Everything

Everything that the human race needs to survive and thrive already exists. It lives in the forests and grows in the oceans. There’s no need for hunger when food sources are nigh infinite. There’s no need for sickness when medicines grow in your backyard. Grandmother teaches these concepts to her descendants when they are young, and these lessons remain deeply rooted in their way of thinking.

Grandmother walked her descendants through the forests if they hadn’t already been adventuring there themselves. Grandmother’s charges, nearly always Indigenous Americans, had absent parents — their fathers practically nonexistent, constantly shifting in and out of the prison system, or having no care to foster a relationship with their progeny. They were so young when their mothers went missing that their only memories of her rest in photographs. When those children were still children, Grandmother died, as is the way of the elders, and they were shuffled back and forth through the homes of aunts who could not always remember which sister the children were supposed to be staying with. This leaves the wards of Grandmother with plenty of time to themselves in the woods — reminding themselves of Grandmother’s stories and lessons, collecting food, and surviving with very little help from their families, if any help at all.

As Grandmother’s children grow older and more aware of their surroundings, her lessons point to the poverty that surrounds them. Grandmother tells them that this cannot possibly make any sense; if everything you need is merely a walk in the woods away, then why must people suffer? The memory of Grandmother urges them to ask questions of their elders. Some community elders embrace such questions with open arms, the memories of their Grandmothers whispering to them as well. Others — those who have forgotten their elders’ lessons — prickle at the rudeness of the young. And so, Grandmother encourages her children to turn away from home, if only for a short time, in order to educate themselves.

Because such education is so often found away from the woods, Grandmother sits with her children night and day, guiding their eyes and fingers, nurturing their sense of won­ der. And so, her children excel in academia. Grandmother’s tenacity (and a decent dollop of guilt) keep her children out of parties and focused on more important subjects. Those who listen to Grandmother’s wisdom are considered to be geniuses, and they quickly earn respect from professors and peers. Such devotees often pursue environmental studies, of course, thanks to unsubtle suggestions from this guiding Avatar. Grandmother pushes hard, and so her children de­ velop networks and attract the attention of powerful mentors and guides among the Progenitors; like calls to like, after all, and even hardline materialists can recognize the guidance of Grandmother’s Genius when it occurs to them to listen.

Grandmother’s children usually prefer field work. Even when they’re immersed in the sciences (say, studying the biodiversity of the fauna in the Olympic Mountains, or splicing together berry-producing plants to produce new and unique fruit), Grandmother’s teachings always come rush­ ing back. The people, after all, are dying because so many of them pursue material wealth above all things, up to and including their own lives. Grandmother shifts her children’s perception of poverty and its effect on people dramatically. After all, Grandmother’s people, the family and community of her children, do not suffer because of poverty — they suffer because they’re not properly connected to the rest of the living planet. All people suffer for this reason. To alleviate suffering, then, and to allow humanity to prosper as it once did in older times, we must nurture and understand our connection to the land.

The children in question must be careful about what they say, and to whom they say it, with regards to Grandmother’s influence. Hard-minded Technocratic supervisors have little patience with (or mercy for) students who babble on about walking through the woods with long-dead relatives. Grandmother, though, is subtle; her charges tend to recall her lessons and visitations as old memories and dreams inspired by the past. Childhood memories, of course, aren’t terribly reliable, and so when new lessons open a student’s mind to possibilities they might not have earlier have considered, it’s easy to view that insight as the product of old memories seen through a new, adult perspective.

Inevitably, Grandmother calls her children home. Whether they’re resident teachers, or studying the effects of dramatically cutting back the rainforests, her children will eventually be recalled away from their work to return home and begin teaching their nations, redeveloping the reservations with a system of agroforestry and water preservation. Their methods may be directed by western science, but at their heart you can find Grandmother’s lessons. Permaculture, after all, is an Indigenous art form, and Grandmother urges her children to use it to save her people.

Although Grandmother’s children are members of the community, their relationships within those communities remain taxed and challenging. They often come across as rude and somewhat standoffish, and their approach to technology often seems to value western science over traditional teachings, even though Grandmother advocates merging the two. Her methods are based on traditional teachings with the support of industrial-era scientific principles. Despite doubts both internal and external, these technomancers look to memories of their Grandmother’s teachings to inspire them. They still attend community events, and they strive to improve their relationships with their tribes. Grandmother shows them the value of traditional teachings, but also urges them to explore how much further they can go with a little Enlightenment and a respectful state of mind.

Those who can see her perceive Grandmother as a short, dark, muscular woman of Native American heritage, with a pair of beaded eyeglasses and a thick shock of wild, loosely braided black hair with a thick streak of silver. She speaks quietly but with unquestionable force, and she carries a wooden spoon that she never uses but often taps in her palm when her children fail to listen to her wisdom. White is her least favorite color because Grandmother spends so much time on her knees, in the earth, in the mud, or even climbing trees. She tends to wear durable clothing, and always sports a pair of brown hiking boots, typically caked with mud. Despite her obvious age, Grandmother is healthy and spry, and her many years never seem to slow her down.