Aaniin Aanang

[Attachment Begins]

Henry David Thoreau said, "Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh."

For me, the deep regret over my actions has spurred changes I'm not sure I would have ever been able to make on my own while I lived on the surface. I'd like to share my story with you about how I came to NAHE (North American Habitat East) and how living here has impacted me.

Life was hard growing up on the reservation. There were five of us living in a crumbling one-bedroom house. My sisters and I slept on mats spread over the floor; there was little privacy and even less of everything else.

Luckily for me, the Catholic boarding school had been mercifully closed down before I was born, but the day school, run by the same religious group, was still open, and I was forced to attend. The nuns slapped us kids around and basically did everything they could to put down our native culture. Alongside reading and writing, they were pretty effective at teaching us to hate ourselves. ₍₁₎

I left the reservation when I was 18 and got a job at the wastewater plant in New Ulm. I lived in a three-bedroom house with five other guys. For the first time in my life, I had a bed of my own in a room with a door, and I only had to share it with one other person. My roomies and I loved to go to the movies. We found a theater showing a lot of old Westerns, and we immersed ourselves in movies like The Searchers, which held Indians like us in a dark and evil light. I wanted to fit in where I was living, and given my past, I easily absorbed the racial and gendered biases floating all around me. ₍₂₎

Five years later, I met your mother, and within a few years, we were married. She had also lived on a reservation, Fond du Lac, but her experiences there were a lot different from mine. Her family had sent her to the public schools, and her grandmother and others had banded together to teach them what it meant to be Ojibwe. I learned a lot from your mother, but not enough to counter the influences surrounding us.

You were born just two years later, and for a long time, I was content. The two of you were my entire world. And then Abeque died in a car accident when you were eighteen, and my life was shattered. You were just out of school and figuring out who you were, and I was in no shape to support you. I hadn't realized how much I depended on the solid ground Abeque provided; I was like a leaf blowing in the wind of white culture.

After your mother died, you and I began to clash. I couldn't understand how you had changed from the sweet girl you had been to the angry woman I saw before me. Everything we fought about went against what I now know were the biases I had absorbed while living on the reservation and the newer ones I had picked up during my time in New Ulm. When we had our last argument, all the frustrations and fears I had been living with in the past year just came out, and I wrongly took them out on you.

I was wrong about a whole lot of things that day, and I regret all of it. However, the part I regret most was when I simply rejected your explanations and told you how wrong you were even to consider living authentically. I lied a lot during our argument, even to myself. I've learned since then, the bonds between parent and child are real and unbreakable, even when one wishes otherwise.

I have thought of you every day since I ordered you to leave and never come back. At first, my thoughts were blurred with anger, and later rang with the justifications for what I had done. Eventually, I began to regret my actions and, for the first time, forced myself to truly understand the impact of our clash. Now? Well, regret over everything and anger at myself are always there, but I can acknowledge the love I hold for you, and if it was well-submerged for a time, I'm finally able to recognize it has always been present.

Aanang, in the almost thirty years since we last saw each other, I have learned just how perfect you are. I have learned we are all perfect in our wholeness, the parts we like and the parts we don't. You are perfect, and that perfection reflects in who you choose to love.

Doesn't sound like me, does it? Truth be told, I've done a lot of soul-searching, learning, and growing since I moved to NAHE.

After our fight, I stayed in New Ulm for another year, telling myself you'd realize how wrong you were and come home begging for my forgiveness. When I took the job in upstate New York, I did try to find you, but none of your friends would tell me anything. I contacted White Earth and Fond du Lac and left my information for them to pass on should you ever come looking for me. I never heard from you.

My new job was in a town called Great Valley, and truth be told, it wasn't much different than New Ulm, except for the accents. Same attitudes, same expectations. I had my own place, and I pretty much kept to myself. The tribes of the land were the Iroquois, not so friendly to the Chippewa. I fished and hunted, but for the most part, I just gave most of it to the food banks. There isn't much more to tell about my time there, except to say I never heard from you.

Then I was recruited to come live in the habitats, and I moved down in 2003.

It's funny, for someone who spent so much of their life outside roaming the woods and lakes, I don't feel confined down here. Every floor in the habitat encloses almost twenty square miles, and most of the floors I'm on mimic being outside. We live in sections, each one its own miniature city; I live in Section 4. It had just opened when I moved here, and I've lived here ever since.

There's enough time to spend at leisure, to relax, play, learn, and create. Each section has designated floors for different activities. We have hospitals, schools, and farms. Each section has floors dedicated to recreational activities, both indoor and outdoor, as well as restaurants and shopping. A lot of our floors are used for storage, holding everything our population might need in the future. At this point, we don't need much, if anything, from the surface.

For the first few years, I was busy working in my section's wastewater facility, handling the primary treatments of separation and processing the matter removed before sending the cleaned-up water down to Section One for secondary treatment. There were six of us, plus some lab techs and a few mechanics. It might seem like a lot for a facility of our size, but with few exceptions, everyone works about twenty hours a week in their jobs. Not bad, huh?

Of course, we all have to spend ten hours a week working to keep our communities running smoothly. Our participation in these community tasks is how we earn our monthly stipend. Until I retired four years ago, some of my tasking time was spent training and monitoring taskers as they focused on the more unpleasant aspects of wastewater management, such as removing debris from the screens that filter the wastewater and separating it for further recycling. It's not as bad as it sounds; most organic matter is already separated out, and once all the water evaporates, it doesn't really smell much.

Most of us who came down here, took a look, liked what we saw and signed the Charter after a quick reading. If I'm being honest, I have to tell you that initially, I focused on what was in it for me. Not only did the Charter tell me I was entitled to the rights of life, representative government, health, and the pursuit of happiness, but it also guaranteed those rights.

I began living in a one-bedroom house with a small yard, which I don't have to pay for. If I ever choose to live with someone, we'll be able to request and move into any available three-bedroom house. Our meals are subsidized, either in full at the common dining halls we call the Eateries, or we can choose any restaurant and apply our subsidy, paying the overage with our guaranteed monthly income. There's more to it: free healthcare, both mental and physical, as well as free education, including training for our chosen professions.

The Charter tells us that we are all of equal value and worth, and we deserve equitable treatment. It all sounds really good, doesn't it? Given how I grew up, and how we were looked on in New Ulm, who wouldn't want to live in a place where everyone is treated as equals?

I soon learned that, along with everything the Charter guaranteed to me, it also required me to uphold its standards. If I wanted to be considered of equal value and worth to everyone else, it was incumbent on me to treat others with the same respect I wanted for myself. If I wanted to be treated equitably, I had to treat others the same way. It was a constant struggle at first; I mean, you know it in your head, but it doesn't stop everything you were born into and absorbed through your life from forcing you into those familiar tracks.

When I came down in 2003, the population was pretty sparse, but with every passing year, more people have chosen to live here, families grow, and while there's still plenty of room to expand, the floors we reside on ring to the sound of children's laughter and the chatter of neighbors in their gardens and along the paths.

Section 4 filled up over the years, and even as I was recruited, others from different age groups, races, cultures, and capabilities moved in, each with their own unique identity. By identity, I mean who we are internally —our sense of self. Our identities filter the way we view everything around us and should feel as natural to us as breathing does.

I didn't originate that last sentence, but it often comes to mind. At this point, I view it as more aspirational because, regardless of how we perceive ourselves and consider ourselves, external factors also come into play. Then again, I guess it's where the word "should" comes in. Hmm, I'll have to think about it some more.

I've finally come to realize how some aspects of our identities are immutable, who we are sexually attracted to being one. And early on, I was confronted with ample evidence of the life you might have lived if you had been living with me when I was recruited.

A few months after I first moved here, two women moved into a large house on my street. They were in their late twenties and had two small children. I remember watching them as they strolled down our path, kids darting ahead of them. I saw how every person smiled and greeted them warmly, and when I was outside, I forced myself to do the same. As I got to know them, it turned out they were just regular folk who loved their children and each other. I've been around many different kinds of families over the years, in all types and permutations, and they all share one vital aspect. The unifying thread entwining each family is that of love.

I can only hope you have found love in your life, Aanang. Whether I am there to witness it or not, I hope with all within me that you have found love at least once.

I found myself living around so many people who were different than me. Not only races and cultures, but ages too. Multi-generational families living together were recruited as a whole. As my section filled, I began to notice a change in tone among its more recent arrivals. More and more of them identified themselves by their politics, which I couldn't help but notice were much more progressive than the areas I had spent time in. It became a sharp contrast to the antics we saw on surface newscasts (yes, we get those and the latest movies. Have you seen "Housekeeping for Beginners?" It really touched me and I admit, I cried.)

We are a real society and community down here, learning to live under a different set of assumptions than on the surface. Retaining our individuality while balancing the needs of others with our own isn't something most of us have mastered easily, yet it is an essential skill for living in harmony. Recognizing that each of us is equal to everyone else can be empowering, or it can bring humility. Where the surface has exploded into intolerance, we strive to practice tolerance, but only for those who reciprocate in kind. We emphasize learning, not only the skills and knowledge our ancestors passed down to us, but also exploring new aspects of knowledge and scientific discoveries. We also teach the skill of critical thinking—to consider sources and facts carefully.

If we haven't learned all the lessons yet, it's not because we aren't trying. Attempting to prevent a neuron from traversing a well-worn, enticing channel and trying to change my actions is hard at the best of times. But modeling good behaviors for the children born here, who might live in this underground city their entire lives, is a positive step towards moving our society towards full equality and respect.

I didn't come down here trying to change. In fact, it took years for these lessons even to begin to penetrate my thick skull. It took several of what my friend Alex calls "clue-by-fours" before I could even begin to see past my own experiences.

At some point in my wanderings, I came across a group gathered on the central greenway of my residence floor. Most were my age or older, and like me, they didn't care to spend time alone. On days we were off, a few of us would gather. Some days, we took a long walk; other times, we would end up at a co-op, playing board games. I remember one time sitting outside a children's amusement park, just watching the families. I found joy watching the young ones thrill when riding in child-sized trains and on carousels. There's a lot to do down here, but it's a lot more fun to have someone to do it with. My life became fuller; there was always a group at my closest Eatery, who I could join and chat with. I was happier than I had been in a long time, yet something was still missing.

Eventually, this group lost its luster. Most of them weren't trying to fit into the culture here, and most of our conversations consisted of them bitching about those they lived, worked, and tasked around. I heard echoes of the underlying biases I remembered from New Ulm and Great Valley.

It's as if our thoughts harden as we age, unless we make an effort to stay flexible. In some ways, I believe my mind stays supple because of the regret I have over how I handled myself with you.

Let me be clear, while the fight leading to our separation should never have happened, I will admit that going through the experience and the resulting pain and sorrow did help me want to understand the changes I was seeing around me. It seemed none of the others in this group had ever had such an experience, and I saw firsthand their resistance to finding commonalities within the fellowship offered to them.

Listening to their conversations, I was better able to understand how I had treated you and others in the past. I realized I had belittled those who didn't fit the precepts of what I now know to have been a narrow viewpoint in a futile attempt to fit in. I didn't like seeing it in them, and I certainly didn't like seeing it in myself, as I recognized my expression of the same behaviors in the past. I began calling this group, the Inadaptas, and even as I deplored their resistance to everything, I continued to seek their company since I did not want to be alone.

And then everything changed.

I remember the day clearly. I had woken up in a not-so-great mood. My entire day was free, and I was lonely. I didn't want to be alone, even if it meant being around those for whom I had only a limited tolerance. I decided to head over to the greenway, an area with sturdy groundcover surrounding the innermost circle of our residential floors. It was there that I found and joined a small group of Inadaptas sitting and standing around a few tables.

I listened with one ear to the idle chatter of those around me, not really wanting to participate, but content to just be sitting outside on a nice day. I watched the activity around us; small children ran around with each other, tossing frisbees, while others played on the equipment scattered around us, all of them laughing and playing with the abandon of the young. I watched and allowed their innocent laughter to find a place within my heart.

Our greenway surrounds public facilities, including elevators, convenience shops, and community rooms. As I watched, I saw a man step out of a shop. It was hard to tell his age, given his baldness, but his neat mustache and goatee began as a dark brown above his lip, gradually turning gray around his chin. He looked lost, like someone fresh and new, and I waved him over. I introduced myself, and he did the same. Kevin Hanlon and his wife, Alex, had moved down just two days before. That wasn't unusual; new residents came down all the time.

What was unusual was that he was married, had been down here for only a few days, and that his wife was already working. While Kevin, like most of us, had been given a few weeks to acclimate before reporting to our jobs, his wife was a different story. She only took a day for herself before reporting to work. I couldn't tell from what Kevin said whether she chose to do so or if her job required it. He sometimes had a wandering way of speaking, making it difficult to figure out what or who he was referring to.

His presence gave the Inadaptas something to do, and a group of us took him around, exploring our indoor recreational floor and showing him the gyms, day spas, and other facilities. After a while, I saw he was flagging a bit and thought we should wake him up. So I suggested taking in a travel movie.

Travel movies are a genre made specifically for the habitats; recordings of places of beauty on the surface, allowing us to experience those wonders of the world at least vicariously. The closest thing I can compare them to is Star Tours at Disney World.

Imagine a small theater with a rounded dome, seating 10 to 20 audience members, each belted into a seat on a separate platform that mimics the film's movements. Our films are shot in a 360-degree spherical view, allowing us to immerse ourselves wherever the film takes us. Once we were all seated and belted into our platform, Kevin experienced the sensation of traveling down a river.

There was something about him I really liked. He was quiet, like he was just trying to figure everything out before talking. Before I knew it, I invited him to go fishing with me the next morning.

I can almost forget I'm living underground, on days when the platform tube in the center stays invisible, or when I convince myself the inner circle in the middle of the lake is just an island. Most of what we call the living floors—floors not used for storage or industry—are set up so we experience the same hours of day and night we might have had if we were still living on the surface.

Just like the travel videos, the sky projections onto our curved ceilings are captured in a 360-degree spherical shot. In fact, the travel film technology is similar to what the Foundation used to film the sky in untouched places. Each day, we experience the same sky, clouds and sun captured by the cameras years before. We don't experience the same weather; wind is unknown, and water, as you can be sure, is hoarded, reused, and recycled, so dropping water from the ceiling would only be done in an emergency.

One of the first things everyone notices when they move here is the quiet and the absence of animals other than those raised for agricultural purposes. Our living floors are filled only with the sounds we have created: the hum of our transportation, the bare whisper of leaves rustling in the air near a vent, the overheard conversations around us, the noises resulting from various activities and the laughter of children. Other floors are even quieter, with none of the noises of planes overhead or trucks rattling along nearby highways.

There are sounds I miss, the rising and falling songs of the cicadas surrounding me during the hot days of August, replaced at night with the croaking of frogs. I wish I could step out of my house to the sounds of birds calling to each other as the sun rises, and that the noise of bees buzzing as they move from flower to flower were an everyday occurrence.

Don't get me wrong, there's plenty of noise elsewhere, manufacturing and industrial areas can be noisy, and so can the farm floors. It's there we raise our animals—mostly sheep, cows, goats, and chickens—but also pollinators and whatever else is absolutely necessary to sustain an ecosystem. To leave a farm floor is to experience a strong gust of air, strong enough to dislodge any pollinators from our person and leave them where they will do the most good.

The lake floor is a farm field, and reaching the lake requires climbing up a steep incline planted with grapes, since no actual ground should remain fallow. Once we are on the other side, it feels similar to how I felt fishing on the surface. Plants and trees fill the slopes, and you can hear the birds.

We don't have true ecosystems here, but to support any kind of fish, we have to provide their sustenance. Since insects reproduce faster than the fish can eat them, small birds were introduced to help control the insect population; this, in turn, required the introduction of birds of prey to keep the bird population in check. So, falconry is actually a thing down here, in a small way, of course.

On the day I first took Kevin fishing, I first taught him how to use a kayak, and then we moved out onto the lake while it was still dark. As the sun came up, the birds began to sing, and the fish began to bite. Kevin hadn't been fishing much in his life, so this was all a new experience for him. I liked how he took it in stride and asked for help when he wasn't sure. Most people, even down here, find it hard to admit they don't know something, but he did, and I really liked the self-confidence it showed.

I offered to make dinner for him and his wife using the fish we caught, and so we did. For the first time since I had moved down here, I found real friends.

Kevin's wife, Alex, has what we consider an important job, but you'd never know it. She doesn't really talk about her work much, and their house is pretty much the same size as the other houses around them. They do have more of a yard, though, since they live in a duplex and the other side is her office. Many families choose duplexes; they aren't uncommon.

Alex practices wicca, and we've had some interesting conversations over the years, exploring areas where pagan and Ojibwean values connect. I've learned Wicca is orthopraxic, not orthodoxic. Common practice, not common thought. They also work with the four directions, and they, too, send sweet smoke into the air. Their celebrations follow the seasons, marked by drumming, dancing, and chanting. It's not my spirituality, and neither has it been Kevin's, but as Alex has worked to form a group to satisfy her needs, Kevin and I are always invited to attend her public celebrations. I must admit they fill a need I didn't know I had.

Life in our habitat began to change a few months after I met Kevin and Alex. First, the Foundation Board announced an increase in recruitment and the implementation of a pandemic plan to ensure continued safe recruitment. These changes had massive support, as the reason was evident to all of us: the situation on the surface was unstable and growing more so. Mass shootings were happening almost daily, terrorist and ransomware attacks, corrupt leaders were refusing to cede power when elections didn't go their way, and so much more. It seems like every year is worse than the one preceding it. ₍₃₎

Since I moved here, communication between habitats has been mostly limited to the members of the Foundation Board, since each one lives in a different underground city. Most of us had never had any contact with the other habitats, and so our focus was inward, toward our own tribe, as it were. And then, one day, we were able to reach across habitats all around the world and connect with each other through our shared interests. Social media groups spanning all of the habitats emerged, and we began communicating and working together in a way never seen before. And it was all thanks to the Liaisons.

The Liaisons are an official organization with departments in every habitat. They were created to help residents navigate the bureaucracy found in any city administration. A few months after I met Kevin and Alex, the Liaisons underwent a reorganization. All of the original services were integrated into LCS (Liaison Community Services), and a new arm was created.

LCO, Liaison Community Outreach, was dedicated to helping residents connect across habitats, but they did so much more. In some ways, they enacted a bloodless coup, not by replacing the current way of running the habitats, but by allowing us ordinary people to have a genuine say in how our lives and the lives of our descendants are determined.

They achieved this in part by announcing the LCO Initiatives, a series of committees staffed by individuals with the necessary knowledge, as well as those interested in the committee's subject from every habitat. A Liaison managed each committee and subcommittee, but the work was up to those who chose to be involved. Committees were formed to ensure the Charter was understood in the same way by everyone. Laws were discussed, and the basis for a government and elections was established through the collaboration of experts and interested individuals who wanted their voice heard during the process. Committees were assembled to create programs to integrate newer residents and to determine how our children were educated.

The process was imperfect. When we learned we could have a say in how we lived, the outpouring of commentary was overwhelming, even messy. Time zones have always been one of the biggest roadblocks to unifying the habitats. It's always night somewhere, so discussions took place incrementally, either through specially set-up discussion boards or videos. But even with the challenges, we've managed to cobble together a way of living down here that requires and fosters an engaged citizenry.

I don't think I ever voted when I was on the surface. I couldn't see how a vote every two or four years made much of a difference. Down here, besides voting in elections for various councils, I can join a Special Interest Group, which we usually abbreviate to SIG, and have a true say in what matters to me.

The best way to explain a SIG is to imagine what might be conceived if the United States Congress and activist groups had a baby.

Almost anyone can join a SIG, which is run by a council with representatives from every group under the SIG umbrella. These groups aren't focused on power or money; each one is formed by those with similar issues and common interests who band together to ensure their rights and needs are protected. It's a requirement for proposed solutions to be presented when an issue is brought up. We have special interest groups devoted to children, those with food issues, disabilities, and so much more.

With a few exceptions, mainly those related to forbidding the forming of SIGs relating to religious or spiritual organizations, any type of interest group can form a SIG provided it meets the membership requirements. Members of the Foundation Board, elected officials, and upper management personnel of Habitat Administration are restricted from joining any SIG.

Over the next few years, we all settled into our routines. We welcomed our new neighbors, found the families of our hearts and continue to enjoy the benefits and responsibilities that come with living here.

Moving around is easy. We can take lifts between our sections if needed, but most of us live and work in the same section. We have plenty of elevators, both in the middle and along the outer wall, to facilitate moving to any floor we need to. We walk almost everywhere, most of what we call the living floors, which mimic being outside on the surface, have moving walkways.

Our weather on the living floors remains consistent, with a comfortable temperature. Of course, it never rains, and all our irrigation is done through drip channels. Living in a confined space requires us to recycle everything, from water and organic waste to melting down and reusing metal and plastics. We don't use any chemical dyes down here; instead, our fibers are embedded with teeny tiny micro LEDs. I can't see them, I can't feel them, but we can send instructions to have them light up in any color or shading to create patterns, designs and even images. It's the same way with our buildings. We don't have windows, but we have cameras on the outside of the house. We can trigger a screen on the wall using those same micro LEDs to show us the view of our front yard or watch a movie.

From the time I moved here until I met Kevin, NAHE's entire population had grown by more than thirty thousand. We weren't crowded, and really, all the extra people coming down have brought new vitality, bringing their skills, knowledge, and creativity with them.

My habitat, NAHE, holds people from diverse cultures all over the world. There's a lot to do in our section, certainly more than when I first arrived. Creativity and skills are encouraged, so we have artistic and physical crafts to share, along with stories and music contributed by those with a creative bent. Groups have formed co-ops to open facilities like gyms and rooms for playing board games with others, as well as a whole lot of other activities. Initially, we all ate together in the common dining areas, which we call the Eatery, and it expanded as our section population grew. Those from common cultures opened cooperative restaurants featuring their home cuisines.

Eventually, Kevin and I realized that many of the assumptions we grew up with, the lessons we learned, and the expectations of those around us during our upbringing were now hurting those we loved, especially the children. Now, neither of us was as bad as the Inadaptas, but both of us had expectations of how others should behave based on gender and other unconscious assumptions, which just aren't reasonable down here. The more we acted mindlessly based on those assumptions, we realized, the more our actions would influence the children around us.

The children in our heart family form one of the two centers around which our family revolves. None of them has much, if any, remembrance or experience of life anywhere but in the habit.

The oldest of the children, Rhon, is the youngest of Thaoi and Suong Nguyen. They were born in the habitats, and I can see the pain they endure every time Suong refers to them as their daughter and calls them Rhonda.

Eileen comes next age-wise. When she was less than a year old, she lost her mother to a drug overdose. This happened just a few months before they were supposed to move down with her grandmother. Kevin and Alex have become an important part of her everyday life.

Ruby is the granddaughter of my partner, Tessa, and, along with her parents, Kaja and Jerry, moved to our place when she was three years old.

Gerard is the youngest, the child of Clarissa and Marcel, who met here. Alex and Clarissa have a close relationship, and Gerard adores Kevin. Gerard exhibits a lot of the signs of autism, difficulties with sensory overload, particularly sounds and some foods. Clarissa does her best to protect him, especially from Gerold Philby, who regards Marcel as a foster son and has been known to forcefully admonish Gerard for what he considers inappropriate behavior.

Neither of us wants to inflict pain or conflicting messages on any of these children. We want them to grow up secure in themselves and their families, knowing just how much they are loved. So Kevin and I persuaded Gerold to join us and found a therapist to begin a therapy known as ACT, which stands for Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. It aims to reduce the influence specific thoughts have on us and to accept what is present, and to act in accordance with our values. ₍₄₎

This, of course, meant Kevin and I had to identify our core values and ensure we acted in accordance with them, rather than letting our inherent biases guide us unknowingly. Alex and Tessa helped us a lot in this. Apparently, Wicca, at least the version Alex teaches, places a core emphasis on determining one's ethics and morality and living one's life accordingly.

We also do a lot of shadow work, which forces you to look inside yourself as a whole person, the parts we like, the parts society likes, and the parts of us we stuff into the shadows out of loathing, whether society's or our own. It's hard work to confront all those parts of myself I've hidden away; it's even harder to examine them, find the motivations for why those aspects were hidden in the first place, and to accept they are a part of me. ₍₅₎

Gerold eventually stopped coming, and I've wanted to quit a few times, especially when I watched a staged reenactment of our last fight and actually saw the damage I inflicted upon you as it happened. The shame of what I did was almost too much to bear. But I dug deep, and I learned that while my motivations of protecting you were at the heart, my way of going about it dug too deeply into the patriarchal notion of my right to order your life, since your life came from me. It's also obvious I wasn't a deep thinker in those days, since I never once considered how sexual attraction was integral in each of us, simply accepting society's viewpoint, which decided your sexual attraction was unnatural.

My understanding of the ways I've harmed you does not in any way require you to feel any way towards me. I offer this to you only to demonstrate my unstinting acknowledgement of the harm I caused you, and I'm working hard to avoid imposing my biases on anyone else. I'm still flawed, and I know it. I'm grateful for the love and acceptance of those around me as Kevin and I continue to work on ourselves.

While I love living here, I think of you always. I imagine being able to show you our city. To take you to a running track, like we did when you were young, and see how far we would get, or to take you on the lake at sunrise, so I could tell you the story of how Wenebujo invented fishing. I think of you when I share pierogis or eat a bowl of chicken soup. I think of you when the family of my heart gathers, wishing you were here to be a part of it. I continually wish you could be a part of the happiness of my present, and I could be a part of yours. ₍₆₎

As I'm sure you have realized, this letter has been written and updated in spurts over a series of years. I'm able to send it now because the Foundation, through my friend Alex — whose full name is Alexandra Hanlon — has finally revealed our existence to the world. In doing so, those of us living in the habitats have been released from the requirement to keep silent about our lives and location to anyone on the surface. And so I can finally send this letter I started four years ago.

Those of us living underground have watched the situation developing on the surface with horror; existing in a surreal between. Our lives here in the habitat are calm, peaceful, and happy, thanks to a social contract I could never have imagined possible when I lived on the surface. It presents a sharp contrast with the surface antics, of which we are well informed: the "othering" of fellow human beings and the hatred spewed at those who don't follow an authoritarian path.

I hate how the past actions of humankind have shaped the present. I wonder what might have been done differently throughout our species' history to alter our course so that the idiocy we see everywhere could not happen again.

I wish with all my heart there is a way forward in our future to share the society we experience in the habitats with everyone on the surface. Surely we can use the examples we see daily of just how bad things have gotten to sway humanity towards equal worth, value, and equitable treatment? Towards love?

I don't know what the future holds, either tonight, tomorrow, next week or next year. I only know this: no matter what action you choose after reading this, I will continue to hold you close in my heart.

I don't know when you will read this, or if you ever will. Until I draw my last breath, just know that whenever you should read this, I'll be thinking of you.

Noodin.

[Attachment Ends]