New to Vermont, Part II.

New to Vermont, Part II.

It’s not too late to sign up for the free course offered through the Vermont State Colleges system available to Vermonters whose jobs were affected by COVID-19. Even though I earned a university degree almost four decades ago, I enrolled in two online community classes this fall, including a Storytelling and Media course which required me to record a podcast one week and then write a mock newspaper article in the following week. I used both of these to highlight the story of someone new to Vermont, a young family member who came here from Portland Oregon to find the space to ask the questions that she needed to ask to shape a new story, not only for herself but for her peers and this nation.

Click here to listen to New to Vermont, Part I, a podcast!

Part II, below:

It Felt Like War

Marlboro, VT
1:11 pm, November 1, 2021

Protestors march into downtown Portland, Bex Burcham, June 2020.


26-year-old Bex arrived in Vermont last month just as the leaves began to explode in color.

“I had a dream about these trees,” Bex said, “Just before I left Portland.”

It was late September when Bex messaged an aunt in Vermont in the middle of the night.

“I was experiencing some serious burn-out,” Bex said, “And I knew I needed a safe place to rest and write.”

Bex grew up the oldest daughter of six children in a relatively isolated Evangelical Christian community in rural Oregon. At 19, Bex relocated to the coastal city of Portland where they attended bible college and studied literature.

“I’d always loved to write,” Bex said of the fantasy stories they’d begun penning at the early age of 7. By the time Bex was in Portland, they’d begun to dabble in non-fiction, writing boldly on a personal blog about the war inside their body–the self-hatred of flesh, the sin of desire. 

Before COVID reached Portland in early 2020, Bex had left Christianity and had begun exploring and claiming an emerging identity. They named their new blog, The Queer Apostate–A Journey of Falling In and Out of Love with Evangelical Christianity.

The following summer, Portland became a flashpoint for the Black Lives Matter movement and Bex found themselves swept up in the protests.

“I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t really know about BLM before George Floyd,” they said. “I’d seen signs and hashtags… But I’d lived in a bubble from the day I was born.”

Just before Bex reached out to their aunt in Vermont, they made this post on Facebook:

Are you deconstructing your childhood experience in homeschool evangelicalism? I want to hear your story! I’m especially looking for more writers and artists from our community. PM me!

Bex was brought up to think that race was no longer an issue and climate change was not real and other social issues were distractions. “I just see it all so different now,” Bex says.

Bex first heard of the BLM protests in Portland when they received an alert on their phone notifying them of an 8 pm. curfew.  “I was off social media at the time so my roommate explained what was going on.” 

The roommate invited Bex to participate. “We made signs at the kitchen table,” Bex said, “And our other roommate read-aloud tips about tear gas.”

Bex dismissed that roommate’s concerns as overly cautious. “I was not at all prepared for what we walked into. Not hundreds of protestors, but thousands.”

Bex later wrote an account of their experience on their blog:

When I first heard about the brutal killing of George Floyd, I was heartbroken, but my attention faded into the noise of the news cycle… When the protests started, I saw the story as the news told it: rioters and looters antagonizing police… From my bedroom reading the news and watching live streams, my own resolve felt distracted, conflicted.

Then I kneeled with 10,000 people in front of a police station.


Bex felt hesitant at first with the idea of protesting. They were brought up in a culture of “niceness,” a niceness that didn’t allow for disruption of polite society. But Bex attributes their experience of the protests in Portland with an awakening to white supremacy and the stronghold it has in Evangelical Christianity.

When Bex describes the speakers at the protest gathering on the waterfront, their eyes light up, “You can’t turn away after you hear those stories,” Bex says.

Bex was galvanized to stand with people of color in her community by the words of Reverend E.D. Mondainé who said to the thousands gathered: “There is no safer place to be than in the company of hope.”

In the Company of Hope
was the title Bex gave to their post about the protests, calling on others to join in.

“Kneel with us,” Bex shouted among the other protestors kneeling in front of the police. Bex was just feet away from the line of officers in riot gear who were gripping batons, tear gas, pepper spray and guns.

Bex wrote on her blog that they stared into the eyes of a young cop, barely over twenty and thought he was on the edge of tears.

“Maybe I was projecting,” Bex wrote. “Maybe I needed to see humanity in these soldiers.”

Bex said her heart broke that night. “There was no question in my mind,” she wrote, “The police started the riot.”

“I can’t breathe!” the voices of the kneeling protestors called out. “I can’t breathe!”

They gave us three minutes before the tear gas hit… There was nowhere to run. Any group over ten was surrounded and gassed, flash bombs hit every few feet, people were choking and pouring milk over their eyes, calling for our medics, but still chanting “Stay together, stay tight!”

I wanted to run, but the smaller the group, the more danger for each individual. They needed bodies. I had to stay. Even as we faced the line of cops marching toward us with our hands up, standing still, they launched attack after attack.

Bex watched not only the city they called home but their worldview, transformed over the days of the protest in Portland in 2020.

There were chain-link fences blocking off half the streets, police car lights flashing behind them. Businesses… boarded up. Helicopters and drones hovered above us –

“It felt like war,” Bex said of Portland. “The fear I felt of the police… a tiny fraction of what people of color face consistently.”

In the months that followed, as the protests waned and COVID dragged on, Bex began to spiral. They couldn’t keep up with their studies or their workload and they had difficulty meeting very basic personal needs. When they found themselves unable to eat or bathe, they reached out to an aunt back east. Although Bex didn’t say it, what they describe sounds like PTSD.

“Come in time to see the leaves change,” Bex’s aunt replied. “Before the first snow flies.”

Just days after Bex arrived on the backroads of rural Vermont, they celebrated their 27th birthday.

Almost a month has passed since and the surround of color that welcomed their arrival has fallen to the ground.

“It mostly rains in Portland,” Bex says, about the west coast city they left behind. “I’m looking forward to a real winter.”

Bex tells their aunt that they want to shape a new story while they’re here and when their aunt, who is also a writer, asks Bex how they think Vermont might play a part in the telling of a new story, Bex smiles and replies that it already has:

“In the space to ask that question.”

Bex in Vermont, October 2021. Kelly Salasin.


Kelly Salasin





New to Vermont

New to Vermont

This fall, the Vermont State Colleges system offered free classes and training to Vermonters whose jobs were affected by COVID-19. I'd earned a university degree almost four decades ago, but since I could no longer lead in-person classes and needed to brush up on my online skills, I enrolled for two courses at CCV. 

One of those courses is entitled Storytelling & Media and we were recently assigned to make a mock podcast so I interviewed a family member from Portland Oregon who had just moved in with me in Southern VT. 

Despite the thirty years between us, Bex and I are both writers and passionate about social justice which made for easy conversation on everything from Black Lives Matter to what it means to tell a new story and find the space to tell it--in Vermont: 

For New to Vermont, Part II, click here.

The Rolling Petri Dish Is On the Road

The Rolling Petri Dish Is On the Road

Just when I was feeling so proud about our state leading the nation in response to COVID. Also, a well-written/titled piece.

The Vermont Political Observer.

“Four more years! Four more years!”

Congratulations to Vermont’s conservative nutcases, who managed to fill the better part of a bus to Washington, D.C. for Wednesday’s hopeless Trump rally. The above is a screenshot taken from a Facebook video, which shows a bunch of proud right-wingers stuffed into a bus with nary a trace of masks or social distancing.

It’s a 10-hour ride to Washington, a full day of rallying with other anti-maskers, and then a 10-hour ride back to Vermont, trapped in this mobile superspreader. If there’s a single speck of coronavirus on board, they’re all getting the Covid.

I’d just be satisfied with calling them anti-social idiots, but you know, I’m old and have existing conditions that put me at high risk for Covid, so I take this personally. These people are dangerous. I hope to Hell that none of them live anywhere near my neck…

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waiting

waiting

In this piece, my 25-year old niece across the country attempts to make sense of the string of days in quarantine–before the uprising… (a follow up post on her blog captures her reluctant participance, tear gas and committment)

the queer apostate

I took a walk this morning. Well, afternoon. Remade into morning with coffee and buttered toast. I feel my body remolding into a sitting shape, criss cross applesauce on my bed embroidering, or on the couch reading, or lounged in front of Grey’s Anatomy. Things aren’t tasteless yet, but still my days feel like lumps of dough rising on the counter; alive, yeast turning sugar into soft porous shapes, but waiting to be kneaded into a new form, so much waiting.

In the neighborhood, there are also signs of life made by waiting. Someone’s ceiling fan is drying with a fresh coat of white, propped up on old paint cans in their driveway. Someone else painted sweet gum pods rainbow colors and hung them by ribbons from the slender, bare limbs of another tree. Kids are sitting in the patches of grass along the sidewalks, or even in the gravel…

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Potato Chips for Breakfast

Potato Chips for Breakfast

In the 25+ years since I moved to the mountains from the Mid-Atlantic, I’ve seen my share of May snowfalls, the latest recorded–May 18th–which would have been the year we lived on Ames Hill in the one bedroom fishbowl apartment, with the floor to cathedral ceiling windows, which was just after my youngest was born. (That place had a great kitchen, small but so functional.) He’s 18 now.

This May, however, is the most I’ve seen consecutive snow, flurries mostly, until today, when we’ve risen to a world in white, which was already true earlier this week over on Hogback, with just a little more elevation than us.

I finally got my seeds in this week, a whole lot of work. I stopped when the rain picked up. My fingers were raw. I wonder what the seeds will make of this covering. Or if they won’t.

My son has an Ultimate game this afternoon. Home game. His tournament last weekend upstate was canceled as was the one the weekend before that. Fields flooded. (Those were the last oof his high school tournaments.)

Imagine if this snow was on a Saturday when a bride was planning her spring wedding. We’re heading to one soon. Across country. Forecast calls for high 80s. Flood warnings there through yesterday.

I thought I’d cleanse this month, but instead, I’ve taken to alternating between kitchari and spring greens–and baked goods, chocolate & caffeine. I don’t know what my body will make of this. But I’m learning to rock more and resist less. To let myself be rocked. To surrender the ride.

Potato chips for breakfast.

(Spring 2019)