A Commune Called Palestine
“Oh don’t sleep in there!” she says, referring to #VeggieMonster. “It has bedbugs!”
The commune is called Palestine partly because in looking for land, Jim and others discovered that there in fact used to be a town of Palestine, Georgia. They became interested land close to that location, and took up the name in solidarity with the Palestine of the Middle East.
In cleaning the shit out of the truck, and one exterminator telling me I do not have bedbugs, I come to realize that I actually have: mold. It turns out mold spores will trigger painful itching. But — this is way easier to get rid of. I have never been so relieved to have mold.
Still, I take this as a cue to begin the transition into a van. I also realize that a 200 acre Leftist commune is about the best place I could hope to live while making the move. I begin the routine of looking through vans and mechanics, while playing good roommate and house husband. While the residents do farmwork or build housing, I clean (the kitchen!) and make vegan dinners, which they enjoy while teasing me for being a vegan liberal. It is nice. I help out with the farming once it warms up.
My immediate goals for transition are to a) find a van, b) modify it to use electric instead of propane for housing accessories, and c) modify it to run on waste vegetable oil for engine fuel. While researching options for each of these, I am also confronted with the communication problems of the commune. I try to be an empathic listener, but I quickly realize more structured mediation is needed.
I also know for myself that being stuck on the same plot of land with the same people is not good for me, and I encourage others to join me for a concert in Athens, Georgia, a college hippy town. The two female friends and I talk about sexism on the drive over, and at my first concert in a while, I see a lot of the same problematic behavior I used to engage in at concerts. This hits close to home for me, and I later write a confessional:
As for the van, it is clear that Georgia does not have a lot of used RV options, but that Florida does. Because of the extra travel, I do a lot of homework before committing to see one, and I am almost sure I have found the perfect motorhome, in Saint Petersburg, Florida. I agree to see it and reach out to Jenna Bardroff from Solutionary Species to visit/crash with her for the weekend.
The RV is fantastic. The owner’s son picks me up from the airport in the RV, and he gives me a tour for most of the day. I am sold on it. We negotiate a price, and he takes me to meet his parents, who tell me about their travels in the vehicle. It is a lovely time. The only issue is payment: They insist on receiving the money in wire or waiting until a check, even bank-certified, goes through before handing over keys, title, or vehicle. I am uneasy about this, but we part ways thinking we will resolve it.
He drops me off with Jenna and Kevin at the Solutionary Species table at an event. Catching up, I learn how active they have been in the Central Florida scene, and all the progress they are making, including convincing an entire bakery to turn vegan after one conversation with the owner. I am impressed with the relationships they develop so quickly. Shadowing Jenna on her dogwalking day, we discuss all this further, and do some chores. I am interviewed by Cheddar TV on behalf of Patriotic Millionaires about the GOP #TaxScam Bill: (click for video)
While researching payments, I see the RV has gone through four owners, and had a front-end collision some time ago. There is also another RV in Gainesville that may be better suited for me. Now I feel lost. I look into options to get to Gainesville and learn that car rental companies will only take credit card, which I do not have, instead of my debit card. The only “car rental” company that takes debit? U-Haul.
I wake up inside a U-Haul, wrapped in moving blankets, and having dreamt all night that authorities or assailants were opening the door to remove me. I show up at Sunshine State RVs, a used RV dealership, at 9:05. The moment I walk into the listed RV, I know: I want the other one. I take a test drive, just in case, and it does not feel right. I thank the sales rep, and just as I am about to text the previous family, he returns and suggests I take a look at another one. It turns out to be the same RV, in even better condition: less mileage, only one previous owner, and with a 30-day guarantee from a BBB rated business with great Google reviews. I am sold. Then we call my bank.
We speak with the bank at about noon. After hours of negotiating a transfer of this size, they tell us that they will need a signed and notarized letter, with identification. I am already frustrated, but the sales rep happens to be a notary, so we move forward pretty quickly. We go over some paperwork, while they brush up and replenish the RV, and they give me the tour. I am sitting in the RV, ready to drive off, when my bank calls back to tell me that for a transfer this size they also need secondary approval — and that the supervisor has left for the day.
The dealership tells me to take the car. They tell me to write a personal check, which they will tear once they receive the bank check. I thank them. I drive out of the dealership at 5:15, after they have officially closed, en route back to Palestine. I call the bank the first thing the next morning, from a parking lot in Florida. The person I had been speaking to is not in. He did not mention yesterday that we would not be in today. I tell them I need to send money to the dealership as soon as possible. I call them back later in the drive, almost back at the commune: The secondary supervisor has declined the transfer, and they will not send the money to the dealership. I tell them that by doing that, they are making me guilty of stealing a vehicle and driving across state lines.
“They gave you the car?” they ask, incredulously.
“You told them you would send the money!” I counter.
Eventually, they agree to overnight mail a bank certified check.
I make it back to the commune, and show off the RV. Goal A: Complete.
I call, and then email, the previous family. I still feel bad about not better resolving things with them.
I call different mechanics to potentially do the electric work. This entails removing the propane system and appliances, installing solar panels and electric appliances, and then likely adding extra battery power. I am very much hoping to at least begin this work before the new year. But after one mechanic assures me they can do the work, they stop answering my calls. Finding a second number for them, they soon stop answering those, too. Then a second mechanic stops answering my calls after assuring me they could do the work. Still unsure why, this ends up setting me back for months.
In the meantime, I am still trying to tend to commune dynamics. I went into staying at the commune thinking I could help earn my stay there by contributing as I knew how, as a mediator. Jim agreed to my staying there thinking that, because I was intending to leave soon, I did not belong in meetings where decisions about the commune were being made. In addition to this, racial and gender-based tensions are also rising.
Feeling like I am playing more clean-up than mess-prevention, I tend to my own needs by getting out to Atlanta or Athens, encouraging others to do the same. We manage a group karaoke event, singing La Bamba, Time Warp, and Bohemian Rhapsody. Sometimes, the musicians in our group perform in town, or we go out to the Korean spa for a birthday. I remember our outings fondly.
We also manage to find community on site at times. The native members of the commune build a sweat lodge and lead ceremonies. We have no-stakes poker nights (one of which I somehow win) and a Muppet Christmas Carol screening. New Year’s Eve we have a ceremony that in which I confront the tension of boundaries, and my fear of trying to help while making something worse. I continue to reflect on this, especially in light of my attempts to mediate at the commune. It is not enough though. Arguments repeatedly surface and people leave and return a few times. I know I could use a break…
Lindsy and I plan a trip to Cuba. I drop off the RV with Mark from Atlanta RV, the third electrician I talk to, who actually does the work, before heading to one of the great anti-Imperialist Meccas in the world. Wanting to visit since I was in Miami last year, this seems like our chance. I will post about that in full separately. The trip was wonderful, but here is a teaser:
Also during this time, I am still submitting what used to be my thesis as a book proposal, and dealing with residual truck trouble from Universe-Knows-What-Happened while I was gone. It becomes increasingly clear to me that the group is not so interested in formal mediation, so I withdraw and endlessly scroll through Bumble, Tinder, and MeetUp to try to socialize outside of the commune. This only works so well.
Amidst a sea of declines from publishers, mostly on the basis of the work not being their direction, two publishers express interest, one particularly so. The more promising of the two gives me solid feedback, including an offer of preliminary peer-review from two colleagues. Their feedback is both positive and with a lot of merited constructive guidance.
Finally, a friend from home who organizes events tells me he is working on some things for the SXSW season in Austin. He wants me to be on a panel. I enthusiastically accept. Researching SXSW, I find SXSW EDU, and I register for that. March coming up, I pick up the van from the electricians, who are almost done with it, to drop it off at Veggie Oil Conversions, in Marietta, Georgia.
Goal B is almost done; Goal C is underway.
Ultimately, and for all its problems, I learn a lot at the commune. I especially learn about imperialism, and its relationship to White supremacy within the US. I begin to learn the tensions between Marxists and “identity politics.” I learn about communication and power dynamics, and (un)healthy community. I watch a few documentaries and movies with the Native folk about Native-American life and the US’ imperialism thereof. They teach me a lot in conversations, as well.
I also learn about farming, in theory anyway, from the Leftist permaculture-trained Slim of Feed The People Farms. He and I especially become friends and often discuss for hours history, class, race, gender, and farming.
I have since brought this into my activist-education, at YEA Camp and school visits, and as teaching usually goes, I am excited to offer them the things I am only just learning at 30. They are off to a better start than I was. Hopefully, they never go through my high school libertarian phase…
