My name is Yanerry and I’m a mental health/sexual assault advocate. I’m currently working on a college curriculum that includes the documentary that I was featured in, Hiding in Plain Sight: Youth Mental Illness. The team I’m working with is a part of the organization Work2BeWell. You can find me by Instagram @Yan.erry.
The 5-7-5 syllable format is not respected by all haiku enthusiasts. It took me 5 years of laboring away in private before I seriously began studying the centuries long history and learned how much of a rookie I really was in this poetic form.
Now, for example, I tune in to a podcast about haiku called “Poetry Pea” (that is pea as in p-e-a, please don’t ask me where the name originated). The British moderator, recording from her home in Switzerland, conducts lively conversations with guests from around the world. It’s not as pretentious as it sounds. I appreciate the haiku that are submitted for analysis and judged for publication in the Poetry Pea journal. I encourage you to check it out if you have an interest in learning more about haiku.
I was listening to the highlighted haiku on a recent Poetry Pea episode and counted out the syllables on my fingertips. 11 syllables, 10, 12, 12, oh…. there’s a 14 syllable one. Nothing came close to 17. It is clear that professionals in the artform of haiku are not incredibly fond of the 5-7-5 arrangement.
In Japan where haiku originated hundreds of years ago, they traditionally stay consistent with 17 onji. While they contain similarities, the Japanese onji and English syllable do have significant differences. Onji normally represent a much shorter sound compared to an English syllable. By an academic analysis that I read, 17 onji actually average closer to 12 English syllables. I discovered this comparison of the two languages in a book published in 1985 called the Haiku Handbook by William Higginson and Penny Harter. Obviously, this notion of the differences in syllables has been well documented for a long time. This is the primary rationale why most professionals limit their syllable count.
However, in popular culture, everyone will gladly agree with you when you confidently remember the 5-7-5 standard format. Haiku are the de facto elementary school introductory poetic form – inspiring the kind of school work that sentimental parents often keep to embarrass their kids at high school graduations. For young writers who are introduced to the notion of syllables at a young age, haiku could nearly be considered a bridge between math and phonetics. Since it doesn’t take much time to finish your assignment, no wonder it is so appreciated and remembered by students! Who wants to remember the more complicated standards of limericks, acrostics, and kennings?
I think many adults have come to consider haiku child’s play – while they may remember with fondness the introduction of haiku as a young student and the fun notion that they had a quick portal into Japanese culture for a moment, it is largely dismissed. Often in an elementary English unit, haiku will be introduced along with other forms of poetry and then steamrolled by the Shakespearian sonnet – which is often considered “real poetry” because of its English heritage, complexity, length, and rhyming schemes.
But I challenge that assumption. The brevity of the haiku is its beauty. A great haiku can stand alone, with few words doing the work, giving the reader a space to contemplate, compare to their own experiences, and appreciate the beauty and delicacy of the subject matter.
In communication, we are often told that less is more. Haiku has helped me to quiet my thoughts, concentrate on the small things, write shorter emails, become a better conversationalist, and look for natural moments of beauty all around me. It has taught me how to look and listen with more acuity for beauty.
Back to the 5-7-5. I was well into utilizing my rudimentary understanding of haiku before Higginson and Harter enlightened me on the onji and how it throws a wrench into the assumptions of our school teacher’s common practice. I defer to the authors of “The Haiku Handbook” and the many other scholars who long ago made clear that us English speakers are not actually adhering to traditional Japanese haiku by using the same sound count.
Poetry Pea is doing an excellent job of showcasing the talent of modern masters of the form. I have the utmost respect for fellow haiku writers who may think going over 12 English syllables is testing the limits. Perhaps I’m the iconoclast. I’ll stick with the 5-7-5. There is a certain amount of joy in staying with what I learned at Sutton Elementary School. I do like throwing my fingers in the air and pumping my fist when my first impulse yields the correct amount of syllables.
There is much more to know about the nuances of haiku and I look forward to sharing them with you. In a later podcast episode, we’ll get into the Japanese term of kigo – the use of seasonal words. Kigo is another recent introduction into my literary lexicon that has since been shaping my style by incorporating more traditional elements of haiku writing.
The haiku that I chose for the end of this brief lesson on haiku is, yes, adhering to my 5-7-5 style. I need these 17 syllables to give myself enough room to capture the moment in a way that 12 would just not allow.
This might be my favorite haiku that I have written. Why? Because when I read it, I remember exactly where I was and the beauty of the moment. Some writers describe a “haiku moment” like a photo, except in words. For the writer, and potentially for the reader, the brief writing carries the resonance and the feeling of a particular memory, in a way that perhaps a picture could not even convey.
A well written haiku challenges the assumption that a picture is worth a thousand words – reducing that cliche into an advertisement for the photography industry. While a picture anchors the mind to a particular place, the use of language gives the reader flexibility to color in the details from their own experiences of similar moments that may have been long forgotten. While I yearn to give you details for the time, setting, and occasion for this haiku, I withhold the additional context to give your imagination more liberty to make it your own.
As full moon rises
Silver Lake water ripples
Pale glow floats towards me
One of my favorite words is verge. It is one of those fun words that can be either a noun or verb. I first gained a deeper appreciation for its meaning when reading a book about landscapes. In that book, verge was described as a place that delineated the border of human made space and natural space. The leading example was of beachfront properties, describing how humans often desire to build sophisticated infrastructure as close to wild places as possible. So a coastline could be a verge – a transition space between the inevitable wild and the human built.
Another use of the word verge is the green space between a street and sidewalk. In this case, it is a highly controlled natural zone in the streetscape. Other terms used for that zone are berm, curb strip, swale, grass strip, terrace, green belt, tree bank, street lawn, sidewalk plot, etc. When I visited Portland, a town that does an incredible job of landscaping with diverse plantings in that zone, they refer to them as “hell strips.”
In this zone, the verge is technically, and very importantly, the right-of-way. Say “right-of-way” 5 times fast and you’ll begin to wonder how it ever got that civic definition. Whose right? What way? It would probably be more accurate to call it a no-mans-land. Often, the sidewalk verge is an example of what is essentially the public commons gone wrong – either bare minimum treatment of weeds OR an immaculate fertilized and herbicide-fed turf grass that noone ever uses except to spend a few minutes burning fossil fuels to mow. A chemical dump.
How many verge acres are there when adding up thousands of small square foot patches in this country?
In my personal experience with a sidewalk verge, I was a volunteer leader for the landscape at my church (a former warehouse packed into a dense downtown neighborhood) that was surrounded by asphalt. Before I took on the role, there was no one doing it. I daresay that no one even thought it was a needed role because it was a weed covered hell strip next to a building that we did not own. This verge was practically invisible.
I proposed a raised bed in the verge. With some TLC, it became a mini-rose garden at the side entrance of our nondescript rag tag church. A year later, Toni Costanzi, who helped us build the bed, passed away. She was the first person from the relatively young church who had a funeral in the building, so we put a memorial sign at the corner of the bed. It was truly beautiful. A little bit of heaven on that strip.
In the following three years, with some serendipitous support from local Indiana University Professor Kevin Lair, 100 linear feet of native flowers, grasses, shrubs, and trees were planted in front of the building. A section was designated as a neighborhood garden with a sign that encouraged walkers to take some food as they strolled down Sycamore St. The verge came to life. It was my introduction into native plants and forever changed my understanding of the value of ecological diversity.
There are other verges – the verb variety. Instead of a gray line of delineation, a verge can be more about decision making, at the cusp of a transition in one’s life. It can be about connecting with a new opportunity.
People say they are “on the verge,” like walking towards the precipice of a monumental life decision. To verge can be like walking from the known into the unknown – facing all the pressure that comes from making a leap towards a new life.
Verges can be thwarted by outside forces – like being on the verge to victory, only to have the ball bounce the wrong way on the road to defeat. Or you can di-verge and decide to go a different way from where you had expected.
In 2023, I attempted to verge into City Council political life. I walked into the Election Day party ahead in the polls, only to see my lead dwindle and then slip away at the last moment. I was on the verge to a new path in life and then I lost. The verge line between the public life of an elected official and the wild life of the general public grew very thin in November. In my ongoing advocacy work, I will remain near that edge, that gray space where private citizens try to influence public officials. Hugging close to that line is what I think of as democracy, as we all play a part that can go well beyond our time in the voting booth.
The day after I lost the election, I drove to Chicago for work. The timing was very helpful as I decompressed from 4 months of feverish activity. The first morning in the city, I woke up early, grabbed a cup of coffee, and walked straight to the shores of Lake Michigan. There, at Promontory Point near Hyde Park, I walked out towards the large hewn stones that formed a bulwark against the crashing waves. I was mesmerized. The skyline unfolded north of me. That crisp morning, I climbed down the rock until I was dangerously close to the spray of the water mist. I started taking pictures. Why was I doing this? I was enthralled by the rock in foreground, the stop action of a crashing wave caught at its apex, and the skyline in the background.
They weren’t great pictures. It’s impossible to catch the immanence of that place or the feeling that I had that morning – the proximity to unpredictable nature on the Chicago metropolis shore.
I had found a verge.
I danced on the stones as long as I could before I needed to leave to meet my colleagues.
Found verge at rock wall
Lake waves crash on hand hewn stone
Lawn then trail then road
I ran for City Council earlier this month. On the Sunday before the election, I decided to walk the outdoor labyrinth and then I went home to write, rather than continuing to seek, knock, and ask my way into office. This is an edited version of what I wrote while in that moment:
Beautiful fall day in early November. After 3 months of knocking on over 1,000 doors, I find myself sitting on my front porch, compelled to capture this moment of tension, 48 hours before the final votes are cast.
I’ve never run for a political office. This year, I finally succumbed to the drumbeat of people telling me that I have the right personality and patience to do the job.
This is what I have come to understand – people care deeply for their neighbor, but aren’t sure what is best for others. In that quandary, some think that people should trust in self organization and caring for each other, free from the restrictions or requirements of a governmental authority. Others see the mounting needs of others in society and see great value in a public institution that cares for those who struggle.
I believe that humans have the capability and responsibility to organize effective governance so that the plight of poverty is diminished in civilization. But we must be actively engaged in our democracy to make this aspiration possible.
I am at peace with my participation in this democratic process. I entered this campaign focused on meeting my neighbors, sharing my story of developing my leadership sensibilities during the city’s flood recovery, and focusing on affordable housing, the mental health matters initiative, supporting Nexus Park and the associated economic development around the area, and meaningful participation in the local climate alliance. I’m committed to the work of Landmark Columbus for preserving our cultural heritage and advancing design principles in our civic life.
Getting votes can have a corrupting influence on the imagination. It’s easy to weigh every decision as an opportunity to gain as many votes as possible. And if not careful, it’s easy to start objectifying and stereotyping people in the process. Asking yourself, who should I and who should I not care about in this time-constrained endeavor to win?
At some point about a month ago, I let go of the pressure to win and focused on the process. It is more about paying attention to democracy and less about politics. To care about people voting and wanting to be educated about the issues. This does not need to be a popularity contest.
When people talk about democracy dying, I think it’s because we have turned our minds towards the abstractions of national politics and not towards the relationships that can be formed between voters and their elected officials. It is easier to have that relationship building value in a city election. I’ve been able to meet a large percentage of the people who live in this neighborhood. I have the experience of listening to and caring for all of the perspectives that have been expressed to me along the way. People have respectfully disagreed with me. Some have not been able to engage in conversation at all due to my party affiliation. Others have been willing to listen to change their mind. I’ve had big smiles and high fives and invites into homes.
I grew up in this district on Woodfield Place, went to school, bought my first home, attended church, and settled into this home with Jen for the past 11 years in this district. I raised my children here. It’s been an honor to meet so many people who create the fabric of my existence. Who help keep me safe, who provide joy with their house decorations, who work to make this community better.
I’m unconventional – more of an artist than an economist. I would like to think that I have the best designed signs among all the candidates. I’m not the best public speaker and I still get butterflies every time I think about knocking on doors.
Today is the first day that I did not feel those butterflies. It’s the first day that I felt like I can rest and reflect without agonizing about what I could have done. And maybe I will lose this election by a handful of votes that perhaps I would have gained had I walked around this neighborhood today. It’s impossible to know.
I’ve approached each day as an underdog. Wondering if I could push past the 50% mark by Election Day. I kind of imagined this Sunday as a mad dash to win – skipping church, maybe skipping lunch and galvanizing an army of people to knock on doors with me. But I did not do that. I have watched the shadows on this day. I’ve reacquainted myself with the flowers that have browned and grayed since their full blooms were on display when I first started this campaign. They have lost their energy and are giving back to their roots, preparing for the inevitable winter and dormancy. They will emerge in the spring. I will too.
I’m not sure what will happen and I’m at peace with the public making that choice for me. I would like to think that my life won’t be dramatically different whether I win or lose. With a win, I have a council vote. If I lose, I will continue to be an advocate. Either way, at the top of my mind is serving the public in a way that is genuine, full of care, and curious about how to shape a community to be better connected. We all sit somewhere in this vast web of Columbus and we are inextricably linked. I have learned that more than ever over the course of this year. There is no way to separate each other from the reality of a shared destiny.
I chose a campaign slogan of “Listen. Learn. Lead.” to calm my nerves and to be a reflection of who I am. It’s easy to get caught in the desire to be an aspiring omni-everything leader. Great in front of the audience, great in front of the computer, great in the subject matter of public opinion, and connected to the important people – able to get things done. But the reality is that most of us only have the capacity to excel in a few of those skills. I am at peace with listening to the themes of this community and being humble enough to not have immediate answers. I hope that I encourage new people to come to public meetings to help serve the greater good.
I will be walking away from this season having learned that I’m a listener – or at least aspire to be. To accept a leadership style that is perhaps a little less driven by ego and more by a desire to empower others – not for me to be at the center, but for the connections that emerge to be the motivation for positive change.
I’ve not talked directly about the environment perhaps as much as I would have liked. I will close by saying that I want to think about all of life as my constituency. Everything that pulses and contributes to the ecosystem has a voice and purpose that is worthy to be listened to and upheld. To be a part of the conversation of creation. We are stewards of something that we did not create. How do you create a sense of stewardship over all that we are connected to, human and non-human? It’s about seeking relationships with those who struggle, who have a voice, but are not heard, and are asking for our help.
Between knocks on porch
Calm before conversation
The person cares here
I lost the election by a 48% to 52% margin. I was glad to see the newspaper print an editorial a few days later with that begin with this sentence:
“Eric Riddle was not victorious in his bid for a seat on the Columbus City Council, but on election night Nov. 7, his prevailing opponent, Kent Anderson, said Riddle was a winner.”
This quote captured my intentions in campaigning – to build a positive relationship with my neighbors and with Kent Anderson – who despite being my opponent, I referred to as my running mate.
I look forward to supporting Kent and the community in whatever capacity best suits my abilities. I’m proud to have accepted an invitation to be a Mental Health Matters Ambassador in Columbus. Perhaps that will be more impactful for me to be doing over the next 4 years!
I dedicate this Haikast to my wife, Jennifer Anne Riddle, for our 11 year wedding anniversary!
I asked Jen to marry me in the center of a labyrinth on a cold February afternoon. The previous week was Valentine’s Day and she was clearly upset that I did not pop the question during dinner in downtown Indianapolis. She didn’t know that I was waiting for Ash Wednesday the following week.
I first met Jen in Boston in 2009. She was one of my sister’s roommates. When I went to cheer on my sister in the Boston Marathon, the all women’s Christian household where Suzanne lived allowed an exception to have a guy stay overnight since I was a family member.
I was dating at the time, so I didn’t think beyond the budding of a platonic relationship. Besides, I have never had much of a radar for flirtation. We did share great conversations about Jack Kerouac, the band U2, the NFL, and my endeavor to write a book about the Columbus flood recovery. We even shared an ice cream cone. Platonically.
It was about a year later when she called me randomly after the Indianapolis Colts lost the Super Bowl to the New Orleans Saints. She called again a month later when the Duke Blue Devils beat the Butler Bulldogs in the NCAA basketball championship. At that point, I was single and surprised by what became clear, after the second call, that these were not random conversations.
We quickly jumped to topics with a little more spiritual depth.
Independently, in that spring of 2010, we both decided to give up all liquids except water for Lent. She was doing it for a ministry called Blood:Water mission. I was doing it because I realized that I had become entirely too dependent on daily coffee. This opened up our conversations of shared journeys.
You may say that we entered the labyrinth together that spring.
Two years later, when we were walking a real labyrinth together – on the threshold of the marriage proposal – we had been through a lot. She moved to Columbus and transferred to Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis to complete her Masters of Divinity degree. We broke up twice as I navigated the nagging suffering of post-divorce life and introducing my children to her. We lived through me having a major depressive episode. It wasn’t a straight shot to the altar. I don’t think life ever is as linear as we want it to be.
Labyrinths have been around a long time. If you dive into the history, you’ll discover that many ancient cultures spread across the globe have iconography related to labyrinths. Coins from Greece in the 5th century BC included labyrinth images. It is thought that the labyrinth has been part of human civilization for over 4,000 years.
If you are not familiar with labyrinths – or perhaps only associate the term with David Bowie’s film from the 1980s – there is a very strong distinction from a maze. People get lost in mazes in a series of dead ends with only one way through. If doing a maze on paper, you may need to erase your path a few times before successfully finding your way out.
You will not get lost in a labyrinth or need to retrace your steps. While the traditional labyrinth, codified in the 13th century floor of a French cathedral, may seem intimidating with 11 concentric rings leading to a circle in the middle – it is not a place of dead ends. You will find your way to the center – to what some labyrinth aficionados describe as the womb. A safe place to reflect before reentering the world.
Labyrinths are the home of spiritual ritual. On that Ash Wednesday with Jen, I chose the labyrinth walk as a sign that we would never face a dead end. We might not be able to anticipate the twists and turns, but we would do it together, we will find the center.
As we walked out, we headed inside the church on the property. We walked out with ash on our foreheads, a sign that sacrifice and mourning is part of this life. While probably not the first choice of most people who are minutes into engagement, it was fitting for us. Even in the moment of showing shared aspirations of a lifetime of love, we acknowledged that our time together would come to an end – that one of us would have to step out of the labyrinth first.
We have walked many labyrinths over the last 12 years. For years, I had been trying to build a labyrinth in Columbus. Finally, starting just before the pandemic, First United Methodist Church – where Jen was working – agreed to pursue putting a labyrinth in the lawn just north of the church. The labyrinth was installed in 2022, 10 years after our wedding. Benches and native plants adorned the corners. New trees were added to make the space feel more intimate.
In early summer of 2023, Jen made the decision to leave her job to take on a new ministry position at First Presbyterian Church, just a couple blocks away. It was an emotionally difficult time for both of us as she decided to leave her first job in full time ministry.
Before making her announcement, I joined Jen in late May as she led others from the church in a labyrinth walk, one of the first facilitated educational walks she had led with members of the congregation.
As is my practice, when I reached the center of the labyrinth, I paused in prayer. When I opened my eyes, I saw her – with both churches, like bookends, in my field of vision. We would be walking on soon, together, in her ministry journey, taking an unexpected twist on a path whose only promise is to never lead to a dead end.
Centered, still, movement
From labyrinth, two steeples
She is walking out
It’s hard to accurately describe how big my parents’ garden was when I was a child. I remember many summer days working with them to dig rows, plant seeds, weed and harvest. It was home to many vegetables, most notably the corn that my dad loved to grow and the green beans that I wasn’t as fond of. But just as the corn towered over my single digit self, the garden also spread wide to be as big as any that I knew. To my eye, perhaps only my dad’s parents’ garden in rural Green County, Indiana was larger.
Whatever the dimensions, it was large enough to plant in me a seed of understanding and a desire to want to have my own garden.
I am excited that this year I only spent $10 on my entire vegetable garden thanks to a combination of saving seed packets from last year, harvesting my own seeds, trading plants with friends, getting seeds from the public library seed share program, and allowing volunteer plants to find their way. A package of brussel sprout plant plugs and a seed pack of green beans was my only expense for a massive harvest this year. It may seem counterintuitive, but the more involved with plants I have become, the less I have had to spend on their cultivation.
For people who did not grow up around the cycle of planting and harvesting, I can imagine that gardening may seem like a risky gamble into struggling with unkempt weeds and frustrating neighbors. Depending on your property, a garden can be a public hobby and, if you aren’t sure of your motivations or confident in what you are doing, may invite embarrassment at the site of perceived failure when the harvest doesn’t seem worth the effort.
What I can tell you is this – the more that I have gardened, the more I realize that I don’t do the gardening for my diet, property value, public relations with my neighbors, or to fill my time.
I garden for the plants and for the non-human life that benefits from the presence of diversity on my property.
Yes, all of the former that I mentioned are definitely benefits for me as well.. I will be the first to raise my hand to say that a late spring harvest of salad greens or a long awaited late summer watermelon are among the most savory and sweet moments of my year.
In the garden, beyond the abundance of harvest, there is also death. The use of herbicides, forgetting to water during dry spells, the mildew that may get hold of my squash before maturity, and all kinds of other unforeseen events may create less than ideal conditions of growth. The natural lifecycle of plants and insects, and, of course, rabbits’ appetites, will inevitably dash one’s ideal harvest dreams. I have more than once accidentally pulled a maturing desirable plant in my hasteful weeding endeavor on a hot summer evening. It doesn’t take too long to cope with death in the garden – both intentional and unintentional.
This seasonal lifecycle welcomes my presence in this entire drama, especially with native plants. The ultimate goal of a balanced, thriving environment around my home is my care and attention. That is why I do my best to restrain myself from pulling plants that migrate to parts of my yard where they were not originally planted. Rather than dumping fertilizer at a fixed location, I let them show me where they want to grow. I figure that they know better than I do what conditions work best for them – small changes in sunlight, moisture, soil type and neighboring plants play a big role in what will thrive and what will falter. Knowing this, I do my best to work with the plants to let them exert their preferences, rather than me enforcing mine.
I have a perhaps too cautious concern for the use of fertilizers and anything that ends with the suffix “-ide”, so I rely on my time to be the best determiner of what grows and what dies. So I watch, learn, and plan for the introduction of new plants and successional plantings to keep the bees busy. I want to attract other flying friends – whether it be birds or other insects, butterflies – by the diversity of plants in my yard, so they remain curious to come back year after year to see what I am up to on my little corner of the planet.
My relationship with those creatures is what inspires me much more than trying to impress my neighbors. I do keep a reasonable order about my designs, but the primary rationale of my gardening and the outcomes that I care most deeply about are focused on if the birds and bees feel invited. My pro tip to those who want to get a little more adventurous with gardening is to keep the mowed areas edged very well so people can tell that you take great care of the lawn portions of the yard.
People often ask me how I spend so much time outside and not worry about getting stung. The funny thing is, the only sting I have received over the past decade was from a wasp that wasn’t happy with me entering my back door.
Shadow of the gardener
Care of dirty hands
My basement stairs now have the “Rips Room” letters that I, Eric Rippy Riddle, inherited from my grandfather, Amos Harlen Rippy. The letters hung in the same formation from his home in Tell City, IN throughout my young life. It is an honor to walk down my stairs and remember the familiar walk down my grandparents basement steps.
My grandfather was a quiet man. Growing up, the things that I most identified with my grandfather were:
His stable presence in all of my big life’s moments
He worked most of his life at the Tell City Chair Company
He owned a golf cart at his local course and played all the time
He absolutely loved St. Louis Cardinals baseball
He was responsible for hanging the witty sayings and announcements with the black plastic letters on the church sign
He stopped smoking in the early 1980s when I asked him why he smoked (I have little recollection of this, but it was often stated at family gatherings)
He was in the Air Force in World War 2
The family called him “Pop”. His friend’s called him “Rip.”
In 2013, Pop was my last grandparent to die. I was close to all 4 of my grandparents, but Pop’s quiet nature was overshadowed by my grandmother who showered love, attention, and lots of cookies on me. His quiet presence was one of solidarity, but not as much what I would call intimacy. It felt like there was something that I didn’t know about him and wasn’ sure how to find out.
The funny thing is that I did not cry at the funerals of my other grandparents. I also did not speak at those funerals. I did both the day Pop was buried.
His funeral is easily the most memorable for me. I remember standing on the cemetery hillside, listening to the playing of Taps and getting an overwhelming feeling of what I can only describe as being opened. I was compelled to begin writing poetry that I described as “openings”. I wrote this after Pop’s funeral:
Today, Pop was buried
Next to my mother’s mother
Sunny, windy on top of Tell City
My son watched the old man fold the flag
Red, White, Blue described
I stood in the tent, feeling an opening
A generation is gone
My mom, dad, aunt, and uncle said their goodbye
At the church, I took the Kleenex
And mumbled through 8 tissues
I said death is a myth
and my grandfather is alive
Pop lived 68 years after he flew over Tokyo in 1945. It took me until 2022 to realize that my grandfather was part of Operation Meetinghouse. The air raids over Tokyo on March 9th and 10th in 1945 are considered the deadliest air raid in human history. With a firestorm that killed nearly 100,000 people, the napalm burned a quarter of Tokyo to the ground. While the atomic bombs get the attention, it was the Operation Meetinghouse air raid that my grandfather participated in that took the most human life.
His generation fought the most lethal war in human history. Pop embodied the conflict that horrifies and amazes all who study that time in human history. I can not imagine the psychological anguish – whether felt or stuffed into his unconscious that he must have experienced. I wish I could have known more and spoken to him about that time in his life.
I wept the day I pieced together the dates of Operation Meetinghouse with what my brother had discovered in Pop’s journals. While it did not feel like a family secret, this realization was an unearthing of family history that has been life altering to me. It feels like a lost treasure with a key that could only truly be opened by talking to Pop. I think part of my emotional reaction is not being able to talk to him about the experience. I am not sure how this has shaped me or how this knowledge will play a role in my life. It is real and painful and unforgettable. When he died, and I felt opened, maybe it was a way of passing on a desire for my generation to be reconcilers in a world prone to war.
This deeper understanding of Pop’s Air Force service has drawn me closer to him since his passing. When I think of Tom Brokaw’s book, “The Greatest Generation,” I remember my grandfather. I’m thankful that I have lived in relative peace, compared to the world he inherited when he was in his early 20’s and Pearl Harbor put his generation instantly on the path to the deadliest war in human history. Whether soldiers died, like some of his friends, or soldiers survived by dropping bombs on the enemy, I count both as sacrifices. I understand his quiet demeanor more.
Following the war, he thankfully was able to serve the rest of his life in the peaceful town of Tell City, IN. The stability he provided to our family after his service in World War 2 laid a foundation of success for my mother that has since passed down to my generation and my children.
Before Pop passed, his first grandson was born – Isaac Rippy Riddle. I am so thankful that I had the opportunity to honor my grandfather by passing on his family name. May Isaac, like his great grandfather, grow to humbly serve, seeking reconciliation in a complicated world.
Grieving great fire of World War
Nineteen forty five
Technical producer Kevin Earleybird Earley is our guest host for this episode of Revealing Voices. He interviews fellow creative and long time friend Substantial.
Prince George’s County, Maryland-born MC, producer, artist, and educator, Substantial, debuted in 2000 collaborating with the late Japanese producer Nujabes, who later worked on the popular show Samurai Champloo. Legendary rapper and activist, Chuck D of Public Enemy referred to Substantial as “One of the great MCs of our time.” His soulful and introspective brand of Hip Hop music has received critical acclaim from Ebony.com, The Source Magazine, HipHopDX, DJBooth.net, and Okayplayer.com. His music videos have appeared on MTV, VH1, and BET.
Substantial has performed in nearly 20 countries and has collaborated with artists such as Kool Herc, L Universe better known as Verbal (M-Flo), Oddisee, and more. Substantial has licensed music to major brands such as Ford Motor Company, Bentley Motors, and UBER and also had his music featured in films and television shows such as Kevin Hart’s Laugh at My Pain, Kill Me 3 Times starring Simon Pegg, Daytime Emmy nominated show Tough Love and it’s spin-off series Pillow Talk. Substantial has appeared in the documentaries, Freestyle: The Art of Rhyme and Give Back. He has also written and performed original songs for games such as PUBG Mobile, Mobile Legends Bang Bang, Arknights, Tree of Savior, and Renaine. Substantial is also a two-time Hollywood Music in Media Award nominee.
Earleybird and Substantial discuss taking a leap of faith, challenges for mental healthcare in minority communities, and the inspiration of music and the creative process.