Interplace

Hello Interactors,

In 2002, when I was at Microsoft, Bill Gates launched an initiative called Trustworthy Computing (TwC). The internet was fresh, ripe for malicious attacks, and Microsoft was a big target. Memos were issued, posters were printed, teams were formed, and code was fortified. And in the case of hidden Easter Eggs in Windows and Office — removed. Internal hacks weren’t a good look.

Trust is everywhere these days — politicians vow to restore it, social scientists try to measure it, and brands continue to demand it. U.S. money says to trust God, and it seems we’re now asked to trust Musk. Clearly trust isn't universal; it's shaped by our views of and interactions with power, place, and institutions.

Lately, trust feels harder to hold onto. It's not just social media, politics, or government failures — the spaces where trust once thrived are disappearing. Town squares, shops, and local newspapers are vanishing, replaced by fragmented digital alternatives. Trust may be declining; but it's mostly shifting, and not always for the better.

Trust won't simply "return" with a memo from Bill. Nor from Trump, Zuck, Musk, or Jeff. Even if they did, they’d likely soon be tossed in the Trumpster Fire. These figures make us question who is gaining trust, who is losing it, and what these new patterns mean for democracy and social cohesion?

SELF-TRUST LOST TO CIVIC COST

Trust begins with confidence in what we know and perceive. We rely on self-trust to navigate the world — to make decisions, assess risks, and interpret so-called reality. Self-trust relies on the brain’s ability to process uncertainty and predict outcomes. The prefrontal cortex (the brain’s decision-making hub) assesses risks based on past experiences, while the anterior cingulate cortex (a small but crucial center between hemispheres) detects conflicting information, signaling when to doubt or adjust beliefs. When these systems function well, self-trust remains stable.

But in an era of conflicting information, the brain is flooded with competing signals, making it harder to form confident judgments. Chronic exposure to uncertainty and misinformation can overstimulate these networks, leading to decision paralysis or over-reliance on external authorities.

Yet self-trust isn’t just a cognitive process — it is also shaped by social and epistemic (knowledge-related) factors. Prominent NYU philosopher Miranda Fricker, known for her work on epistemic injustice, argues that trust in one’s own knowledge isn’t formed in isolation but depends on social reinforcement and being recognized by others as a credible source of knowledge.

When individuals experience repeated epistemic injustice — being dismissed, ignored, or denied access to authoritative knowledge — they internalize doubt, weakening their own cognitive autonomy. Without reliable social validation or consistent feedback from their surroundings, self-trust erodes. This is not just a psychological state, but a consequence of power structures that shape who gets to "trust" their own judgment and whose knowledge is devalued.

In the past, people validated their understanding through direct experience and social reinforcement. I remember watching TV anchor Walter Cronkite as a kid with my family in Iowa. He was the source of authoritative knowledge for us all. We also learned from trusted local voices and community newspapers. The Des Moines Register was won of the most influential and trusted regional papers in the country. It won 16 Pulitzer Prices from 1924 to 2010 — the first being for the work of syndicated editorial cartoonist “Ding” Darling.

Now, those anchors have weakened. These knowledge sources have been replaced by curated digital landscapes, where information is sorted not by credibility, but by engagement metrics and algorithmic amplification. One case study shows that this shift can lead to a growing public reliance on self-reinforcing information bubbles, where trust in knowledge is shaped more by network effects than by institutional credibility. This creates a paradox: people have more access to knowledge than ever before yet feel less certain in what they know and trust.

This crisis of self-trust extends beyond information. It is not just about struggling to determine what is true, but also about uncertainty over how to act in response to a changing political and social landscape. Despite declining trust in political leaders, there is evidence public support for democracy remains strong. We may doubt the players, and even the game, but our faith in democracy mostly stays the same.

This gap — between distrust in leadership and belief in the system — creates the sense of civic uncertainty we all feel. It’s not hard to find those who once trusted their ability to participate meaningfully in democracy but now feel disengaged, disoriented, or discombobulated. They’re unsure whether their actions can have any real impact.

Voting, town halls, and community groups used to feel like meaningful ways to engage, but when institutions seem distant or unresponsive, they lose their impact. At the same time, digital activism and decentralized movements offer new ways to get involved, but they often lack clear legitimacy, accountability, or real influence on policy.

Rising polarization, disinformation, and the decline of local journalism have made it harder for people to trust democratic institutions. Many still believe in democracy but doubt whether their actions make a difference. This uncertainty fuels disengagement, creating a cycle where institutions fail to respond, deepening distrust. The real crisis isn’t about rejecting democracy — it’s about struggling to find meaningful ways to participate in a system that feels increasingly unresponsive.

STRANGERS ONLINE, NEIGHBORS OFFLINE

If trust in ourselves grounds what we know, trust in others helps it grow. We nurture it through everyday interactions — recognizing familiar faces, exchanging small favors, and feeling a shared connection to the places we live. But as communities change and people become more disconnected, those trust-building moments start to wither.

Many neighborhoods once relied on deep social networks woven through personal relationships — longstanding ties between neighbors, trust built through shared spaces, and informal support systems that provided stability. Small businesses, community centers, and local institutions weren’t just places of commerce or service; they were gathering spots where people formed relationships, exchanged information, and reinforced a sense of belonging. But economic restructuring, gentrification, and urban development have disrupted these networks, dismantling the infrastructure that once sustained social trust.

As housing costs rise, longtime residents are pushed out, taking with them the relationships and shared history that held communities together. Gentrification swaps deep local ties for a more transient crowd, while big corporations replace small businesses that once fostered real connections. Where shop owners knew customers by name, now it’s all about quick transactions, leaving fewer chances for meaningful interaction.

Adding to this shift, the rise of online shopping and door-to-door delivery has further reduced the need for everyday in-person interactions. Where people once ran into neighbors at the local grocery store or chatted with shop owners, now packages arrive with a quick doorstep drop-off, and errands are handled with a few clicks. This convenience comes at a cost, replacing casual, trust-building encounters with isolated transactions, further weakening the social fabric of neighborhoods.

Car dependency doesn’t help. Car dependence doesn’t just reduce social interactions — it reshapes them. As urban sprawl spreads people further apart, longer commutes and car-centric infrastructure leave less time for community engagement, weakening neighborhood ties. Public transit, one of the few remaining shared civic spaces where people of different backgrounds interact, has been deprioritized, reinforcing isolation.

Yet, denser urban living isn’t necessarily the fix. While some advocate for more compact, walkable communities to counteract social fragmentation, there is research that shows density alone doesn’t guarantee stronger social bonds. High-rise developments and mixed-use neighborhoods may put people physically closer together, but without intentional social infrastructure — such as well-designed public spaces, accessible community hubs, and policies that foster local engagement — denser environments can be just as isolating as car-dependent sprawl.

At the same time, digital life has transformed how we interact. Social media and online communities have expanded the scope of connection, but often at the cost of place-based relationships. Online, people tend to engage with those who already share their views, reinforcing ideological silos rather than broadening social trust. Meanwhile, interactions with strangers — once the foundation of civic life — become more fraught, as society sorts itself into parallel realities with fewer common reference points.

Yet social trust is not entirely collapsing. While some forms of trust — particularly trust in strangers and diverse social networks — are declining, alternative forms of community trust are emerging. Digital spaces, local activism, and mutual aid networks offer new avenues for rebuilding trust, even as traditional community bonds weaken. The question is not whether trust exists, but what kinds of trust are flourishing, and at what cost?

CONNECTED OR CONNED

At the broadest scale, institutional trust is what binds societies together — it’s the belief that governments, media, and public institutions operate with some level of fairness, competence, and accountability. But in many places, that trust has been unraveling for decades.

This isn’t just about political polarization or disinformation. Much of the erosion of trust in institutions comes from lived experience. Local governments used to be the most trusted level of governance, but years of budget cuts and privatization have left them struggling to provide basic services. To stay afloat, many cities have outsourced essential services to private companies, prioritizing short-term cost savings over long-term community needs.

As a result, public services have become more uneven, with some neighborhoods getting what they need while others are left behind. Instead of feeling like a reliable support system, local government now often seems distant, underfunded, and unable to truly serve the people who rely on it most.

In the United States, "austerity urbanism" has led to mass school closures in cities like Chicago and Philadelphia, cuts to public transportation in Detroit, and the deterioration of water infrastructure in places like Flint and Jackson. Public housing budgets have shrunk, forcing cities to rely on private-public partnerships that often lead to rising rents and displacement.

Rather than being experienced as sources of support, local governments are increasingly perceived as punitive forces. In some cities, emergency financial managers — appointed to balance municipal budgets — have slashed services and sold public assets with little public input, reinforcing a sense that government is distant, unaccountable, and incapable of serving its residents. The result is a feedback loop of distrust: as public services decline, citizens disengage, reinforcing the very conditions that make institutions seem ineffective or absent.

The decline of trust in representative institutions does not mean trust in governance itself has collapsed. Research shows that while trust in elected officials and legislatures is declining, trust in implementing institutions — such as courts, police, and civil services — has remained relatively stable in many democracies. This suggests that while citizens may distrust politicians and their decision-making, they still believe in the structural functions of governance itself, even if that trust is increasingly conditional and unevenly distributed.

However, as local trust declines, people are looking elsewhere for authority. In some cases, this has meant turning to charismatic leaders who position themselves as restorers of stability in response to perceived governmental dysfunction. Right-wing populist movements like Trumpism — with authoritarian-leaning politicians funded by libertarian-leaning capitalists — have capitalized on this distrust, framing themselves as defenders of "the people" against an out-of-touch political elite.

Meanwhile, others have sought alternative governance structures to fill the void left by failing institutions. For example, food policy expert Katie Morris highlights how some cities, fed up with national inaction on food insecurity, are taking matters into their own hands. She highlights how “Right to Food Cities” are stepping up to provide food assistance and support local food systems, proving that even when higher levels of government fall short, local action can still make a difference. Seattle’s Food Action Plan is one example.

While these efforts demonstrate local governments’ ability to function as alternative governance models, they also highlight the fragmentation of trust — where some communities invest in grassroots action while others retreat into authoritarian appeals for order.

It seems trust isn’t disappearing — it’s being redistributed. Some find security in bureaucratic institutions like the courts and civil service, while others seek top-down leadership in populist figures or create community-driven governance alternatives. Either way, this redistribution deepens political fragmentation, making it harder to achieve widespread institutional legitimacy.

Each of these crises — self-trust, social trust, and institutional trust — feeds into the others. When people struggle to trust their own judgment, they become more hesitant to engage with their communities. When social networks weaken, people feel more isolated and disconnected from larger institutions. And when institutions fail, people turn inward, relying on personal networks or ideological affiliations over collective governance.

But just as these crises reinforce each other, so too can their solutions. Restoring trust isn’t about recreating an idealized past — it’s about understanding how different visions of community shape trust today. Many people look to historical models of social cohesion, whether rooted in low-density suburban stability of the 1950s or high-density, transit-oriented neighborhoods of the late 1800s, as templates for rebuilding trust.

These views, rooted in social capital theory — the idea that strong community ties build trust and cooperation — recognize that our surroundings shape how we connect. While social capital can foster civic engagement, it also has a darker side.

Political analyst Adam Fefer, who studies democratic resilience, highlights how tight-knit networks have fueled anti-democratic movements in the U.S., spreading misinformation rather than broadening trust. The January 6th attack wasn’t spontaneous — it was driven by organized groups leveraging veteran organizations and faith communities to mobilize action. Historically, exclusionary civic groups have also reinforced segregation and voter suppression, showing that not all social capital strengthens democracy.

However, these same civic networks can protect democracy, as seen in union-led economic shutdowns and business leaders opposing political extremism. This highlights a crucial fact: the impact of social capital on civic well-being varies based on its structure, who it empowers, and its intended purposes.

Rather than looking backward, we need to build trust in ways that fit today’s world—both digital and physical. That means strengthening local knowledge networks, rethinking where and how we connect, and recognizing that much of life now happens online, from social interactions to doorstep deliveries. While shared public spaces still matter, we must also find ways to foster trust in a world where community, commerce, and governance are increasingly digital.

And it means rethinking governance, not as a distant authority, but as something more active and responsive—an ongoing process that truly gives people a stake in shaping their communities. Perhaps the real challenge isn’t in longing for a past version of civic life, but in asking how we can create the conditions today that make people feel connected, capable, and truly invested in the future of their neighborhoods. How do we build a world where trust isn’t just a distant trace, but a tangible part of our daily interactions with people and place?

Hello Interactors,

Artificial intelligence divides us. To some, it’s a miracle waiting to solve humanity’s greatest problems. To others, it’s a creeping force, stealing our skills, jobs, and even autonomy. The truth, as always, is more complicated.

From sharpened sticks to smartphones, humans have always loved their tools — but at what cost? Plato feared writing would weaken memory; now we worry GPS dulls our sense of direction, calculators erode our math skills, and AI chips away at our ability to think creatively and critically. Are we creating marvels that strengthen us, or are we outsourcing so much that we’re making ourselves vulnerable?

What if the answer isn’t rejection or blind adoption, but finding a smarter balance? Let’s dive into what we gain, what we lose, and how interdependence with technology might just be our greatest strength.

DEPENDENCY WEAKENS COGNITIVE AGENCY

Let’s start with Plato. He famously criticized writing for weakening human memory. His complaint, though seemingly dramatic today, nonetheless echoes across centuries. Modern tools like calculators, spellcheckers, and GPS extend our cognitive reach — a concept known as extended cognition, where tools function as external parts of our thought processes.

These tools are marvels of convenience, but they come at a cost. As geographer Paul Torrens highlights in his work on behavioral geography, tools like GPS don’t just help us — they sideline us. By reducing direct interaction with our environment, they bypass processes like navigating landmarks or forming mental maps. Over time, the skills we’ve refined for millennia quietly wither under the glow of our devices.

But there’s more to the story than atrophy. Torrens points out another subtle trap: the loss of what “small geographies” offer when we overly rely on tools like GPS and vehicles, both forms of extended cognition. “Small geographies” — our immediate, lived, day-to-day interactions with space — are rich in sensory details that inform navigation and spatial awareness. Walking through a neighborhood engages embodied perception, helping us notice landmarks, smells, textures, and even microclimates that shape our understanding of place.

Yet, when we succumb to technologies that abstract these experiences into rationalized systems of larger geographies — like cities planned for efficiency rather than experience — we sacrifice this richness. GPS reduces navigation to turn-by-turn instructions, while vehicles reduce us to a brain in a box shielded from tactile, sensory feedback. This abstraction reshapes not only how we move through space but also how we sense and value it, distorting our relationship with our surroundings.

History has plenty of warnings about over-reliance on rigid, top-down systems. During the Little Ice Age (c. 1300–1850), societies that had shifted to monoculture farming or depended on specific trade routes faced catastrophe when the weather turned erratic. Crops failed, rivers froze, and with them, the mills that powered daily life ground to a halt. Communities that had abandoned adaptive skills like crop diversification or local food storage found themselves particularly vulnerable, left scrambling to cope with nature’s prolonged unpredictability.

Catastrophes are brutal. Especially when our capacities are brittle. It’s the same trap we risk falling into today, as natural disasters increase in intensity and sometimes duration. We are more dependent than ever on our systems, certainly more than the Little Ice Age. We depend on power, electrodes, and grids of digital nodes embedded in a global network of interdependent modes.

Unlike in the 19th century, most of us don’t have a clue about growing food, let alone storing it. We’ve increasingly prioritized the efficiencies and abstractions of our institutionally driven lives over a more fundamental biological existence. Are we at risk of losing the cognitive and sensory richness that smaller, localized environments, or “small geographies”, uniquely offer? Would we survive an arid hell scape or another ice age?

STRENGTH IN INTERDEPENDENCE

Dependency is not a weakness — it’s indistinguishable from life. Humans exist because we rely on mutually dependent organisms — our gut microbes help us digest food and produce vital nutrients, our skin microbiome protects us from harmful pathogens, and even the mitochondria powering our cells were once independent organisms that became integral to our survival. Together, these partnerships form the foundation of our health and life itself. Our very bodies are home to incredible systems that operate as internal biological technologies, silently and effortlessly aiding our survival and navigation.

Take grid cells in the brain, for example. These specialized neurons, part of the brain’s spatial navigation system, act like an internal GPS. Grid cells encode distances and directions, enabling us to navigate our environment and construct mental maps of space without conscious effort.

Recent studies demonstrate how these grid cells work together in a way that forms a torus-like (donut) structure. The patterns of cognitive activity match up with the animal's movements as its position in the environment gets mapped onto a toroidal shape. Imagine a rat navigating a flat surface. As it moves, this research show its 2D planar coordinates are being translated to and from a 3D toroidal surface mapped on the inside of a gridded donut in its mind.

Our neurons interact with sensory inputs, seamlessly guiding us through environments through 3D biolelectric GPS wetware. Sensory modalities like kinesthetic and vestibular senses integrate with our neural systems to inform our perception of space and movement. In essence, our biological organs and limbs come equipped with intricate systems of extended cognition, working in coordinated harmony with the world around us. Just as our plastic and silicon devices extended our biological cognition, our cognition — our bioelectric calculators and wetware GPS — are extended forms of our environment.

The study of bioelectromagnetics spans biophysics, cellular biology, neuroscience, and regenerative medicine. It explores how electrical signals within and between cells govern critical processes like neural communication, cell behavior, and tissue regeneration. Biophysics examines the principles of ion flow and membrane potentials, while cellular biology investigates how bioelectric signals guide growth and differentiation. Emerging areas like systems and synthetic biology expand its applications and bioelectricity is key to understanding and engineering life’s electrical foundations.

These decentralized processes mirror key features of intelligence: sensing, processing information, and acting in a goal-directed manner. From resolving cellular disputes to coordinating regeneration, these bioelectric communication systems demonstrate how interdependence fosters adaptability.

Research already shows how synthetic technology can mirror these biological processes. Software acts as an extension of human adaptability rather than an artificial facsimile. Can we depend on this tech to instruct, not corrupt, the systems that make us up?

TOWARD ETHICAL TECHNICAL INTEGRATION

Electrobiology and the synthetic merging of technology with biology may seem futuristic, but it’s here. Moreover, we humans have a long tradition of infusing technology into the biological systems to sustain life. From vaccines to pacemakers, humanity has a history of cautiously adopting innovations that enhance our biology. While these technologies have saved countless lives, their integration hasn’t come without apprehension.

Take vaccines, for instance. While vaccines are now widely regarded as one of the greatest public health achievements in history, there have always been skeptics. Even now, after COVID-19 vaccines demonstrated the speed and efficacy of mRNA technology, new waves of fear and misinformation have followed.

These concerns echo a broader unease about technological advancements, seen not only with vaccines but also with the rise of AI. Obviously, a system that mimics human cognition raises questions about control, autonomy, and unintended consequences. Especially as it becomes infused with our biology.

But this dynamic mirrors the communication and deliberation found at the cellular level. Just as cells exchange bioelectric signals to coordinate action and solve problems, society deliberates at a larger scale, navigating conflicting viewpoints to determine whether and how to adopt new technologies.

Scale Theory offers a lens by looking at how systems and processes shift when moving between different scales, from the cellular to the societal. At one scale, bioelectricity reveals cells working collaboratively to heal wounds or regenerate tissue, a process both decentralized and adaptive. At a larger scale, society’s responses to new technologies — vaccines, AI, or bioelectric tools — follow a similar pattern of negotiation, fear, and eventual coordination.

The Eames Power of Ten explores how perspective shifts across scales—from the subatomic to the cosmic—reveal interconnected systems. Similarly, Scale Theory highlights how changes in scale reshape our understanding, ethics, and interactions, emphasizing the need to navigate complexity at every level. Together, they underscore the web of relationships that define our world.

While the scale differs, the core idea remains: complex systems deliberate and act in ways that ripple across their networks, whether they’re composed of cells or people. How much of this is metaphorical versus empirical is the work of complexity science.

I recently heard this sobering example of a synthetic creation rippling to cells: dating apps. These services use pair matching algorithms, made by an arbitrary human and influenced by networks of arbitrary people, actively manipulate our gene pool when certain biological pairings result in newborns. The same rippling occurs with zoning laws and the design and location of a bar or café…or even a town? My own biology came about when a decision to put a grain elevator in a small Iowa town rippled to my parents being paired resulting in three newborns.

Despite fears of these integrations rippling at various scales, history shows they can succeed when grounded in careful research, ethical oversight, and good intentions. Not every actor has good intentions, and not every rippling action is cause for celebration. After all, we can see with X and now Meta how quickly social media algorithms can be weaponized…and let’s be honest, that grain elevator in Iowa, while well intentioned, was constructed on stolen land.

Still, vaccines efforts can ripple to boost immune systems without fears of replacing or bypassing them; pacemakers can stabilize hearts without fear of replacing them; antibiotics can work with the body to fight infections and then disappear. These are rippling actions filled with good intentions and outcomes.

Tools like calculators and devices equipped with AI can also act with good intentions. They extend our cognition, enhance our ability to solve problems, and process information without replacing our underlying cognitive systems. Could bioelectric technologies follow this same path, amplifying natural cellular intelligence without overriding it?

Aristotle provides a counterpoint to Plato’s skepticism about writing. While Plato worried that writing would erode memory and internal knowledge, Aristotle saw value in external aids to thinking, such as writing and diagrams, as tools to organize and extend thought. In the same way, technologies like AI, GPS, and bioelectric tools have the potential to act as extensions of our cognition rather than replacements — but only if we integrate them thoughtfully.

The challenge lies in designing technologies that enhance human intelligence without bypassing the lived, embodied experiences that make us who we are. And even though spell checkers make us lousy our lazy spellers, and GPS lousy or lazy navigators, we are able to regain these skills when need be. We’re also able to coexist and even be enhanced by these synthetic extensions.

In nature and medicine, we find inspiring examples of how synthetic scaffolding can seamlessly integrate with natural systems. In regenerative medicine biodegradable scaffolds are used to repair damaged bones. These synthetic frameworks made of polylactic acid polymers provide a super structure for bone cells (osteoplasts) to grow into. As they guide the regeneration the scaffold gradually degrades, leaving behind only natural bone.

In coral reef restoration, artificial structures made of eco-friendly substances like calcium carbonate attract coral larvae and coastal creatures. Over time, these synthetic reefs become living ecosystems, blending seamlessly with their natural surroundings. If synthetic scaffolds can usher tissue repair and issue biocoenosis, can we align technology with biology? Can we merge artificial minds with organic matter? Can we complement our natural abilities without negating sensibilities? I think we can, because we already are.

Hello Interactors,

The weight of winter up north can have its cozy comforts, but cold, damp, and dark can take a toll. We also continue to face a convergence of daunting global challenges — climate change, inequality, political instability, and health crises — each amplifying the other straining our ability to find meaningful and sustainable solutions. So much for ‘Happy Holidays’.

A recent article on avoiding despair turned to the concept of “tragic optimism.” This can sometimes be offered as a way to avoid our human tendency to seek “doom and gloom” while also not succumbing to “toxic positivity.” These topics struck me as a decent lens to kick off this winter’s focus: human behavior.

Let’s unpack the emotional geographies that shape us. How do spaces and norms influence how we feel, process, and express emotions?

SPACES, SMILES, AND SOCIAL SCRIPTS

When I was in seventh grade, I was the lead in our middle school musical, Bye Bye Birdy. It featured the song, Put on a Happy Face that employed this cheery, but pushy, line: “Spread sunshine, all over the place…just put on a happy face.”

Dick van Dyke played the starring role on Broadway from 1960-61 earning him an Tony award. He then appeared in the movie in 1963, launching him to stardom. In that role, many other roles, and in real life, he is a man who appears perpetually happy. Even now at age 98!

But under that smile, lurks a darker side. Soon after his early success, Van Dyke became an alcoholic. The alcohol may have helped him put on a happy face society expected, but it came at a price. This insistence on relentless optimism regardless of circumstances is called “toxic positivity” — and it’s more than a personal behavior. It reflects societal norms that prioritize surface-level harmony over emotional complexity. These norms shape how we navigate feelings and influence our individual well-being.

But shared spaces, like our workplaces or homes also influence these emotional dynamics. Have you ever walked into a place knowing how you were expected to act? At work, you might slap on a smile and say “I’m fine” even when you’re not. At home, you might feel the pressure to play the part of the cheerful parent, partner, or roommate. These emotional scripts don’t come out of nowhere — they’re baked into our cultural expectations about what different spaces are “for”.

Geographer Yi-Fu Tuan explains that spaces acquire “moral properties” through societal norms, values, and cultural narratives. Workplaces, seen as sites of productivity, often suppress emotions like frustration, while homes, idealized as places of comfort, pressure individuals to adopt roles like nurturing parent or cheerful partner. These norms shape how people are expected to behave and feel within these spaces.

America itself, as a cultural and geographic entity, carries its own "moral properties." These are reinforced by media narratives that frame the nation as a land of optimism, resilience, and emotional stability, projecting these expectations onto its citizens and then exported to the world to consume.

Take one of the most-watched television programs in America from 1962 to 1992, Johnny Carson’s The Tonight Show. His late-night TV persona was examined in a recent New York Times piece by Jason Zinoman. He described Carson as America’s calm, neutral host, soothing the nation with his polite humor. He wasn’t just a TV personality; he was part of a larger cultural push for emotional stability, especially during times of uncertainty. His show became a space where people could escape the messiness of real emotions.

But these expectations aren’t just about comfort — they’re about control. By promoting harmony and cheer, society nudges us toward emotional conformity, discouraging anything that might feel too “messy” or unpredictable.

This pressure doesn’t fall on everyone equally. Women often bear the brunt of emotional labor, expected to keep things “pleasant” for others. Cultural geographer Linda McDowell highlights how professional women are frequently required to maintain an upbeat attitude at work, regardless of personal circumstances. This expectation extends beyond the workplace, shaping how women are perceived and allowed to express themselves.

On The Tonight Show, Joan Rivers, a trailblazing comedian, faced this constraint. Despite her sharp, satirical wit, Rivers was often limited to lighthearted banter and self-deprecating humor to align with Johnny Carson’s carefully neutral persona. Similarly, Carol Wayne, as the flirtatious “Matinee Lady,” reinforced the idea that women on the show were there to amuse or adorn, not disrupt. These portrayals reflected societal norms that confined women to roles as caretakers or decorative figures, both publicly and privately.

SUPPRESSING SORROW WITH A SMILE SUCKS

Putting on a happy face might seem harmless, but it can take a toll. When we suppress feelings like sadness, frustration, or anger, they don’t just disappear — they build up, creating stress. They can even impact our physical health. Neuroscientists have shown that suppressing emotions can increase activity in the brain’s fear center (the amygdala) while dampening the rational, problem-solving parts (like the prefrontal cortex). Basically, pretending you’re okay when you’re not can mess with your head and your body.

James J. Gross, a psychologist and leading researcher in emotion regulation, has shown that suppressing emotions can heighten stress levels, activate the brain’s fear center (the amygdala), and disrupt cognitive processes critical for resilience and problem-solving. Recent brain imaging studies by Wang and Zhang (2023) support this, demonstrating that expressive suppression, where feelings are actively withheld, triggers heightened amygdala activity and diminished prefrontal regulation. These findings highlight the significant physiological toll of emotional suppression, further validating Gross's work.

Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and existential psychologist, offers a valuable framework for regulating these emotions with his concept of “tragic optimism.” Frankl introduced tragic heroism in his 1978 book, The Unheard Cry for Meaning, drawing on the existential and Greek tragic tradition of resilience in the face of suffering. He later expanded this with tragic optimism in a 1984 essay, emphasizing hope and meaning-making even amidst life’s inevitable hardships.

Drawing on his experiences from the Holocaust, he explores the human ability to confront inevitable suffering while maintaining hope and finding meaning. For Frankl, this approach was not about denying pain but about embracing life’s full spectrum — its joys and its tragedies — as integral to human existence.

But his view of suffering has been criticized as overly universal and idealistic, assuming that all individuals can derive purpose from adversity. His emphasis on personal responsibility may inadvertently shift blame onto individuals for not overcoming circumstances beyond their control. Constant pressure by systemic oppression can exist even in a society that claims to be free.

Migrant women in caregiving roles, as McDowell highlights, often lack the freedom to balance suffering and hope on their own terms. Instead, they are required to project resilience and positivity, even under exploitative conditions, effectively masking systemic inequities.

Similarly, Joan Rivers and Carol Wayne were cast into narrow roles that demanded cheerfulness, ensuring they complemented rather than challenged societal norms. These portrayals reflected the broader expectation that women embody emotional steadiness, regardless of personal circumstances.

Frankl’s insights remind us that the ability to engage with hardship meaningfully is a privilege that societal expectations often deny to those at the margins. Understanding the toll of suppression and the uneven distribution of emotional freedom is crucial in challenging the norms that perpetuate these dynamics.

COMBATING CONFORMITY WITH COMMUNITY

Thankfully, norms aren’t set in stone — they can be, and have been, resisted and redefined. Sara Ahmed, a feminist scholar, critiques what she calls the “happiness duty.” She shows how this duty pressures marginalized groups to appear cheerful, suppressing feelings like anger or pain to uphold the status quo. Movements like Black Lives Matter reject this demand, openly expressing grief and frustration to confront systemic injustice. Through “collective effervescence”, as sociologist Émile Durkheim describes, collective emotions in protests turn individual pain into powerful demands for change. Ahmed and Durkheim offer examples of how breaking free from the pressure to "stay positive" transforms emotions into tools for meaningful resistance.

But even this kind of resistance can make those in power uncomfortable, so they demand order, calm, and happiness. When collective effervescence calls people to, as Public Enemy’s song decries, ‘fight the powers that be’, another collective encourages everyone to spread ‘sunshine all over the place, and just put on a happy face.’

But in the face of this “toxic positivity” that Public Enemy mocks as, “'People, people we are the same'”, they respond ‘No, we're not the same / 'Cause we don't know the game’. They can’t justify putting on a happy face when most of America refuses to wrestle with poverty and race. Summoning an inner Johnny Carson can be seen by some as not a neutral, but as just another way to paternally placate — to pat down incivility. It can be seen more like Jack Nicholson’s infamous “Here’s Johnny!” in The Shining — a menacing veneer of cheer masking a deep, dark, and discomforting societal reality.

Ananya Roy, a geographer and urban theorist, takes a hard look at this in her work on the “rescue industry.” In Poverty Capital, she critiques how even well-intentioned aid organizations often portray marginalized communities as helpless and in need of saving, while ignoring the structural problems that keep them oppressed. These narratives don’t just undermine real change — they also place emotional expectations on those being "rescued." They demand gratitude and resilience while leaving the bigger systems of inequality intact.

Roy’s work shows how this approach reflects a long history of paternalism and American exceptionalism, where those in power maintain control by shaping how others should act and feel.

Geography plays a big part in how these expectations are enforced. Relief camps, aid programs, and even microfinance initiatives often create spaces where people are expected to behave a certain way — thankful, hopeful, and compliant. In the U.S., similar patterns show up in low-income neighborhoods, where anger or frustration is often punished, reinforcing norms that demand harmony and silence over real emotional expression.

If we want to resist these dynamics, we need to rethink the spaces where care and support happen. Instead of controlling emotions or enforcing positivity, these spaces should allow for shared agency and the full range of human feelings. By rejecting savior narratives and making room for emotions like grief and anger, communities can start to challenge the systems that hold them back and move toward real change.

From Johnny Carson’s seemingly cheerful neutrality to the "happiness duty" imposed on marginalized groups, societal norms can slowly prioritize control over connection, faux harmony over brutal honesty. But resistance is possible.

Movements like Black Lives Matter, the Women's March, Chile's protests for constitutional reform, and Hong Kong’s pro-democracy demonstrations highlight how group effervescence can channel collective emotions into impactful resistance. However, these movements also reveal the limits of protest alone in achieving enduring change. Systemic barriers to change require sustained efforts beyond the initial wave of mobilization.

As Ananya Roy reminds us, breaking free from narratives of saviorism and exceptionalism requires not just challenging these norms but rethinking the spaces where they take root. How can we build geographies of care that empower, rather than constrain? Perhaps the answer lies in acknowledging that resistance begins with feeling — and making space for emotions, no matter how “messy” they might seem.

Hello Interactors,

As the year ends, I reflect on 2024’s top five essays and a shared theme emerges: the systems that define our lives. These systems intertwine nature and nurture, machines and morality, and markets and minds.

From evolution’s harmony to the moral balance of economic power, the co-opting of language to the divides between prosperity and precarity, our journey has revealed deep connections between people, place, and power.

Let’s rewind and reweave these connections into a broader narrative that sets us on our way to another trip around the sun.

NATURE, NURTURE, AND NODAL NETWORKS

In “DEVO, Darwin, and the Evo-Devo Dance,” we explored how evolution reflects the eternal interplay between biology and environment, progress and adaptation. The evolution of synthesizers — as my daughter’s playful experiments with sound reminded me — offers a metaphor for humanity’s relationship with technology.

This relationship echoes the broader theme of systems and evolution. Iterative changes and interactions between tools and users offer the potential to create new possibilities. As noted in the essay,

"DEVO’s fusion of human and machine echoes these evolutionary dynamics, where both biological and technological systems evolve through reconfiguration and integration, creating emergent complexity that Darwin could not have imagined."

Just as synthesizers blend natural sound waves with human creativity, humanity’s interaction with technology evolves in cycles of adaptation and transformation, shaping both the tools we use and the societies we build. We shape our tools, and they shape us in return.

The blend of nature’s design and our technological imprint creates an ecosystem of mutual influence, much like the Evo-Devo theories of biology, where small tweaks in developmental genes lead to dramatic evolutionary outcomes.

This interplay of creation and transformation mirrors the cycles of human progress. Just as Hox genes orchestrate body plans, societal changes—spurred by technology or ideology—reshape our collective body. Whether it’s the mechanistic choreography of DEVO’s performances or the emergence of Evo-Devo in biology, the boundaries between human and machine blur.

Are we programming nature, or is nature programming us? Perhaps the answer lies not in drawing distinctions but in understanding common patterns. These questions highlight the complexities of how we, and other organisms and systems, grow, adapt, and evolve in a world increasingly interwoven with introduced technology.

From the mechanized rhythms of industrialization to the organic flow of natural systems, human -- and nonhuman -- there exists a tension and balance between stability and change. The teleonomic goal-directed behavior of living systems together with society’s driving pulse of technology has fused into an unrecognizable but somehow familiar new existence. Even as we invent tools to navigate this existence, we become part of the systems we create—both shapers and shaped.

The orchestration of evolution — like the many-layered songs of a many-player band — shows a world of many, connected, but not always planned.

MARKETS, MACHINES, AND MORALITY

The Industrial Revolution brought unparalleled progress but also profound moral dilemmas. In “Markets, Machines, and Morality,” we reflected on Adam Smith’s dual identity as both an economist and a moral philosopher. For Smith, markets were not just mechanisms of exchange but reflections of human nature. His “Theory of Moral Sentiments” reminds us that sympathy, justice, and prudence are vital governors of economic power — like James Watt’s centrifugal governor, which balanced the speed of steam engines.

But history shows us that unchecked systems, whether economic or mechanical, often prioritize efficiency over empathy. From Bentham’s utilitarian calculus to the exploitative practices of modern capitalism, we’ve seen how the quest for profit can erode the moral underpinnings of society. Today’s tech-driven economies, much like the Industrial Age’s steam engines, require careful regulation to prevent runaway consequences. Smith’s ideals of community benevolence and fair markets resonate more than ever.

The unchecked growth of industrial power also highlights the tensions between human ingenuity and ethical responsibility. The centrifugal governor’s simple elegance stands as a metaphor for our need to impose limits on excess, whether in economic policies, technological innovation, or social systems. Without these balancing mechanisms, we risk spiraling into inequity, instability, and dehumanization — a lesson as relevant today as it was in Smith’s time.

Moreover, the moral fabric underpinning economic actions — sympathy, justice, prudence — often fades in the shadow of profit-driven systems. Yet, these values remain the quiet governors ensuring that society’s engines run not just efficiently but equitably.

Smith’s vision was never limited to wealth accumulation; it was about creating a society where individual pursuits align with collective well-being. Unlike today’s economic practices, which often prioritize short-term profit over long-term societal health, Smith emphasized the importance of moral virtues such as sympathy and justice in guiding market dynamics.

His insights are less about the "invisible hand" and more reminders to steer not only by the metrics of progress but also by the compass of morality. Like a finely tuned machine, morality should govern the obscene, in a more steady and fair routine.

LANGUAGE, LANDSCAPE, AND LOSS

Language has the power to shape identities and wield influence. These were the themes in “Woke and Wealth” and “Molding Minds Through the Markets of Material Worlds.” Words like “woke” and “decolonize”—once rooted in justice—have been distorted, co-opted by power to serve as tools of division. Similarly, capitalism’s framing of “Homo Economicus”—the rational, self-interested individual—has reshaped not just our identities but the very landscapes we inhabit.

These constructed identities reflect the power dynamics embedded in economic and geographic systems. The urban centers that thrive on globalized knowledge economies are mirrored by rural regions left to grapple with stagnation and decline, as explored in “Main Street to Metropolis.” As noted in that essay,

“Rural areas have become Republican strongholds, drawn to promises of reversing globalization, reshaping economic policies, and making their communities great again.”

These places — shaped by policies, demographics, and technology — become symbols of our collective divisions. Yet even amidst these fractures, alternative identities emerge. “Homo Ecologicus,” focused on environmental stewardship, and “Homo Absurdum,” embracing creativity and imagination, remind us of humanity’s potential for resilience, community, and connection.

The co-opting of language — turning tools of empowerment into instruments of division — illustrates the ongoing struggle for control over cultural and political narratives. When words like “woke” are weaponized, the original call for awareness and justice is lost in a haze of ideological conflict.

Meanwhile, the landscapes shaped by economic systems mirror these distortions, transforming places of shared community into arenas of exclusion and competition. Consider, for example, the gentrification of urban neighborhoods. Once vibrant hubs of diverse community life, these areas often transform into exclusive enclaves where rising costs push out long-time residents, replacing shared culture with economic segregation.

Yet, within these landscapes of loss lies the potential for renewal. Rural areas, often overshadowed by urban centers, remain spaces where alternative identities thrive. These identities, rooted in stewardship, creativity, and resilience, offer glimpses of a world where humanity’s diversity can flourish.

The challenge lies in amplifying these voices, reclaiming the power of language, and reshaping the spaces we inhabit to reflect our shared values. Language shapes, landscapes mold — our shifting sense of self is an ancient story retold.

CLOSING THE LOOP

Looking back at these essays, a recurring theme emerges: the interplay of systems that define our lives is not a one-way street. Nature and nurture, markets and morality, language and identity are all intertwined, multi- referencial, and dynamic webs with mirroring interdependencies. Progress is not linear; it’s a cycle of creation, transformation, and sometimes regression where changes to one aspect ripple through the entire system.

This echoes the recurring themes explored earlier — from the evolving interplay between nature and technology to the moral balance necessary in markets and machines. Together, these cycles reveal how change, though uneven, can guide us toward resilience and renewal when approached with awareness and intention. Herein lies hope. We all possess the potential, and these systems the possibility, to recalibrate the systems we control to balance human progress with equity, efficiency with empathy, and innovation with ethics.

These systems remind us that resilience lies in adaptability. Fire, when controlled, can foster growth and create fertile soil. Uncontrolled fire destroys. Water can unite by sustaining life, connect ecosystems, and enable communication and trade through rivers and oceans. But it can also erode, rot, create barriers, or flood habitats and communities.

As we humans innovate and advance, we can pause to reflect on the systems we create. We can ensure they serve not just the few but the many. Like water and fire, the narratives we construct, whether through language, policy, or technology, have the power to unite or divide.

Our collective task is to craft stories that inspire connection and foster growth built on shared values. As we step into a new year, what questions should we ask about the systems we create? How can we ensure they unite rather than divide? What would it take to build systems rooted in equity, empathy, and sustainability? Perhaps, most importantly, how do these systems reflect who we are—and who we aspire to be?

Hello Interactors,

Happy winter solstice!

Today, the northern hemisphere experiences its shortest day and longest night, a celestial event rooted in the planet's axial tilt. This seemingly simple astronomical fact has profound implications for economic geography. It influences everything from agricultural productivity to social traditions of sharing and reciprocity.

SOLSTICE AND SHARING

I recently visited the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre at Whistler. These two tribes are part of the Squamish River watershed that flows into Howe Sound, a fjord located just around the corner from Vancouver, British Columbia. This watershed is central to their traditional territories and plays a vital role in their culture and economy.

From an economic geography perspective, the tilt of the earth underpins the seasons and, by extension, patterns of production and scarcity that shape human economies. In regions where winter brought agricultural dormancy, societies had to develop systems to store, preserve, and share resources to survive until the next growing season.

The winter solstice symbolizes the end of this scarcity. It promises returning light, a pivotal moment in the annual cycle for societies historically reliant on natural rhythms. For the Squamish and Lil’wat peoples, this period was a time of reflection, gratitude, and redistribution. Ceremonial gatherings and potlatches reinforced community bonds by ensuring that the resources harvested in times of plenty were shared equitably during the lean winter months.

I saw evidence of these community bonds at the cultural center. The five visitors from West Virginia and myself, were the only white folks in the place. I was happy to see and hear a group of teen Squamish or Lil’wat boys gathered, talking, and giggling. There was a table of older Indigenous women sharing tea and treats. I asked one of our guides if she was doing anything special for the upcoming holiday. She said, “Well, I have presents for my mom’s side, but not my dad’s. And I have presents for half my siblings, but not the other half! So, it looks like that’s what I’ll be doing!”

Practices of reinforced social cohesion and mitigating disparities can be seen in both Indigenous and early European traditions. These lessons of reciprocity and redistribution remain vital amidst the gulf between extreme wealth and pervasive poverty. That too became apparent during my visit.

As I was browsing the gift shop, I overheard an Indigenous employee ask a friend, “How has work been?” Her friend responded, “It’s ok. This time of year comes with a lot of Christmas clean ups, people getting their Whistler places ready…it’s hard work, but good money.”

As we mark the winter solstice and conclude this fall series on economic geography, it is worth considering how the natural cycles dictated by the earth’s tilt continue to influence modern economies. Even in an age of surplus for some, the rhythms of scarcity and abundance persist, challenging us to find equitable ways to share resources.

The traditions of the Squamish, Lil’wat, and countless other cultures remind us that sustainability and justice are not just matters of economic policy but also of values deeply connected to the natural world. This solstice invites us to honor those lessons, seeking balance and light amid the darkest days.

The widespread, worldwide post-harvest behavior — like the Squamish and Lil’wat spiritual renewal through prayer and ceremonies; the community bonding with feasts, potlaches, and storytelling; the observance or celestial cycles and gratitude for earth’s gifts; and the artistic creations for ceremonial dances and rituals — has been happening for millennia.

SATURN AND THE GREEK SAINT

I thought I’d reshare a relevant excerpt from a post I did a few years ago that explores the roots of Christmas. It started with a communal approach to abundance with celestial-triggered ancient traditions like Saturnalia in Rome. Saturn, the god of agriculture, inspired events where feasts, gift-giving, and the symbolic inversion of roles served to address the inherent inequalities of agrarian economies.

“It was so baked into the fabric of society that even the church began painting it with Christian imagery and metaphor. Because the celebrations occurred on or around the end of November and into December there were many elements of Christianity to which they could attach the events.

During Roman times, December 17th marked the day of the Saturnalia – a festival honoring the god of agriculture, Saturn. All work halted for a week as people decorated their homes with wreaths. They shed their togas to dawn festive clothes, and they drank, gambled, sang, played music, socialized and exchanged gifts. It was a celebration of their agrarian bounty and the return of light at Winter solstice. It was also a time to invite their slaves to dinner where their masters would serve them food.

One Christian Saint affiliated with early December – and the one most honored today in the form of a plump jolly man wearing a red velvet suit – is Saint Nicholas. December 6th is St. Nicholas Day. For many European countries this marked the official end of the harvest season. And even today it’s recognized in some countries as a kind of warm-up act to the more official and accepted Christmas day, December 25th.

Nicholas of Bari was a Greek Christian bishop from modern day Turkey. Also known as Nicholas the Wonderworker, he earned a reputation during the Roman Empire for many miracles; all of which, were written centuries after his death and thus prone to exaggeration. But he was most famous for his generosity, charity, and kindness to children, the poor, and the disadvantaged. He was said to have sold his own belongings to get gold coins that he’d then put in the shoes outside people’s homes. This is the origin of the tradition of putting shoes or stockings out on Christmas Eve.

They say he also saved the lives of three innocent men from execution. He chastised the corrupted judge for accepting a bribe to execute them. And he certainly would have been watching over the peasant farmers and slaves to insure they were treated fairly. He seemed to always have an eye out for inequities and justice for common people. Maybe that’s what made him a saint. Or maybe he was just born that way. After all, Nicholas in Greek means “people’s victory.”

The Puritans obviously lost at their attempts to ban Christmas. Lacking any evidence from the Bible, the Christian powers that be eventually settled on the 25th of December as the day Jesus was born. They most likely picked the 25th because that was the day winter solstice landed on the Roman calendar.”

Happy solstice, everyone. Whether from St. Nick or the Squamish ways,let’s remember through these darkest days: sustainability and justice aren’t just decree, they’re rooted in values that connect you and me.

Hello Interactors,

Language shapes power, but it can also obscure and manipulate. Words like woke and decolonize, rooted in justice, are now tools for distortion by figures like Trump and Modi. In this essay, we’ll explore how these terms connect to economic and political geography, tracing their co-opting, parallels to colonialism, and the need to reclaim their transformative potential. Let’s dig in — and stay woke.

STAY WOKE, START TALKING

Are you woke? It’s a provocative question these days. Especially since this term was co-opted by the right as a pejorative since the Black Lives Matter uprising of 2020. Even last June Trump said regarding so-called woke military generals, “I would fire them. You can’t have woke military.”

And then there’s Elon Musk. He’s been increasingly waging a war on what he calls the ‘woke mind virus’. It seems he started abusing the term in 2021, along with other political rhetoric he’s been ramping up in recently. The Economist reports a “leap in 2023 and 2024 in talk of immigration, border control, the integrity of elections and the ‘woke mind virus’.”

Folks more on the left are also starting to distance themselves from the term or use it as a pejorative. Including some of my friends. Even self-described leftist and socialist, Susan Neiman criticized "wokeness," in her 2023 book Left Is Not Woke. She argues, as do many, that it has become antithetical to traditional leftist values — especially as it becomes a weapon by the right.

According to the definition in the Cambridge dictionary, I am decidedly woke. That means I’m “aware, especially of social problems such as racism and inequality.” It worries me that people are eagerly running from this word. I’d rather they interrogate it. Understand it. Find it’s meanings and question the intent behind its use. We should be discussing these nuances, not shushing them.

Using the word in a sentence (in an approving manner), Cambridge offers hints at one of the original meanings: “She urged young black people to stay woke.” In 1938 the great blues legend Lead Belly also urged “everybody, be a little careful when they go along through there (Scottsboro, Alabama) – best stay woke, keep their eyes open." Those are spoken words in his song "Scottsboro Boys", about nine young Black men falsely accused of raping two white women in Alabama seven years earlier in 1931.

Not a decade before, the Jamaican philosopher and social activist Marcus Garvey wrote in 1923, "Wake up Ethiopia! Wake up Africa!" Fifty years later that inspired playwright and novelist Barry Beckham to write “Garvey Lives!”, a 1972 play that included this line, “I been sleeping all my life. And now that Mr. Garvey done woke me up, I’m gon stay woke.” #StayWoke was trending on Twitter the summer of 2020.

In 1962, ten years before Beckham’s play, novelist William Melvin Kelley wrote this headline for a piece in the New York Times Magazine: “If You're Woke You Dig It; No mickey mouse can be expected to follow today's Negro idiom without a hip assist. If You're Woke You Dig It.” The article, which is an uneasy glimpse of how mainstream media regarded Black people in 1962, is about how white people co-opt terms from the Black community. His target was white woke Beatniks of the 1960s.

Awakening others to injustice in the United States may have originated with white folks inspired by Abraham Lincoln. In the lead up to the his 1860 election, the, then woke, Republican Party helped organize a paramilitary youth movement in the Northern states called the ‘Wide Awakes’. These activists, which included some Black people, were inspired by Lincoln’s fight to abolish slavery and promote workers’ rights.

They took up arms to defend Republican politicians who brazenly awakened others to injustices in America in their campaign speeches. This armed aggression — especially armed Black men — in part is what woke the South to the dawning wokeness across the North. Frightened as they were, they organize their own paramilitary and soon a civil war broke out.

RECLAIM, RESIST, REVIVE

Words can have unusual lifecycles. The term "queer" evolved from a pejorative label for homosexuals to a term of empowerment. Particularly after the activism of the 1960s and 1970s, including the Stonewall Riots. Its reclamation was reinforced by academic queer theory, which critiques societal norms around sexuality and gender. Today, "queer" is widely embraced as a self-identifier that reflects pride and resistance against stigma.

Christopher Hobson, of the Substack Imperfect Notes, suggested in a post about the word polycrisis, this progression of terminology:

Proposed — A new word or meaning is introduced through individuals, cultural interactions, academia, or mass media.

Adopted — A word or meaning is embraced by a community, shaped by social relevance and media influence.

Spread — Diffusion occurs through social networks and media exposure, leading to wider acceptance.

Critiqued — As words gain popularity, they face scrutiny from linguistic purists and cultural commentators. The appropriateness of a term can be questioned, highlighting the intent behind its dissemination.

Institutionalized — Widely used words become institutionalized, appearing in dictionaries and everyday language as standards.

Hobson adds one other stage that is particularly relevant today, ‘pipiked.’ It’s a term he ‘adopted’ as ‘proposed’ and I’m now ‘spreading’. It comes from Naomi Klein’s book, Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World. Hobson writes:

"A useful concept she introduces is ‘pipikism’, which she takes from Philip Roth’s, Operation Shylock, one of the texts about doppelgangers that Klein engages with. She quote’s Roth’s description of ‘pipikism’ as ‘the antitragic force that inconsequencializes everything—farcicalizes everything, trivializes everything, superficializes everything.’ This captures the way in which the concepts and frames we use to help understand our world are rendered useless by bad actors and bad faith, caught in ‘a knot of seriousness and ridiculousness that would never be untangled.’" (3)

This lifecycle certainly applies to the word woke, but let’s turn to a term more closely related to economic geography that’s also in the cross-hairs of being ‘pipiked’ — decolonize.

Like woke, the term decolonize began as a call to dismantle injustice, exposing the deep roots of exploitation in European colonial systems. It symbolized hope for liberation and justice for the oppressed. Over time, like many critical terms, its meaning shifted. Once radical, decolonize risks becoming performative as its potency weakens through co-optation, especially by bad faith actors.

Narendra Modi exemplifies this, using decolonization rhetoric to promote Hindutva, a Hindu nationalist agenda. His government renames cities, revises textbooks to erase Muslim rulers like the Mughals, and marginalizes minorities, particularly Muslims, under the guise of rejecting British colonial legacies. This parallels America’s own rewriting of history to reinforce a white Christian narrative. Protestant colonizers replaced Indigenous names and erased Native perspectives, reframing days like Thanksgiving, a time of mourning for many, into celebratory myths.

DOCTRINES, DISSENT, AND DOMINION

Early colonial educational curricula framed colonization as a divine mission to civilize the so-called savages. Native Americans were often depicted as obstacles to progress rather than as sovereign peoples with rich cultures and governance systems. Systems, like the Iroquois League, impressed and inspired the early framers of American government, like Benjamin Franklin.

But it was Christian dogma like the Doctrine of Discovery, a theological justification for seizing Indigenous land, that was integrated into educational and legal frameworks. Slavery was sanitized in textbooks to diminish its horrors, portraying it as a benign or even benevolent system. Early 20th-century textbooks referred to enslaved people as “workers” and omitted the violence of chattel slavery.

Early colonizers established theological institutions like Harvard University, originally intended to train ministers and propagate Christian doctrine. My own family lineage is culpable. I’ve already written about Jonas Weed (circa 1610–1676), a Puritan minister who helped colonize Weathersfield, Connecticut. But there’s also the brother of my ninth Mother, Jonathan Mitchell (1624–1668). He was a Harvard graduate and Puritan minister who played a pivotal role in shaping the Protestant-oriented writing of American history.

He promoted a Christian God-given view of history, framing events as manifestations of God’s will. He emphasized covenant theology that cast Puritans as a chosen people. As a fellow at Harvard, he shaped the intellectual environment that influenced figures like Cotton Mather, who’s Magnalia Christi Americana (1702) depicted New England as a "city upon a hill" destined to fulfill a divine mission. JFK ripped this quote from history, as did Reagan and Obama to further their campaigns but also to ingrain messages that started with people like Mitchell and Mather.

Institutions like the church and universities advanced Christian-nationalist ideologies that justified colonial rule, marginalizing Indigenous, African, and non-European cultures by framing European Christian values as superior. European imperial powers reshaped local economies for their gain, turning colonies into sources of raw materials and markets for goods. Monocultures like sugar and cotton left regions vulnerable, while urban centers prioritized resource export over local needs, fostering uneven development.

By the mid-20th century, America had risen to global dominance, cementing its power through institutions like the IMF and World Bank, which reinforced economic dependencies. Decolonization movements emerged in response, with nations in Africa, Asia, and the Caribbean seeking justice and sovereignty. Yet many former colonies remain trapped in systemic inequalities shaped by imperial and American influence. While initiatives like the G-77 — a UN coalition of developing nations promoting collective economic interests and South-South cooperation — aim to reshape global systems, progress remains slow and resistance strong.

Today, Project 2025 seeks to revive Christian-nationalist doctrines, echoing colonial practices. Signs of rising authoritarianism, white Christian nationalism, and silencing dissent are evident. The Levant, too, reflects another iteration of the colonial Doctrine of Discovery — seizing land and subjugating oppressed populations under theological justifications.

Even in the early days of American colonization, there were woke voices. One of them happened to be another ancestor of mine. My tenth grandfather, Stephen Bachiler (circa 1561–1656) was an English clergyman and an early advocate for the separation of church and state. His life exemplified the struggles for religious autonomy in early American history, but also the importance of sustained critique of power and injustice.

Educated at St. John’s College, Oxford, he became the vicar of Wherwell but was ousted in 1605 for his Puritan beliefs. At nearly 70, he left to New England in 1632 to establish the First Church of Lynn near Boston. It was there it is assumed he cast the sole vote against the expulsion of Roger Williams — a proponent of equitable treatment of Native Americans and a fellow Separatist.

Both men showed a commitment to religious freedom, tolerance, and fair dealings. While they were clearly colonizers and missionaries, each with their own religion, they were also relatively woke. They showed the importance of a sustained quest for liberty and justice amid prevailing authoritarian orthodoxies.

Trump wields language as a tool to cement his prevailing authoritarian orthodoxies. He surrounds himself with figures who reduce substantive critical discourse to noise. His media allies, from Fox News to populist voices like Joe Rogan, amplify his rhetoric, diverting attention from systemic injustices. These platforms trivialize urgent issues, overshadowing genuine grievances with performative derision and bad faith gestures.

When language meant to confront injustice is co-opted, maligned, or muted, its power is diminished. Performative actions can “pipikize” critical terms, rendering them absurd or hollow while leaving entrenched problems untouched — many rooted in centuries of European colonization. Yet Trump’s alignment with a new breed of colonization deepens these issues.

Figures like Elon Musk and JD Vance, champions of libertarian techno-optimism, feed into Trump’s agenda. Musk dreams of private cities and space colonies free from governmental oversight, while Vance benefits from Silicon Valley backers like Peter Thiel, who pour millions into advancing deregulation and creating self-governing enclaves.

These visions are the new face of colonialism — enclaves of privilege where exploitation thrives, disconnected from democratic accountability. They mirror the hierarchies and exclusions of the past, dressed as innovation but steeped in familiar patterns of dominance.

In this age of populism — another word twisted and worn thin — vigilance is essential. Language must be scrutinized not just for its use but for its intent. Without this, we risk falling into complacency, lulled by superficial gestures and farcical displays. Stay awake. Words can preserve the power to transform — but only when their intent remains grounded in uprooting injustice and inhumanity.

References:

* Cambridge Dictionary. Definition of woke.

* Economist. (2024). Immigration, border control, and the ‘woke mind virus’: Tracking political rhetoric.

* Hobson, Christopher. (Sep 13, 2024). Imperfect Notes: In conversation with Pete Chambers.

* Klein, Naomi. (2023). Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

* Macmillan Publishers. (2023). Crack-Up Capitalism: Market Radicals and the Dream of a World Without Democracy.

* Neiman, Susan. (2023). Left Is Not Woke. Cambridge, MA: Polity Press.

* New York Times Magazine. (1962). Kelley, William Melvin. If You're Woke You Dig It; No Mickey Mouse Can Be Expected to Follow Today's Negro Idiom Without a Hip Assist.

* Press, Eyal. (2012). Beautiful Souls: Saying No, Breaking Ranks, and Heeding the Voice of Conscience in Dark Times. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

* Roth, Philip. (1993). Operation Shylock: A Confession. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

* Time Magazine. (2023). India’s textbook revisions spark controversy over history and ideology.

* Walker, Corinne A. (2024). Aeon. What is behind the explosion in talk about decolonisation.

* Dull, Jonathan. (2021). Post-Colonialism: Understanding the Past to Change the Future. World History Connected, 18(1), 125–142.

Hello Interactors,

Beneath the surface of election fatigue and endless punditry lies a deeper story — one rooted in the economic geography of this nation. It’s a tale of two Americas: the urban hubs thriving on growth and globalization, and the rural heartland struggling to hold on. One of those hubs allowed my career and family to grow and the other allowed me to grow.

The outcome of this election is well timed with Interplace’s fall theme of economic geography. Let’s step back from the noise to explore how decades of policy, technology, and shifting demographics have redrawn the map of opportunity.

This isn’t just about red versus blue — it’s about who we are, how we got here, and where we go next.

DIVIDED VOTES, DIVIDED LIVES

The 2024 presidential election highlighted many things, but one that really resonates with me is the growing urban-rural divide in American politics. Trump dominated rural voters and Harris dominated urban centers. This contrast is reminiscent of 2016, but has been building through decades of economic divergence: urban areas thrive on knowledge economies and globalization, while rural regions face stagnation and demographic decline. This enduring divide underscores the differing opportunities and values of urban and rural voters that renders as blue and red election maps.

The U.S. operates on division. It’s driven by a political and economic duopoly. Two major parties dominate, limiting ideological diversity and reducing complex issues to binary debates. This unfairly ignores the nuanced solutions needed to bridge these yawning economic and human geography gaps. Economically, we can see corporate power’s concentrated influence, with dominant industries in technology, finance, and healthcare shaping policy, market dynamics, and communities. Smaller players, including local businesses and alternative voices, are often overshadowed, ignored, or silenced.

The effects are visible in places like King County, Washington where I live. Tech giants like Microsoft and Amazon attract and fuel thriving, diverse, and mostly progressive communities. Meanwhile, in rural Adair County, Iowa, where my parents grew up and where I still have relatives, residents rely heavily on government transfers. They’re struggling to support growing aging populations and reeling from closures of vital services, including retirement homes. My own uncle faced this fate, forced into a failing trailer home to die after his Baptist church-financed retirement home was sold in 2022 to a private equity firm who promptly and callously shut it down.

These rural areas have become Republican strongholds, drawn to promises of reversing globalization, reshaping economic policies, and making their communities great again. With a 75.68% turnout of 5,423 eligible voters in Adair County, Iowa, 71.47% of them went to Trump in 2024. Sadly, their vulnerabilities are exploited by false narratives framing urban elites as adversaries to rural traditions and values. Though, these narratives aren’t entirely false. Both parties of our duopoly largely ignore, disregard, or patronize the realities of rural successes, strivings, and struggles — as do most urbanites.

ROOTS OF THE RURAL RIFT

Growing up in Warren County, Iowa, in the 1970s and 1980s provided a firsthand view of some of these rural and urban transformations. Suburban to Polk County and Des Moines, Warren County was close to economic growth from finance, insurance, and some manufacturing. My father worked as a financial analyst at Massey Ferguson, while my uncle held a blue-collar factory job, representing the industrial stability of the area at the time.

My parents grew up in a far more rural Orient, Iowa, in Adair County where Massey Ferguson tractors had already been hard at work for decades. They shared stories of their little town being a vibrant agricultural hub with a bustling grain elevator next to a train track and a lively Main Street. I saw remnants of this economy as a boy, but by the time I reached high school in the 1980s, it was already in decline. That decline was punctuated on June 10, 2024, when the Orient school board voted to dissolve the school where my parents went and grandmother taught due to ongoing enrollment and financial issues.

Orient is not alone; the 1980s marked widespread economic decline across rural America. The so-called "Green Revolution," which introduced advanced agricultural technologies, prioritized efficiency through mechanization and consolidation. While it modernized farming and boosted crop yields, it also drove smaller farms out of business and accelerated rural depopulation as large agribusinesses dominated.

Adair County exemplified these changes, losing its economic backbone as family farms were replaced by larger operations, leaving Main Streets struggling. In contrast, Warren County benefited from its proximity to Des Moines' expanding economy and has become one of Iowa's fastest-growing counties in recent years. The disparity between suburban and rural areas continues to grow.

I see now how the Reagan era of the 1980s helped to hammer in the political and economic wedge of today’s divide.

Reagan’s economic agenda, focused on deregulation, tax cuts, and free-market principles, favored urban areas that were better equipped to leverage these shifts. Urban centers like Des Moines diversified into finance and insurance, while rural regions like Adair County became vulnerable to agricultural volatility and light-industry manufacturing.

This era also saw a transformation in the political alignment of what some call the ‘rural petite bourgeoisie’ — also known as ‘small business owners’ and local elites rich with real estate capital. These, overwhelmingly men, traditionally held moderate views, blending New Deal liberalism with pragmatic conservatism. Facing economic pressures from rural decline, this group turned towards Reagan’s low-tax, deregulatory policies as vital for their small businesses' survival in a challenging economy. Meanwhile, large farm and property owners benefitted from skewed farm bills sponsored by Senator Charles Grassley. “Chuck” was first elected in 1981 and is still in office. He is the longest serving member of congress at age 91.

In contrast to urban counterparts who increasingly supported redistributive policies, rural elites opposed government spending and regulations they viewed as threats to their businesses. This shift fostered a rural political identity closely linked to the Republican Party, deepening the divide as local leaders endorsed short-term beneficial policies that often worsened structural challenges in their communities.

Reagan’s emphasis on reducing government intervention also weakened the social safety net that many rural areas relied on during economic downturns. This period marked significant wealth redistribution away from struggling rural economies, as policies favored global trade and technological advancements benefiting urban industries. Free trade agreements like NAFTA, initiated under Reagan and expanded under Bill Clinton in the 90s, further destabilized rural manufacturing and agriculture.

Reagan’s rhetoric of self-reliance resonated with rural voters who saw these values reflecting their traditions. However, these policies sowed the seeds of economic decline that later led rural areas to depend on government transfers, especially as populations aged — nearly one quarter of Adair County’s residents are over 65.

Medicare and Medicaid dominate government transfers in these areas. For those in their prime, the shift towards deregulated markets and globalization has left their economies vulnerable. As the gap between urban and rural widens, questions remain about whether Trump's promise to end NAFTA will improve or worsen their circumstances.

PROSPERITY AND PRECARITY

The urban-rural economic and demographic divide was worsened by the "China Shock" of the 2000s, which laid the groundwork for Trump’s political strategy. This "China Shock" refers to the economic disruption following China’s entry into the World Trade Organization, resulting in a surge of cheap imports and offshoring of manufacturing jobs. Rural communities suffered greatly. They faced accelerated job losses and industries already weakened by NAFTA collapsed.

Trump's populist critiques of globalization and free trade, along with his promises to revive manufacturing, resonated with rural voters disillusioned by years of economic decline. His focus on preserving Social Security and Medicare appealed to the swell of aging Baby Boomer populations in rural areas, where government transfers — mostly in the form of medicare and social security — have become vital for personal income.

Trump also used immigration as a fear tactic, employing anti-Asian rhetoric to foster suspicion of China and Chinese immigrants while extending this narrative to immigrants from Mexico, and Central and South America. Many of these immigrants fled due to policies supported by Reagan in the 1980s that destabilized their regions. The Reagan administration backed authoritarian regimes and aided military interventions aimed at combating pro-social movements, which led to violence and economic hardship still roiling Central America as effects of climate change ravage.

NAFTA further worsened this situation by enabling U.S. companies to exploit workers with low wages and displacing small farmers through large agricultural projects, echoing the impacts of the “Green Revolution.” These policies, together with the effects of a changing climate, have disrupted livelihoods and forced many to migrate north for survival.

Trump shifted blame for stagnant wages and reduced opportunities in rural America onto immigrants, claiming they were “stealing” jobs. However, the true issues often stemmed from systemic exploitation and corporate priorities aimed at suppressing wages. Rural workers, predominantly White but also Black and Brown legal immigrants, faced declining opportunities due to U.S. companies’ refusal to raise wages. Instead, especially with low-wage agricultural and meat packing jobs, they hired, directly and indirectly, illegal immigrant labor.

By framing immigration and globalization as adversaries, Trump obscured the structural causes of economic distress, deepening cultural divides while rallying rural voters with a narrative of racism, grievance, and mistrust.

The story of America’s divide is not just about economic shifts or political realignments—it’s a nation grappling with what it means to belong, prosper, and endure. Beneath the surface lies a deeper truth: the urban-rural rift mirrors our struggles with identity, purpose, and interdependence.

I see myself in this divide. Place profoundly shaped my life — not just through opportunities but in the values it instilled and the dreams it inspired. The urban skylines of the Seattle area, driven by innovation, look outward to a globalized future, while the rural landscapes of my childhood, rooted in tradition, look inward to preserve what they hold most dear. These differing perspectives underscore the ugly and unjust tensions and diverse and defining beauty of America’s existential, albeit bewildering, struggle.

Can we rediscover the common threads that bind us? The prosperity of the metropolis cannot endure without the resilience of Main Street, just as rural values lose meaning without the context of a connected world. Division is not our destiny — its what forces our decisions.

But the contours of our physical, human, and economic geographies, though disparate, need not dictate our future.

Like Iowa’s farmlands, where soil renews through struggle, and Seattle’s economy, thriving on adaptability, our future can grow stronger through enduring hardship and embracing a transformative, just, and inclusive tomorrow.

Hello Interactors,

We often think of the economy as a fixed, objective force, separate from who we are. But what if it actually shapes our identities? Like a DJ mixing a set, economics amplifies certain behaviors and silences others. I saw this firsthand last summer when Calvin Harris performed live in Scotland, dynamically controlling thousands of people with a turn of a dial or push of a button…on tracks he’d already mixed in the studio!

Brett Scott, in his recent Substack Remastering Capitalism, uses this music mixing metaphor to show how human nature is molded — elevated or suppressed — by economic systems. His insights remind me of social constructionism, which reveals that what we see as “natural” is often constructed by institutions, including the economy. Our many identities aren’t just reacting to the system — they are being shaped by it.

But what if Homo Economicus, the rational, self-interested individual, isn’t who we truly or solely are? What if these systems are muting our most moral and communal parts? With my last three posts on economics in mind, let’s explore how economics and geography construct — and limit — who we become.

MARKETS MOLDING MINDS

At the heart of social constructionism is the idea that reality isn’t something we passively experience — it’s something actively constructed through our social interactions, power dynamics, and the institutions that shape our lives. One of the most powerful institutions in modern society is the economy, which shapes not just markets but the very way we see ourselves and our place in the world. And, as with all social constructs, it is influenced by those who hold power.

In Econ 101, we’re introduced to Homo Economicus, the rational, self-interested individual who makes perfectly reasoned decisions geared toward maximizing utility without emotional interference. Think Spock from Star Trek. This figure is more than a character or abstract concept; it reflects the values that the market rewards and those in power promote. In environments dominated by capitalist systems — corporate boardrooms, stock exchanges, financial districts — the behavior of Homo Economicus is not just encouraged, it’s essential for success. These spaces reinforce particular versions of selves, constructed by the systems that surround them.

Critical geographer David Harvey emphasizes how geography and power intersect, asking us to

“Imagine, for example, the absolute space of an affluent gated community on the New Jersey shore. Some of the inhabitants move in relative space on a daily basis into and out of the financial district of Manhattan where they set in motion movements of credit and investment moneys that affect social life across the globe...”

These elites embody Homo Economicus and reinforce the power dynamics of capitalism, constructing an economic landscape where rational self-interest reigns supreme.

But Homo Economicus is not an innate human identity. Like the concept of the “divinely appointed king” in medieval Europe, it is constructed by the economic and social systems around us. Modern capitalism creates and rewards this notion of the self. But this doesn’t mean we’re trapped in this role — other tracks of human nature are waiting to be heard. The question is, can we turn up the volume on those other selves?

MAPPING MONEY’S MIGHT

The dominance of Homo Economicus is not just theoretical — it plays out in real, physical spaces. Economic geography shows us how capitalism manifests in cities, financial hubs, and industrial centers, creating environments that reward certain behaviors while suppressing others. As Doreen Massey, a feminist geographer, notes, social relations are constructed across all spatial scales — from global finance to local communities — and these spaces, in turn, construct us. She writes,

“’The spatial’ then…can be seen as constructed out of the multiplicity of social relations across all spatial scales, from the global reach of finance and telecommunications, through the geography of the tentacles of national political power, to the social relations within the town, the settlement, the household and the workplace.”

Having recently returned from New York and London last summer, I was surrounded by buildings and infrastructure designed to facilitate rapid decision-making and profit maximization. These financial districts are the birthplace of Homo Economicus, where competition, efficiency, and rationality are not only celebrated but engrained in the fabric of the city. But these aren’t just neutral places where economic transactions happen — they were actively shaped by human identities to shape other human identities, constructing versions of selves.

Yet, capitalism’s steady beat doesn’t stop at the thumping urban centers. It ripples outward, reshaping rural areas, natural landscapes, and global trade routes. In these spaces, a different identity might have flourished. For example, where I grew up in Iowa, rural areas are shaped by industrial agriculture where economic pressures push farmers to adopt monoculture practices, prioritizing profit over sustainability.

My father worked for farm equipment maker, Massey Ferguson in the 1970s and 80s where the company had to respond to John Deere’s introduction of industrial-sized articulated tractors sold to increasingly dominant large-scale farmers. Here, the track of Homo Ecologicus — the part of us that values balance and environmental stewardship — was quieted. Meanwhile, the relentless beat of industrial capitalism continues to drown it out.

However, these tracks aren’t erased. In more peripheral spaces — rural farms, local markets, and environmental movements — Homo Ecologicus still survives, embodying a different approach to the world, one that capitalism often suppresses.

A 2023 study showed that if 25% of institutional buyers sourced fresh food from local farms, it could generate an $800 million impact on Iowa's economy, supporting over 4,200 mid-sized farms and creating numerous agricultural jobs. In 2024 alone, Organic Valley, a cooperative that supports organic farmers, brought 40 new family farms in just the first four months of the year and was expected to add 70 more by year-end.

The geography of capitalism constructs these different forms of capitalism and the human identities behind them. Where we live and work reminds us that we are shaped by the spaces we occupy. Our identities are far from static — they are deeply influenced by the economic forces, choices, and physical landscapes we inhabit and navigate — the Interplace, if you will, the interaction of people and place.

INDUSTRY INFLUENCED IDENTITIES

Although capitalism has amplified Homo Economicus in both urban and rural spaces, other aspects of human nature persist. Social constructionism teaches us that while dominant systems shape our identities, they can also be resisted. And in moments of rebellion or creativity, tracks like Homo Ecologicus and Homo Absurdum emerge, reminding us of the full spectrum of the human experience.

Homo Ecologicus embodies our connection to nature and the desire for harmony with the environment. In communities focused on re-greening — whether through small urban efforts, rural sustainability, or the traditional ecological practices of the Coast Salish, which I’ve explored previously — these identities resurface. The Coast Salish, like many Indigenous cultures, emphasize balance and stewardship, a mindset echoed in the research of architect and sustainable urbanist, Steffen Lehmann. For example, Lehmann highlights ‘nature-based solutions’, as defined by the EU, are

“‘inspired and supported by nature, which are cost-effective, simultaneously provide environmental, social and economic benefits and help build resilience (…) and bring more, and more diverse, nature and natural features and processes into cities, landscapes and seascapes, through locally adapted, resource-efficient and systemic interventions’.”

Both Lehmann’s findings and the Coast Salish practices show that environmental stewardship and economic growth can coexist, challenging the dominance of Homo Economicus.

Homo Absurdum, the playful and imaginative side of human nature, similarly pushes back against the rigid logic of capitalism. My recent piece featuring DEVO, for example, showed how embraced absurdity, irony, and satire could form a critique of conformity and dehumanization wrought by modern capitalist society.

DEVO’s music wasn’t just about self-expression — it was an act of resistance. They reminded us that creativity and play are as fundamental to human nature as rationality and profit-seeking. Homo Absurdum thrives in moments of rebellion, where we reject the idea that our worth is tied solely to economic productivity.

Even Adam Smith, the so-called father of modern economics, understood that human identity was more complex than the rational self-interest of Homo Economicus. In The Theory of Moral Sentiments, Smith emphasized empathy and care, reminding us that

“How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him.”

Smith was also a product of his time, and his economic theories were socially constructed, shaped by the social and political environment of 18th-century Scotland, including the strong influence of Protestant religious values, which emphasized moral responsibility, hard work, and empathy toward others.

This brings us to an important realization: Homo Economicus is not the inevitable endpoint of human identity. It’s one track, amplified by the systems that hold power today. The human playlist is far more diverse, with room for care, play, connection, and environmental stewardship if we create the conditions to let these tracks play.

Economics is more than just markets and numbers — it’s a powerful force that shapes who we are. Through the lens of social constructionism, we see how economic systems construct certain identities, amplifying some parts of ourselves while suppressing others. In a world dominated by capitalism, Homo Economicus reigns supreme, but this doesn’t mean other tracks of human nature — like Homo Ecologicus, Homo Absurdum, or Homo Communis — are lost. These tracks are still present, waiting to be heard and made part of our collective human experience.

Immanuel Wallerstein, in his World-Systems Analysis, reminds us that historical moments like the French Revolution disrupted the structures that had previously determined the dominant identities of the time, legitimizing power in the hands of the people instead of monarchs or legislators.

He writes,

“The French Revolution propagated two quite revolutionary ideas. One was that political change was not exceptional or bizarre but normal and thus constant. The second was that ‘sovereignty’ — the right of the state to make autonomous decisions within its realm — did not reside in (belong to) either a monarch or a legislature but in the ‘people’ who, alone, could legitimate a regime.”

In the same way, we too can challenge the dominant economic structures of today by reshaping the various ‘selves’ that make ‘ourselves.’

I agree with Brett Scott when he challenges us to remaster our economic tracks based on these potentialities. To bring forward the voices of care, creativity, and environmental consciousness, and let them play a stronger part of the mix. Homo Economicus may be the dominant track for now, but we have the power to remaster the mix. Let’s strive for all the tracks of the human experience to play their part in creating a new, shared, and well-balanced harmony.

Hello Interactors,

On October 12th, the United States observed Indigenous Peoples' Day, a recognition first proposed in 1977 during a UN conference in Geneva. Indigenous delegates called

“to observe October 12, the day of so-called ‘discovery’ of America, as an international day of solidarity with the indigenous peoples of the Americas”

drawing attention to the broken treaties between Indigenous nations and the U.S. government. Thirty years later, the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples affirmed that these treaties are of international concern, though the United States and a few other countries initially refused to endorse the declaration, and the resolution remains non-binding.

On Indigenous People’s Day, the satirical news outlet, The Onion, used the occasion to post a story with this headline:

“Nation’s Indigenous People Confirm They Don’t Need Special Holiday, Just Large Swaths Of Land Returned Immediately”

Today, there are 574 recognized Indigenous nations within the U.S., many of which still struggle for recognition and rights. As trade agreements like NAFTA dominate discussions on labor, immigration, and environmental impact, little attention is paid to the intricate trade systems Indigenous nations developed long before European contact. Here in the Pacific Northwest, societies like the Coast Salish had sophisticated economies driven by geographic access to key resources, especially salmon. Their control over rich fishing sites shaped trade, reinforced social hierarchies, and created territorial dynamics that predated modern trade systems.

Yet, colonization disrupted these Indigenous networks, imposing disorienting and often exploitative systems of land ownership and resource extraction. This week, I hope to explore how the adaptive strategies of Indigenous nations—despite the hardships imposed by colonization—can inspire decentralized solutions to today’s environmental and socio-economic challenges, just as these nations did for millennia.

COASTAL CONTROL AND CULTURAL COMPLEXITY

The Pacific Northwest is one of the most ecologically diverse regions in North America. It was this natural abundance that enabled the Coast Salish peoples to establish rich, complex societies. Unlike the simplistic and often nomadic image of hunter-gatherers, the Coast Salish exhibited a diversity of approaches to resource management that reflect an intimate knowledge of their environment.

According to Colin Grier, an anthropologist and archaeologist known for his research on Indigenous societies of the Pacific Northwest, there are expanded and diverse notions of hunter-gatherer strategies. His research demonstrates how the Coast Salish were able to create surplus production, social hierarchies, and sophisticated trade networks due to their advanced understanding of the ecological systems they lived within.

At the heart of Coast Salish society was the salmon fishery, a resource so abundant and predictable that it allowed for the development of semi-sedentary communities. Grier emphasizes that their use of ecological niche construction — such as the creation of clam gardens and fish weirs — enabled the Coast Salish to actively shape their environment to increase resource availability.

These inventions and engineered environmental modifications were essential for producing the surpluses that underpinned the region’s complex social and economic systems. Unlike the traditional view of hunter-gatherers as passive foragers, the Coast Salish were active managers of their environment, designing and building a system that could support a large population through environmental and economically sustainable practices.

The abundance of salmon, clams, and other marine resources also enabled the Coast Salish to develop highly stratified societies. Social hierarchies were reinforced by cultural practices such as the potlatch, where surplus wealth was redistributed by elites in ceremonial gatherings that solidified their social status. As Grier points out, the ability to control key resource sites — such as salmon fishing locations — allowed some families to accumulate wealth and power. This led to a clear division between elites, commoners, and slaves.

The behavioral ecology of the Coast Salish extended far beyond simple resource extraction, encompassing complex social and economic strategies that allowed them to thrive in a resource-rich environment. Through kinship-based alliances and trade networks, coastal tribes maintained social cohesion and managed environmental variability, including managing large swaths of inland crops. These resources gave coastal tribes a significant advantage over inland freshwater groups, leading to unequal trade exchanges and the subjugation of inland tribes.

This dynamic of resource exploitation created internal socio-economic imbalances, as coastal elites reinforced their power and prestige through their dominance over resource-poor inland tribes. While this form of resource-based exploitation was characteristic of the Coast Salish, it foreshadowed the more rigid and racialized systems of chattel slavery that would later be imposed through European colonization, where individuals were commodified as property and permanently stripped of their freedom and rights.

SETTLER SYSTEMS AND STOLEN SOVEREIGNTY

The arrival of European settlers in the Pacific Northwest, beginning in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, marked the beginning of a profound transformation in the social, economic, and environmental landscape of the region. As Cole Harris, a renowned historical geographer, details in his book The Resettlement of British Columbia: Essays on Colonialism and Geographical Change, European colonization imposed new systems of land ownership and resource extraction that displaced Indigenous peoples and fundamentally altered their relationship with the land.

Harris's work focuses on how colonial forces reshaped the geography and socio-economic structures of Indigenous communities, leading to the dispossession of their traditional territories and resources. Harris’s analysis of the colonization of British Columbia reveals how Indigenous resource management systems, which had been developed over millennia, were systematically dismantled and replaced by European notions of private property and capitalist resource exploitation.

The Indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest, including the Coast Salish, relied on communal access to resources, particularly salmon fishing grounds. Control over these resources was a crucial element of their social and political organization. However, as European settlers arrived, they imposed new territorial boundaries and claimed ownership over key resource areas, such as rivers and forests. The imposition of colonial land policies eroded Indigenous control over their traditional territories, leading to the displacement of Indigenous peoples from the most productive fishing sites and hunting grounds.

Harris’s work highlights the environmental degradation that came with European settlement. The introduction of intensive logging, fishing, and agricultural practices by settlers led to the over-exploitation of resources that had once been sustainably managed by Indigenous societies. Salmon populations, which had been the lifeblood of Coast Salish society, were drastically reduced by the construction of dams and the depletion of spawning habitats. The environmental changes wrought by European settlers not only disrupted the ecological balance of the region but also undermined the socio-economic systems that had sustained Indigenous peoples for generations.

The loss of control over their lands and resources had profound social consequences for the Coast Salish and other Indigenous groups. As Harris notes, the colonial imposition of new economic systems — rooted in the extraction of natural resources for profit — displaced Indigenous peoples from their traditional economies and marginalized them within the emerging capitalist order. This dispossession of Indigenous lands and the environmental destruction that accompanied European settlement prophesied the global dynamics of resource exploitation that would come to define modern systems of trade and capitalism.

GLOBAL GREED AND GEOGRAPHIC GRAB

The dynamics of resource control and dispossession seen during European colonization are reflected in today’s global economic systems. World-Systems Theory, developed by Immanuel Wallerstein, a prominent sociologist and economic historian, explains how wealthier core nations dominate peripheral regions by extracting their resources and labor. This global division of labor, where core nations exploit the natural resources and workforce of less developed regions, perpetuates global inequalities—a system rooted in colonial practices and still evident today.

Trade agreements like NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) highlight these core-periphery dynamics. NAFTA, implemented in 1994, aimed to increase trade between the U.S., Canada, and Mexico by reducing tariffs and promoting economic growth. However, the benefits were unevenly distributed, with the U.S. and Canada, as core nations, reaping most of the profits, while Mexico, a peripheral nation, became vulnerable to economic and environmental exploitation. This mirrors the power imbalances between coastal and inland Indigenous tribes, where coastal elites controlled key resources and exerted dominance over less powerful inland groups.

NAFTA’s impact on Mexico’s agricultural sector illustrates this exploitation. Industrial agriculture, particularly in crops like corn and avocados for export, expanded under NAFTA. U.S. and Canadian corporations capitalized on Mexico’s cheap labor and weak environmental regulations, resulting in significant environmental degradation. This includes soil depletion, overuse of water, deforestation, and pollution from pesticides and fertilizers. Large-scale farming operations prioritize profit over sustainability, depleting natural resources and harming local ecosystems.

The environmental damage is compounded by severe social consequences. Small-scale Mexican farmers struggle to compete with the rise of large agribusinesses, leading to widespread displacement. Many are forced to abandon their land and migrate to urban areas or across the U.S. border in search of work. This displacement mirrors the historical marginalization of Indigenous peoples during European colonization, where resource loss left communities economically vulnerable and socially marginalized.

NAFTA’s exploitation of Mexico exemplifies the core-periphery dynamics described by Wallerstein. Core nations extract resources and labor from peripheral regions, reinforcing global inequalities. Mexico, economically marginalized within the global system, provides cheap labor and raw materials to wealthier nations while bearing the brunt of environmental and social costs.

Much like Indigenous peoples displaced by European settlers, Mexico remains trapped in a global system of resource extraction and dependency, a legacy of exploitation that continues to shape the world today.

The story of the Coast Salish and other Indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest reminds us of how deeply we can connect to the land, each other, and the resources that sustain us. For millennia, these societies thrived by adapting to their surroundings, developing diverse ways to live in balance with the environment. Their ability to nurture the land and build lasting communities offers important lessons for the challenges we face today.

As we confront climate change, inequality, and environmental collapse, these ancient strategies of cooperation and sustainability offer perspective. The Coast Salish thrived by embracing diversity—in localized resource management, relationship-based trade, and communities rooted in reciprocity. They show us it’s possible to prosper without exploiting the earth or one another.

Though exploitation existed in these societies, its legacy continues today. Resource monopolies and social hierarchies remain short-sighted responses to complex issues, with global profit-seeking leaving behind destruction — exhausted soils, polluted waters, and displaced people.

Still, there is hope. Indigenous strategies — focused on coexistence and sustainability—prove that a different path is possible. We need to stop seeing the earth as something to conquer and start caring for it, as these early societies did. Their adaptability and long-term focus on communal survival offer valuable lessons.

The core message is simple: survival is about finding balance — between people, communities, and the earth. By learning from these Indigenous societies, we can build a future that’s not just sustainable but flourishing, where diversity is our strength and guide forward.

Hello Interactors,

We’ve entered fall here in the northern hemisphere, and you know what that means — pumpkin spice everything, cozy sweaters, and … economics! That’s right, as the leaves change color (at least for those above 40°N latitude), it’s the perfect time to explore how the changing seasons mirror shifts in human interaction, from the flow of resources to the balance of power and progress.

This week, it’s time to cozy up with Adam Smith, Jeremy Bentham, and James Watt —three names you probably didn’t expect to find together, but trust me, they make quite the trio. So grab your favorite fall beverage and join me on a journey through the Industrial Revolution, steam engines, and the forgotten role of moral feedback loops in economics.

Let's find out why balancing wealth and well-being is harder than finding a public restroom in an old university.

PURGING THE URGE FOR SYMPATHY

I needed to pee. More specifically, the stretch receptors in the walls of my bladder, which monitor the volume of urine inside, became activated. That sent sensory signals to the spinal cord and brain through my pelvic nerves. The pons in the brainstem (which includes a dedicated urination control center) processed this information in coordination with my prefrontal cortex, which allowed for conscious control over my decision to urinate.

It was a Sunday, and the campus was dead. Lucky for me a door was open, so I ducked in and began my search for a potty. The hallway was musty and narrow. The walls were old, but not as old as the 250-year-old structure surrounding it. There was no immediately visible sign for a restroom, but there were numerous potential doors and directions for me to attempt. As I approached one of them, the industrial grade door magically opened before I could even touch it. I cautiously inched forward half wondering if it would lock behind me.

Now inside another chamber further in the interior, I was met with another set of mysterious doors. I stepped inside another narrower hallway that twisted suddenly to a sign above another door that read WC. Whatever Potter-esque ghosts had guided me here clearly had sympathy. And so did my parasympathetic nervous system. It simultaneously signaled the detrusor muscle of my bladder wall to contract and my urethral sphincter to relax. I stood there in relief wondering if I could find my way out.

I was visiting the University of Glasgow, hoping to learn more about its famous figures, especially Adam Smith, whom I see as an important moral philosopher rather than just the “father of economics.” A few days later in Edinburgh, I tortured my family by leading them on a search for his gravestone. I was pleased to find it acknowledged his The Theory of Moral Sentiments, where sympathy balances self-interest, as well as his more popular The Wealth of Nations. Unsurprisingly, the nearby tourist plaque focused only on Wealth of Nations, reflecting the emphasis on economics over his broader moral philosophy.

Adam Smith's moral philosophy was central to his life's work, with The Theory of Moral Sentiments being his enduring focus, while The Wealth of Nations but a brief but significant interlude. For Smith, economics was not just about market mechanics, but deeply intertwined with human nature, ethics, and the broader pursuit of communal well-being. He was more concerned with the motivations behind human actions than with the technical details of market forces, which came to dominate modern economics. Smith believed that the drive for self-betterment was not solely about personal wealth but was intrinsically linked to the well-being of communities, where self-interest was balanced by sympathy for others.

In Smith’s view, economic actions should be guided by moral virtues, such as prudence and justice, ensuring that individual efforts to improve one’s own life would ultimately contribute to the greater good of society. His exploration of economics was always part of a larger moral framework, where community engagement and ethical behavior were essential for both individual and societal progress.

Today, this broader moral context is often overlooked, but for Smith, economics was inseparable from philosophical inquiry into human behavior. He emphasized how the improvement of human life goes far beyond just the accumulation of material wealth.

MORALS MEET MARKET MANIPULATION

Many conservatives today may brush this interpretation as being too ‘woke’. Well, some eventually did back then too. As the British economy was expanding in Smith’s later years, he spoke in favor of capping interest rates with usury law. Usury is defined as the practice of making unethical or immoral loans that unfairly enrich the lender, often involving excessive or abusive interest rates. He believed exorbitant rates could lead to preying on the disadvantaged during a time of need resulting in growing disadvantages to the larger community.

Historically, many societies including ancient Christian, Jewish, Islamic, and Buddhist communities considered charging interest of any kind as wrong or illegal. Smith was rooted in elements of Christian morals, but critics claimed he was being hypocritical. They pointed to examples in his publications, often out of context, of where he suggested government can’t know better than individuals about their own risks, costs, and benefits and thus should not meddle.

But even in The Wealth of Nations Smith was clear about three conditions necessary for an effective economy and with each he paired moral values also found in The Theory of Moral Sentiments:

* State-Justice: Smith argued, “Commerce and manufacturers…can seldom flourish long in any state which does not enjoy a regular administration of justice,” emphasizing the need for laws that ensure security and regulate excessive accumulation of wealth.

* Market-Liberty: He valued the “liberty of trade…notwithstanding some restraints,” while warning that monopolies “hurt…the general interest of the country.”

* Community-Benevolence: Rooted in moral sentiments, Smith believed in a shared commitment to community, where “many reputable rules…must have been laid down and approved of by common consent.”

Smith’s main usury critic was the philosopher Jeremy Bentham, known for developing the philosophy of utilitarianism. A letter written to Smith in 1787 stated:

“Should it be my fortune to gain any advantage over you, it must be with weapons which you have taught me to wield, and with which you yourself have furnished me…I can see scarce any other way of convicting you of any error or oversight, than by judging you out of your own mouth.”

Bentham is most famous for the idea of “maximizing the greatest happiness for the greatest number” which helped promote legal reforms and social progress including welfare, equal rights for women, the separation of church and state, and the decriminalization of homosexual acts. But his ultimate focus of utilitarianism was on the practical outcomes of policies going so far as to develop mathematical formulas, called felicific calculus, to determine how much pleasure or pain must be inflicted in society to achieve the most happiness for the greatest number.

He was also a staunch economic expansionist, believing, as verified in his calculus, that it would expand good for most. It would be his student, John Stuart Mill, who expanded on but also critiqued Bentham’s utilitarianism later in the mid 1800s.

“I conceive Mr. Bentham's writings to have done and to be doing very serious evil. It is by such things that the more enthusiastic and generous minds are prejudiced against all his other speculations, and against the very attempt to make ethics and politics a subject of precise and philosophical thinking.”

Mill too was an expansionist, but acknowledged utilitarian reasoning could be used to defend exploitive and immoral colonial practices, including slavery. Mill believed slavery "effectually brutifies the intellect" of both slave and the enslaver and condemned the notion that certain races were inherently inferior and required subjugation.

Nevertheless, early colonizers and imperialists, as well as modern day neo-liberals weaponized elements of utilitarianism much like they did with The Wealth of Nations. They used (and continue to use) select elements to justify laissez-faire economics, deregulation, and the exploitation of labor, often prioritizing economic efficiency over moral considerations such as fairness and social equity.

For example, Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan both used utilitarian logic believing their policies would maximize overall economic growth and prosperity, benefiting society as a whole, even at the expense of rising inequality and social welfare. Their consequentialist approach justified market-driven reforms for a perceived greater good. Given today’s historic wealth imbalances, the result of that calculus is less than convincing.

Bentham also failed to convince Smith in that fateful letter, but to many it marked a notable shift in economic thinking and philosophy. Smith passed away three years after his exchange with Bentham and theoretical mathematical utilitarianism became the ultimate measure of right and wrong in governance and ethics in the UK and the US.

Smith’s morality, which emphasized moral virtues guiding economic actions, lost out to consequentialisms focus solely on outcomes, often justifying exploitation and suffering if it maximized societal gain and economic expansion for the expansionists — despite John Stuart Mill’s, and countless others, objections.

ECONOMIC ENGINES IN MORAL MACHINES

During Adam Smith’s lifetime, the Industrial Age rapidly emerged, transforming economies and wealth structures. Technological advancements, like the steam engine, fueled industrial capitalism, driving unprecedented economic growth and wealth accumulation. This focus on efficiency relied on maximizing productivity, whether through steam-powered machines, the exploitation of enslaved people, the working poor, or the displacement of Indigenous populations, prioritizing economic gain over human well-being.

In 1783, while Smith and Bentham were debating economic philosophy, James Watt was at the University of Glasgow, focused on regulating unchecked power —specifically the excessive speed of steam engines which he helped to invent. To prevent mechanical failures from fluctuating steam pressure, Watt invented the centrifugal governor. This device used weighted iron balls that spun outward with centrifugal force as the engine’s speed increased, raising a spindle that adjusted a valve to control steam flow.

By automatically reducing steam when the engine ran too fast and increasing it when it slowed, the governor ensured safe and efficient operation. Watt's invention, introduced in 1788, was in full production by 1790, paving the way for innovations like the first steam locomotive in 1804.

Watt's governor symbolized the need to impose limits on unchecked mechanical power, ensuring the engine operated within safe and efficient parameters. This technological innovation mirrored a broader theme of the Industrial Revolution — the balance between harnessing new, powerful technologies for economic growth while recognizing the risks of unregulated force, whether in machines or the rapid, unrestrained accumulation of wealth and resources in society. Watt’s governor was an early acknowledgment that unchecked power, whether mechanical or economic, could lead to instability and disaster.

"I am never content until I have constructed a mechanical model of the subject I am studying. If I succeed in making one, I understand. Otherwise, I do not."

– Lord Kelvin

Our brains also act as a kind of governor on the unchecked power of our kidneys, just as moral feedback loops serve as a governor on unchecked economic ambition. Like the stretch receptors in our bladder sensing when fluid volume builds, moral reasoning, as Smith envisioned, detects the social and ethical consequences of unfettered economic expansion. These signals, akin to the centrifugal force moving the governor's spindle, prompt individuals and society to regulate their actions, guiding decisions based not only on self-interest but on moral duty.

In contrast, Bentham's utilitarian calculus, much like a theoretical mathematical model divorced from natural systems, ignores these ethical feedback loops. By relying solely on abstract calculations of happiness and efficiency, Bentham's approach, like a machine operating without awareness of its environment, risks distorting human and social behaviors. Where Smith's model calls for moral constraints on economic behavior, much like the body’s signals to prevent overstretching, Bentham’s framework lacks the necessary human safeguards, leading to potential exploitation and imbalance in pursuit of theoretical utility maximization.

I do wonder what our economic systems would look like if, like our bodies, they were designed to self-regulate, ensuring that the pursuit of wealth doesn’t come at the expense of human well-being? Just as our bodily functions rely on natural feedback loops to maintain equilibrium, why have we allowed our economies to run unchecked, often leading to exploitation and inequality? Adam Smith believed in moral constraints on ambition, yet today, much of our economic thinking prioritizes growth without those safeguards.

As walked off campus that day, I reflected on Watt’s governor regulating the steam engine and the moral feedback loops Smith envisioned. I wondered if Smith and Watt made the metaphoric connection in their encounters with one another, maybe even on their way to relieve themselves in the very building in which I found myself. Perhaps they each happened on this connection in their own thought experiments, which makes me wonder why more don’t today? Surely there’s a morally sound way to balance personal gain with the greater good — a bit like public restrooms.