clafoutis madness

by Arlene and Larry Dunn, August 4, 2020

We are mad for Clafoutis! Everyone who know us, and most anyone who’s even tripped on us on social media, knows that from our frequent posts when we make one. In the middle of August, our friend composer Spencer Arias will release an episode of his Cooking with Creatives series on his YouTube channel, which features us making a classic Black Cherry Clafoutis in our kitchen, while he makes one in his kitchen. We had a fascinating conversation, via Zoom, along the way. We won’t spoil the show for you by spilling the beans on the conversation. But we thought it would be helpful to put up this post about Clafoutis (with buttons below to download our recipes), so Spencer can link to this page when he posts our episode.

Clafoutis is a centuries-old dessert from the Limousin region of France, famous for Limoges porcelain, Limousin cattle, and oak barrels for aging Cognac. The name Clafoutis derives from the Occitan (an ancient language of southern France and neighboring areas of Spain and Italy) word clafir, meaning “to fill.” This is an apt name, as traditional Clafoutis is a custardy batter, filled with black cherries.

Classic Black Cherry Clafoutis

Clafoutis, of course, can be, and often is, filled with myriad other fruits. And we would argue that it ought to be made with fruit that is fresh off your local trees or bushes, in season. But some purists claim that a Clafoutis-like thing filled with anything but black cherries is not a Clafoutis but a flaugnarde. But then plenty of those same purist also say the pits should be left in the cherries. For simplicity, we call all these derivations Clafoutis, and leave it at that.

We don’t recall exactly where or when we were first served Clafoutis, nor by whom. But we were immediately entranced, and we set out discover how to make it. There are hundreds of Clafoutis recipes online. After reviewing many of them, we settled on one from chef Hubert Keller, proprietor of the famed Fleur de Lys restaurant in San Francisco (now closed). We’ve made a few minor adaptations over the years, but we’ve had consistently good results with it. You can download our Classic Clafoutis recipe below.

Savory Clafoutis with Gravlax and Goat Cheese

A few years ago, something set us down a path to try making a savory version of Clafoutis. There are some recipes online, but we decided to see if we could simply tweak and adapt our own recipe. The first step was to remove the sugar and try filling it with some savory ingredients. That worked fairly well, but we decided we needed to increase the number of eggs. Our favorite variation so far, hands down, is home-cured salmon gravlax with goat cheese and herbs. You can also download our Savory Clafoutis recipe below.

We urge you to try making a Clafoutis, sweet or savory, in your own kitchen sometime soon. We doubt you’ll be disappointed.

prairie ethnobotanty

by Arlene and Larry Dunn, August 3, 2020

spiky silver orb
battle mace of the prairie
rattlesnakes beware

Rattlesnake Master (Eryngium yuccifolium) is the subject of the haiku above, the featured photo on this post, and Larry’s homework for a 2-session online course we are taking in Prairie Ethnobotany, from The Morton Arboretum in Lisle, IL, 25 miles west of Downtown Chicago.

We’ve had a long affiliation with The Morton Arboretum, going back 30 years. It was an essential resource for us when we were developing the landscape, and later, our landscape plant nursery, at Acorn Ridge Gardens, our homestead in rural LaPorte County, IN. We attended many courses and seminars on trees and tree care, and Arlene earned a certificate in Woody Plant Propagation, studying with Pete Linser, Manager of Plant Production. Many plants in our Indiana garden were propagated from scion wood or seeds gathered at Morton as a part of those classes, and we regularly worked the sales tents at Morton’s annual Arbor Day Plant Sale. Kris Bachtell, Vice President of Collections and Facilities, was particularity helpful to us when we were starting the nursery, and was the featured speaker at one of our twice-yearly garden festivals.

Ethnobotany, for the uninitiated, is “the scientific study of the traditional knowledge and customs of a people concerning plants and their medical, religious, and other uses,” according to the Oxford dictionary. Our focus in this class is on the plants of the American Tallgrass Prairie and the practical and ceremonial uses of those plants by the indigenous peoples of the prairie and early European settlers. Cindy Crosby, steward of the Schulenberg Prairie at the Morton Arboretum and a noted author and lecturer on the Tallgrass Prairie and nature conservation, is teaching the class. If you are interested in the prairie ecosystem and its plants, you should follow her Tuesdays in the Tallgrass blog.

Early 19th century geographic extent of the Tallgrass Prairie

The North American Tallgrass Prairie once covered a vast swath of land − about 170 million acres − from what is now Manitoba in the north, to what is now the Texas gulf coast in the south. The prairie ecosystem contained a rich tapestry of more than 500 species of deep-rooted grasses and forbs (broad-leafed flowering plants) in a symbiotic self-sustaining relationship. The relentless westward push of European settlers devastated the prairie, greatly aided by John Deere’s plow. Today, only around 1% of the Tallgrass Prairie remains.

Our own interest in the Tallgrass Prairie was piqued by one of our gardening mentors, Bill Brincka. Bill was a professor of three-dimensional art at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, one of the most masterful gardeners we ever met, and a keen-eyed naturalist who studied with May Watts at The Morton Arboretum from the time he was a teenager. The first time Bill visited our garden and nursery, he literally jumped out of the car on arrival, shouting “Do you know you have a prairie remnant right across your street?” In fact, we did not realize it, but indeed there were several acres of undisturbed prairie right there, in all its magnificence, lying between 2 disused railroad tracks. It was bursting with a vast array of prairie grasses and forbs, familiar and unfamiliar − Big Bluestem, Little Bluestem, Indian Grass, Switchgrass, Black-eyed Susan, Cone Flower, Iron Weed, Boneset, Joe Pye Weed, Blazing Star, and Rattlesnake Master (one of out favorites, for its distinctive features). Soon, we added a steadily growing array of prairie native plants to our gardens and to our nursery product line. And we restored an acre of prairie at the back of our yard, on the crest of rise about 100 yards behind our house.

In 2013, various maladies of advancing age convinced us that living in isolation in rural Indiana, with several acres of gardens to tend, was no longer sustainable. So we up and moved to a retirement community in Oberlin, OH. In 2015, we started developing a “pond bank prairie garden” adjacent to our cottage. You can see in that prairie map, above, that small pockets of Tallgrass Prairie were found in Ohio, including near Oberlin, and many prairie plants can be found growing wild here. So it seemed a natural fit. The pond bank has been growing in nicely, especially considering we planted it all from seed without a lot of soil preparation, because it’s a fairly narrow, rather steep slope that does not lend itself to getting equipment in there.

We planted some Rattlesnake Master seeds three years ago, hoping for the best. But the last two seasons we saw no sign of it, which is not too surprising. Like many prairie plants, it takes a few years to establish itself, and wouldn’t likely bloom until after a few years of growing. Our patience was rewarded a few weeks ago, when our first stalk of Rattlesnake Master flowers emerged from the thicket of surrounding foliage. And that is why Larry picked Rattlesnake Master for his Prairie Ethnobotany class homework.

Rattlesnake Master (Eryngium yuccifolium)

Common names: Rattlesnake Master, Button Snakeroot

Scientific name: Eryngium yuccifolium

What the scientific name means: The genus designation Eryngium derives from the ancient Greek and is a somewhat rare case where the name simply means “sea holly,” i.e., this type of plant, and has no other meanings. The species designation yuccifolium means “having Yucca-like foliage,” which is an apt description.

Native range: Native to the American Tallgrass Prairie.

Plant description: Rattlesnake Master is a perennial forb that grows from a corm-like crown into a large rosette of long, narrow, fibrous leaves. It flowers in mid-summer on tall leafless stems bearing many small blossoms aggregated in spiky balls, which are silver-gray in color.

Historical human uses: Rattlesnake Master, as its common name indicates, was used by indigenous North American peoples to ward off the effects of rattlesnake venom when handling rattlesnakes and as a curative for a rattlesnake bite. The sap and roots were also used in various tonics, including as a diuretic, and the fibrous leaves were used for making baskets and footwear.

Celebratory Haiku:

spiky silver orb
battle mace of the prairie
rattlesnakes beware

First Rattlesnake Master in our pond bank prairie garden
Arlene with an 8-foot tall Brown-eyed Susan (Rudbekia triloba)
Pond bank prairie garden, Acorn Cottage Oberlin
Acorn Cottage Oberlin, from across the pond

sip3: talking machines

by Klutzy McFumblefingers (aka Larry Dunn)

Week 3 of Synth in Place, the online course in DIY synthesizers taught by Kirk Pearson of Dogbotic sound labs, in collaboration with Thingamajigs, focused on two things: talk boxes and learning to solder.

One of our homework assignments from week 2 was to select a piece of music we like that makes use of some sort of machine/electronic manipulation of the human voice. My choice was rocker Joe Walsh’s 1973 mega-hit Rocky Mountain Way. When this song debuted, it was my first exposure to the use of the talk box, and I think its first use in rock & roll. In this live performance from the 2004 Crossroads Guitar Festival (below, starting about 3:20), you’ll see Joe switch guitars and move to a rig that includes a length of clear poly tubing stuck into his mouth. Joe starts vocalizing other-worldly sounds along with his guitar.

At, and since, the time I first heard this, I would describe it as “Joe is singing through his guitar.” But, as we learned in class, that is the opposite of what is happening. The sound from his guitar is playing into his mouth, from a speaker that is hooked up to that tubing. So what we are hearing is the sound of the guitar plus whatever sounds Joe vocalizes, using his own “human talk-box” (more on that later), and the combined, other-worldly sounds are then amplified through his microphone.

Rough illustration of a talk box setup

It turns out that a talk box is an exceedingly simple thing to build. The illustration above gives a rough idea of how the rig goes together. The red box marked “HOW YOU DO THIS IS THE TRICKY PART” requires only some simple electronics, essentially the oscillator circuit we have already built, plus a plastic funnel to wedge the speaker into (aimed at the small end of the funnel) and a length of tubing to bring it to your mouth.

We focused on the talk box in class, in part because it is so simple to make and could be a fun component of any DIY synths we might build. But it is also instructive in understanding the whole concept of synthesizing sound. The way a talk box works is remarkably similar to the way the human body synthesizes sounds, such as speech, using the combination of muscles and other structures that make up the human voice track. The diaphragm is the oscillator in human voice synthesis, and the throat, tongue, teeth, and lips are the filters that can be contorted into various shapes to make the sounds that are the building blocks of audible speech.

International Phonetic Alphabet

The ever-clever linguists of the International Phonetics Association have codified all the different sounds the human voice track can make in the International Phonetic Alphabet. Each of these sounds are classified as to which body organs are used to make them. You can demonstrate some of this for yourself, using The Pink Trombone site where you can interactively manipulate the human voice track and observe the resulting changes in the sounds produced.


The other focus of our week 3 class was on soldering, which is the key to migrating the oscillator circuits we made in week 2 from the prototyping breadboard environment to a permanent home on a circuit board. Soldering is both incredibly easy, and yet quite dangerous if you are not careful. That thing operates at about 700° Fahrenheit, and takes steady hands and mindfulness about where you set it down and how you pick it up. And the solder, as it melts, gives off some noxious fumes. I’m not at all sure septuagenarian Klutzy McFumblefingers with chronic lung disease (that’s me) is going to actually be doing any soldering. But it is still fun to learn how it is done and what it enables you to do.

After soldering all our oscillator components onto the circuit board, our next step is to morph this puppy into a talk box. We just need to solder connections to a small circular speaker into our circuit board, use a hot glue gun to cement the speaker, face-down, into the small end of a plastic funnel, and slather some silicone caulk over the back of the speaker so the sound doesn’t leak out backwards. Once the caulk is good and dry, attach the poly tubing to the funnel, then fire it up and start making your own electronic music with your mouth!

Before wrapping up this week’s post, I’ll call your attention to a real world example of just the sort of DIY synths we’re aiming to build. I happened to catch the video below in a post from the International Contemporary Ensemble‘s recently completed Ensemble Evolution summer workshop, presented in collaboration with The New School. Ensemble Evolution participant Leni Kreienberg is a musician and performance artist. Her primary practice focuses on voice and electronic creation and performance, aspiring to connect and blend genres. Her latest work focuses on using dance and movement-derived data to feed into musical computer systems. Here is Leni Kreienberg’s playground, from 2019.

Finally, if you’re wondering about that featured image on this post, I’ve so far neglected to point out that our class mascot is Dynomutt, the star of a spinoff from The Scooby-Do Show, from Hanna-Barberra, titled Dynomutt, Dog Wonder. According to Wikipedia, the show “centers on a Batman-esque superhero, the Blue Falcon, and his assistant, Dynomutt, a bumbling, yet effective robotic dog who can produce a seemingly infinite number of mechanical devices from his body.” Sadly, Dynomutt suffered the cruel Hollywood fate of being cancelled, in 1977, after just one season. But, take heart. Dynomutt is apparently back, in the brand new SCOOB! feature-length film.

sip2: amazing oscillators

by Larry Dunn, July 21, 2020

Create the Future! Building our own amazing oscillators was the objective for week 2 of Synth in Place, the online course in building DIY electronic music-making machines, taught by Kirk Pearson and presented by Dogbotic sounds labs and Thingamajigs. We took our inspiration for this challenge from a couple of truly awesome, and famous, installations, made by pioneers in the electronic museum field. One of these was composer and sound artist David Tudor‘s Rainforest V (variation 1), at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC, as shown in this 360° video.

Another inspiration came from Daphne Oram of the  BBC Radiophonic Workshop, which she founded in 1958. Her Oramics Machine is a visual synthesizer that uses drawn images to create sounds.

Of course, our first oscillators could not even scratch the surface of the genius of the work of these transformational thinkers and makers of electronic instruments. But we nonetheless are doing our work in homage to their path-setting work.

Oscillators are a foundational building block of electronic music synthesizers. For the uninitiated, an oscillator is an electronic gizmo that makes electrons move back and forth in a normal predicable manner. That predicable pattern can be exploited to activate other electronic components such as led-lights and speakers. With the proper setup of circuits and wiring to control the frequencies in the pattern of electron movement, what comes out of a speaker in such a setup can be pitched sounds in the range we typically call music.

Our first oscillator, a flashing LED (screen shot from Kirk Pearson demo video)

Using a breadboard (a temporary circuit board made for prototyping electronic gadgets); a 555 Timer (a ready-made microchip that can control electron pulses in a variety of ways, depending on how you connect it); a handful of capacitors, resistors, and wires; a bare-wire LED bulb; a potentiometer; a small speaker; and a 9-volt battery, with snap-on connector; we set out to create the future. Our first oscillators evolved through several versions. The first, show above, implements a simple strobe light. The frequency of flashing is controlled by your choice of capacitors. If we add a potentiometer (a sort of switch that can be used to vary the flow of electrons) and a speaker into our design and rewire things a bit, we suddenly have a user-controlled noise-making machine. And if we can get the frequencies in the right range, our noises will be pitched sounds we could call music. Below is a look at that setup.

Prototype sound-producing synthesizer (screen shot from Kirk Pearson demo video)

For the final trick, we ventured into Daphne Oram territory. Remove the potentiometer and do a bit of rewiring to connect a piece of corrugated cardboard filled with a heavy smear of pencil lead (graphite, i.e. carbon, i.e., a conductor of electrons) using an alligator clip in contact with the graphite smear, with a bare wire at the other end suitably connected to the breadboard. Use another wire of the same configuration, similarly connected, and you can “play” the graphite smear using a drawing gesture with the other alligator clip. Here is the way that setup looks.

Crude homage to Daphne Oram (screen shot from Kirk Pearson demo video)

I struggled to get my own version of these oscillator variations working properly. These components, especially breadboards, can be temperamental, to begin with. And whatever manual dexterity I once had (which was not that much) is fading fast with age. As arthritis and other woes take up residence in my hands, you can call me Klutzy McFumblefingers. But, despite the challenges to actually get these things working, learning how they go together to make newly-imagined instruments is a thoroughly engaging experience.

Stay tuned.

cornmeal waffles

by Larry Dunn, July 18, 2020

Until recently, we’ve never been particularly avid fans of waffles. Sure, we had our moments in the late 60s at the old Star Waffle Shop on Cass Avenue in Detroit, only a couple of blocks from our apartment, or the Apartfug, as we called it (fodder for its own post at some point). We’d wander in there in the middle of the night, they were open 24/7/365, all toked up on weed or flying high on LSD, and we’d order the namesake waffle, with a scoop of ice cream, and either maple syrup or hot fudge. A tantalizing sensation when your taste buds are in a heightened sate.

My mother made waffles several times a year when we were growing up, and they we’re tasty enough. But Arlene and I never invested in a waffle iron over all these years; waffles just didn’t seem worth the trouble, when we could more easily make pancakes, if we were in that sort of mood for breakfast or brunch. And we have a great, and easy to make, whole wheat (or multi-grain) pancake recipe. Arlene has regularly ordered “chicken & waffles” in restaurants over the years. But if those waffles are ever any good, it’s a bonus. For her, it’s always about the fried chicken.

Cornmeal Waffles, ceramic bowl by Brian Dunn (photo: Larry Dunn)

Our waffle consciousness changed last fall during a brief R&R side trip to the Catskills when we were in NYC for some music events. We’d first been in the region the prior summer, when we met our Florida family there for a week’s vacation. We were charmed by the area, and shocked that it could seem so remote, only two hours from NYC. On the summer visit we’d tried to grab a meal at Phoenicia Diner, which all the people and all the guides say is a must, only to find it mobbed every time we drove by. But on a late Monday morning in October, we had no trouble getting seated immediately. “Chicken and Waffles” on the menu caught my eye, thinking I’d recommend it to Arlene. But I decided to order for myself, when I learned the waffles were made with cornmeal. That seemed worth trying, and my hunch paid off. Crispy, even, crunchy, exterior, but still light and fluffy inside, and the cornmeal added aroma and a flavor punch far beyond what any standard whitebread waffles can deliver. I was hooked, and left there determined to find or devise a recipe to make them at home.

I spent the rest of the fall and early winter researching recipes . . . oh, yes, that, and having major surgery on my cervical spine and then a long slow recovery. I devised a recipe and aimed to try it during our annual winter sojourn to visit our Florida family in Sarasota. They have the waffle iron; no sense in our buying one until we knew we had a winning recipe. We made them for the whole crowd one Sunday in February, with sliced fresh local strawberries and maple syrup. They were a big hit.

Cornmeal Waffle with fresh local organic blueberries (photo: Larry Dunn)

A new waffle iron was waiting for us when we returned home to Oberlin and we’ve been making cornmeal waffles every few weeks ever since. They are especially welcome at this time of year when we have so much local fresh fruit in Ohio, as we go through a sequence of strawberries, cherries, blueberries, apricots (if we’re lucky), peaches, plums, and apples. Each waffle batch leaves us with eight or ten squares we can put in the freezer, and they taste almost as good warmed up in the toaster as they do fresh off the griddle. As soon as the freezer supply is gone, we make some more. If you’d like a PDF of the recipe, press the “Download” button below.

There’s a bit of a serendipitous postscript on my search for a cornmeal waffle recipes last fall. At the time I could find no recipes from the Phoenicia Diner, nor even any claiming to be like theirs. But as I was starting this post, I stumbled upon the fact that the Phoenicia Diner released a cookbook, just as the pandemic shutdowns were starting. I have verified that the waffle recipe is in the table of contents, though you cannot see the recipe itself. In the TOC listing, it makes no mention of them being “cornmeal waffles.” It would be hilarious if that was all a figment of my imagination! But our cornmeal waffles are a treat, no matter where I got the inspiration, and I’m guessing that cornmeal is in their recipe. The waiter must have told me about it. I’m going to get the book and find out.

Notes for Restricted Diets. Some of the Florida family have dietary concerns with milk products and with gluten. So, when we made these waffles down there, we replaced the buttermilk with almond milk, soured with one tablespoon of vinegar, and used a “vegan butter” product instead of actual butter. We swapped in whole-grain oat flour for the whole wheat pastry flour. Getting the consistency right took a bit of fiddling. But in the end the results were deemed outstanding by all our eaters. I believe you could take the recipe the rest of the way to full vegan, by substituting silky tofu for the egg yolks and whipped aquafaba (garbanzo bean liquor) for the whipped egg whites. If you try that, please let us know how they turn out.

All gone (photo: Larry Dunn)

sip1: ins and outs

by Larry Dunn, July 15, 2020

Last week I attended the first session of an eight-week online class called Synth in Place (SIP). Our friend and sometimes collaborator Kirk Pearson is teaching the class, which is presented by Kirk’s own Dogbotic sound lab in collaboration with Thingamajigs, a genre-crossing arts organization that fosters music created with made and found materials and alternate tuning systems. I’m unsure what I may do in the future with the knowledge I gain in this class, but, at the very least, it seems like a fun way to chew up some pandemic quarantine hours.

There are nine brave souls in our section of the class (Kirk is juggling several similar sized sections, some with teenagers, and others with older folks like us). In our group, we range in age from 20s to 70s and bring an interesting mix of backgrounds − several composers and performers, an electrical engineer and circuit board designer, a graphic artist and animator. We are also quite geographically spread out, one of the benefits of online classes, with folks in London, New York, Toronto, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee, California, Oberlin, and places in between. Two of the attendees are people I know, and who also know Kirk (much longer than I have), which Kirk said was unique to this section. Jim Pugliese is a composer, percussionist, and educator, who recently retired from teaching at the LaGuardia high school for music and the arts in New York City. Nick Dunston is a composer and bassist, who has know Kirk since they were both at LaGuardia, which is where they met Jim. Small world.

Fully kitted out for Synth in Place (photo: Larry Dunn)

The objective of the course is to learn the basics of making electronic music by tinkering with the various component parts and sub-assemblies that can be created and manipulated to make sounds come out of a speaker. A few weeks back, Kirk sent us all a box full of components and connectors, packaged in envelopes with delightful Dogbotic graphics, designed by Maisy Byerly. He also sent us a list our own tools and supplies we will need − soldering iron and solder, batteries, tape, wire cutters and strippers, etc. After we gain some facility with all these pieces and parts, we will start plotting how to choose specific components and put them together into a working synthesizer.

Maisy Byerly’s illustrations are a delight (photo Larry Dunn)

Our first experiment in electronic sound-making involved connecting a box grater to a 9-volt battery and a small speaker, and then playing the grater with a spoon. Kitchen tool music is right in my zone!

Simple electrified box grater instrument (photo: Larry Dunn)

Next we riffed on the old saying about having, or not having, two nickles to rub together. Due to rampant inflation in the intervening years, we used quarters, which we electrified, again with the nine volt battery, and also connected to the speaker. Paper clips in the speaker cone add a nice buzz.

Rubbing two electric quarters together; don’t forger the paper clips (photo: Larry Dunn)

For our final exercise in this session, we experimented with piezoelectric microphones, which pick up sound and vibrations from things they are attached to (or are resting upon them). We made some cool sounds with a metal ruler held over the microphone and extended off the table for twanging purposes. We also did some drumming directly on the microphone surface with the quarters. In both of these cases, we connected the microphone via alligator clips and a mini-plug patch cord to a powered speaker.

Fun times with a piezoelectric microphone (photo: Larry Dunn)

The most profound lesson of the day was Kirk’s assertion that making DIY electronic music is an inherently political act. The electronic instruments we are creating make sound by manipulating electric voltage patterns. And these are sounds that no acoustic instrument can make. Thus making DIY electronic music is a rejection of the known universe and the creation of your own.

Stay tuned, to learn about the new worlds my Synth in Place colleagues and I create.

Synth in Place, presented by Dogbotic and Thingamajigs (illustration by Maisy Byerly)

a wedding blessing

by Arlene and Larry Dunn, February 28, 2016

In December of 2004 our niece Jodi and her husband-to-be Gary took a creative approach to the Jewish wedding custom of the seven blessings. They asked us, and six other couples who were important to them, to create and present our own unique blessing on a specific topic. They topic they assigned to us was “patience.”

After mulling over a few approaches, we settled on writing and reciting four haiku. It was a wonderful way for us to invest emotionally in their wedding ceremony and to give them a bit of advice in the form of this blessing. Each of the four haiku are anchored in something elemental to our lives at our beloved former home, Acorn Ridge Gardens in northwest Indiana.

After the wedding, our friend Peg Herbst had the inspired idea to memorialize these haiku in a set of painted ceramic plates. To be fair, she not only inspired the idea, but also designed the illustrative drawings and led the painting project. Here they are are.

Love blooms its brightest / Like agaves prize patience / Of the hummingbirds
Oh how love will thrive / When tended as a garden / Plow sow reap repeat
Dance through the garden / Each to your own heart’s rhythm / Love waits at the well
Lives join together / The wedding plants an oak tree / Love gathers acorns

We gave these plates to Jodi and Gary for their first anniversary. But they were in the process of moving from Chicago to New York at the time, and they asked us to hold onto them for awhile. Since then they have graced our walls, first in our guest cottage at Acorn Ridge, and now at our new home in Oberlin. Gary and Jodi later moved to Jerusalem, and just now, back to the New York area. They will find a place to hang the plates when they settle into a new home, in Montclair, New Jersey. We’ll surely have mixed emotions when we pack them up and send them to their forever home.

veni vidi didici

by Arlene Wilgoren Dunn


11 years old, seventh grade,
green book bag slung over right shoulder,
old-fashioned hand-cranked streetcar ride
to Eggleston Station, then
bus to Huntington Avenue, then
sleek automatic streetcar ride.
after an hour
Girls Latin School.

Two years later
GLS moved to Codman Square.
One short bus ride away.
But missed the culture
of the Fenway
and the BLS boys.


So naïve, cosseted in Jewish Dorchester.
GLS unveiled life beyond.
First black girl to be my friend:
Lillie White.

Junior year. 1957.
Confrontation in Little Rock
jumped out of my TV
into my living room.
Girls who looked like me,
but for skin color—
dressed like me,
carried books like me.

Angry white mob
blocking their way
taunting them
hurling filthy slurs at them
spitting on them.
All to bar them from the simple act
of going to school,
something I blithely took for granted.

These images etched into my heart and mind.


Diagramming sentences – ugh!
Yet here I am mincing words, parsing phrases.

“Girls! Girls! Stop this nonsense!
You think I want to be here?
You’ll all be gone soon,
off to college to get your MRS degrees.
Your ship will come in.
Mine never did.
So here I am stuck with you.
Get back to work!”


No physics class?
In the Sputnik era?
Because we’re . . . ‘just girls’?
We organized, pestered, cajoled –
finally, got it in our senior year.


We started with love—
Amo. Amas. Amat.
Swiftly on to war and conflict.
Caesar crossing the Rubicon taught us
sometimes there’s no turning back.
Alea iacta est.
Virgil warned us to be careful who we trust.
Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.
And a bit of philosophy from Cicero
prepared us to grasp the idea
that a soupcan could be art.
De gustibus non disputandum est!


60 years gone.
The threads we spun together
endure in the tapestry of my life.


Editors note: this poem by Arlene Wilgoren Dunn was first published on Matter: A (somewhat) monthly journal of political poetry and commentary on November 19, 2020.

blue hill avenue

by Arlene Wilgoren Dunn

The bouquet reaches my nose two stores away.
“One loaf of rye bread, please, sliced.”
She grabs a loaf, drops it in the slicer
Which whirrs through the bread.
She comes around the counter
To hand me the bread
And take my money.
The end piece is mine
On my way home

The smell of pickles at the front door
Makes my mouth water.
A large barrel on each side.
Kosher dills in one,
Crispy fermented sauerkraut in the other.

“Don’t touch the merchandise!” the produce man says.
He flips open a paper bag, puts fruit in it, weighs it and,
Grease pencil at the ready, writes the cost on the bag.
Another man marks a bigger bag with the amounts
And adds the total.
He puts the small bags in the big bag
We pay and off we go.

The butcher’s hands are big and scarred.
He wears a bloodied apron and
Glides along the sawdust covered floor
“Who’s next? C’mon ladies, we don’t have all day!”
Chickens hang on the wall with
Heads and feet and feathers.
We pick two – one for soup, one for roasting.
Then off with their heads and feet
Pinfeathers singed with a torch (pee-yoo).

In the rear of the Prime Market
A man filets fish on a big butcher block
Buckets of guts, bones and skin below.
Skanky . . . but flounder will
Taste good later

Zayde sews custom made suits in his tailor shop
Always hard at work
Marking, pinning, basting, sewing, ironing.
Pins in his mouth, chalk in his hand,
He adjusts the jacket on a man or a mannequin.
I bring him half and half coffee
With double sugar
Sometimes he lets me sip.

May 2019

dirty wars and democracy

Arlene Dunn, December 2014

Editor’s note (July 2020): Arlene audited a stimulating and challenging Oberlin College course in Fall semester 2014, Dirty Wars and Democracy, with Professor Steven Volk, now retired. In addition to being a widely recognized expert in the history of Latin America, Steve was also the founding Director of Oberlin’s Center for Teaching, Innovation, and Excellence and was named the 2011 U.S. Professor of the Year by the Carnegie Endowment for the Advancement of Teaching and the Council for the Advancement and Support of Education. Arlene found it daunting, though not surprising, when Steve told the class they would be trying a new pedagogical technique. They would each adopt as an avatar the life of an Argentine or Chilean person living through the brutally abusive dictatorships in these countries in the 1970s and ‘80s and into the present. One of their assignments was to write a journal entry in the person of their avatar each week, precipitated by specific events or time periods they were studying. Arlene’s avatar was simply “an Argentine woman born in 1950 to a Catholic family with a housewife mother and army major father in the city of Mendoza.” 

It was up to Arlene to build the rest of a life for her avatar as a basis for her entries each week in the journal. In the process of writing these journal entries, Arlene created a fascinating short story about how it might have been for an ordinary Argentine woman to live through these turbulent and terrifying times. As Arlene tells us in her reflections on the experience, it “ had a profound effect on my understanding of this time. It made me think about the impact of historical events on individual lives, which, in turn, provided insights into the extremes a regime is willing to go to in order to achieve its goals.”

We originally serialized these journal entries on our old Acornometrics blog (on Tumblr), but have decided to migrate them to in a single post, for easier navigation. Our journey begins in 1968 and carries us forward across 46 years to 2014. Content warning: state violence and murder, repression, mention of suicide.

Cuidad de Mendoza, Argentina, 1968

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Sunday, June 2, 1968

My name is Isabel Juarez Morell. Most of my friends and family call me Isa. Today is Sunday, June 2, 1968 and I have just graduated from Santa Maria’s High School for Girls in Mendoza, Argentina. I am 18 years old and have two siblings, both brothers. José is older and attends Catholic University in Buenos Aires. My papá, a major in the army, wanted him to attend the National Military College, but he is more a poet than a soldier, which, of course, annoys my papá. My baby brother, Juan, is 8 years old and worships papá. He plays soldier all the time and wants to learn how to shoot already. I worry a bit about what might happen to him if I leave home to go to college. My mamá, who takes care of everything in the house, says not to worry – she will see that Juan has a normal childhood.

Eva and Juan Peron

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Monday, August 16, 1976

It’s been some time since I have written in this journal, so I must bring things up to date. I am married now to a wonderful man named Roberto, who is a doctor in a general surgical practice here in Mendoza, my home town. We have one child, Jorge, about a year old. I grew up in an upper middle class home never wanting for anything. We had some servants – in fact, Rosita, whom I have known my whole life because she is the daughter of my governess when I was young, now works for me a couple of times a week as a housekeeper. 

I’m not one to get involved in politics, although there were plenty of political discussions in my home as I was growing up. My father is an army major and when he was very young he served with Presidente Perón and has always talked about how impressive he was when addressing a large crowd. My father always believed that Peron was the man who should lead our great country by giving workers benefits while not turning over the reins of power from the industrialists to the workers. I think it is important to make sure people do not live in dire poverty but the last thing I would want Argentina to become is another Cuba!

After finishing high school I attended a nice college in Cordoba where I learned how to be an elementary school teacher. I taught for a few years while Roberto went through medical school. I am forever grateful to my parents who allowed us to live with them during those times. I am not working now but I do volunteer at our local church and really enjoy the tutoring work I do, especially the literacy classes. It’s so important that people know how to read and write. It’s important for them and it’s important for Argentina.

Roberto and I have a small house for ourselves now, but the last few years have become very difficult with inflation soaring. I never know when I go shopping just what I’ll be able to buy with the money I have in my purse. I worry some about Rosita and her family because we have had to cut back on her hours and cannot afford to raise her pay.

It’s the middle of winter now, a few months since the military took over the government. There is at least a sense of order since then. There was so much chaos the last couple of years it was hard to know what might happen on any given day. The radical pro-Cubans were killing people seemingly at random and bombing all kinds of places – government buildings, factories, movie theaters. The police were doing their best to prevent these attacks but that resulted in so much violence that I was afraid to go out and find myself and Jorge in some kind of dangerous situation. When Presidente Perón died my parents mourned and said that Argentina would never be the same. When Isabel Perón became president, my mother wailed that if Eva Perón were alive today we would not be in such trouble. My whole family is happy to see this new government in place. There is less violence on the street, no doubt as a result of the police and military presence on every street corner. The government tells us that we must make sacrifices to bring our country back to greatness – so far that has not affected our family too much and I hope to God it does not. 

Argentina World Cup Soccer, 1978

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Saturday July 1, 1978

Argentines all over the country are still reveling in our first World Cup championship, but there is a dark cloud over our celebrations as journalists from all over the world keep asking questions about people being arrested, tortured and even killed. Worse yet, they pose questions about people supposedly “disappearing” as though our government is purposefully snatching people from the street and with no trial or anything, killing them or hiding them in secret locations. I just don’t know what to think about all this.

I have begun to worry about my brother, José. He completed his degree in Literature and has been teaching Spanish in a Catholic High School in Cordoba. Even though he lives pretty close to us, we do not see him very much. Father disapproves of his teaching of poetry to these young people, believing that they will go astray and not be patriotic enough in these days of reorganization. He is not welcome in our parents’ home and, as a result, I too have become distant from him. Meanwhile, my brother Juan has completed high school and has applied for the police academy. He really has this macho personality and talks about “kicking some ass” when he becomes a policeman. Juan, of course, speaks very disparagingly about José and says there is only trouble ahead for him. All of this makes me crazy as I try to live a somewhat normal life raising a family and being a good wife.

Plaza San Martin, Cordoba, Argentina

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Monday, March 5, 1979

It is now three years since the military took over the government and, though things seemed to have a good start, my life today feels very strained. Jorge is four and is going to a nice nursery school at our local church – he seems the happiest of everyone in my family. He loves school and especially when he can play with kids his own age in the playground. His happiness brings some sunshine into my life.I want another child but Roberto and I have decided to postpone more children until we feel better about the future. He is still working at the local hospital but there have been major cutbacks and we never know when it might affect his department. We have been able to save a little money in case his hours are cut back but the value of those savings seems to dwindle as inflation is back. 

The worst thing that happened to us was that we have lost track of my brother José about six months ago. We had become even more distant because he insists on teaching poetry to his students even though everyone says we should be teaching our children the technical skills to get a good job and be able to contribute to the growth of our country. Some months back when I tried calling him the phone was disconnected. I tried reaching friends of his I knew but had no luck there either. Mamá and I drove to Cordoba to see what we could find. The police were no help at all – they just yelled at mamá that it must be her fault that her son was missing, that she did not bring him up to be a good citizen. She broke down crying as we left that building. We went to the school and they could not help us either. They just said José did not show up for work one day and hasn’t been back since. Mamá has been getting more and more depressed as the days go on without word of José. She has talked to me occasionally about joining Las Madres–the Mothers of the Disappeared–but she is so fearful that she might be hurt, and also that papá would be so angry he might throw her out of the house. 

Recently there has been talk that we might have to discontinue the literacy program where I volunteer at church. This activity is so gratifying to me knowing that I am providing real, concrete help for people. This confuses me that the government wants the people to be educated to become good citizens but seem to be opposed to helping people better their lives by learning to read and write. What’s more, we don’t even have as many church picnics and other gatherings as we used to have. People we’ve known for years hardly go out except to go to work or shop for essentials. I see people in the streets with their heads down just determined to get where they are going and get off the street as though there’s a boogey man hiding in every alley waiting to jump them. 

I hope things will be better soon. And I am desperate to see or hear from José.

Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Thursday, January 8, 1981

It has been two years since my brother José disappeared. Mamá has been in complete despair since then. After spending nearly a year inquiring at police stations and government offices, even hiring a lawyer to file a plea for habeas corpus, all to no avail, she has given up actively looking for José, but has not given up hope of seeing him again. She does not know what to believe – maybe he is in a prison somewhere and will be released soon. Papá tells her that José has turned his back on us and is probably in Mexico, even Paris, enjoying his life with other subversive poets and that she should give up on him and be a family with two instead of three children. She has stopped talking to papá about José, but she is not giving up hope.

Mamá comes to my house a lot because she cannot stand to be alone with papá. We have spent long hours talking, hugging, crying. But we also play with the children – yes, I do now have a second child, a beautiful little girl, Maria. Mamá gets much pleasure playing with the children and I am happy that she feels some joy in her life with my kids.

Mamá has confided in me about something she is doing now that is a secret from the rest of the family. Over a year ago, on one of her trips to Buenos Aires inquiring about José, she was in the Plaza de Mayo and saw women walking around carrying signs and pictures of their children who had also disappeared. She sat on a bench, pulled out the picture of José she carries around in her purse and cried. She was afraid to talk to anyone that day. Papá always says that the government and the military must take certain measures to insure a stable future for our country. People who are fomenting trouble must be eliminated or we will just end up in the mess we were in back in the early 1970s. 

So, on that first day in the Plaza, mamá sat there fearing for the lives of the women in the square and certainly did not think of joining them. A few weeks later, though, she lied and told papá that her cousin Louisa in Buenos Aires was very sick and needed her help. She went to the Plaza de Mayo and had the courage to speak to one woman, who told mamá about her daughter who had been kidnapped from her home in 1978 and has not been seen since. She told mamá that she refuses to believe her daughter is dead until the military produces a body. Mamá listened to this story and cried thinking about her José. 

She learned that the Madres walk in the Plaza de Mayo every Thursday afternoon at 3:30. She has told papá that she must go to Buenos Aires often to care for Louisa. He believes her because he thinks all women are hysterical and fall ill at a moment’s notice. Mamá stays with Louisa, who she has sworn to secrecy about her real reason for coming. Now mamá proudly marches with the Madres once every month or so. This does not increase her hope that she will ever see José again, but it helps her cope and gives her strength to go on with life.

Argentine naval officer Alfredo Astiz surrenders to the British Task Force in 1982 on HMS Plymouth

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Monday, June 14, 1982

Things are not going well for my family as the terrible economy has forced the hospital to cut back on Roberto’s hours. This has resulted in sacrifices for us like less meat on the table and definitely fewer clothes for the children, even though they seem to grow out of them in six months’ time. We expanded the vegetable garden last summer and that helped a lot but it seems every day is a struggle. 

The economy has been so bad that people have been taking to the streets again and I worry about what all this unrest will lead to. Of course, I am most concerned about my babies. They are so precious to me. I wish things would just get better and I don’t know what I can do to help that along. Meanwhile the volunteer work I have been doing at the church helping with literacy programs has been shut down. People aren’t getting the help they need and I’m not getting the satisfaction of doing some good in the world. What could possibly be wrong with people learning how to read and write?! 

At least that stupid war with England is over. Papá, who now has the rank of colonel in the army, was furious with the president when he ordered the invasion of the Malvinas Islands. He says the government should have been using all its resources dealing with domestic issues of fulfilling the promises of the military junta and bringing Argentina to a period of stability, not invading a few small islands that don’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things (although he also would claim that these islands belong to Argentina and were stolen by the British). Still, papá’s heritage is British and he worships the royal family and all the fanfare that goes along with it. I wish I understood him better. To make matters even worse, Rosita’s husband was seriously injured in the war and now is unable to work. We had to let Rosita go about a year ago and really see no way that we can hire her. We shared our vegetable garden with her last summer but we have no surplus now. 

Right now it feels like there is little to be optimistic about. I pray things will be better for my children soon.

Raúl Ricardo Alfonsín, President of Argentina, 1983 to 1989

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Saturday, December 10, 1983

Today Argentina celebrates the inauguration of our new president, Raúl Ricardo Alfonsín. It’s Saturday afternoon and my whole family is at my parents’ home watching the festivities on the television. My children, now 4 and 8, are bored with all this but are finding enough things to enjoy outdoors in the early summer weather.

Despite the festivities on television, there is tension in this household. Mamá, who finally revealed her secret participation in the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo, is torn between joy at the end of the military junta and depression over the near certainty now of José’s death. Papá is a complete wreck. There are so many things, some very contradictory, that trouble him. He believes that the invasion of the Malvinas caused the downfall of the military government and worries about the resurgence of communists. He admits now that he knew all along that José was dead and not in Paris. 

Although he never understood José and strongly disagreed with his chosen career as a teacher, José was still his first born son and he mourns his death. He knows that the military, which means so much to him, is directly personally responsible for José’s capture and ultimate death. And that means he himself is responsible. He tries not to think about what torture José might have been subjected to. But I think he is most concerned about his own personal future and worries he may be facing a trial and possible imprisonment for acts he committed (or asked others to commit) during the military regime.

It is hard for any of us to have hope for the future with the dark cloud of possible prosecution for papá. It’s even more difficult because he really believes that the junta saved Argentina from the evils of socialism and communism and the influences of Cuba and the Soviet Union. Since José’s disappearance, I have studied a little about politics and economics and I don’t understand why papá doesn’t recognize that the junta was strongly influenced by another foreign nation, the United States. I wonder why we Argentines can’t decide for ourselves what’s right for us. Why should we be the puppet of any outside country? Our family will never be the same, and we lost only José. Other families have been completely destroyed. How could any political philosophy justify the loss and destruction of so many lives?

Carlos Menem, president of Argentina from 1989 to 1999

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Saturday, Dec. 29, 1990

Five years ago there was a trial for nine junta leaders accused of kidnapping, torture, disappearance and murder of several hundred Argentines. Five were found guilty and four were acquitted. Today Presidente Carlos Menem pardoned all the leaders of the junta. This leaves me with many mixed feelings, but mostly I wonder what might have been, had this action been taken earlier. Three years ago my papá took his own life using his army-issued revolver. He left this note for us:

I am haunted by thoughts that I may have had a hand in the death of my own first born son. I cannot look my devoted wife in the eyes. I cannot live with myself and can only hope for redemption in the afterlife.  

During the years leading up to his suicide, testimonies before the National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons and trials for individuals involved in the unspeakable crimes against their own people created a tremendous amount of stress for both papá and mamá. The testimonies of survivors from this time forced them to ultimately accept the truth that José was really dead. For papá the possibility of a trial for his actions brought additional stress and concern. He retired from the army soon after the end of the junta. After that, he withdrew into his study most days and rarely spent time on family outings. We weren’t sure what he did in there and we did not talk openly of whatever was in the news about trials and testimonies. I wonder: if the pardons had come earlier, would papá be alive today?

As for myself, now that I have turned 40 I have made an important decision for my future. Much of it has been influenced by the personal history of my family, but I have also been influenced by the self-induced trauma this country has endured over the last 15 years. I have entered graduate school to become a history professor. I realize this is a little late in life to make such a decision, and women are not as welcome as they should be in those positions. But I am determined to make a difference. My children are 11 and 15 now and are not as dependent on my presence at home as they were when they were younger. Besides, mamá moved in with us shortly after papá died and with mama’s financial help, we are able to hire Rosita again to help around the house. I am really looking forward to this additional education and hope I can learn more about my country’s history and pass that knowledge on to the next generation.

Adolfo Scilingo convicted of crimes against humanity in Argentina’s “dirty war”

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Wednesday, April 19, 2005

On Tuesday morning, April 19, 2005, I woke up to the news that Adolfo Scilingo was convicted of crimes against humanity in a Spanish court and sentenced to 640 years in prison. I am pleased that someone who was responsible for so many deaths during Argentina’s Dirty Wars has been given a long sentence. I feel a sense of justice, but it cannot erase the hurt deep inside me that he may have thrown my brother José out of an airplane. This news brought more distress to mamá, raising to the surface once again the horrendous death her son must have endured. We will both grieve his death once more, without a grave to visit.

My students in the class, 20th Century Argentine History, spent the entire hour discussing this case and related issues. Although we had already covered Scilingo’s public confession that he was one of many navy personnel who participated in throwing people out of airplanes over the ocean, many students were still in disbelief that someone would actually hurl prisoners out of airplanes. They also talked about how inhumane it was to steal children from prisoners and give them to military personnel to raise. Once I saw a student look at a daughter of a military family with a quizzical look. This history is haunting to many of my students, but not all.

During the discussion, one student asked me if I had any personal memories from that time I would care to share with the class. I hesitated for a moment and decided to tell them about the disappearance of my brother. I told them that my mamá became hysterical when the Scilingo stories were first revealed. She had nightmares envisioning her José looking quizzically at the sky as he fell to the sea. It has taken some time for her to recover enough to live a pretty normal life, but this morning’s news conjured up more memories and she was nearly hysterical. I almost stayed home to console her but she said it was more important for our future for me to teach class today than comfort her. I told my students of mamá’s participation with the Madres of the Plaza de Mayo. Only a few students were even aware of this group. I found some images of demonstrations on my computer to share and there were definitely some tears shed.

Class discussions on these and related issues will be difficult for many of my students who have little or no knowledge of this past. I must work hard to balance objectivity as a teacher with the emotions of expressing my personal memories. But I think it is important to share those memories with this generation of Argentines who have no personal memory of their own from this time. For next class I will lead a discussion about the relationship between personal memory and collective memory. I hope my students will grasp an understanding that knowledge of our country’s history, including its very darkest moments, creates the narrative that leads to better public policy for the future.

Cuidad de Mendoza, Argentina, 2014

From the Journal of Isabel Juarez Morel: Thursday, December 4, 2014

It is early December 2014 and I am approaching retirement age. Roberto has already retired and really wants me to join him and begin enjoying life without the constraints of schedules and responsibilities. But, truthfully, I am not ready to retire. Perhaps it’s because I started my career so late in life. I enjoy teaching history to young people, the future of our country. I try to convey to them the importance of studying history, the only way we can know who we are. If we do not know all of who we are, especially the parts of our history we’d like to forget, we are indeed more likely to tolerate horrific acts being done in our name at some point in the future. How we teach history forms the narrative by which we live. We must be especially careful of our regrettable past and know what motivated it, what sustained it, who opposed it, and who supported it.

My daughter, Maria, now 35, has been making documentary films the last few years. I am so proud of her. I am so impressed with her talent, but even more, I admire her courage and belief in herself. My, have times changed! So many opportunities abound for women to excel and contribute to our culture. 

Maria recently approached me with an idea for a new film – the story of Argentina’s Dirty War through one family’s experience, ours. And she has asked me to work on the film as a consultant. At first I was flabbergasted, but I went back and read my journals from those years and believe this could make a compelling story. 

I wonder if working with Maria on her film and even writing a memoir that would include my personal experiences of Argentine history can create a satisfying pathway to retirement. If I were to significantly reduce my teaching load I could work with Maria, start my book, and spend more time with family. Mamá is getting old and it would be good for us both to enjoy my children and grandchildren – Jorge, who is a doctor following in his father’s footsteps, has 3 and Maria has 2.  

As I read through my journal, I recognized an arc of a journey from an ordinary middle class Argentine girl, to an elementary school teacher, to a housewife, then a history teacher and now an historian. My personal history reminds me of the contradictory pulls from the military traditions of my papá and the painful loss of my brother. These cannot co-exist. 

My study of history has helped me understand that the government was manipulating everyone, including me, and molding the culture to believe that the junta was doing the right thing for our country. It is no wonder that I was confused in the early days following the coup. I realize now that the acts perpetrated against our own citizens were done in my name, especially since I supported the coup at first. Therefore, I, too, am responsible for the death of my brother. This new grasp of Argentina’s past created the transition for me from not just a teacher of history but to an historian.

This week Brazil and the United States released reports of terrible acts they committed in their pasts. I applaud them for taking this step, but I doubt that America will cease its tireless intervention and manipulation in whatever part of the world they deem they have an interest. I am quite sure they will repeat some of these heinous acts. I hope that Argentina has learned that no “ends” can justify the “means” used during our Dirty War. Those methods are irrevocably part of our past and without exposing them to open air and sunshine they will fester and we will not be cured of this disease.

Arlene Dunn speaking at a benefit for The March: A Civil Rights Opera

Epilogue: Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Imagining myself in the person of Isabel Juarez Morell living in Argentina as these horrific events unfolded and then writing her journal had a profound effect on my understanding of this time in history. It made me think about the impact of historical events on individual lives, which, in turn, provided insights into the extremes a regime is willing to go to in order to achieve its goals. Of course, I knew about Pinochet, Argentina’s disappeared, people thrown out of airplanes and the Madres, but writing in Isa’s voice brought me to the microcosm of one person and her family, rather than the macrocosm of statistics. The entire course filled in a lot of detail about the Dirty Wars that enhanced my understating of those regimes, but the journaling added a nuance that one rarely finds from a structured classroom setting.

During the course of the semester, I felt compelled to do some individual research to provide more context for Isa, such as the state of the economy at the time or more details of the Malvinas war (I did not remember the term Malvinas – I’m pretty sure I only heard of the Falklands war, reflecting the Anglo-centric perspective of the media in this country). If Steve Volk’s purpose for the avatar journaling in this course was to get students to do this independent research, it worked on me!

I set Isa’s life up for family conflict at the very beginning by deciding her brother, José, would be a poet. As these family conflicts unfolded I found myself writing some painful entries. Larry and I have a ritual of reading our writing out loud to each other – it helps us find typos, for one thing, but it also helps us make sure the work flows properly. There were times during this semester when it was hard for me to read these journal entries without tears welling up.

It was perhaps more natural for me than for the young students to build up 46 year of personal history for my avatar, as I lived as an adult through the entire time period we studied. But I hated history in high school and carried that into college so did not take many history classes at Brandeis. I began studying history seriously when I became involved in the civil rights and anti-war movements of the 1960s. What I have learned over the last fifty years or so has led me to understand the sordid nature of our past and how the sanitized history we teach to our children leads to troubles we face in the present day, both domestically and internationally. Learning about the role the United States played in both Chile and Argentina was no surprise to me; I knew some of those details already. But furthermore, I have come to expect U.S. intervention wherever our capital interests take us (see Overthrow by Stephen Kinzer).

We Americans, as a people and a culture, have not reconciled with our own history of slavery and genocide and terror. That past haunts us to this day in the form of mass incarceration and the disparate use of police violence against people of color, an illegal and immoral prison in Guantanamo Bay, and torture of suspected terrorists. Our exploits around the world overturning legitimate regimes and supporting dictators have fomented attacks like 9-11 and groups like ISIS. I fell into the trap of excitement over the election of Barak Obama and now he sends drones to assassinate supposed terrorists and anyone who is nearby. The fact is that studying history depresses me. But I am driven by the need to understand and the hope for a better future. Writing this journal as Isa Juarez Morrell has helped me more deeply appreciate the value of that study. 

So, I continue on.