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Interplace

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by Brad Weed

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Interplace explores the interaction of people and place. It looks at how we move within and between the places we live and what led us here in the first place. <a href="https://interplace.io?utm_medium=podcast">interplace.io</a>

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Recent Episodes

July 18, 2026

Burning Both Ends

Hello Interactors,As Canadian and Alaskan wildfire smoke drifts across North American borders, it’s easy to resort to feelings and language of crisis in the demand for urgent, immediate control. But fires are not new to these landscapes, and this “crisis” sits alongside others that are also on fire. Climate crises events bring into focus which histories we forget, whose knowledge we ignore, and which relationships we disrupt. Turns out it’s happening at a cellular level too. The real danger is a world and ecology changing so quickly, and understood so narrowly, that it erases the very temporal patterns, memories, and ecological relationships that make adaptation possible.FIRE’S FRACTURED FREQUENCYThe climate crisis is often communicated through rising averages. We read of climbing global temperatures, sea levels, atmospheric carbon dioxide concentrations, and acres burned. These measurements are indispensable, but averages can make crisis feel distant and abstract. In a forest, climate change is also experienced as an altered interval — as too little time between one disturbance and the next.A forest is not a passive surface. It actively shapes its own microclimate, stores carbon, and retains moisture until fire temporarily disrupts these relationships…and in doing so creates new ones.To understand what shorter fire intervals are doing to Alaska’s boreal forests, ecologist Xanthe Walker and an interdisciplinary team of researchers examined carbon storage and forest recovery across 555 plots associated with thirty-one fires. They compared stands with different fire histories, including sites that had burned repeatedly before black spruce forests could fully recover. The absolute amount of carbon released by individual fires was broadly similar across fire-return intervals, but recently burned landscapes began with smaller remaining carbon pools and therefore lost a greater proportion of what remained. Repeated burning also consumed more legacy carbon — the carbon inherited from earlier vegetation and accumulated soils — and reduced the likelihood that some sites would regenerate as black spruce forest. Fire was doing more than releasing carbon in the present. By interrupting regeneration, it was weakening the landscape’s capacity to store carbon in the future (Walker et al., 2025).Black spruce forests are not merely tolerant of fire but have evolved with stand-replacing fire as a recurring part of their life cycle. Their cones evolved to be little seed bombs that stay in the trees and release their seeds when they burn. This helps new trees grow on the ground where they’re not protected by the canopy. That strategy works when fires recur at intervals long enough for stands to mature, rebuild their seed stocks, and accumulate biomass. Historically, boreal fire-return intervals commonly ranged from about seventy to 130 years. Black spruce may require roughly fifty years to produce enough seed for self-replacement. Yet intervals of less than thirty years are becoming more common in some areas, allowing another fire to arrive before recovery is complete (Walker et al., 2025).Under those conditions, fire can push regeneration away from black spruce toward deciduous vegetation or more open landscapes. Such places may remain biologically productive, but they are no longer the same forests. They store carbon, retain moisture, shelter organisms, but also carry subsequent fires differently. The landscape may not simply return to its former state after disturbance; it may cross into another ecological regime, organized by different species, intervals, and feedback loops.MEMORY, MEANING, AND MALLEABILITYIt is tempting to call such transformations unprecedented. In some measurable respects, they are. We know Industrial greenhouse-gas emissions are rapidly altering atmospheric and ecological systems on a planetary scale, and the effects are not confined to normal oscillations around once-familiar conditions. The rate, direction, and geographic concentration of change effects forests adapted to fire and may be unable to adjust when fire’s frequency exceeds the time needed for reproduction and recovery.The fact that Earth has always changed does not make the present disruption ordinary. But neither does the climate crisis mark the first time people have faced the collapse of an expected environmental order. Many humans didn’t survive the Little Ice Age, but many did.For many Indigenous peoples, colonization produced generations of forced displacement, altered fire and water regimes, destroyed food systems, suppressed governance, and separated communities from ancestral lands. What dominant institutions now describe as an unprecedented disruption may appear within Indigenous histories as another transformation imposed by powers that have long treated land, water, plants, animals, and people as resources to be reorganized.The word crisis can therefore describe an observable material condition while concealing a historical one. The flames are real, but so are the questions of who altered the landscape, whose losses are treated as new, who is expected to adapt, and who gets to define recovery. Potawatomi scholar Kyle Whyte challenges this framing, arguing that a dominant “epistemology of crisis” treats environmental disruptions as radically new, imminent threats (Whyte, 2021). This framing isolates the crisis from historical contexts of colonialism, allowing institutions to justify urgent, top-down actions that bypass local consent and justice under the guise of emergency.That framing carries two recurring assumptions. The first is unprecedentedness — the belief that the past contains few usable precedents or lessons for present conditions. The second is urgency — the belief that immediate action may justify setting aside ordinary concerns about consent, justice, and responsibility. Whyte’s intervention exposes how crisis language can obscure Indigenous histories of displacement and adaptation while allowing new forms of dispossession to proceed in the name of emergency responses (Whyte, 2021).Whyte is not arguing that climate change is unreal or that rapid action is unnecessary. He is asking what calls for urgency and emergency action leads people to overlook or forget.When the present is imagined as unprecedented, earlier crises become difficult to see. Climate-related relocation may be narrated as a novel problem even though Indigenous nations have extensive experience with forced removal, shrinking territories, flooding, and government-directed resettlement. Declaring the current moment historically unique can erase not only previous violence but also knowledge formed through surviving it.Whyte contrasts crisis epistemology with an “epistemology of coordination.” Coordination begins not with novelty but with constant change. It asks whether the relationships needed to respond remain intact. Those relationships take the form of kinship and mutual responsibilities, including care, consent, and reciprocity. They generate what Whyte calls the “responsible capacity to respond to constant change” (2021, p. 52).This is a big geophilosophical change in how we think about the world. Adaptation isn’t just about an organism or group of organisms changing to fit their environment, it’s also about how things are connected, like people, places, history, and processes (the primary focus of Interplace). Fire isn’t just about heat progressively burning through plants. It depends on things like how old the trees are, how much moisture there is in the soil, how many seeds are available, if there have been any fires before, what the weather is like, and the rules and laws that people have made about how to handle fire. What the forest looks like after a fire depends on which relationships are still around.The same is true of human communities. Memory is not merely a record of what happened. It is part of the infrastructure of adaptation. It carries knowledge of earlier disturbances, durable practices, failed interventions, and obligations extending beyond the present generation. A society that repeatedly labels each disruption unprecedented may collect and reason over immense quantities of data while remaining unable — or unwilling — to learn from other histories.CELLS, CUES, AND CONTINGENCYThe adaptive value of memory may reach far deeper into life than culture or nervous systems. Evolutionary biologists Maor Knafo, Elena Casacuberta, and Iñaki Ruiz-Trillo begin a recent study with the observation that “one of life’s most remarkable features is its persistent and adaptive resilience in the face of constant environmental fluctuations” (2026, p. 1). They investigated whether a single-celled organism could use an environmental cue to anticipate future stress rather than responding only after that stress arrived.Cells exposed to a predictable light and vibration cue before heat stress experienced a 12 percent mortality rate, compared to a 27 percent mortality rate for cells subjected to unpredictable, random cues. The cells didn’t just adapt to the heat; they learned to anticipate it, demonstrating that even single-celled life relies on temporal regularities to survive.The authors paired this experiment with a computational model. A nonlearning “blind” agent could adapt only through genetic mutation and selection across generations. A learning agent could also revise its phenotypic strategy within its lifetime, exploring alternatives when earlier responses performed poorly. In predictable environments, learning agents achieved higher fitness because they could use environmental cues to prepare for approaching conditions.The study does not demonstrate that cells reason as humans do. Nor does a cellular experiment prove a general philosophy of life. It does, however, offer evidence that even single cells can exploit temporal regularities in their surroundings. Adaptation is not always a passive process through which an external environment selects among fixed organisms. Organisms detect, respond to, and sometimes anticipate the worlds they inhabit.The model also showed that flexibility has its limits. As the simulated environment became more unpredictable, the benefits of learning started to fade. After a certain point, the cues that used to predict what would happen next didn’t work as well. Keeping things flexible came with a cost, because it didn’t give them any clear guidance. In the end, simpler, fixed strategies performed better. When the environment suddenly changed, the learning agents first took a big hit because their expectations had become useless. But their flexibility eventually helped them bounce back, but it also meant they made mistakes, got confused, and took time to adjust. (Knafo et al., 2026).Let’s not get carried away with the comparisons. A forest isn’t a Bayesian agent, and Indigenous knowledge can’t be boiled down to simple conditioning. They’re different forms of life, knowledge, and organization. What they do have in common is this shared principle: adaptation relies on meaningful patterns connecting past experiences to future situations.A black spruce forest can recover from a fire when trees have time to grow and produce seeds. A cell can prepare for heat when it anticipates it. A community can adapt when things change, remembering past actions, taking responsibility, and maintaining relationships. Resilience arises from a symbiotic relationship between living things and their environment. Life’s resilience isn’t innate. It’s more that it stems from memory, prediction, adaptation, and readiness…until the world’s race surpasses its ability to keep pace.RELATIONSHIPS, RECOVERY, AND RESPONSIBILITYGeographer Karen Bickerstaff warns against the dominance of a “catastrophic gaze” that portrays climate change as an imminent, universal threat (Bickerstaff, 2026). While planetary measurements are indispensable, this abstract framing can paralyze political agency, reducing people to passive spectators awaiting either inevitable collapse or a far-off technological rescue (Bickerstaff, 2026). Although our atmosphere is shared, climate exposure, responsibility, and adaptive capacity remain radically uneven. The crisis is planetary in cause, but it is lived and experienced through particular bodies, infrastructures, and local ecosystems.This planetary abstraction often fosters a form of “cruel optimism” — a reliance on grand technological promises like geoengineering or carbon-removal systems that allow us to avoid changing our politics or holding powerful actors accountable (Bickerstaff, 2026). The dangers of these universal, top-down approaches are highly visible in fire governance. Simple, blanket policies — such as total fire suppression or restrictive carbon-offset projects — frequently ignore the diverse ecological histories of fire and displace Indigenous burning practices, which ultimately increases the flammability of the landscape.In contrast to these universalizing fixes, true responsibility must preserve and restore the unique capacities of particular systems to respond to change. This is where Kyle Whyte’s epistemology of coordination can turn to practice. His push is for climate action to strengthen the relationships — such as consent, reciprocity, and intergenerational obligations. This is what is his ancestors practiced surviving constant change (Whyte, 2021).Instead of top-down emergency responses that make justice disposable in the name of speed, we need “situated action” (Bickerstaff, 2026). While individuals cannot act on a planetary scale, they can act meaningfully within their own watersheds, neighborhoods, and local political coalitions. Climate action becomes durable not when it chases abstract global targets, but when it visibly improves local health, restores specific ecosystems, and corrects immediate injustices (Bickerstaff, 2026).This is not an argument for delay. Emissions do need to fall (leading to innumerable benefits), but urgency cannot excuse us from asking what kind of world our interventions produce. The task is to connect scales without allowing the global to erase the particular. A mature black spruce indeed stores carbon, but it also stores decades of growth, fungal relationships, and a history of fire and recovery. When fire returns too soon, the forest loses not just biomass, but time. Climate responsibility begins here. Not in the fantasy of holding a restless Earth still, but in preserving the intervals, relationships, and possibilities through which living systems can continue to adapt.REFERENCESBickerstaff, K. (2026). The perils of climate catastrophism: A call to situate crisis and change. WIREs Climate Change.Knafo, M., Casacuberta, E., & Ruiz-Trillo, I. (2026). Beyond diffusion: Bayesian learning strategies in single-cell life. Walker, X. J., Mack, M. C., Black, B., Dean, J., Kemper, L. F., Potter, S., Rogers, B. M., & Truettner, C. M. (2025). Increasing wildfire frequency decreases carbon storage and leads to regeneration failure in Alaskan boreal forests. Fire Ecology.Whyte, K. (2021). Against crisis epistemology. In B. Hokowhitu, A. Moreton-Robinson, L. Tuhiwai-Smith, C. Andersen, & S. Larkin (Eds.), Routledge handbook of critical Indigenous studies (pp. 52–64). Routledge. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit <a href="https://interplace.io?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1">interplace.io</a>

July 3, 2026

Burning Through 250 Years

Hello Interactors,Welcome to summer where Interplace turns its attention to physical geography and the environment. It’s already a crazy El Niño — thanks in large part to global warming — and the United States is having a big birthday. How might these be related and what to do about it?What follows is not a celebration or a condemnation, but more of a reckoning. I look at what was built, what was deliberately forgotten, and what is now continually arriving, season by season, in forms of weather the founders could not have imagined.Although Alexander Humboldt — one of the world’s most famous scientists at the time — did warn Jefferson of the effects of human-induced climate change in 1804. He based his prediction on changes he observed in forests and water systems as a result of mono-crops and industrial “steam and gas”. Jefferson ignored him.BUILDING, BURNING, BILLOWING BACKOn this momentous 250th Fourth of July, when the world is experiencing record level extreme weather events, let’s reflect on how over the last 250 years the United States helped build, extract, and then burn the material and political conditions that made climate change possible. From the beginning, it tied itself to land, extraction, mobility, and expansion. Over time those commitments became an energy system built on coal, oil, gas, highways, suburbs, industrial agriculture, and a development model that treated nature as an inexhaustible storehouse. That legacy is now legible in the atmosphere itself. Let’s light a Roman Candle in celebration!Even before the 4th of July fireworks celebrations create another nationwide 42% average increase in fine particulate matter (Seidel, et al., 2015), the United States bears the single largest share of cumulative historical CO₂ emissions of any nation . We represent roughly 20 percent of the global total since 1850 contributing approximately 0.2°C of warming to date (Carbon Brief, 2021; UNEP, 2023). To represent four percent of the world’s current population and be responsible for nearly a fifth of its cumulative warming is not a coincidence of geography or fake news. It is the outcome of deliberate choices about how a republic would be organized, energized, and expanded across two and a half centuries.The United States has long imagined freedom in spatial terms: movement, property, settlement, mastery, frontier, and circulation. Those abstract ideals were made real through land theft and remade landscapes, as well as through infrastructure built in significant part by African and African American enslaved labor. Each step along the way depended on ever-greater throughput of energy, labor, and material. In that sense, the country’s history is also a history of how thought became organized around extraction and exploitation, until those thoughts and actions themselves became a kind of common sense. But by the late nineteenth century and early twentieth centuries increased industrialization meant emissions grew. They surged during the postwar era and peaked in the early 2000s — a trajectory that maps almost exactly onto the spatial project of suburban expansion, highway construction, and fossil-fuel-dependent agriculture (Climate Change Tracker, 2024). Two-thirds of the country’s cumulative warming impact derives from fossil CO₂ alone. The built environment of American freedom is as inseparable from the chemical footprint it left behind as a firecracker’s scattered debris and carbon residue.This leaves us with a climate crisis that is not just the result of a few bad policy choices in the late twentieth century. We exist in a cumulative outcome of a long national project that normalized combustion as prosperity and treated atmospheric consequence as some distant abstraction. Kind of like turning up the radio to drowned out the sound of your car making a funny noise. The federal state government played a central role in this process. Not only through direct policy and subsidies, but through the development of roads, ports, power systems, agricultural regimes, and military logistics that expanded the scale of fossil dependence at every scale of national life.The fossil fuel industry understood this trajectory earlier than the public was permitted to know. A systematic analysis published in Science found that ExxonMobil’s own scientists accurately projected and skillfully modeled global warming due to fossil fuel burning from as early as 1977. These projections are consistent with subsequent observations. And yet, for decades, the company publicly pushed doubt and denial (Supran, Rahmstorf, & Oreskes, 2023). Consequently, what America projects as “economic growth”, fueled enormously by the fossil fuel industry, is embedded not only in a collective national memory but in the scientific record.The irony is that America’s confidence in its own permanence rested on a false sense of geography. The landscape seemed stable because the costs were displaced in the form of upstream mining, downstream pollution, hidden emissions, imported and exported harm, and deferred climate effects. The effects on the atmosphere made that displacement impossible to sustain. The ‘progress’ that had been scattered across space and time returns as heat, drought, fire, flood, and increasingly volatile weather. We built a world in which the rewards of extraction were immediate while the penalties were delayed. Call it what you will — the climate crisis is just the debt of delay, dressed as disaster.KNOWING, NEGLECTING, NEUTERING KNOWLEDGEThe USA did not simply keep burning and expanding on autopilot. By the late twentieth century, it had also begun to lose the institutional capacity to understand what its own trajectory meant. The problem was no longer that the 1970’s scientific picture Exxon had already portrayed was absent. The evidence was clear. By the early 1990s the United States had ratified the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) and formally accepted the goal of returning greenhouse-gas emissions to 1990 levels by the end of the decade.The barrier to progress was not ignorance, but a degraded relationship between knowledge and power. This was engineered in part by more fossil fuel industry campaigns to sow doubt about science it privately accepted. Historians of science Naomi Oreskes and Erik Conway documented how a loose-knit network of industry-connected scientists ran effective campaigns to mislead the public on issues from tobacco to climate change. They exploited the media’s tendency toward false balance and keeping controversy alive long after scientific consensus had been reached (Oreskes & Conway, 2010). The strategy was to make certainty seem uncertain, and it worked. For decades, political inaction persisted through every window of action that may have helped.By the mid-1990s, climate change had become legible enough for federal institutions to name, study, and plan around, but the machinery of governance was being bent in the opposite direction. Newt Gingrich and the Republicans who rose with him may not have invented anti-government politics, but they weaponized it. Curiously, through pro-governmental politics. While their rhetoric promised efficiency and modernization, in practice it often meant cutting staffs, weakening committees, abolishing subcommittees, and treating the legislature less as a site of deliberation than as a theater of permanent combat. After all, their own staffers affectionately referred to Gingrich and his wrecking crew as ‘jihadists’ — even as those same politicians promulgated and attached that term as a slur toward Muslims. One of the most consequential acts of this period was the 1995 defunding of the Office of Technology Assessment. This was a bipartisan, independent body that had produced over 750 reports on complex scientific and technical questions since 1974, including major studies on energy policy, environmental risk, and the long-range consequences of atmospheric change. Gingrich had vowed to kill the OTA during his 1994 election campaign. He kept his promise, and with it eliminated one of Congress’s primary mechanisms for converting scientific knowledge into durable legislative capacity (Wikipedia, Office of Technology Assessment; AAAS Science, 2019).A legislature cannot respond intelligently to a long-range atmospheric crisis if it has stripped away the very mechanisms designed to synthesize evidence, test assumptions, and tackle complex questions over time. What replaced deliberations mediated by experts was a vacuum quickly filled by industry lobbyists — the same industry that, amongst themselves, knew exactly what Gingrich was doing. Research on institutional dynamics in climate governance consistently finds that fragmented policy, weak intergovernmental coordination, and the erosion of technical capacity are among the most significant barriers to effective long-range climate action (Jaisridhar et al., 2025; Birchall, Bonnett, & Kehler, 2023).The thinning of Congress’s own cognitive infrastructure in 1995 was a bureaucratic adjustment that disabled the country’s capacity to govern on topics beyond the timescales and dimensions of a single administration. The political system was becoming less capable of converting recognition into sustained action precisely as the need for that conversion became most urgent. The United States not only helped create the conditions for warming but undermined its own capacity to govern the effects warming created. The atmosphere was warming and so was the willful weakening of the world's most powerful potential partner in planetary protection.CASCADES, CRISES, AND COMING TO TERMSWhat follows is not simply a warmer world, but a less legible and actionable one. Once a political system weakens its own capacity to think long-term, it becomes ill-equipped to face a future that arrives not as a single rupture but as a cascade of self-reinforcing disruptions. We’ve all experienced or read about hotter summers, fire, more erratic rainfall, stressed coasts, shifting storm tracks, and weather that no longer behaves as the old seasonal calendar once did. Anthropogenic warming is already increasing variability in frequency and severity of weather systems. This in turn can alter local precipitation variability, storm behavior, and the climatic conditions on which seasonal expectations have long depended (Robinson, 2021; Wang et al., 2017; Scher & Messori, 2019). In several regions, climate change is expected not only to shift average conditions but to change seasonal predictability itself — especially for rainfall — making the future harder to read through the calendars and risk assumptions modeled and built from the past (Le et al., 2023; Delsole et al., 2014).Even now, the atmosphere offers a live demonstration of this instability. On June 11, 2026, NOAA officially declared that El Niño has arrived — with a 63 percent probability of reaching “very strong” intensity, defined as sea surface temperature anomalies of at least +2°C in the equatorial Pacific. This would rank it among the largest events in the historical record (NOAA, 2026). What makes 2026 categorically different from prior super events is not just its projected intensity but its baseline. This El Niño begins from the warmest ocean temperatures in human history, layered onto anthropogenic warming that has already pushed the planet to 1.55°C above preindustrial levels.As one paper argued in April, the El Niño is the accelerant; the fuel was already stacked (Hansen et al., 2026). The World Meteorological Organization (WMO) has placed an 86 percent probability on at least one year between 2026 and 2030 surpassing 2024 as the warmest on record, with 2027 — when El Niño’s thermal lag typically produces its most extreme global signals — as the most likely candidate (WMO, 2026).When that variability is layered onto long-term warming, the result is not just discomfort but a deeper erosion of climatic predictability. ENSO — the El Niño-Southern Oscillation, the coupled ocean-atmosphere system that drives El Niño’s periodic warming and its counterpart La Niña’s cooling across the tropical Pacific — is not a new phenomenon, but its behavior is changing. Model evidence indicates that ENSO-related rainfall variability is likely to intensify and shift eastward under greenhouse warming, creating more severe and sometimes novel climate conditions across the terrestrial tropics (Cai et al., 2021; Rifai, Li, & Malhi, 2019). The question is no longer whether the climate will change, but how many of the social and political structures built on climatic regularity can survive that change.Climate change is often presented as a technical or environmental problem to be solved. Especially amidst a culture of pervasive techno-optimism. But climate change is way more fundamental than this. It’s a reordering of the relationship between how we need to think and the geography in which we exist. This includes political geography and a reordering of political imagination as it relates to physical geography. The old originally envisioned republic of the USA assumed that land could be mastered, seasons could be predicted, and institutions could absorb shock without losing coherence. Those assumptions no longer hold.The old assumption that infrastructure could be planned around stationary baselines is increasingly at odds with the evidence. We can already see how energy systems show measurable vulnerability to climatic uncertainty and extremes. Modeled systems evidence declines in reliability and large performance gaps when future weather variation is not adequately incorporated into planning (Perera et al., 2020; Ouyang et al., 2023).As a result, the challenge ahead is not adaptation to these changes in the narrow sense, but reconstruction of our relationship to them in the broad sense. This may seem impossible in today’s American political system, but truly Democratic societies will need stronger scientific institutions, more durable legislative capacity, and trustworthy public agencies able to interpret risk before disaster becomes routine. They will need not only infrastructure, but intelligence. <a target="_blank" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Embodied_cognition">Embodied intelligence</a> — embodied engagement with physical and social environments rather than as a purely singular-brain augmented by LLM computation. This includes a renewed ability to gather, preserve, and act on knowledge over long horizons.The literature on adaptation governance is clear that resilience depends on organizational learning, intergovernmental collaboration, inclusive planning, and long-term institutional capacity. Short-term, reactive, market or donor-driven interventions that respond to emergencies without building the durable frameworks that prevent them won’t work (Birchall et al., 2026; Rahman & Islam, 2024). What this means practically is the reconstitution of the kind of congressional expertise that was dismantled in 1995. We need not merely revive the OTA but to imagine a broader democratic intelligence infrastructure capable of thinking on the timescales that climate change demands — decades, generations, and centuries. Without that, climate change will continue to be experienced as a succession of emergency, political, or market conditions rather than as a governable transformation.We can do this. After all, a country that once imagined itself through movement, expansion, and mastery made a certain kind of freedom seem natural. A new kind of freedom can be made to seem natural too. But right now our current system returns prosperity for many — but heat, flood, instability, and constraint for all. What was built now must be lived within — good and bad — while what was extracted must now live in the atmosphere — all bad. What gets burned today, will burn more later. The political order that was built through extraction, combustion, and territorial expansion must confront the atmospheric and hydrological consequences of those choices.That confrontation will only intensify. Past century’s cumulative emissions have already committed the planet to changes that will outlast any government, living generation, or institution that exists. Including you and me. The next 250 years will belong less to societies that imagine escape than to those that can build the institutional intelligence, infrastructural redundancy, and long-term public capacity required to inhabit a less legible and hospitable climate (Ouyang et al., 2023; Jaisridhar et al., 2025).So, as you watch the rocket’s red glare and bombs bursting in air — sending even more smoke, chemicals and debris everywhere — know the flag will still be there. But to endure, it must repair an institution to be once again knowledgeable and fair.ReferencesBirchall, S. J., Villeneuve, K., Rose, D., Baran, N. N., & Adams, S. (2026). Exploring the modifying effects of adaptive capacity on resilience to climate change across 4 coastal cities in British Columbia, Canada. Cities.Birchall, S. J., Bonnett, N. L., & Kehler, S. (2023). The influence of governance structure on local resilience: Enabling and constraining factors for climate change adaptation in practice. Urban Climate.Cai, W., McPhaden, M., Grimm, A., Rodrigues, R., Taschetto, A., Garreaud, R., … Vera, C. (2020). Climate impacts of the El Niño–Southern Oscillation on South America. Nature Reviews Earth & Environment.Cai, W., Santoso, A., Collins, M., Dewitte, B., Karamperidou, C., Kug, J., … Zhong, W. (2021). Changing El Niño–Southern Oscillation in a warming climate. Nature Reviews Earth & Environment.Carbon Brief. (2021). Analysis: Which countries are historically responsible for climate change?Climate Change Tracker. (2024). United States of America: Historic contribution to global warming since 1850.Delsole, T., Yan, X., Dirmeyer, P., Fennessy, M., & Altshuler, E. (2014). Changes in seasonal predictability due to global warming. Journal of Climate.Holgate, C., Evans, J., Taschetto, A., Gupta, S. A., & Santoso, A. (2022). The impact of interacting climate modes on east Australian precipitation moisture sources. Journal of Climate.Jaisridhar, P., Nirosha, R., Jasimudeen, S., Senthilkumar, M., Ponsneka, I., & Raja, P. (2025). Institutional dynamics in climate change adaptation: A bibliometric analysis. Frontiers in Environmental Science.Le, P., Randerson, J., Willett, R., Wright, S., Smyth, P., Guilloteau, C., Mamalakis, A., & Foufoula-Georgiou, E. (2023). Climate-driven changes in the predictability of seasonal precipitation. Nature Communications.Oreskes, N., & Conway, E. M. (2010). Merchants of Doubt: How a Handful of Scientists Obscured the Truth on Issues from Tobacco Smoke to Global Warming. Bloomsbury Press.Ouyang, H., Tang, X., Zhang, R., Baklanov, A., Brasseur, G., Kumar, R., Han, Q., & Luo, Y. (2023). Resilience building and collaborative governance for climate change adaptation in response to a new state of more frequent and intense extreme weather events. International Journal of Disaster Risk Science.Perera, A., Nik, V., Chen, D., Scartezzini, J., & Hong, T. (2020). Quantifying the impacts of climate change and extreme climate events on energy systems.Rahman, M. M., & Islam, M. S. (2024). Institutional dynamics and climate adaptation: Unveiling the challenges and opportunities in coastal Bangladesh.Rifai, S., Li, S., & Malhi, Y. (2019). Coupling of El Niño events and long-term warming leads to pervasive climate extremes in the terrestrial tropics.Robinson, W. (2021). Climate change and extreme weather: A review focusing on the continental United States.Scher, S., & Messori, G. (2019). How global warming changes the difficulty of synoptic weather forecasting.Supran, G., Rahmstorf, S., & Oreskes, N. (2023). Assessing ExxonMobil’s global warming projections.UNEP. (2023). Current and historic contributions to global warming and emissions in the United States from 1850 to 2021. Statista.Wang, X., Jiang, D., & Lang, X. (2017). Future extreme climate changes linked to global warming intensity. Science Bulletin.Hansen, J., Kharecha, P., Morgan, D., & Vest, J. (2026, April 15). Super-Duper El Niño. Columbia University Earth Institute.National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. (2026, June 11). El Niño forms, expected to strengthen, say NOAA forecasters [Press release].NOAA Climate Prediction Center. (2026, June 11). ENSO diagnostic discussion. National Weather Service.Seidel, D. J., & Birnbaum, A. N. (2015). Effects of Independence Day fireworks on atmospheric concentrations of fine particulate matter in the United States. Atmospheric Environment.World Meteorological Organization. (2026). Global annual-to-decadal climate update 2026–2035. WMO. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit <a href="https://interplace.io?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1">interplace.io</a>

June 19, 2026

Living Through Tulsa's Time

Hello Interactors,A couple weeks ago, I found myself in Tulsa for the first time. I left pleasantly surprised. There’s a lot of private money flowing into this town, but the city is filled with sorted stories about land, who holds it, who loses it, and how that loss and potential return is engineered. On Juneteenth, the city’s history feels especially close so I thought I’d unpack the layers of displacement, violence, and reinvention that lurk beneath a city still struggling to face them.CONCRETE, COALS, AND A CITY THAT CONCEALSRaise your hand if you like Brutalist architecture (I’m raising mine.) I just didn’t expect to find it in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I was visiting for my niece’s wedding.The Brut Hotel is a converted Brutalist tower a few blocks from the Arkansas River and it’s all raw concrete. Even the floors and counters. Most people see Brutalism as cold — which is nice on a hot Tulsa day — but I read it as honest and direct. A bit like a Midwestern prairie settler stereotype. After all, the style did emerge in postwar Europe from an egalitarian impulse. It was meant to be democratic architecture stripped of ornamental excesses of fancy city folks. It arrived in America just in time to become the aesthetic of urban renewal. We mostly got housing projects and highway interchanges built on top of what had been Black and working-class neighborhoods, often by eminent domain and without meaningful consent. Concrete can be made to beautiful, but it’s definitely also the material of displacement. Tulsa is no exception.On my first muggy Tulsa morning, I ran from The Brut toward the river. A block or two along, tucked between midtown houses on Cheyenne Avenue, I passed a small park I had read about but didn’t know was so close. The bronze sculpture of a flame was the give away. This is Creek Nation Council Oak Park, and it is, in the most literal sense, where Tulsa began.In 1836, the Lochapoka clan of the Creek Nation arrived at this hill above the river after two years on the Trail of Tears. They had carried live coals from their last ceremonial fires in Alabama the entire way — embers kept alive through hundreds of miles of forced march. Under this oak, they set those coals down and kindled a new flame. They named the settlement Talasi, meaning “old town.” White settlers mispronounced it into Tulsa. The term “Trail of Tears” perhaps softens this forced displacement too much. Of the 630 Lochapoka who began the journey, 161 did not survive it. The oak did and it still holds its annual ceremonies. In November 2024, the site was formally returned to the Muscogee (Creek) Nation.As I kept running south along the river, a second gathering place was harder to miss. It has a giant sign that reads, The Gathering Place.The Gathering Place is a privately built public-ish park that stretches along the Arkansas River’s eastern bank and inland a bit. It’s one hundred acres of fountains, climbing structures, event lawns, and restored prairie plantings. It is, by nearly any measure, a stunningly beautiful park. It is also unmistakably the product of a single man’s fortune. George Kaiser, the Tulsa-born oil billionaire and philanthropist, has poured more than $350 million into transforming this stretch of riverfront. It’s honestly something you’d expect to see in a Northern European city. The park opened in 2018 to national acclaim. The New York Times called it “the most ambitious new park in a generation.” I can see why.But head north from the riverfront, past the gleaming BOK Center arena (“B. OK.” is a financial services company dating back to 1910 oil money and is half owned by Kaiser) and the reclaimed warehouse districts, (including the Bob Dylan Center — Kaiser bought Bob Dylan’s archive collection in 2016) and within minutes you are in a different city. North Tulsa — and specifically the Greenwood District — reveals modest homes and stretches of underdevelopment. This is an area that feels like it’s being watched and commemorated but it’s not entirely clear it is being heard. The Greenwood Rising history center, also primarily bankrolled by Kaiser, opened in 2021 exactly one hundred years after the neighborhood was destroyed in the Tulsa Massacre. This building is also very nice and tells the area’s story well. Whether it changes the story is another matter.Cities can act as maps of their own history, so that’s how I try to read them. I take note of the distances between prosperity and poverty, commemoration and investment…even a museum and a neighborhood. These are not determinant accidents of the market, but accumulated residue of specific decisions made by specific people over a very long time. To understand Tulsa’s geography today, you have to go back not just to 1921, but further — to the rivers and grasslands of Indian Territory the Lochapoka people encountered. It’s here you’ll find federal ledgers leveraged as weapons, their lines and lists legalizing the largest land liquidation in American history.PROMISES, PARCELS, AND THE POLITICS OF POSSESSIONThe Lochapoka were not the only ones force-marched into Indian Territory. All five of the so-called Civilized Tribes — the Cherokee, Choctaw, Chickasaw, Creek, and Seminole nations — were relocated from their homelands in the American Southeast across the 1830s. Each tribe were given the same federal promise that the territory would remain theirs permanently. The maps and the Federal treaties said so, but neither turned out to mean much.What the maps did not show, and what the official history long preferred to omit, is that the Five Tribes brought enslaved Black people with them into Indian Territory. As the historians Annette Gordon-Reed and Rose Stremlau have noted in the context of the 1619 Project, the story of this dispossession cannot be told without acknowledging that intersection: the Trail of Tears was also, for some, a forced march into continued bondage (Gordon-Reed et al., 2022). That fact would shape the politics of Oklahoma for generations — and it is the thread that connects the founding fire under the Council Oak to the rise of Greenwood eighty years later.After the Civil War, the federal government’s promises to the Five Tribes began to erode almost immediately. The Freedmen — formerly enslaved people who had been held by tribal members — were formally granted citizenship in the tribes by treaty, though the tribes’ willingness to honor that citizenship varied considerably. Many Freedmen, seeking mutual protection and economic self-sufficiency, began establishing their own communities. This impulse gave rise to what became known as the Black Towns Movement. Between the 1870s and the 1920s, more than fifty all-Black towns were founded in Oklahoma and Kansas, created by people who had learned, with good reason, not to rely on the goodwill of white-majority governments (Martin, 2025; Gordon-Reed et al., 2022).The legal and cartographic instrument that made the Black Towns possible — and that would ultimately help destroy them — was the allotment system. The Dawes Act of 1887 broke up communally held tribal land into individual parcels, assigning plots to enrolled tribal members and opening the remainder to white settlement. It was framed as a civilizing measure. It was in practice a mechanism for transferring Indigenous land to white hands on an enormous scale. Each parcel was drawn on a map, recorded in a ledger, and assigned a legal description. This act appeared to secure property rights while in fact it made land far easier to steal through legal machinery than it had ever been to simply seize.The discovery of oil made the theft more systematic and more lethal. When crude was found beneath allotments assigned to Native people — particularly in the Osage Nation, the Creek Nation, and elsewhere — a federal guardianship system allowed courts to appoint white guardians for Native landowners deemed “incompetent” to manage their own affairs. The definition of incompetence was flexible and self-serving. Native heirs to oil-bearing land died under suspicious circumstances with startling frequency. Deeds were forged. Guardians enriched themselves and left their wards landless. The historian David Grann has documented this in devastating detail for the Osage Nation specifically, but the pattern was region-wide. Modern GIS analysis of original allotment records against subsequent deed transfers reveals what contemporaries knew but rarely said aloud: the disappearance of Native landowners from oil country was not a coincidence, but a covert policy.For Black Oklahomans, the allotment system created a narrow window of possibility. Freedmen who appeared on the Dawes Rolls received allotments of their own. Some of this land was in proximity to other Black allottees, and the Black Towns Movement capitalized on that geography, incorporating towns, establishing churches and schools, and building the civic infrastructure that Black communities had been denied elsewhere. As scholar JT Martin has argued, the philanthropic traditions within these communities — the mutual aid societies, the church networks, the communal investment in education — were not secondary features of the Black Towns Movement but its essential architecture (Martin, 2025). People who had nothing built institutions that served everyone.Greenwood, established in the early 1900s on the northern edge of Tulsa, was the apex of that project. By 1921, it contained over thirty-five blocks of Black-owned businesses, a hospital, law offices, two newspapers, a library, schools, and churches. Booker T. Washington reportedly called it “the Negro Wall Street,” a phrase that has since become shorthand for what the neighborhood achieved. Although that shorthand flattens what was, more precisely, a masterwork of community-building under conditions designed to make community impossible.As the literary scholar Gary M. Jenkins has observed, Greenwood sat directly along what would become Route 66 (Jenkins, 2022). The all-Black towns of Oklahoma were embedded in the landscape that John Steinbeck traversed in The Grapes of Wrath — and conspicuously omitted from it. The invisibility of Black spatial achievement in the canonical accounts of American westward movement is not incidental. It reflects a pattern in which the places, presence, and prosperity of Black life were purposefully purged from the maps white Americans made of their own country.BURNING, BURYING, AND THE BATTLE TO BELONGOn the night of May 31, 1921, a white mob descended on Greenwood. Over the following eighteen hours, the neighborhood was looted, burned, and bombed — aircraft dropped incendiary devices on residential streets. When it was over, 35 square blocks had been reduced to ash. Somewhere between 100 and 300 people were dead, most of them Black. More than 10,000 Black residents were left homeless. Survivors were interned in camps run by the National Guard — many of whom had also participated in the destruction.What followed the physical destruction was a second, slower erasure. Greenwood residents who attempted to rebuild found themselves blocked by a newly enacted city ordinance that rezoned their land for commercial and industrial use. Insurance claims were denied. Property was effectively seized under the cover of “urban renewal” in subsequent decades. As Morris, Parker, and Negrón have documented, the Tulsa massacre is a case study in what they call “Black community-killing” — the systematic destruction not just of physical structures but of the institutional web that makes a community function: the schools, the churches, the newspapers, the businesses (Morris, Parker & Negrón, 2022). The buildings burned in a day. The community’s capacity to reconstitute itself was methodically dismantled over years.For most of the twentieth century, the massacre was not taught in Oklahoma schools. It did not appear in city histories and land was not returned. The story was, in the most literal sense, removed from the map.Kaiser’s investments in Tulsa have been substantial and wide-ranging: the Gathering Place, the Greenwood Rising museum, workforce development initiatives, early childhood programs. The philanthropic intent appears sincere, and some of the work — particularly in early education — addresses structural inequities rather than simply aestheticizing them. It would be uncharitable, and inaccurate, to dismiss the whole enterprise as window dressing.But scholar JT Martin poses this question which cuts to the heart of the matter: when we study philanthropy in America, whose philanthropic traditions do we center? (Martin, 2025). The mutual aid societies, the church networks, the community land trusts built by Black and Indigenous communities — these represent forms of collective investment that predate and often outperform the interventions of elite donors, yet they receive a fraction of the scholarly and public attention. George Kaiser’s riverfront is visible. The endogenous philanthropic infrastructure of North Tulsa — the churches that held Greenwood together after the massacre, the community organizations that exist today — is largely invisible in the civic narrative that Tulsa tells about itself.The geography makes this concrete. The Gathering Place and the BOK Center sit south on the Arkansas River, in and adjacent to Tulsa’s whiter, wealthier districts. Including the area where the Philbrook Museum of Art sits. This Italian Renaissance villa was built in 1926 by oil pioneer Waite Phillips (as in Phillips 66), donated to the city in 1938 as a public art center. It’s now one of the finest regional museums in the country. This gesture rhymes with Kaiser’s: oil money transmuted into civic cultural institution, the private estate opened to the public as an act of philanthropic legacy-building. The Philbrook is genuinely beautiful and genuinely valuable. It is also located nowhere near North Tulsa.The pattern is not new. Greenwood Rising stands in Greenwood, but the area remains economically depressed, and North Tulsa is still among the most segregated parts of an already divided city. Philanthropic investments that produce a park on the wealthy side of the river and a museum on the historically Black side, while leaving structural inequalities intact, are not reparative.The development around Greenwood tells a more troubling story. ONEOK Field, built in 2010 on historic Greenwood land despite community opposition, has delivered few benefits to Black residents, who are still taxed to support it. Nearby, the Tulsa Arts District has flourished with amenities catering to a whiter, more affluent clientele, while long-standing Black businesses struggle. Even hotels in Greenwood market themselves as part of that district. This is less restoration than a familiar precursor to displacement in the form of cultural investment followed by real estate pressure.Some argue that understanding land and spatial justice in places like Tulsa requires connecting the Greenwood reparations movement to broader Indigenous-led land reclamation efforts (Du, 2021). In 2020, the Supreme Court’s decision in McGirt v. Oklahoma ruled that the Creek Nation reservation had never been legally dissolved and that the federal government’s century-old maps of Oklahoma had been legally wrong all along. The majority opinion was written by Justice Neil Gorsuch, a conservative textualist, who applied the same originalist logic to treaty rights that right-wing jurists typically apply to the Second Amendment. The ruling was a genuine landmark, restoring tribal jurisdiction over a substantial portion of eastern Oklahoma. Subsequent decisions have extended the logic to other tribes.The political irony is perplexing. Oklahoma has been among the most reliably right-wing states in the country for decades; its congressional delegation is uniformly conservative; its state government has consistently resisted federal oversight and minority rights claims. Yet it was conservative judicial originalism — the doctrine that legal texts mean what they said when written — that restored, at least partially, what the federal government had promised the Five Tribes in the 1830s. The promise was old, the maps were wrong, and it took a conservative judge to point it out.What McGirt did not do was address the claims of Black Oklahomans. The Freedmen’s citizenship rights within the Five Tribes remain contested. The Greenwood reparations movement has won moral recognition but not legal remedy. The 1921 massacre commission recommended reparations in 2001 and they have never been paid. These struggles do feel connected — Black and Indigenous claims to land and sovereignty in Oklahoma have been shaped by the same federal machinery of dispossession, and their futures may be intertwined in ways that neither community has yet fully reckoned with (Du, 2021).Juneteenth, the holiday now recognized federally, commemorates June 19, 1865 — the day enslaved people in Galveston, Texas, were told the war was over (the Emancipation Proclamation had been issued two and a half years earlier) and they were free. What the holiday cannot quite contain is what freedom meant in practice for people who were free but landless. They were free but also targeted. They were also freed from the maps that governed how wealth was accumulated and held in America. The Black Towns of Oklahoma were an answer to these problems and Greenwood was that, for a while. Then it was burned down.What grows back from a fire depends on who tends the soil, and who owns it. In Tulsa today, that question is still being answered. Will the answers be as brutally honest as Brutalism — the idea that a building should be honest about what it is made of? Tulsa is made of oil money and dispossession, Black resilience and white violence, broken treaties and belated reckonings. Despite conservative political domination, the maps are being redrawn. Whether they will finally show all of that honestly — without the decorative Italian Renaissance stucco — is more political than cartographic. But McGirt proves that promises, however papered over, still possess the power to pierce the present.ReferencesDu, Y. (2021). Black geographies unveiled: A critical review. Human Geography. Gordon-Reed, A., Stremlau, R., Lowery, M., et al. (2022). The 1619 project forum. The American Historical Review. Jenkins, G. M. (2022). Steinbeck, race, and Route 66 in The Grapes of Wrath. Steinbeck Review.Martin, J. T. (2025). Are Black people philanthropists? Toward a more diverse research agenda on philanthropy. Du Bois Review: Social Science Research on Race. Morris, J. E., Parker, B. D., & Negrón, L. M. (2022). Black school closings aren’t new: Historically contextualizing contemporary school closings and Black community resistance. Educational Researcher. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit <a href="https://interplace.io?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1">interplace.io</a>

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What is Interplace?: Interplace explores the interaction of people and place. It looks at how we move within and between the places we live and what led us here in the first place. <a href="https://interplace.io?utm_medium=podcast">interplace.io</a>
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