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  • Jennifer Doudna: A journey of scientific breakthroughs, genes editing and a Nobel Prize

    You, like most people, might never have heard about Clustered Regularly Interspaced Short Palindromic Repeats gene editing, or CRISPR gene editing for short. This is a recently discovered gene editing technique (a methodology that allows to modify the genetic information of an organism) in the field of molecular biology that earned Jennifer Doudna and Emmanuelle Charpentier the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 2020. It is only the sixth and seventh Nobel Prize to be awarded to women in the field of chemistry, the first shared by two women, and it recognizes Doudna and Charpentier’s long and fruitful career in science.

    Born in Washington D.C in 1964, but raised in Hawaii, Jennifer Doudna’s life is one defined by breakthrough achievements in science, education and activism. In a recent biography on Doudna by Walter Isaacson – known for the biographies of Elon Musk or Steve Jobs – she narrated what it was like to grow up on an island and attend a school where she was the only blond, blue-eyed kid. Surrounded by nature, her interest in biology first and in genetics later became an obvious choice for her educational background. Thankfully, her choice was very much encouraged by her parents, both with careers in teaching. Doudna first truly realized she could “do science” in 1985, during college practices, when she was mentioned in a scientific paper about bacteria after successfully growing the organisms.

    Encouraged again by her parents, she applied and got accepted into Harvard that same year. It was there, working in the laboratories of different distinguished professors in the field, that she discovered her passion for DNA first and RNA later. After finishing her dissertation, she asked Polish biologist and a later Nobel Prize laureate Jack Szostak to do her doctoral research under his supervision. Investigating RNA at a time where major discoveries in DNA were still being made was risky, especially for Doudna who was only just starting her career in science. “Never do something that a thousand other people are doing”, a guiding principle for Szostak, convinced Doudna of embarking into the scientific journey of RNA research.

     A portrait of Jennifer Doudna in 2013

    During her PhD, she published various important and novel articles in prestigious scientific magazines. It made sense, then, to continue her research and after obtaining her PhD, Doudna started her postdoctoral research in Tomas Cech’s lab, then recently laureated with the Nobel Prize. Despite moving from the University of Colorado to Yale, she kept investigating the RNA molecular structure until Doudna and Cech were finally able to determine the location of every atom in an RNA molecule. This discovery, essential for the Nobel Prize she would end up winning later, began a “quest to translate basic science about RNA into a tool that could edit genes”, Isaacson explained in Doudna’s biography.

    Now a leading figure in a newly established field, Doudna continued to work at Yale until 2002. Afterwards, she felt it was time for a change and moved to Berkeley to both continue her research on RNA as well as teach classes, as this way she could contribute to public higher education in the U.S. It was during the early 2000s when Doudna became interested in the recently discovered CRISPR mechanism and in the genetic editing technique associated to CRISPR that she would contribute to discover.

    Explained in layman terms,CRISPR gene editing is a tool used by scientists to, as redundant as it sounds, edit genes and consequently change them. Think of genes as the instruction manuals for all living things. They sometimes present problems that could result in diseases or other genetic related issues. CRISPR is then the figurate scissors that make it possible to cut those specific parts out of the manual and add new instructions that fix the mistakes. Think of it like editing a document on a computer. CRISPR allows scientists to make changes to the genetic code of living things, like correcting spelling mistakes or adding new sentences to improve the document. But the implications and possibilities of CRISPR gene editing go beyond correcting spelling mistakes in a Word document.

    In 2008 Doudna began her entrepreneurial journey when she briefly started to work for Genentech, a biotechnology corporation. Her jump to the corporate world followed the conviction that it was there where she would be able to investigate concrete CRISPR techniques to actually help people suffering from illnesses and genetic diseases. After working for Genentech, an experience she did not particularly enjoy, she moved back to academia. Since then, Doudna has founded over 4 companies and she is now on the advisory board of different businesses and foundations mainly focused in CRISPR therapeutic gene editing applications. Although she “didn’t have the right skill set or passions to work at a big company”, creating her own companies and advising others became the way to maintain a healthy relationship between corporatism, activism, research and academia.

    In 2011, while attending a conference in Puerto Rico, Doudna met Emmanuelle Charpentier. Charpentier, a French researcher in microbiology, genetics and biochemistry who had also been doing intensive investigations on CRISPR. Their match happened instantly, as Doudna recalls in her biography, and soon after the conference they started working together. A research journey of sweat and tears would, in 2020, be recognized by the Nobel Prize in Chemistry awarded to both women. Their discovery was also part of a race amongst different scientific teams around the world trying to prove that CRISPR techniques could be used for genetic editing in humans. Throughout her life, and prior to the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, Doudna received prestigious recognitions such as, among others, the Princesa de Asturias award in 2015 or the Tang and Kavli prizes in 2016 and 2018, respectively.

    The discovery, which was made by different scientific teams almost simultaneously, had broader implications. The possibility of editing the human genome had now become a probability and one with many ethical issues behind. Although a big part of the scientific community, amongst them Doudna, are speaking out in favor of a moratorium on the use of this technique, scientific teams around the world have already begun to use it experimentally on humans. In a future where “free-market eugenics” will be possible, we need scientists like Doudna, who in the vanguard of discovery maintain responsibility over the dangers of the field and recognize the importance of policies regulating it. Other uses of CRISPR, generally more accepted and that are being researched, also by Doudna and her companies, include enhancing crops in agriculture or diagnosing genetic disorders in humans which could eventually help to make us less vulnerable to Alzheimer, cancer or future pandemics.

    DAVOS/SWITZERLAND, 23JAN16 – Klaus Schwab (L), Founder and Executive Chairman, World Economic Forum and Jennifer Doudna (R), Professor of Chemistry and of Molecular and Cell Biology, University of California, Berkeley, US, discuss on stage at the Annual Meeting 2016 of the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, January 23, 2016. WORLD ECONOMIC FORUM/swiss-image.ch/Photo Remy Steinegger

    When COVID-19 kept the world secluded, Doudna worked with an international team to find ways in which CRISPR and RNA editing could be useful for detecting and then curing the disease. Their investigation ran parallel to hundreds of teams around the world until in 2020 the first two RNA vaccines, a recognition of the hard work of the global scientific community, were approved by the U.S. and other governments. Shortly after Doudna and Charpentier were awarded the Nobel Prize for CRISPR editing.

    Doudna is now the Li Ka Shing Chancellor’s Chair Professor at the University of California, Berkley and carries on her research for the Howard Hughes Medical Institute. She continues to work in her companies, such as Mammoth Biosciences and advises some big pharmaceuticals such as Johnson & Johnson. She also keeps calling for funding on scientific research and leads the Doudna Lab, a groundbreaking institution in CRISPR gene editing and its applications.

    About the Author

    Dario is a student in American Studies at the University of Amsterdam. He has previously completed a bachelor in History at the University of Zaragoza and bachelor in Communication at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya. During his bachelor years, he also had the chance to study abroad in countries such as the U.S., Italy or Romania, which have made him specially interested in transnational movements and perspectives. He is currently writing a dissertation on the unpublished autobiography of Vaughn Love, one of the African Americans who fought in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. In his free time, Dario is also a member of the Young Minds Network of the John Adams Institute in Amsterdam.

    For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.

  • Quannah Chasinghorse, a Native American walking between the worlds of fashion and activism

    Growing up, Quannah Chasinghorse, a Native American from Hän Gwich’in and Oglala Lakota descent was discouraged to become a model by the lack of her people’s representation in the fashion industry. But in 2021, at the age of 19, she would make the headlines for walking the MET Gala with a Native American outfit and for showing her distinctive traditional face tattoos. A documentary released in September of last year and titled Walking Two Worlds shows that, besides being a model, Chasinghorse also has an extensive record on Native American rights and climate change activism.

    Chasinghorse was born in 2002 in the Navajo Nation of Arizona. Her mother Jody, also a Native American and climate change activist, is Hän Gwich’in, a First Nation with an estimated population of 310 and located in Alaska and the Yukon territory in Canada. Her father is Oglala Lakota, a Native American people living in North and South Dakota with an estimated population of about 115,000. Raised by her mother and two older brothers, she spent her early childhood between Mongolia, Arizona and New Mexico. At age 6 she moved to Alaska, her maternal homeland, where she was raised in the traditional customs of the Hän Gwich’in. As just a kid she remembers fishing, hunting, chopping wood and being transported by a dog team. After Chasinghorse’s mother got a promotion at her job they all moved to Fairbanks, back in Arizona, where she would spend her teen years. 

    In the city, Chasinghorse became involved in protests against the drilling of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, a project approved by president Donald Trump that threatened to drill millions of acres in Alaska. Drawing the connection between Native American Rights and environmental activism came naturally, and shortly after the protests she also served in a Native American local council educating on the ways of life and defending the original land of the Hän Gwich’in. Whilst speaking at climate rallies, she also started working with the Alaska Wilderness League, the lead organization fighting to protect the Arctic Refuge. In a press commentary reminiscing on the reasons for her involvement in climate change activism, she explained: “Our way of life is at risk. Our culture, all of those things that make us who we are, that make our identity.” 

    Chasinghorse and her mother during a trip to Washington to met with different activists and U.S. representatives and discuss the implications of Native American land exploitations”

    Her career as a model started a few years later, in 2020, when she was approached by a casting agent, whilst she was participating in a get-out-the-vote activity – Native Americans have been suffering disenfranchisement for centuries and have one of the lowest voting turnouts in every election –. In her first modeling campaign for Calvin Klein she would appear showing her traditional face tattoos, called Yidįįłtoo, that are linked to a Hän Gwich’in rite of passage and important moments in life. Her appearance, defying the western fashion standards became highly popular and soon she signed her first contract with a big agency. Since then, she has been featured in many of the most important fashion magazines such as Vogue and has posed for brands like Chanel or Ralph Lauren.

    Amongst her most “iconic” moments are the 2021 MET Gala red carpet. Wearing a dress inspired by Native American style and jewelry from the Navajo Nation she made the headlines both for her unique appearance and for defying the theme, “In America: A Lexicon of Fashion” by wearing non-western fashion elements. Later Chasinghorse would admit on social media that “After a while of trying to fit in in a space where there is a huge lack of indigenous representation, I just started focusing on why I went in the first place”. The relationship of the fashion industry often clashes with climate change activism, Chasinghorse recognizes, but she is also aware that “you have to be at the table where they’re making these decisions”. She now uses her growing influence in social networks to amplify her activism and is often, almost daily, posting about different environmental, social and Native American causes.

    Quannah Chasinghorse at the 2021 MET Gala wearing a dress by Peter Dundas and the jewelry of the former Miss Navajo Nation Jocelyn Billy Upshaw

    Shortly after initiating her career as a model, Chasinghorse was contacted by Maia Wikler, a candidate in a political ecology PhD at the University of Victoria. Wikler, who knew Chasinghorse from her activism work in 2019, pitched her the idea of making a documentary about her career in activism. After a long pandemic with continuous filming pauses, the work Walking Two Worlds was released. The short piece, about half an hour long, features the life of Chasinghorse and aims to highlight her activism journey to engage more people in the Alaskan climate situation. 

    The title of the documentary is also a reference to a tension that Chasinghorse faces in her career and social activism. As one of the first Native American models to be featured by big fashion brands, the first with traditional face tattoos, she feels loneliness and loss of identity from her roots. She would be walking, figuratively, between an “indigenous way of life” and the “modern world”, as phrased by Chasinghorse’s mother in the documentary. After moving to Los Angeles to continue modeling, Chasinghorse felt anxiety attacks from being away from her homeland. In a poem featured in the documentary she expresses her feelings as a walker between two worlds:

    I’m from the beaded moose hide in modern 
    clothes, the smell of sage, the taste of fry bread.

    I’m from the trees, fireweed trails, 
    mushing, and nature walks.

    In the Birch tree I used to climb,
    those long-lost limbs I remember 
    as if they were my own.

    From the hunting, fishing and berry picking trips,
    the potlatches and the legends our elders tell.

    I am from the Hän Gwich’in, Lakota
    and Navajo family.

    Besides these tensions in Chasinghorse life, her career keeps going on swiftly. In the recent March 2024 Oscar’s Gala, she wore again a Native American inspired dress and traditional jewelry. At only 21, she defies western fashion whilst serving as an inspiration for many Indigenous people around the world. Quannah Chasinghorse, model and activist, is an example proving that walking two worlds is possible.  

    At the very recent Oscar’s Gala, Chasinghorse once again attended wearing a dress that honored Native American fashion and jewelry

    About the author

    Dario is a student in American Studies at the University of Amsterdam. He has previously completed a bachelor in History at the University of Zaragoza and bachelor in Communication at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya. During his bachelor years, he also had the chance to study abroad in countries such as the U.S., Italy or Romania, which have made him specially interested in transnational movements and perspectives. He is currently writing a dissertation on the unpublished autobiography of Vaughn Love, one of the African Americans who fought in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. In his free time, Dario is also a member of the Young Minds Network of the John Adams Institute in Amsterdam.

    For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.

  • FAQ: Army Brat Edition

    I have lived in 18 different places over the course of 28 years. As a child, I moved from military base to military base. As an adult, I’ve continued moving from city to city, culminating in a nomadic life that has shaped my life in countless ways. As a result, several people have asked me to write about my experience as a military “brat,” a term used to describe children of parents who serve in the armed forces. Although almost 5% of Americans are military brats, many people may not have known one or perhaps didn’t realize they knew one. My perspective may be different from what many are familiar with.

    I could write several books of short stories about our meth-making neighbors on-base in Oklahoma (they were arrested), the multiple cross-country move-road trip horror stories (in the days MapQuest and before Google Reviews could help suss out roadside motels), or when my parents took TriCare, the active duty military health insurance organization, to court (and won). Overall, my “experience as an Army brat” is my life story that goes far beyond my first 17 (when I started college) or 26 (when my military ID expired) years. It has shaped my subsequent adulthood decisions about my future career (should I go into public service?) and everyday conversations (where are you really from?). 

    The problem is, this is not a straightforward story; my experiences as a military brat differ vastly from those of other military brats. Indeed, the experience of being a military brat is not a monolith. We can belong to any branch of the armed forces – Navy, Marine, Air Force, Coast Guard, or, like me, Army.  Some brats moved every year, while others only knew of one home. Some of us only had one parent in the military, while others had both. Some brats missed out on important moments with our parents because of deployments, while others’ parents never saw foreign soil. Some of our parents never came home, or maybe they came home with different people. Some of us have parents who used military benefits to pursue higher education – perhaps even law or medical school – while others climbed the ranks with a high school degree. Some military brats have hardly seen the inside of a base, while others grow up barely seeing the world outside of one. Even our parents all do or did wildly different things– the military is a society within itself, with doctors and nurses, janitors, lawyers, policemen, and administrative workers.

    To better understand military brat life, we’ve got to start somewhere. So, let’s begin with the questions I’ve been plagued with my entire life – the ones I know you’re most curious about and the conservations that tend to follow. I’ll break them into a series so as not to overwhelm, with the first one focusing on the question I get asked the most: “Where is home?”.

    Part 1: Defining Home on the Move

    Where are you from? 

    I am from the U.S., and I identify as American, no matter how offensive that may be to other Western-Hemisphereans.

    No, I mean… Where are you really from? 

    I do not consider myself “from” a particular state or town. I lived the longest in North Carolina and Colorado, at 3.5 years and 5.5 years, respectively, but both of those stretches were interrupted by residences in different states in between. My parents and sister now live in the Denver metro area, where I went to university and spent a bit of my early 20s in, so I’ll now claim it as “home” when an asker can’t believe I don’t feel such affinity to any specific location.

    I have “moved” a total of 26 times. I have lived in 14 U.S. states plus the District of Columbia. I’ve lived in Virginia, North Carolina, and Colorado more than once. I moved twice within four locations (Oklahoma, North Carolina, Washington, D.C., and Amsterdam) and four or five times within the Denver Metro area. I’ve completed two cross-Atlantic moves– once with my parents to Rome and once alone to Amsterdam. Hopefully, that adds up to 26, but even I still find it hard to keep track.

    So then… is there anywhere you feel most at home? 

    If I say I’m going “home” to the U.S. in casual conversation, this could also include some places where my friends or family reside – home is where the heart is, right? For instance, I could be referring to Chicago, where three of my closest friends and non-blood related aunt and uncle live, Michigan, my parents’ birthplace and home to my maternal grandmother and extended family, although I have never lived there. I could also be going “home” to Portland, Oregon, a place I’ve also never lived but where my maternal aunt’s family is, or wherever Emma McCauley, my youngest (but non-blood related) sister, and longest-time friend, lives (currently Charleston, South Carolina).

    Where was your favorite place to live? 

    When someone asks me about my favorite place to live, I usually tell them the city I currently reside in. Since I am now an adult, I’ve consciously decided to live here, wherever “here” may be at any given moment. So, at the moment, the answer is Amsterdam, but in the past, it has also been Denver, D.C., and Philadelphia. There is the caveat of my time spent in Minneapolis –  I apologize to the Land of 10,000 Lakers, as it is a beautiful state with lovely people. Still, I had a difficult time there due to personal and career-related issues.

    This sentiment might change in the future, especially as my parents grow older or I have a family of my own, and the decision to live or move wherever is no longer mine alone. For now, I am happy to be where I am and choose to be.

    But putting formalities aside, what places did you like to live most?

    The bases my father was stationed at are not places you would willingly want to live. We never went to Germany or Korea, although my parents and sister did get to go to Rome without me. Lawton, Oklahoma (my residence from ages 4 to 6) is a fairly abysmal middle-of-nowhere place, crawling with creepy scorpions and pesky armadillos with little to do. Rapper J. Cole has lengthily documented Fayetteville, North Carolina, as the “super hood” and “Fayettenam,” which comes close to my experiences (from age 12-14 and 15-17). 

    I’m not sure if Arizona was my favorite place then, as I was surely distressed when we first moved about being ripped away from my friends in Georgia. Still, I think Ft. Huachuca, AZ comes out on top of my childhood homes. Admittedly, It is not particularly a place I would ever return to live as an adult; 20 miles from the Mexican border in desert mountains and an hour and a half from the nearest department store, Ft. Huachuca is much too remote for the metropolitan life I enjoy these days. But it was naturally beautiful and culturally diverse. It was also a military bubble, isolated from outsiders – one of the few times I could enjoy the company of other children. I knew I wouldn’t disappoint when I told them we would be moving. 

    How have all the moves affected you?

    “Roots” and “stability” are two concepts I’ve been struggling with in therapy since I started recognizing my restlessness problem in my early twenties. I recognize this feeling is not mutually exclusive to military brats. As I near 30, I still long desperately for a place to call my one true home but often feel no closer to finding it and may accept that I might never.

    The summer before my senior year of college, my sister, parents, and I were finally reunited and living within an hour of each other after being separated by the Atlantic Ocean for the previous three years. My sister was at the same university as me in Golden, Colorado. My dad had been stationed at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. He was set to retire and move closer to us in the Denver Metro area to work for the federal government after I graduated. Right when our family was about to be reunited, the “itch” took me away again.

    When I started looking for my first job out of college, there was no question in my mind that I would leave the state. Despite my love for Colorado and my family and friends residing there, I always felt I would “have to” leave the state. The check-out time of this hotel had come; it was time to move on, like I’d always done.

    How has relocating as an adult differed from your childhood experiences of moving?

    As it turns out, starting over as an adult, even in your early 20s, is much more difficult than starting over as a child. I learned this the hard way during my 10 months in Minneapolis. Finding community when you’re living alone and working long hours can be extremely difficult—coworkers aren’t the same built-in friends that schoolmates are. I ran back to Denver with my tail between my legs, counting my blessings on the friends I already had there. 

    In February 2020, I decided to try my luck again in Washington, D.C., after accepting a very exciting job offer. I had a plan – what sports and associations to get involved in to meet people, and I’d live with social roommates that I could hang out with. Unfortunately, a little worldwide pandemic quickly pulled the plug on my plans.

    I’ve been in Amsterdam since summer 2021, and although I treasure the time I’ve spent here, it’s been a challenge in its own right. Although I’ve navigated American southern, midwestern, northeastern, and Western cultures, the culture shock and barriers in coordinating a group of Dutch, Italians, Chinese, and Brazilians are incomparable. Every time someone tells me our dinner reservation is for 8 p.m., I still die a little inside.

    However, Amsterdam is an incredibly social and open city. Thousands of other expats here are also looking for friends and community, trying to make this country feel a little more like home. In that way, it feels a little like living on a military base with other transients. On that same note, it makes it quite difficult to ever really feel at home. There’s a sense that many will float back to their countries of origin one day, so Dutch folks tend not to get so close to outsiders for that reason (which was something I experienced in my non-military schooling at times). The international atmosphere sometimes makes it feel like I don’t even live in the Netherlands. 

    As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to appreciate the positives my upbringing brought me– many of my friends in college had never left their home state of Colorado (although it is a fine state to never have left), let alone the country growing up. Every other year, I’ve been surrounded by new and different people from different socio-economic, racial, and cultural backgrounds. Although I’ve never had a long-lasting experience of community, I’ve learned to craft my own wherever I go. 

    I’ve doubted myself and my new place in society with every move. In North Carolina, I didn’t have a feminine enough sense of style; in Colorado, I felt too Type A; in D.C., I wasn’t Type A enough. For my first two years in the Netherlands, I constantly questioned whether the language barriers and American stereotypes were too big to overcome. I’ve pined for “home” at each new location, daydreaming of greener, more familiar pastures. 

    But, as they say, “Wherever you go, there you are,” slowly but surely, I’m learning that no place is better or worse than the other. People are also people; there are kind, loving, anxious, depressed, rude, and awful ones everywhere. This is particularly true of modern dating, which, if my other single friends scattered across the globe are a good indication, is “miserable” in every city. How I’ve experienced a place completely depends on my values, priorities, opportunities, and life stage at the time. `

    In Part 2 of “Peyton’s Army Brat FAQ,” I’ll get a little more into the nitty-gritty of the military’s role in our family’s moves and my upbringing. What does one even “do” in the military? How has my family been affected by war? Did I grow up with an arsenal in my basement? Stay tuned for all that and more, and feel free to send any other questions you may want answered to thoughtshub2021@gmail.com.

    About the author

    Blog writer Peyton moved to the Netherlands in 2021 to pursue a master in Spatial & Urban Economics at the VU. Since then, she’s continued her work in the built environment industry– she was previously in Washington, D.C. supporting policy work on climate resilience and urban sustainability. As a former military brat with no real hometown back in the U.S., she decided to give the Netherlands a go at becoming her new home. In her free time, Peyton enjoys hanging out with her triathlon club (but cycling is her favourite), reading, writing, learning Dutch, and spending time enjoying good food and company with friends. She is also an urban enthusiast– passionate about understanding the vibrant ballet of life on city streets and the heartbeats of community identity. Peyton will be writing blogs every other month.

    For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.

  • The Pot: Linking Three Cultures at Sylvester Manor

    By Donnamarie Barnes & The John Adams Institute

    In this short conversation with The John Adams Institute, Donnamarie Barnes, the Director of History & Heritage at Sylvester Manor, explains a transatlantic story. In this excerpt, she tells the story of the transatlantic slave trade through a seemingly innocuous archeological finding: a stone pot.

    Pictured: "jazz"
    Sylvester Manor Artifacts

  • The Story of Susanna M. Salter, the First Woman Mayor of the U.S.

    Very often, when telling the history of women’s suffrage, we focus only on the major achievements, telling the stories of the most recognizable activists such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Susan B. Anthony. Before the 19th Amendment was ratified by the U.S. Congress and Senate in 1920, women had been fighting for over 150 years to attain the right to vote. By telling the story of lesser-known women who also fought and rallied for the rights to vote, we contribute to an unequivocally more inclusive timeline of general suffrage history.

    It was 1789 when the state of New Jersey became the first to allow any person with property, regardless of sex and race, to vote. The progressive decision would only last for eight years, but it set the beginning of a long century of reforms and activism, the perfection of democracy and the first steps towards the recognition of men and women as equals. The protagonist of today’s article was born on March of 164 years ago in Lamira, a small community in Ohio. Her name was Susanna M. Salter and I encourage everyone to read along to discover how she became the first woman mayor in the history of the United States. 

    A picture of Susanna M. Salter taken around the same year that she was elected as mayor of Argonia.

    Daughter of Quaker parents, she was the descendant of the first English settlers that arrived to the United States with William Penn. After living her youth in Silver Lake and whilst in school, she married Lewis Allison Salter and together with her parents they moved to a little farm in what would, in 1881, become the small city of Argonia in Kansas. Shortly after her marriage, Salter became involved with the recently founded Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU). An important player in the Temperance Movement against the consumption of alcohol that would eventually culminate with the 18th Amendment, the WTCU became already by 1890 the largest women’s organization in the world. 

    The rapid growth of the Union in the late 19th century translated into the involvement of the WTCU in other political issues such as those related to prostitution, labor and, most notably, suffrage. Under the direction of Frances Willard, the organization adopted the motto “Do Everything” and, as it got involved more into politics, its role in the eventual passing of the 19th Amendment also became bigger in parallel to other more recognized organizations such as the NWSA or the AWSA.

    In 1887, Kansas — that some years before had been the first state to hold a referendum on women’s suffrage — became also one of the first states to grant women the vote in municipal elections. That same year, Argonia, having been established as a municipality in 1885 and with a population of about 500 people, held its second municipal elections and the first in which women could vote. The previous term had elected Salter’s father as the mayor and her husband as the clerk, which, added to the fact that she was a member of the WTCU made her a quite popular character in the small city of Argonia. 

    Just as it happens every time that progress is made, the news of a woman’s enfranchisement in the upcoming municipal election was met with opposition amongst many men in Argonia. On top of that, the WTCU chapter in the city announced that it would support any candidate who made alcohol and tobacco prohibition a top priority in their political program. A group of men who believed that politics should be reserved for their sex decided to play a trick on the WTCU slate of candidates. As chance had it, the only eligible woman of the WTCU Argonia’s chapter was Salter; the men partaking in the complot copied the slate of the organization but changed the name of the mayor candidate to her first name, Susanna. Thinking that no men would vote a woman as mayor, without the knowledge or consent of Susanna, they printed the ballots and hoped that their little trick would undermine the prestige of the WTCU and demonstrate that women should not play any role in politics. 

    The morning of the election, Salter was contacted by the Republican party once one of its members noticed her name on the ballot. Asked if she would serve if elected, Salter responded affirmatively and after a quick meeting with the representatives of the party received their official support. Together with the support of the Prohibition Party, politically aligned with the WTCU, she ended up receiving two thirds of the total votes. What started as a trick from a group of angry men had ended with the election of Salter, 27 years old at the time, as the first ever woman mayor in the history of the United States. 

    Her election caused a sensation among the newspapers of the whole nation, and during her year as mayor she was visited by many correspondents from other states, making the little city of Argonia into a temporary tourist hot-spot. Even though her term as mayor lasted only for one year, the news of her election crossed borders as she received letters of congratulation from countries such as France, Germany or Italy. 

    The house of Susanna M. Salter in Argonia, today turned into a museum and part of the National Register of Historic Places.

    One of these letters, from Willard, the president of the WTCU, encouraged Salter to write “a note that I can read to audiences, showing the good of woman’s ballot as a temperance weapon and the advantage of women in office”. The following years allowed her to become a speaker in women’s suffrage conventions sharing, at least once, the stage with Susan B. Anthony. 

    Shortly after Salter’s term in office and choosing not to continue a career in politics, the whole family moved to Oklahoma and eventually settled, after her husband’s death in 1915, in Norman, a bigger city where her children could attend university. Little is known about her later years and, although she remained interested in politics for her whole life, she never sought to be re-elected or took any relevant political roles after her one-year mayor term. 

    Susanna M. Salter died in 1961, at age 101, in Norman, Oklahoma, although she was buried in the still today little city of Argonia, the place that made her the first ever woman to be elected as mayor in the United States. 

    Sources

    About the author

    Dario is a student in American Studies at the University of Amsterdam. He has previously completed a bachelor in History at the University of Zaragoza and bachelor in Communication at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya. During his bachelor years, he also had the chance to study abroad in countries such as the U.S., Italy or Romania, which have made him specially interested in transnational movements and perspectives. He is currently writing a dissertation on the unpublished autobiography of Vaughn Love, one of the African Americans who fought in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. In his free time, Dario is also a member of the Young Minds Network of the John Adams Institute in Amsterdam.

    For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.

  • Salaria Kea, an African American nurse in the Spanish Civil War

    Salaria Kea, born July 13th 1913 in Georgia, the “Empire State of the South”, is the first woman in this series of short articles dedicated to Women’s History Month. Instead of writing about some of history’s better known characters, we have decided to focus on those great American women who forever changed history and whose memories we ought to do justice to, but who have often been forgotten or silenced.  

    Salaria Kea has a Wikipedia page, and is the subject of a couple of book chapters and a few scattered journal articles, but if we mention her name, even among historians, no one seems to know who she is. A nurse by profession, Salaria Kea was to become the only African American woman to fight fascism in the Spanish Civil War of 1936. But she was more than just a nurse: her life is a journey of activism, participating in the early path towards the Civil Rights Era, whilst also rallying for international causes such as opposing the Italian invasion of Ethiopia in 1935.

    A picture of Salaria Kea taken sometime during the Spanish Civil War, on it we see her wearing the military medics uniform of the International Brigades.

    Born in the deeply segregated American South, Kea faced challenges and adversity from an early age. After the death of her father, stabbed whilst he was working at a Sanitarium, her mother had to leave 6-month-old Salaria and her 3 older brothers in the care of family friends to be able to work and raise her children. But after two years, her mother returned to Georgia to marry a farmer, and Kea remembers that her brothers had to take care of her while her mother was away. It was her brothers who, working small jobs instead of going to school, ensured that at least the youngest sister could pursue an education. 

    It was during the last summers of high school, while working at a local doctor’s office, that Kea was introduced to her calling and future profession: medicine. But it was not that easy for her, and suffering from the harsh segregation laws of the South, she watched one school after the other deny her entry simply because of the color of her skin. Following the path to the North that many African Americans had to embark upon after the Great Depression, Salaria headed for New York. It was 1930 when she finally got accepted in the Harlem Hospital School of Nursing. 

    Salaria Kea operates a soldier wounded during the Spanish Civil War.

    Almost 30 years before the now-famous Greensboro sit-ins, Kea and some of her schoolmates, protesting the racial segregation rules of the school, rejected to stand up from a “Whites Only” table at the dining room. Kea’s first experiences in organized protest eventually led to the school ending segregation in the dining areas. In 1934, she graduated and, shortly after, started to work in various hospitals where, meeting with the most progressive nurses, she increasingly became more politicized. 

    When in the Fall of 1935 the fascist troops of Mussolini invaded Ethiopia, Kea was ready to get into action to support what was hailed as the last free country in Africa. Together with other nurses, they raised enough money to send 75 beds to Ethiopia. When the troops of Mussolini, following Franco’s coup d’etat in 1936 entered the Spanish peninsula, Kea knew it was her call to volunteer to fight for the antifascist Spanish Republican side. 

    On March 27, 1937 Kea sailed for Spain aboard the Paris. Following the path of around 2,800 other American volunteers to fight in the Lincoln and Washington Brigades, she would be the only African American woman amongst them (in total around 85 African American men would also fight for the International Brigades). Assigned to a medical unit, Kea was responsible, during her first months in Spain, to turn the abandoned summer residence of king Alfonso XII into the Hospital Villa Paz. The old palace had been occupied by cattle, infested by mosquitos, and the plumbing and electricity were no longer working. 

    The front and end page of the 1938 pamphlet A Negro Nurse in Spain, which narrated the life of Salaria Kea and was used to raise money for the Spanish Civil War.

    Kea noticed that amongst the Republican women helping to fix the building into the hospital, most of them could not read, and so together with other international nurses, and in only six months, not only did they finish the project, but also taught everyone who worked there how to read and write. Soon the hospital, that never ceased to be operated in the harshest conditions, was filled with Ethiopians, Cubans, Americans, Italians, Germans and all the nationalities of the international brigades. 

    During the Aragon Campaign in early 1938, Kea was moved to the front to treat the patients that were in most urgent care and couldn’t be moved to the hospitals. In a pamphlet published shortly after her return to the U.S., she remembered how, in the midst of the battle, with planes of both sides flying above, “they battled just over our hospital unit. We could hear the stray bullets as they fell through the olive trees.” 

    During one of the fascist bombings, Kea lost the rest of her unit and had to hitchhike all the way back to Barcelona, where, in the last attempt to resist the fascist advance, the international troops had been stationed. But with the powerful German and Italian aviation supporting Franco’s army, it was only a matter of time before the International Brigades and the Republican troops would be forced to retreat. And so, sometime in March 1938, one of the bombings left Kea under 2 meters of rubble and, seriously injured, she was eventually sent back to the U.S. 

    Salaria Kea explains during an interview the reasons for which she decided to volunteer for the Spanish Civil War.

    Back in New York, she continued to organize convoys of medical supplies to be sent to Spain and, after the International Brigades where finally dismantled and survivors returned home, she was also active amongst the Veterans of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade (VALB for short, now Abraham Lincoln Brigade Archives, the organization behind the archive collections and whose activities keep the memory of all the American volunteers and their struggle against fascism in Spain alive). In a 1938 pamphlet narrating her story to raise funds for the still ongoing war, she ends with a note: “Surely Negro people will just as willingly give of their means to relieve the suffering of a people attacked by the enemy of all racial minorities, – fascism – and it’s most aggressive exponents – Italy and Germany.”

    After the civil war in Spain ended, Kea would also fight overseas as a nurse during WWII. Back home in Akron, Ohio, Kea and her husband, John O’Reilly – an Irish volunteer of the International Brigades that she met and married while they were in Spain – would live a peaceful life still working against fascism, “the enemies of the world”, as she would put it. On May 18th, 1990 Kea passed away in her home. 

    Hers was a life of struggle and activism, of constant opposition to the hardest realities of the world: discrimination and fascism. Her story is one of intersectionality, as a Black woman and a nurse in a war that was happening thousands of kilometers away from her home. Today, this month, but forever, we ought to remember and honor the life and legacy of Salaria Kea.

    Sources

    About the author

    Dario is a student in American Studies at the University of Amsterdam. He has previously completed a bachelor in History at the University of Zaragoza and bachelor in Communication at the Universitat Oberta de Catalunya. During his bachelor years, he also had the chance to study abroad in countries such as the U.S., Italy or Romania, which have made him specially interested in transnational movements and perspectives. He is currently writing a dissertation on the unpublished autobiography of Vaughn Love, one of the African Americans who fought in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. In his free time, Dario is also a member of the Young Minds Network of the John Adams Institute in Amsterdam.

    For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.

  • Two Wheels, Many Cities: One Woman’s Evolution on the Bicycle

    On any given week in Amsterdam, I spend at least seven or eight hours on a bike.  About four to five of these hours are for leisure, out on my prized race bike, a brand new beetle green Cannondale. Road cycling is a hobby I have long been interested in. I finally picked up the hobby last summer with the help of my local triathlon club. The other two or three are spent commuting on my city bike. These quick rides, whether it’s an eight-minute journey to my gym/co-working space in the morning, twelve to Dutch class on Monday evenings, or nine to my friend’s house for dinner, often bring me as much joy as my long weekend ones. From my saddle, I am the prima in the daily ballet of city life.

    Growing up on various rural American military bases and suburban subdivisions, my relationship with cycling wasn’t always so ingrained. When I was sixteen, my parents helped me buy my first car solely to help run errands. At first, I was excited by the freedom. I had a tenuous sense of liberation. After a year or so, I realized that their gift to me was more beneficial to them. With my driving in the mix, there was no more ferrying us to school at the crack of dawn through 25 minutes of traffic and red light and no more three-hour round-trip drives to basketball games in the middle of nowhere on Thursday nights. 

    Golden, Colorado

    When I entered college at seventeen, tired of the responsibility of the driver’s seat, I acquired a student transit pass. Within my first week in Colorado, I figured out how to take regional transit into Denver. There, I wandered down an empty city street to spend my hard-earned summer job and graduation money on the nicest used bike I could find. The bike I bought home with me on the light rail was by far the most expensive thing I had ever bought. The entire way home I imagined all the adventures it could take me on.

    As freshman year rolled by, my bike saw daylight only once. The petite, hilly campus didn’t warrant a bike, and the surrounding areas were better explored by car. When I moved into a sorority house from the dorms, I brought my bike out of storage and locked it at the back entrance. A few months later, I noticed the bike rack empty again. The most expensive thing I owned, gone! I had barely even ridden it!

    Minneapolis, MN

    I put my cycling dreams on hold, vowing that I would pursue them again after I’d graduated, gotten a job, and moved to a real city with painted green bike lanes. My opportunity to get on two wheels again came when I moved to Minneapolis in the summer of my twenty-first year. I found myself leaving another used bike store, this time with a modest, dull gold city bike with slimmer tires than my first.

    The Midtown Greenway, once a railroad corridor, now a multi-use path, became my route to work. As summer gave way to fall, I frequented the on-road bike lanes and leafy scenic trails, reducing my car usage by almost 60%. Fall slowly turned to winter. Each morning I burst with pride as I figured out how to layer my clothes and fit my belongings into my bike bags to shower at the office after a sweaty 30-minute ride. I reveled in the quiet, dark mornings, never tiring of the murals along the walls of the below-grade trails and the smell of fresh sourdough from a nearby industrial bakery.

    My daily rides were sanctuaries I clung to, the rare moments I could breathe fresh air and immerse myself in my community. These treasured respites were all the more precious when set against the backdrop of grueling 10-plus-hour shifts in a stuffy office. All was going well in my cycling world; until the snow came. 

    The first day the streets iced over that December I thought, “How bad could it be?” On that pitch-black Northern winter morning, it took me less than a block to find out. My bike slipped right out from under me, ripping my pants down the middle, and immediately adding splashes of black and blue on the entirety of my upper right thigh. I walked my bike back into my apartment with my tail between my legs. I would have to drive to work. 

    After braving the weather in Minneapolis for less than a year, I quit my job and ran back to the Mile High City, aimless and wandering. I ended up in my parent’s basement in the sprawled Denver suburbs, a community not conducive to getting anywhere by bike, foot, or anything other than a car. So, while I revamped my career and bank account, my bike collected dust in their garage for over a year.

    Denver, Colorado

    After moving out and into the heart of Denver, I  was finally able to get around for most of my daily chores by bike or foot– except for work. There was an unfortunate imbalance. Although the drive was a quick 14 minutes, it took about an hour to cover the 10 miles by bike.

    Cycling to work wouldn’t be an everyday possibility, but I was determined to try it out at least twice a week until winter came. Once again, I stuffed my bike bags with all the things I would need to give myself a bird bath (no shower at this office!) and change. At five-thirty in the morning, I began my journey along the waters flowing from the mountains, and out into the sleepy suburbs past skyscrapers, an enormous (American) football stadium, and roller coasters from the city’s theme park.

    This continued for a few months when the paths’ conditions allowed until I got a new job based out of Washington D.C. I was excited to get back to a city with better bike infrastructure. I was leaving my car in Colorado!

    Washington, D.C., DC

    In February 2020, my mom and I loaded my beloved bike into a rented box truck and drove it through the cornfields of Iowa and the mountains of West Virginia to the US Capitol. One month later, I found the move I had long been awaiting was not particularly well-timed. I barely had time to figure out which grocery store in my neighborhood I preferred, let alone make any friends before the pandemic shut the city down. So for the next year, I took advantage of the one place I was allowed to go– outside. And boy, was I glad I had my bike. 

    With it, I explored the marshlands and grand, granite plaza of Teddy Roosevelt Island. I cruised down the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal Trail, now a 185-mile natural respite for cyclists and runners, but which once carried coal from the mountains down to port. I discovered Rock Creek Park, where the National Park Service had shut down the main roads for residents to enjoy the urban oasis of dense forests and streams.

    I also explored the urban side of my city– tracking down interesting murals, public transportation landmarks, and a few ‘boundary stones,’ ancient relics of the District’s first survey. I spent many fall evenings splayed out with my bike and a good book surrounded by monumental Smithsonian museums on the great yard of the National Mall.

    In February 2021, I was working from home when I received the most exciting news most could imagine at the time. Someone hadn’t shown up for their vaccine, and I was on the waitlist. Could I come to the hospital right now? I squealed with joy after hanging up the phone, shot my boss a “found a vaccine, see you later sucker” text, snagged my helmet off its wall hook, and dashed out the door to unlock my bike.

    But when I reached the spot in the fence where I had locked my bike the previous night, all I found was a broken wrought-iron post. My bike, my most prized possession, had been ridden off into the night by a very determined thief. Again. I was devastated. I collapsed onto the neighbor’s patio chair, tears falling down my face. The cold, concrete street corner had plenty of passersby even though it was the middle of a workday. Most were wearing sweatpants, walking their dogs, and grocery shopping, but it was more likely than not that they were White House aids or CNN correspondents. The thought of a potential legislator seeing me have a meltdown over losing my bike made me cry even harder.

    I decided to put on my big-girl pants – I called my best friend and got her to calm me down and tell me what to do. We (she) decided I’d need to find an e-scooter, stat. Despite the setback, I made it to the hospital just in time to get my jab. Afterward, still reeling from the loss of my bike, I found solace in a small, jam-packed bike shop that taught skills to at-risk youth. I narrowly made my way out of the maze of stacked milk crates full of bike bells and saddles with a new-to-me bright blue hybrid. It was sturdy, strong, and soon covered in transit and city-memorabilia-related stickers to make it my own.

    Philadelphia , PA

    The month after I acquired my new best friend, I loaded it into an oversized SUV for my next journey to Philadelphia. I explored more by bike in Philadelphia in a short four months than most residents probably do in their lifetimes. The main throughway going north up the cherry-blossom-lined Schuylkill River was still closed to encourage outdoor activity during COVID lockdowns, and I took advantage of the car-less riverside every weekend. I cruised by the colossal set of “Rocky” stairs at the Art Museum and I watched crew races on the docks of seventeenth-century stone building rowing clubs. I made it up to Wissahickon State Park one day, where I accidentally found myself testing the true limits of my “thick” tires on mountain biking trails. My outings were well-timed with the spring season; tulips, hydrangeas, daffodils, and roses were abundant and the weather was fresh.

    My best memories of these places are the two times I brought others with me for the ride. My sister and a good friend visited my new favorite city in the few months I was a resident and I took them up along the Schuylkill, hoping they’d fall in love with the sights as much as I had. In retrospect, taking non-cyclists on a 25-mile ride on my roommate’s very nice road bike in a city where drivers are not known for their patience wasn’t my most well-thought-out idea. Both had sore butts the next day, but now have fond memories of exploring Philly on two wheels.

    My bike was not only for adventures in Philly– it was also a practical transportation mode for the compact, grid-planned city. Although I lived within walking distance from a chain supermarket, my loyalty to Trader Joe’s meant that groceries were a weekly trip by bike. I rode over every Sunday with a meticulously planned shopping list that ensured my two back-rack bags were perfectly packed. Not a yogurt container too large or an almond milk carton too squished. It was also my ride to dates, which was often met with apprehension and confusion. In a culture where nobody cycled, men couldn’t comprehend my need to find a good spot to lock up my bike (or why I had one in the first place).

    While in Philly, I finally splurged on an accessory all the stylish American city cyclists were starting to wear: an expensive “minimalist” helmet with my monogram stickered on the side in gold letters. Other than looking cool as hell, my favorite part was the one-inch hole in the helmet covered by a magnetic piece you could pop out and secure to your bike when locking it up. No more carrying my helmet around bars and stores like a dweeb!

    The day after the postal service delivered my bougie customized helmet, I also received a highly anticipated piece of mail to my online inbox. My grant application to study urban spatial structures passed the final round, and I had received funding to move to the Netherlands for a year. The land of canals, tulips, windmills, and, of course, bicycles! All of this excitement, and the only thing I could think was “shit, they don’t wear helmets there. I’ll look like a dweeb if I bring this”.

    I made the most out of my final days in Philadelphia, spending the summer evenings on my bike. I often cycled over to Rittenhouse Park, where history waltzes with modernity amidst grand oak trees and French cafes. Artists set up their easels, musicians their instruments, and millennials their picnics. Young parents set their toddlers loose in the center ceramic-tiled fountain, and older gentlemen sit puzzling over the crossword. I fondly remember the bench in the middle of the park’s path where I propped up my bike to take it all in one last time.

    Amsterdam, The Netherlands

    In August 2021, I moved to Amsterdam; it’s hard to encapsulate how my residence here has transformed my relationship with cycling. The crowded highways of bike lanes, with their own traffic lights, signals, and norms, can be overwhelming for most expats at first. But for me, who had been trying to survive aggressive drivers on streets in the U.S., it is much easier to get around in a city where the bike is king.

    Since my expatriation to the Netherlands, I have delved into the sport of road cycling and invested way too much money into way too much lycra. During the first half of 2023, I pushed myself too hard– falling into old habits of overachievement and anxiety, which spilled into my cycling training. I was starting and ending my day on my bike trainer and forcing myself outside to do sprint intervals when my body was telling me otherwise. I finally got to a point where I could barely get around town on my city bike without wanting to collapse at my destination.

    Worried about my mental health, I took advantage of my company’s remote-work policy to recharge during the summer at home, staying with friends and family throughout the country. I was so burnt out that my intense triathlete workout schedule was reduced to morning walks with my mom and her dog for weeks. During the last days of my visit to the States, I hadn’t been on a bike for almost three months with mixed feelings about getting back on the saddle.

    The day before I flew back to Amsterdam, I was given a much-needed gift to re-spark my passion for cycling (and life in general). Not what I expected from a last-minute Tinder date, but for twelve hours on a cool summer day I was given a generous two-wheel tour on a borrowed bike to all of the best parks, bike paths, ice cream shops, and hot dog stands that West Chicago has to offer. A much-needed reminder that I started cycling to enjoy the people and the world around me– my bike is a tool for the journey, not the journey itself.

    Like the car is to Americans, bikes are to the Dutch.

    Since returning to Amsterdam, I have taken a step back to reassess and redefine my relationship with cycling. I am showing myself grace by adjusting rides when I get too tired, and taking recovery days instead of pushing through head colds. I am taking more side streets on my commutes to find hidden corners, and cycling headphone-less to listen to the movement and flow of the city.

     I have done the same 35km morning ride with friends almost every week for four months this year, still finding joy in the small villages and ports we pass each time. We roll through forests onto dikes, passing songbirds fluttering around marigold-covered fences and rusting silos. Riding into the rising sun through the small town of Haarlemmerliede, locals bustle about getting ready for work. Children pedal in groups to primary school with lunch boxes, and backpacks hanging carelessly from their handlebars. Exiting the village, we encounter pastoral scenes of cows and sheep. Aromas of banana bread often drift from cottages’ open kitchen windows. Our journey finishes with the scenery shifting from historic wooden windmills to modern steel turbines and silent electric trains speeding alongside us toward the city.

    I still laugh when I see babies strapped to the front of their parent’s bike, slumped over, passed out, but still bobbing and bouncing around from the bumps of the brick and cobblestone. I am still impressed by the travelers dragging their suitcases behind them while pedaling, and the folks cycling across town with full-length floor lamps under their arms. Like the car is to Americans, bikes are to the Dutch.

    Cycling has been a journey of discovery, challenge, and joy. It has shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined, and I am grateful for every pedal stroke. From the suburban sprawl of America to the bike lanes of Amsterdam, a bike has been my constant companion, a vehicle for exploration, and a source of endless amusement.

    About the author

    Blog writer Peyton moved to the Netherlands in 2021 to pursue a master in Spatial & Urban Economics at the VU. Since then, she’s continued her work in the built environment industry– she was previously in Washington, D.C. supporting policy work on climate resilience and urban sustainability. As a former military brat with no real hometown back in the U.S., she decided to give the Netherlands a go at becoming her new home. In her free time, Peyton enjoys hanging out with her triathlon club (but cycling is her favourite), reading, writing, learning Dutch, and spending time enjoying good food and company with friends. She is also an urban enthusiast– passionate about understanding the vibrant ballet of life on city streets and the heartbeats of community identity. Peyton will be writing blogs every other month.

  • Little Green Monsters – Thoughts from an American in Amsterdam

    The balcony outside my home office’s french door is about a meter deep, and its fencing an ugly, painted, peeling, and rusting wrought iron steel. If you walk out from my office and peer to the left, you’ll see a thick, deep green canopy of birch and chestnut trees hiding the boundary of the city’s most popular and posh parks. Ten meters to the right, the view from my roommate’s bedroom obviously has the superior view. From her door’s window, you can see the tops of the gabled brick towers whose building below houses works of Rembrandt and plundered treasures from the East Indies, naturally highlighted during sunrises and sunsets (when not gloomy and grey) by a brilliant pink sky.

    The main view from my desk while I’m staring into space during Zoom calls is a brick wall: the top two floors of a small boutique hotel with 3.9 stars on Google Maps—an unfair rating, in my opinion, for accommodation in this location with air-conditioning and semi-reasonable rates. From my perch on my ergonomic office stool, I can peer into two room’s windows and the housekeepers’ attic storage and break area. The cleaners’, guests’, and outside urban wildlife’s daily routines let me feel I’m a part of the city throughout the day as I’m trapped at home, even if only as an outsider looking in. The rooms’ windows are tall, with thin white frames, sunken a foot back into the red brick building, allowing for sturdy, meter-wide sills.

    The birds of Amsterdam love these sills. And I love watching them love them.

    Like most major cities worldwide, the lowly pigeon is the majority avian species in Amsterdam. For many residents, they are nothing but an annoyance, primarily because of the daily close calls with the plump grey morons that freeze in our wheels’ paths as we commute around the city. As far as territorial warfare over the famous red bike lanes goes, pigeons beat out tourists at the top of my shit list.

    Throughout the day, these bumbling birds clumsily flutter onto the sills and, occasionally, fly smack dab into the window. They stumble around on the ledges, swiveling their heads, cooing, and shitting all over their little slice of paradise.

    A few times a week, the pigeons’ ignorant peace is abruptly and violently interrupted. First, I can hear the screeches, quickly followed by a lightning flash of bright green. The fat, feathered rats don’t have enough time to react when two parakeets, interlocked in a raucous wrestling match, crash into the careless pigeon colony.

    Raucous and mean-spirited, the parakeets began their invasion of Vondelpark in the 1970s, their arrival a familiar story of a pet from hell unleashed “into the wild”– or rather, into a very urban, very public space. Although they’re still not exactly welcome in the neighborhood these days, the neon demon spawns have become a permanent fixture, an unofficial icon of the park, and, at the very least, an interesting oddity to point out to visitors.

    Over the years, the green parakeet has invaded Amsterdam (CC BY 2.0 DEED by David Evers)

    Like the parakeets, I’ve also claimed a spot uninvited in the urban fabric of Amsterdam. As an American in Europe, I feel about as conspicuous as the little lime-green monsters. I do my best not to live up to the stereotypes of my loud, uncultured, and ignorant brethren that many outsiders think we are. But putting my home country in a dating app profile still feels like the modern-day equivalent of walking into the town square proudly wearing a dunce cap.

    “You’re the only American I know that could pass as European,” my German friend tells me as we walk along the canals on a cold, rainy (classically Dutch) summer day.

    Part of me revels in this compliment. Military brats are renowned for our chameleon-like social skills. I went from imitating thick southern drawls at crawfish boils as an eight-year-old to the only white girl in a Manga-obsessed Asian friend group at twelve to donning short plaid skirts and Birkenstocks through Chicago winters in Catholic school at fifteen. But Amsterdam has been a challenge. For the last two years, I’ve constantly questioned if my wardrobe made me stand out, lamented the jokes I’d made that hadn’t landed, and generally existed with an existential dread about the way I move throughout this strange new world. I’ve tried to be a good ambassador for my country, learning the local language, traveling the country extensively to understand its history and customs, and attempting to convince Dutchmen to date me.

    “You’re the only American I know that could pass as European,”

    The other part of me is conflicted– is this actually a compliment? After all, the only thing I really miss about America is… Americans. There are days I long for our constant curiosity, our generosity, our graciousness and helpfulness. The smiles and hellos and compliments I took for granted that Europeans think are fake. But I get where the negative stereotypes my friend was alluding to come from– like the parakeet, I’ve at times been self-righteous and outspoken (not to mention achievement-obsessed and a workaholic, but I’m not sure birds have non-primal goals or jobs yet).

    As I continue to settle into the Netherlands and make it feel like home, I’ll endeavor to remain my authentically American self– just like the parakeets retain their brilliance and exoticism. But unlike the parakeets and some of my compatriots, I’ll also try my best to avoid the more controversial traits like ‘boisterously loud, unaware, and demanding.’ I’ll never feel as incognito in this city as a pigeon, but at least I won’t get hit by a bike.

    The curtain has recently fallen on my hotel window sills. Ok, not permanently, but they are doing temporary construction on the facade. Mesh screening obstructs the birds from their perches, and scaffolding is the new stage for the hours of Arabic a capella I now “enjoy” on the days I’m holed up taking those dreaded video calls. Maybe it’s a sign that it’s time to venture out of the home office and into the real world to figure out how I fit into this city I now call home.

    About the author

    Blog writer Peyton moved to the Netherlands in 2021 to pursue a master in Spatial & Urban Economics at the VU. Since then, she’s continued her work in the built environment industry– she was previously in Washington, D.C. supporting policy work on climate resilience and urban sustainability. As a former military brat with no real hometown back in the U.S., she decided to give the Netherlands a go at becoming her new home. In her free time, Peyton enjoys hanging out with her triathlon club (but cycling is her favourite), reading, writing, learning Dutch, and spending time enjoying good food and company with friends. She is also an urban enthusiast– passionate about understanding the vibrant ballet of life on city streets and the heartbeats of community identity. Peyton will be writing blogs every other month.

  • Amsterdam and American Musical Influences: an Interview with Stan van Dijk 

    I have been learning more about the role of American musical influences in the Netherlands this year. More specifically, the digitalization of music studio equipment has made it easier for global artists to work together over web chat or email. I am interested if this is shaping artists’ minds, expectations, and sense of identity. In this interview, Amsterdam jazz musician and beatmaker, Stan van Dijk, helps me learn more about the cross-culture inspirations and the meanings in his own music. 

     I discovered Stan’s music through a collaboration he did with a Northeast Ohio artist that goes by the name Unc D. I was mutual Instagram friends with Unc D before moving to the Netherlands from Ohio. Unc D sent me the song they made together since he knew I lived in Amsterdam. From those messages, I followed and reached out to Stan as I was intrigued by the unique blend of sounds playing from his instagram profile. 

    Stan van Dijk and Unc D’s collaboration on STRSSYTNGRMX stands on its own accord. It is nu-jazz and I do not know exactly what style to compare it to – it’s jazzy but also flirts with almost a Jungle drum percussion. The song has a floating ambience. One that makes the listener focus even more on the building percussive elements. 

    Photo Credits: Tijmen de Nooy. Tijmen de Nooy – Fotograaf, Tekenaar en Schrijver (thoughts-hub.com/)

    Stan van Dijk’s Em Four EP was released on July 21, 2023. It starts off sounding like the jazz music they play when the main character in a movie is walking down a dimly lit back city alley. The protagonist is slowly chased into the second song, “Cariab’s Theme.” The listener is offered hope he can escape his enemies. As a fast pace drum comes in, maybe the hero has gotten away. Maybe he has found a new challenge. Possibly a paradise. At least that’s what I imagine when I hear the music. Stan’s music has a curious uniformity

    It is not surprising when Dutch and American arts shine together, considering their use of a personalized uniqueness and their embrace of different stylistic approaches. They both share a culture of individualism, achieving a dream of the impossible, which is not a bad thing especially in the over-saturated art markets of the new digital age. Songs that are not original sounding are quickly labeled as bland. In order to get to the root of this, I reached out to Stan to provide me some insights in a one-to-one conversation. 

    Photo Credits: Tijmen de Nooy. Tijmen de Nooy – Fotograaf, Tekenaar en Schrijver (thoughts-hub.com/)

    Isaac: What got you started with the arts and music?

    Stan: Not that long alone, back then I was still in high school in 2016 to 2017, a guy I hung out with a lot started making music. This was around the time Trap Music was really big. Especially Dutch Trap and Dutch Hip Hop. The trap explosion in America from 2012 to 2013 was everywhere in the Netherlands by 2016. This guy I was hanging out with said there was a program you could download on your laptop and start making music. It was a big cultural change for music in the Netherlands. Everybody was listening to hip hop. Before it was mainly just EDM and house. We would send Youtube tutorials back and forth to each other and that’s where it started. 

    I: What was the software you started making beats on?

    S: It was a really crappy program called LMMS, I don’t know if you’re familiar. It’s open source music software. It’s basically a regular DAW (digital audio workstation). It was made for Windows XP. It looks really old. We used it for about a month. Then, we found a free trial for FL Studios and I have been using it ever since.  

    I: Does the American Trap music work its way into your jazz creations?

    S: Back when I started, I was listening to a lot of hip hop, ultimately shifting from Dutch to American hip hop. It slowly became more Boom Bap.  A lot of the East Coast  and the Midwest. A lot of Madlib & J Dilla. From there the samples were really cool. I really like Freddie Gibbs. At times, he doesn’t have drums in the background. Just a looped sample. I wanted to learn more about sampling. One of the first samples I ever found was Bill Evans’ “B Minor Waltz” on the album You Must Believe in Spring. It was sampled on a soundcloud song. I realized you could take old music and loop it and there is your beat. But also an eye opener that all the music you hear has an origin it takes inspiration from. With Bill Evans, the whole jazz rabbit hole opened and I fell down it. 

    I: It’s almost like you could sample any part of a Bill Evan’s lick and it would be a useful sample. Do you write your own chord progressions with this in mind?

    S: I think writing my own chord progressions is a weak point of mine. When I sit behind a piano, I do not think ‘oh I will play in this key.’ I learn a lot of songs from listening to old samples like Bill Evan’s. When I first started, I thought the piano was a limited tool but with the computer you can get any sound. I’m not actively thinking about what I should be practicing. I really gotta step up my piano game (laughter).

    I: It sounds good to me (laughter). I found your instagram page after mumble jazz artist Unc D from my hometown sent me your profile after you two did a collaboration together. How did this collaboration come about?  

    S: The internet, man. I saw him on Instagram. When he first started calling the genre “Mumble Jazz.” It’s a funny term but it serves a function. It really is Mumble Jazz. It sounds like a meme at first. He’s really good with his memes too (laughter). I dm’d him and was like I don’t know what you’re doing but I like it. He responded back ‘Oh you like my music, let’s work together. You make music, I make music, now we make music.’  

    I: When talking to Unc D, he told me he deals with some angry criticisms online for Mumble Jazz. The current rise of the internet seems to have resulted in more criticism directly to artists, unlike previous media. What do you think about the openness of internet commentary and its impact on the arts?

    S: Personally, I haven’t dealt with criticism yet where people outright say ‘this sucks.’ It’s like when a new artist releases something more experimental and everybody has different reactions to it. Some people are like ‘this is really shit’ and other people love it. It’s very hyperbolic. It can be a 6/10 or it’s complete shit. People on the internet talk as if they are talking with their friends. Suddenly the stuff you are talking about with your friends is on the internet. Even when you’re talking with friends, there is reading between the lines. Like when you say an album is shit, it doesn’t mean it is. It just means you don’t like it. There is also a casualness to talking with your friends. People approach the internet in this way. They don’t seem to realize that their words reach the artist. Individuals talk about the work artists make, oftentimes without considering that it takes a lot of hard effort. This effort is a lifestyle choice. It’s not an easy way to live for most people. 

    I: I often think back to artists like Daniel Johnston, known predominantly for his indie and lo-fi music. If they appeared today, I fear the internet critics could kill the confidence of experimental artists like him. However, with jazz, there is already a lot of criticism among listeners to deal with!

    S: Yeah what I noticed is people seem to hate when you ‘put up a show’, especially when you seem to ‘fake it’. However, on the internet, you can create your own world and the creative world in which your music exists. I am a big Flying Lotus fan. I’m not sure if you know Jelee. I released an album on his label, Heliopolis Recordings. He put me onto a lot of stuff like Flying Lotus. It’s like their music has its own space and world. You cannot force funk in that sense. 

    I: When you release music, it has a uniformity to it. When I hear your music on a random shuffle, I know it is Stan’s song even if I never heard it before. That’s a good thing in my opinion. It’s unique to your own sound. What is your approach with this?

    S: I really like the idea of releasing multiple albums which have a specific identity. For example, Tyler the Creator is a master of creating an album which has a very defined aesthetic and sense of identity. I really admire and look up to artists that can create music with a unique sense of identity. I hope to be there one day. For the singles I am releasing, they are all iterations of the same idea. There is a sound I’m working with and reiterations of the same idea. I could compile them all for an album since they all sit under the same flag. But it feels like a facade to create an album with a pre-set identity and intentions. But I want to be able to do this and have two years to make a full album. It should be more than audio. There needs to be visuals, clothing, it should be a complete project. Albums are cool, but I think more stuff should be done than just releasing an album. I experienced it after releasing an album. It’s a big event and tells everyone to look at Spotify, but after it’s released it’s silent. I prefer to keep a steady stream of music flowing. 

    I: It seems that there’s a shortage of full-album appreciation. I think people have shorter attention spans (laughter). It’s harder to connect with full album releases because consumers are not interested as they once were because the market has some saturation. For myself, it’s hard to listen to a full album if I do not purchase the vinyl record or CD. 

    S: It boils down to anticipation. I’m a big fan of James Zoo and if he released an album today, my anticipation would be sky high because the music is so cool. I like his art and him as an artist. But if it’s just an album coming by artists I don’t know, finding the time to listen and take it in — it’s time consuming! I think I could be more genuine if I was making an album but even taking a year to make an album. You reinvent yourself through the year. It’s a matter of keeping it fresh for yourself. 

    I: Changing directions a little bit. Why do you think the jazz scene is vibrant and growing in the Netherlands?

    S: It’s weird for me to think of it as an outsider since I’ve lived here my whole life. So I can’t say  much about the differences between the Netherlands and the U.S.. I think with Amsterdam, people are attracted to the stigma of it as a party capital with techno and house music. In reality, it’s a place for a lot of different cultures and music. I think people value live music a lot here. Was it a difference coming from America?

    I: It was a big difference where I was located before moving to the Netherlands. In Northeast Ohio, the American Rust belt, the jazz scene is not as big. A lot of the local live music scene are tribute bands at dive bars. Not exactly my type. Even for hip hop artists it is difficult to find space and venues willing to do shows. I can’t speak much on Cleveland’s jazz scene but it’s way busier than Youngstown’s because they have more venues. Big American cities like New York will probably always have a vibrant jazz scene. What I loved about the Netherland’s jazz scene is that you have options. You can go see a big name at the Bimhuis or you can see a great set for a low cover fee at Cafe Alto. In those spaces you are truly interacting with music history in a way. I was looking forward to it before moving here. 

    S: It’s a small country. If you live in Utrecht and you want to check out jazz it’s just a 20 minute train and you’re in the Amsterdam center. It’s very accessible in that sense. 

    I: What are your favorite jazz venues in the Netherlands?

    S: You have to give it to Paradiso for the ambience. It’s really pretty with the colored glass panes on the background. Another favourite is the Bimhuis. I love their programming. They really know what’s going on and are actively looking out for what’s happening in not just Amsterdam, but all around Europe. Melkweg’s small stage is amazing for hip-hop due to its ambience. It feels like a hip hop venue. Small, crowded, sweaty, and the people really get down. 

    In my next blog, I will be writing on Platypus Records on Zeedijk in De Wallen and how the owners use ‘hip hop architecture’ as a successful business model that attracts a strong sense of community. 

    About the author

    Isaac Carrino (26) graduated from the University of Amsterdam in 2021 with a masters in American Studies. Isaac is originally from Youngstown, Ohio and earned his undergraduate degree in history from Youngstown State University. He currently operates a music production business in Amsterdam and enjoys playing basketball in his free time. He is also a Young Minds Ambassador at the John Adams Institute.

    For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.

  • The Rust Remains but the Blues Change – Thoughts from a short travel to the American Rust Belt

    This February, I traveled back to my small hometown just outside of Youngstown, Ohio for the first time since I moved to Amsterdam almost a year and a half ago in September 2021. Living in the heart of the American Rust Belt for most of my life, the aesthetic of post-industrial landscapes has been a consistent feature of the environment I admired, appreciated, and often loathed. After reflecting on my own upbringing, it’s clear why author Carlo Rotella thought of the Rust Belt as an ideal breeding ground for bluesmen and boxers in his text Good with Their Hands: Boxers, Bluesmen, and Other Characters from the Rust Belt.

    The work that most Northeast Ohioans performed were based around industrial manufacturing where their hands were the most valuable tool. When the industrial jobs left following Youngstown’s steel collapse in 1977, the area suffered an identity crisis about what its role in the world truly was.

    Photo of reconverted abandoned gas station in Youngstown, Ohio. Orion Magazine, “Place Where you Live: Youngstown Ohio.” Sean Posey, June 20, 2014. Orion Magazine – Youngstown, Ohio

    During my cold February trip to Northeast Ohio this year, I found it necessary for my own mental well-being to find a more positive interpretation of my former home in Ohio to bring back to my new home in Amsterdam. I didn’t want to disprove Rotella’s ideas about the Rust Belt being a place of “boxers and bluesmen,” but rather find new confidence that the hands of my former homeland were progressing economically and culturally.

    I started with my own home to form this positive perspective. My father recently got a job at Ultium Cells – an electric car battery plant partnered with General Motors in Lordstown, Ohio. In a large way, this new factory replaced the General Motors production facility that was closed in 2019 in Lordstown. My Dad was happy to tell me about the new technology at the factory and that he was working on newly imported machinery from South Korea. To train workers in Lordstown on the new factory technology, groups of experienced South Korean workers are now working alongside Ohioans at Ultium Cells. My dad was also happy to announce that the workers voted to join the United Auto Workers union with 94% of Ultium workers in support of unionization in early December 2022.

    Photo from: Ultium Cells Begins EV Battery Production in Ohio (insideevs.com), “Ultium Cells Begins EV Battery Production in Ohio,” Mark Kane, September 1st, 2022.

    The news from my father was refreshing to hear. My friends and family in the Rust Belt will only benefit by a larger exchange of technology, information, and culture. The lack of economic growth and decline of populations for over forty-five years has harmed the development of all three formerly mentioned. Globalization is often a word met with dismay among Northeast Ohioans due to the falling role of American industrialism. I hope that with the rise of this global information exchange, the role of the Rust Belt will be progressing technologically and developing a new sense of awareness in the global economy.

    21 WFMJ News. Ultium Cells workers overwhelmingly approve UAW representation – WFMJ.com “Ultium Cells workers overwhelmingly approve UAW representation: Votes were counted late Thursday and employees approved UAW representation 710 to 16,” Mike Gautner, December 9th, 2022.

    While my dad’s story was good news, I wanted to confirm that this new emergence of jobs had the same positive attitude with the younger generation. The one conversation that gave me an optimistic outlook on the future of Rust Belt work & culture was with my high school friend Quintin Burney. He was excited to tell me about the union job he had. He said he preferred working with his hands and being on his feet. Compared to five years ago, there are more union job options available for young people in the Youngstown, Ohio area. Another sign of progress.

    It was nice to hear he could find a job with a good wage and benefits through his union. Quintin is using income from his job to support his career as a hip hop artist under the name The Don LeMilión. His music is emotional storytelling, introspective, and melodically driven. In his EP released March 31st of this year, LeMillión EP – Quinton displays a futuristic interpretation of the blues with a touch of influence from another Northeast Ohio native Kid Cudi (Scott Mescudi).

    Quintin is hard at work day-to-day at both his job and in the studio. The hard hat image of Quintin is juxtaposed with an emotionally reflective artist. In my opinion, the current display of mainstream work & culture in the United States has been simplified because of identity politics in fading Trump America. Quintin’s story is a reminder of another complexity within American working culture– That the American working class is the heart of America’s cultural innovations.

    An increase in economic opportunities in the American Rust Belt is great for younger workers. It gives more possibilities for young people to engage in cultural pursuits. Rotella’s bluesmen are progressing and presenting the world with a new interpretation too. Great news to bring back to the Netherlands for an uplifting outlook on my old home.

    About the author

    Isaac Carrino (26) graduated from the University of Amsterdam in 2021 with a masters in American Studies. Isaac is originally from Youngstown, Ohio and earned his undergraduate degree in history from Youngstown State University. He currently operates a music production business in Amsterdam and enjoys playing basketball in his free time. He is also a Young Minds Ambassador at the John Adams Institute.

    For more information about the Young Adams Institute, check out https://www.john-adams.nl/.