Something Bigger Than Us All

Or, why we keep going, I guess.

CR: Center for Whale Research

For a refresher on what JFT is, clickity clackity here. Thanks for reading, especially because I know this is long and gets pretty emo. Love u.

—

1. It’s Virgo Season.
   
   Something I love to brag about is my extremely on brand birthday and birth chart.
   
   On the last day of Virgo season at 6:03 AM, I was born exactly on my due date. Not only am I a Virgo Sun, I am also a Virgo Rising. My full chart is exceptionally organized. I only have five signs in my entire chart and only one stellium in Capricorn. Not a single one of my planets are in a fire sign, thank you very much and also you’re welcome.
   
   I love to be annoying about being a Virgo. It’s essentially a personality trait at this point. Once, years ago, a girl tried to neg me by saying she didn’t date Virgos and I immediately blocked her. At a past job I used to refer to the “Before Times” as when Water Signs were in charge (it was a shit show) and the “After Times” after I and other Earth Signs started being more in charge (it was immediately better, of course). I have told my parents one of the only things they ever did right was having a Virgo as a child, and I was…not joking.
   
   Every zodiac sign has stereotypes attributed to them that may or may not have various validities.
   
   Geminis are called two faced, Scorpios are called intimidating, Capricorns are called emotionless, Leos are called attention whores and so on and so on for all twelve signs, you get the picture.
   
   To my core, I identify with being a Virgo. After years of leaning too hard on the cusp of my birth date and saying I was both a Virgo and a Libra (not a thing), I accept who I am. A little bitchy, stubborn, perceptive: check, check, and check.
   
   But the Virgo stereotype I know is fundamentally Not Me™ is the notion that we’re all compulsively clean.
   
   I am organized. Aside from earrings which I lose the second I have purchased them, I know where everything is. But the nightstand next to my bed is lovingly referred to as “the graveyard” where cans of La Croix and Diet Coke go to die. If left to my own devices I would suffocate underneath a pile of laundry I never found the time to put away. Along that same line, I rewash every other load I run because I forget about them for a day and a half. I’ll scrub a dutch oven to a level of cleanliness you haven’t seen since she was purchased but empty the dishwasher? I’d rather eat a bowl of my own hair.
   
   A joke that used to be made about me by various roommates, friends, and partners was that I am a one woman Hansel and Gretel. There is a trail leading from my arrival to wherever I have plopped myself. I say, in my own defense, that there is a method to my madness. But when I look at my own familial history of hoarding and untreated anxieties around change, I can see that the madness might be a little more literal and a lot perhaps genetic.
   
   Something I have been working out and reconciling with in therapy lately (Which btw, did you know that a prerequisite for being in therapy is that you make sure to mention that you’re in therapy at least once a day? It’s like being gluten-free but more expensive. Actually…I’ve seen the price of Udi’s lately I’ll have to rethink the expense part.) is how it all (unfortunately) comes back to childhood. How it all goes back to how you were raised and who raised you and the various things that you ping-ponged against while trying to become an actual person. When I think back to the dust covered bathrooms of my childhood, the mail piling up in corners of the kitchen, the packages that would come my way in college with clothing I hadn’t worn in 8 years, or the impassable basement that exists in my hometown today, I can’t help but see the “method behind the madness” might be more of an “explanation for the inexcusable.”
   
   Like a good Virgo, I’m always working on a project. Ideally it’s not a romantic partner, but hey we all make mistakes!! But lately, I think more and more that the forever project is going to be me, myself, and I.
   
   I once heard that if you look back on yourself after a few years and continue to recognize yourself you’re not actually growing. I don’t know how true that is or how full of whatever self-help bullshit it might be, but I think there’s at least an iota of goodness to it. Like Augusten Burroughs said, I myself am made entirely of flaws, but I’m hoping I can continue to change them.
   
   Which this Virgo Season, has meant emptying the dishwasher. Putting away the piles of sweatshirts that linger on the desk. Emptying the cans of Bubly and Ginger Ale in the morning rather than continuing to let them flatten and sit unattended on the nightstand next to the book I’m reading.
   
   I’m trying to be better. Trying to steam out the crease of this character flaw. Some stereotypes are negative, but this one I’d like to be a little bit more like. A little less hereditary, a little more astrology, if you will.
   
   Just don’t ask me about vacuuming in between house cleanings I’m not there yet.
   

2. This is just a love letter to bad texters.
   
   To people unbothered by notifications. To ‘Do not Disturb.’ To “sorry just seeing this.” To four and a half minute voice memos catching up on all of the talking points. To finding your hands elsewhere. To stopping the doom scrolling. To “I know we haven’t talked in a minute” openers. To those immune to targeted advertising. To the ones reevaluating their relationship to having their volume on. To anyone untethered to an Apple device. To “wanna Facetime while we make dinner”? To venting for fifteen minutes between meetings. To GamePigeon. To deleting Snapchat. To saving it until brunch on Sunday. To letting your phone fully die and not charging it until the next morning. To letting things marinate. To calling when you need to. The sitting with it when you can. To Notes App. To missing what they said and catching up in person anyway. To texting back, when you get around to it. To texting back, when you know you should. To being there. Just being there. Whatever that looks like.
   

3. I forgot about the first woman I loved last week.
   
   Oh boy what a sentence!!
   
   I have to bring up therapy again (sorry) because that’s when it happened. I was reflecting on my relationship history and realized about three minutes after the fact that I had completely omitted a full year-long relationship. And not only a full year-long relationship, but the first extremely significant gay relationship of my adulthood. And not only ESGR™, but the first woman who losing made me feel like I was ripping each one of my arm hairs out one by one by one with my own teeth.
   
   I have never wanted to get back together with a man.
   
   When I went through breakups in college/my early twenties with men, they hurt, indisputably. I don’t think anyone can look you dead in the eye and tell you that rejection or failed relationships feel good. I think envisioning your life as one way and having to pivot is always going to be jarring. That jar comes with pain. No way around it.
   
   When I think back to those breakups and those heartbreaks, I never wanted any of them back. When it was over it was immediately over. I never fought for it. I never kept up with any of them in any capacity. Actually my best-friend just alerted me to the fact that one got married (mazel) and his relationships post me were completely not on my radar.
   
   But the separation between myself and this woman? It was catastrophic to me. Seismic. A core event, some would say. I remember ordering applesauce squeeze pouches from Amazon because they and mashed avocado were the only foods I was keeping down. I remember not sleeping for months. I would play the dog treat sensor on my Furbo because it had her voice in the recording. To call me distraught would be an extreme, extreme, extreme understatement.
   
   Which is why to me now, with that knowledge and that history, I’m kind of shocked that I forgot about her and the relationship that was so intrinsic to my relationship makeup at my core.
   
   Sometimes I worry that I have made “being hard to read” too much of myself. That I hide behind the shield of indifference a little too instinctively. That the only emotion I feel safe with is anger and therefore it’s the only one I really know. Or even worse, it’s the only one people near me associate me with. No one wants to be the angry aloof girl. She’s not someone you can trust.
   
   I didn’t feel guilt for forgetting her (the ex) initially, I actually laughed and quipped about how it might be a good thing. But there is something about it that is a little guilt inducing. This person was a huge part of my life for a moment and that’s worth holding space for, right? I think? That’s what you’re supposed to do?
   
   Plus, no one wants to be forgotten. That’s the worst feeling out there of all. And one I am all too familiar with.
   
   I admittedly don’t know where I’m going with this other than I want to say, if I can control what memory serves, I’d like to order it all. Dish it all up family style and pass it around the table. Leave room for seconds and even if they make you uncomfortable, thirds. Even if I can’t take it I want to remember it. I want to be able to revisit it and reminisce on how it shaped me. I never want you to not feel important.
   
   I would never want someone to feel forgotten. Despite what it looks like on my face, I never want to forget.

4. In honor of Tomato Girl Summer™ here is my favorite tomato recipe.
   
   First and foremost, do yourself a favor and make a tomato stock.
   
   -Rough chop a leek, yellow onion, loads of garlic, twoish carrots, a celery stalk, and about sixish tomatoes and add to a pot with a generous amount of olive oil over medium heat.
   -Rub all of the veggies with about half a tube of tomato paste and let it darken. Probably 5ish minutes.
   -Add in 8ish cups of water, a tablespoonish of Better than Bouillon Chicken (or Mushroom if you’re veg), and simmer for an hour to an hour and a half.
   -Strain everything through a fine mesh strainer to remove all chunks, seeds, and lumps.
   -Congrats on your stock.
   
   Now let’s make tomato risotto.
   
   -Finely chop a shallot and half of a yellow onion.
   -Finely chop four garlic cloves. Mince, if you will.
   -Add the shallots and onion to a pan with olive oil and sauté until translucent, like four minutes.
   -Toss in the garlic, sauté until fragrant. Maybe two to three more minutes.
   -Add in a cup and a quarter of this rice. This specific one. All others are bullshit. (I’m sure that’s not true but I love a theatric.) Sauté well for two to three minutes until the rice starts to golden.
   -Add in a half cup of dry white or rosé wine. I do not have an alcohol substitute. Sorry. Let it absorb totally—you’ll know it’s good to go when it…doesn’t smell like wine anymore.
   -Start adding in your immaculate tomato stock about a halfish cup at a time. Stir until it’s absorbed and then give her a minute. Let her have a break between being constantly stirred to sit and simmer. You’ll know when it’s time to add in more liquid by how liquidy it is. I know that sounds exceptionally not technical and you’re right! But I stand by it. When you can draw a good line down the pot and not have it immediately become a pool again, add more stock.
   -You’re going to add about four and half to fiveish cups of stock in total. It’ll take around 20 minutes to a half hour to complete your risotto.
   -You know what will help while you’re cooking it to know how it’s going? Taste along the way baby! When your rice is basically al dente you’re basically there. Tasting your food as you’re cooking it will save your life.
   -Once it’s at a consistency you love and the liquid is an NPC, stir in like, a cup of good parm. Ideally fresh grated but if you don’t want to do that I like this brand from Whole Foods.
   -Serve with some freshly sliced sungolds, crispy prosciutto, a bunch of basil, or just eat it out of the pan I will never judge you.
   

5. To know me is to know my love of whales.
   
   I’m not sure if I can definitively pinpoint when exactly this fascination started, but I can pinpoint that settling down what you could kind of call roots in the Pacific Northwest only fueled it further.
   
   For anyone unaware (Hang on, dear readers! Time for a semi-brief history/science/marine lesson!!) the waters around Washington State and the neighboring British Columbia are home to three types of orcas: resident whales, transient whales, and offshore whales. The groups most commonly “known” being the first two, offshores are far less seen and/or studied. In BC the pods of resident whales are known as the Northern Residents, and their US cousins are known as the Southern—you get it.
   
   In the late 1960s/early 1970s, capturing orcas for entertainment purposes started to gain traction, and these hunts and captures predominantly hit the Southern Resident Killer Whales (SRKW) of the Pacific Northwest. A vast majority of these captures were helmed by a man named Ted Griffin who was not only the first man to ever “perform” in the water with an orca (the third to ever be caught in 1965, a male named Namu) but who was also the first owner of the Seattle Marine Aquarium—not to be confused with the Aquarium that is around today, they are unrelated entirely. Griffin is also responsible for the first Shamu, who he originally captured to be a companion for Namu but after the two whales didn’t get along and Shamu showed aggression toward Griffin, he sold her to SeaWorld San Diego and the rest is history.
   
   Spoiler Alert: Griffin is batshit fucking crazy. He claims that he’s solely responsible for the way whales in captivity are hand fed. He apparently bought Namu with 8 grand in literal cash. He never considered the extreme sewage run off from Elliott Bay which is what eventually led to an massive infection killing Namu after just one year in his care. His original retirement plan was to move to the San Juan’s and have a personal whale pen.
   
   He also has, and I quote, “no regrets” for leading the hunts of the SRKW that resulted in 270 whales being captured from the Salish Sea, with many of them dying terrible deaths like being dropped from slings or overheating in planes while being transported.
   
   Which is a reminder for me get back on track here and stop shit talking an almost 90-year-old man.
   
   On August 8, 1970, Griffin, his partner Don Goldsberry, and his team of other seamen and divers set off to capture whales in Penn Cove near Whidbey Island in Washington. The team of hunters managed to net (what they claim) between 80 or 100 whales. Seven of those whales they successfully captured for various clientele, four were tangled in the nets and died, one female drowned attempting to escape but getting strangled in a net, and the rest either evaded the team or were released. Because of growing opposition to whale capture, Griffin made the decision to gut the five deceased bodies rather than turning them into the government, fill them with rocks, and sink them to avoid any media backlash. Three months later the carcasses washed up on Whidbey Island, revealing what had been done that day.
   
   Of the seven surviving whales from that massacre, only one was still alive until recently: Tokitae.
   

Tokitae lived in the smallest tank for a captive orca for more than 50 years.

The story of Tokitae’s capture can only be considered what I would call foreshadowing for the rest of her extremely heartbreaking life. She was only about four years old at the time of her being ripped from her family, the L Pod, and was immediately shipped to the Miami Seaquarium where she would spend the next five decades. Initially she was paired with the Seaquarium’s only other orca whale, Hugo—their significant age difference leading to the inspo of her nickname, Lolita. However in 1980, Hugo tragically gave into psychosis, ramming his head into the walls of their tank until he passed from a brain aneurysm.

Tokitae would never see another orca again.

Since 2003, animal right’s activists and the Lummi nation have been working to bring Tokitae home to her native waters. Some findings to support this over the last 20 years have included:

* The discovery that her tank did not meet the federal size requirements for housing an orca.
* The revelation that she had not been receiving adequate veterinary care, resulting in significant longterm illnesses and lesions on her left lung.
* A federal inspection reporting of her being fed rotten fish, forced to perform despite injuries and illness, her food being cut back and rationed, and the advice of her vet being completely ignored by trainers.
* A federal inspector reporting that she had significant chlorine damage to her eyes.
* The aforementioned tiny pool being in states of disrepair with peeling laminant and paint that trainers admitted Tokitae would bring to them.
* And that same pool not having adequate protection from the Florida sun, which can lead to sun damage not only to her body but her eyes.

Like I said: foreshadowing.

It was not until March of this year that the Miami Seaquarium (under new ownership) reached an agreement with the Friends of Toki (the non-profit dedicated to bringing her home) to rehabilitate Tokitae in order to transport her back to the San Juan’s, so she could live out the rest of her life in a 15-acre sea pen in her native waters. She would have still been under human care as it’s unlikely she would have been able to relearn how to be a wild whale after half a century in captivity. But this change would have not only vastly improved her quality of life but would have represented a huge symbol of reparations not only to the wildlife so terribly impacted by the horrific 1970 captures, but to the Lummi nation who have been fighting for her for 20+ years.

The past tense says it all, it didn’t happen.

Last week on August 18th, Tokitae passed away due to supposed renal failure. She was 57 years old.

Reminder, Ted Griffin has “no regrets” about directly leading to her horrible, horrible fate.

Last weekend, a celebration of her life was held in Friday Harbor by the Lummi Tribe. Eventually her ashes will be shipped to the nation for them to spread over the Salish Sea. Tokitae was the last of the SRKW to be in captivity, and due to SeaWorld settling with Washington State in 1976 regarding whale capture, there will never be another one. Supposedly her mother, L25 or “Ocean Sun”, is still alive in the wild at 90 years old.

To say I have been obsessing over Tokitae would be an understatement. Her story is horrifically heartbreaking, filled with nothing but gut punch after gut punch after gut punch. It exposes the overwhelming selfishness of humans, the gnarly lack of care that capitalism and tunnel vision can create.

And, at its core, it’s just really fucking unfair. It’s devastatingly unfair that this whale never got to reap the benefits of what was arguably the one win in her life. It’s unfair that it happened because of, well, us.

To know me is to know my love of whales. If you thought going on for 1100 words was evidence enough, just know I could’ve gone on for many more. (I didn’t even COVER the last capture that led to the SeaWorld settlement, or how whales have an entire section of their brains solely dedicated to processing emotions that we do not, OR Indy, the transient whale who keeps getting stuck in human made contraptions and figuring how to free himself!!) I cannot exactly pinpoint when this obsession started, but I know why it’s there.

To me, whales represent that there is something bigger than us. Both literally and figuratively. As someone who left a pretty intense religion (another 1000+ words for another day) that sounds more Jesus-y than I mean it to.

What I mean by that is I don’t want to exist in a world or even the idea of a world where the human is the apex of anything. If we’re the pinnacle that is…gonna be a yikes from me!

So the notion that there are these beings that have communities and families and process complex emotions our brains can scientifically not comprehend and learned to evade men hunting them with bombs, that to me is a symbol of something I can only call hope. They to me are a sign that even as we do horrendous things in the name of entertainment, continue to regularly fuck up the planet, or just make human mistake after human mistake, that maybe things can remedy themselves. Whales to me are concrete evidence that even as we march around in our stupid human boots assuming we know best and yadda yadda yadda, there is another world that is beyond our comprehension that we will only ever know a fraction of. And I think that’s really beautiful.

The SRKW pods have been some of the most endangered whale pods for years. They were hunted, captured, and ripped apart in the 60s and 70s, their food source(s) have been dwindling for a long time, they’ve been exposed to awful levels of pollution. Experts are extremely worried about their populations, which as of 2023 only remains at about 74 or 75.

But in July a new calf of the J Pod was officially named.

J59, born sometime around February last year, was officially given the name Sxwyeqólh by the Samish Indian Nation in a naming ceremony.

Sxwyeqólh meaning, “a reason for hope.”

—

One last thing. I bought this recently and it’s really helped me sleep. That’s all! Have a good week!