Unsettling: exploring questions on land, ownership, and reparations
Welcome to Unsettling. My hope with this newsletter is to create a curated public space for exploring some key questions regarding land, ownership, and reparations that, at present, seem to me underrepresented in the broader discourse. (The astute will note that ‘curated public space’ is fancy lingo for ‘something like a blog,’ though I do hope it becomes more than that.) I’m not an expert on anything, but I believe in collective learning, and this is an attempt to do some learning in public. In a way, that’s what all writers and journalists do: go try to learn something about the world, and come share what they find.
What you can expect to find here: Research on the history of property law and land reform, and some imaginings about how those might change, for the better, in the future. Amplification of struggles for indigenous sovereignty and reparations. Examinations of both personal and popular culture around land and ownership, in an attempt to create new dreams, relationships, and frameworks. Explorations of how climate chaos and mass immigration fit into the picture. Ideas about how governments and other social institutions might change and transform to meet not only the demands of justice but the practical realities of a changing planet. Practice at accepting the ambiguity and uncertainties inherent in all of the above. Pieces will range in length and style; expect longer personal essay some weeks, quick research summaries in other, and sometimes a mix. What you won’t get: I’m not here for quick takes. My hope is to be relevant to, but not driven by, current events. In other words, responsive rather than reactive.
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Most of all, this space will focus on asking questions, on challenging personal and collective presumptions. The aim is to create and reckon with, as the title suggests, a sense of unsettling. There is a decolonial trajectory here, especially for white settlers like myself—an attempt at becoming ‘disturbed’ or ‘uneasy’, as the dictionaries would define ‘unsettling,’ with our current situation and beliefs. But there is also a recognition that being unsettled—in the sense of being displaced, of being torn asunder from the grounding aspects of one’s daily life again and again—has been the reality for many people in the last few hundred years, and, as we encounter a changing climate, will likely be the experience for all of us in the near future. How do we envision our relationships to community and the land when those very things are forever changing, and at an accelerating pace?
About me: I’m Meg. Currently residing on Turtle Island. Some things I’ve done thus far in this life: sold books and worked in libraries; organized for local democracy and against the building of pipelines; hiked very long distances; held down operations and admin for small non-profits; tried to get more people to ride buses and bikes; facilitated many meetings; planted gardens. Now this. You can learn a little about what goes into my head by following me on Goodreads.
Why subscribe?
Paid subscribers help ensure I have the time and resources to write. And if there are enough of you, lord willing, I hope to someday bring on a copy editor. So subscribe now! My hope is to keep Unsettling running on a gift economy model, so that everyone can read the content, rather than creating any sort of firm paywall.
Please also know that 10% of net funds raised here will be donated to organizing efforts (including but not limited to efforts for reparations, land return, land decommodification, and more.) Subscribing means you can support the work and good writing covering the work at the same time.
Paid subscribers also get the benefit of joining a community of readers: subscribing unlocks for you the magical ability to comment on posts, and you’ll also receive invites for future subscribers-only events, plus other benefits I have yet to brainstorm (send suggestions my way at unsettling@substack.com).
So subscribe now and get Unsettling in your inbox each week.
Thanks for reading,
Meg