The double-decker Tobin Bridge—the largest in New England—looms overhead as I bob on the waves of the Mystic River in my 10-foot Tucktec folding kayak. I am paddling the length of one of the most industrialized rivers in America, if not the world, as it flows from the suburban beaches of Medford to the smokestacks and shipping platforms at the mouth o

“What about politics?” he asked. “Do you lean left or right?” “Left.” K held up his forearms like goal posts, in case he wasn’t being clear. “Hillary or Trump?” I looked him dead between the goalposts and laughed. “Bernie!” K lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “You don’t know about the socialist plans he has for our country?” “Socialist plans?” I repeated loudly. “You mean like equal access to healthcare and education? Hell yeah!” K had no comeback. He must have though the s-bomb would resolve the conflict swiftly and decisively in his favor, and now he was stuck without exit strategy.

I saw Fidel everywhere when I studied in Havana in 2004. Not the man himself, but his image, broad-shouldered, bushy-bearded, on postcards and billboards, grinning slyly through rings of smoke or gazing ferociously over the horizon, finger pointed at an unseen oppressor. His words were immortalized in black and red spray paint on the ruins of art-deco high rises, baroque cathedrals, and Moorish mansions: Revolution is Unity, Revolution is Independence, Revolution is a Force More Powerful than Na

Marginalized communities have long survived by sharing skills, resources and creativity, but many of us are only now waking up to our collective responsibility. Those of us who identify as white, straight and/or cisgender have mostly enjoyed the illusion that the dominant systems will take care of us. And to a certain extent they have — at the cost of Black and Brown lives, labor and opportunity. So what do we do? Sign another petition? Call our congressperson? Blackout our Facebook profile picture? Mutual aid projects give us a way to help right now, while laying the foundation for a more just future.

The first time I celebrated May Day was in 2004. I was 23, drunk on experience and a few mojitos too many. I marched shoulder to shoulder with fellow international students from the University of Havana. We took turns holding a banner that said, in Spanish, “Yankee imperialism, until when?” — an extra surreal experience for those of us from the US. There were about fifty of us, most from the Butler University Institute for Study Abroad. “¡Abajo Bush!” we shouted in unison “¡Viva Cuba! ¡Viva la

When the English immigrants known as the Pilgrims arrived in North America in 1620, the local Wampanoag people, whose name translates as “People of the First Light,” treated them with dignity and respect. Without the Wampanoag’s help, the Pilgrims may not have survived that first winter. The following year, after the English brought in their harvest, the Wampanoag participated in the celebratory feast later mythologized

After I graduated from college in 2004, I spent three years working as an English teacher in Oaxaca, Mexico. At the time, Oaxaca seemed like the ideal escape from the fear and uncertainty of the post-9-11 US. Three hundred miles southeast of Mexico City, Oaxaca has been cultural hub since around 1200 BC. Its people, the majority of whom identify with one or more indigenous group, have survived conquest, dictatorship, and natural disaster. I never imagined that Oaxaca would turn out to be a trai