chicago American Indian Center.)