Contours of help
What it looks like, when it's possible, and when it's not
a post-apocalyptic preamble
There’s a game some people like to play, the apocalypse team one. It goes along the lines of: if society crumbled and you were left to figure out your own survival, who would you pick for your “survival team”? What kind of skills do you think would be most useful, and who do you know who has those skills?
It’s an interesting thought experiment, though frankly was more fun to play a decade ago. Since then, the seams of our society have become even more undeniably bare; the proverbial fabric frayed and tattered, stuffing spilling out from between the threads.1
It’s no longer just a game to envision American societal collapse. I have several friends in Alaska who recently bought guns, both for hunting and for self-defense if things continue devolving as they have been. And then there’s the persistent quasi-rumor (though likely true) that, if container ships suddenly stopped bringing food from the Lower 48, we’d run out of most supplies up here in less than a month. The edge is closer than we think.
I saw one friend’s gun the other day as they were packing up their place before a move. I’d never held a handgun before, just .22 rifles from when I taught riflery at summer camp.2 Holding the object I imagined pointing it at another living being—perhaps a moose (for food), a human (self-defense), a bear (food and/or self-defense). My friend showed me how to load and unload it, and I fired a blank. The entire experience repulsed me. So much violence contained in one cold, heavy stick.
You know you’d use it, though, my friend said, in response to my disgust. If you had to, you would. I shook my head, said something dismissive. But they’re probably right; I would use it, I think, if I really felt I had to. It’s not like I haven’t faced similar questions before: whether I’d decapitate a rattlesnake we found under the house in a remote part of the Navajo Nation if we weren’t able to trap it in a bag and transport it elsewhere (luckily we were); whether I’d physically shield my friends, one of whom was pregnant, if we encountered a bear on a recent hike (luckily we didn’t). The answer, both times and countless others, is that I undeniably would. It’s a primal urge, to protect the people we love. Sometimes also to protect ourselves. As for whether I’d actually use this friend’s gun: I truly hope to never find out.
People tend to choose me for their survival teams. It’s surprising because I often think of myself as useless; I feel lazy, worry I don’t do enough, worry I don’t show up how I want to. But related to my friend’s comment: apparently others don’t see that. Instead, I’ve been told I come across as scrappy and willing to do what it takes. For a while I prized this feedback; I relied on it as a sign of usefulness, of my value. A counter-narrative to my negative thoughts. But now, I tend to think everyone has that quality. Somehow I get an unfair benefit; maybe my scrappiness is just a bit closer to the surface, less concealed. Maybe that’s not a good thing.
Humans are incredibly adaptable—we make a new normal out of even the worst circumstances. So given my belief in our innate resourcefulness, the qualities I prize in my “survival team” are social ones: nonviolent communication, open-mindedness, aversion to hierarchies. (Okay, the ability to find food, fix things, and make shelters all rank highly, too.) But I also know this game is meaningless. As much as I’d hope to live in Starhawk’s post-apocalyptic fantasy, it’ll probably be more like the worlds out of Octavia Butler’s prescient genius mind. We won’t get to choose our teams; the teams won’t matter.
Meanwhile, we’re all still here. And in this world, I’ve found it’s not always possible to show up how I want to in a crisis, particularly in a professional context.
