Blindspot

This week on the Thomas Jefferson Hour, I turned the tables and interviewed David Swenson about the Repatriation Project of Frances Densmore’s audio recordings of Native Americans in 1911. The hand-cranked wax cylinder recordings of Densmore were instrumental in preserving Native American history during a time where promotion of Native American indigenous culture was at an all-time…

LOW BATTERY MODE flashed in the bottom right-hand corner.

In one fluid motion, my left hand abandoned the keyboard, rummaging through the depths of my backpack, feeling for the cable. Ten seconds without retrieving the plug clued me into our daily game of cat-and-mouse. The plug, boastful as always, could hide underneath notebooks or wrap around my secondary laptop like an anaconda. At its most irritating, the plug sneaks out to lounge within the hidden compartments. Once, I caught the cord mingling with the hotel shampoo.

Now was not the time for these foolish games. Sacrificing my right hand that was clicking through an email, I scoured the bowels of my backpack with both hands until my fingers struck a cord. Sandwiched between textbook pages and a notecard, the plug seemed to be learning about the Great Ukraine Famine from last Thursday’s class. After pulling the plug out from the authoritative regime, I restored my battery life and diligently typed notes on the life of Frances Densmore.

Midway through learning how Swenson produced live recreations of Densmore’s recordings, I glanced at my phone. Time sped all the way to dinner – I was motivated to beat the crowds. On top of completing the podcast, I had to read a section from Locke’s Second Treatise, revise my argument on Agamemnon, and create a catering request for next week's Open Mic. I quickly noted the timestamp and disassembled my workplace.

I did not bother interrupting Swenson. Even if my attention was fractured across bustling intersections, I figured repeated listens would tattoo his narrative onto my memory. I have always believed thorough knowledge of the subject is critical to a memorable presentation. I would hate to offer my professors the same-old strategy of reading paragraphs with lackadaisical detachment. Avoiding the hypothetical eye-rolls was preferable.

Repetition and forced fascination in Swenson’s interview kept my motor running while I cruised on autopilot.

Backpack on, I passed through the library basement and set my mental GPS to navigate to the cafeteria. I cradled my laptop between my right arm and chest, clutching the device like a running back protecting a football. I rewound the podcast to the moment Swenson detailed the importance of remastering the original Densmore recordings, and recreating these Native American hymns with live singers and drums. I reinserted myself into the narrative.

The Densmore Repatriation Project was significantly valuable for the Lakota tribe because these recordings gave them a direct connection back to their ancestors. Courtney Yellowfat, a co-producer on the project, stated he never knew a way of prayer through Lakota since everyone in church would pray in English. This lack of exposure to traditional Lakota prayer originated from white invasion and forced conversion. While religious practices, such as the Sun Dance, remained part of their culture, numerous songs associated with the ritual were forgotten amidst…

BANG!

My headphones fell. My laptop closed shut. I was suddenly on my back, disoriented.

I looked up. A tall glass pane towered over my body. Through the pane, I saw a group of pre-teens staring at me. Their expressions of disbelief morphed into Cheshire Cat smiles and fits of giggles.

I turned around to see the entire library staff, gawking at me like a cow on its side. After a few seconds, some hastened to pick up conversation, or return to their desk work. Others shared cursory glances, as if silently corroborating what they had just witnessed.

I looked at the massive pane again. While there was no damage to the glass, the wall made a new impression of me. As if it wore a sinister grin.

I collected my belongings off the floor. The headphones disconnected from the laptop but that did not matter. Neither did the podcast I needed to finish. Neither did the meal I was anxious to have, nor the assignments I needed to complete, nor the presentation I needed to prepare for, nor the library I was evacuating, nor my collar that was untucked, nor my elusive anaconda cable that was forgotten at that desk by my spiraling, spiraling mind. Even that pre-teen posse who followed me out of the building became an afterthought.

The motor had died. The GPS rerouted. All movement ceased.