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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 BACK
On 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 KNOWLEDGE
The 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 TERMS
What 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. Embodied intelligence — 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.
References
Birchall, 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.


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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 CONCEALS
Raise 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 POSSESSION
The 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 BELONG
On 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.
References
Du, 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.


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Hello Interactors,
We like to think we choose our own paths, but our cities have already decided for us. New York and Los Angeles function as the extended phenotype of our species — a living circulatory system that subtly channels our collective behavior. This week, we explore the multi-generational biology of transit to see how modern infrastructure effectively dissolves what we perceive as individual autonomy.
MANHATTAN MOBILITY AND THE MASSED MILIEU
I recently flew from New York visiting my daughter, where large vessels moved massive numbers of people around, to Los Angeles visiting my son, where small vessels moved small numbers of people around. The transition was jarring. I went from being physically enmeshed in a dense social milieu to being systematically protected from it — from walking over 10,000 steps a day to barely 1,000. My daily cadence shifted from bobbing and weaving around persons I could see, hear, and smell, to maneuvering around what sociologist Mike Michael termed ‘carsons’ — persons fused with a car.
This deep-seated desire for individual control over our own mobility is not unique to the modern driver. The instinct to leverage an external entity to conquer long distances is as old as the domestication of the horse in the third millennium BCE. Every stage of human life presents a shifting horizon of mobile autonomy: from crawling to walking, to the childhood triumph of mastering a bicycle or a local bus network, to the initial rush of freedom that comes with a first car. All before the natural declines of aging ultimately diminish our autonomy once more.
Yet, suggesting mass transit to many Americans accustomed to the perceived agency of the car feels like a threat to their very freedom. Because transit routes are fixed and schedules are unyielding, collective travel is often mischaracterized as an artificial restriction on liberty. History shows that long before the locomotive, scheduled, multi-passenger transit enabled human freedom and societal cohesion where individual movement was risky or impossible. Across Eastern Polynesia, the Caribbean, and northern Eurasia, multi-passenger canoes were the lifeblood of trade and travel. In southern California, the Chumash and Tongva communities developed advanced sewn-plank canoes called tomols and ti’ats, which facilitated complex political economies between the Channel Islands and the mainland. This reliance on collective vehicles extended beyond coastal waterways. Human networks also depended on highly organized, shared transport to conquer distance across vast terrestrial and inland landscapes.
Centuries before Western cities built public transit, imperial China constructed the Grand Canal, a two-thousand-kilometer artificial waterway that operated as a continental transit artery during the Sui Dynasty. This facilitated the regular movement of millions of passengers and state resources between agricultural basins and northern metropolises. On land, Tokugawa-era Japan structured its empire around the Tōkaidō, a highly regulated highway system where travelers moved rhythmically between post stations using a coordinated network of horse relays and official permits.
Eastern aquatic and terrestrial networks achieved continental scale, replicated on Europe’s rugged overland trails. Public multi-passenger carriage service began in Paris in 1662 with the world's first urban transit system. In colonial America, occasional stagecoaches linked Boston and New York starting around 1735, with regular schedules emerging in the 1740s. By the late 1820s, fixed-route horse-buses (omnibuses) appeared in Paris (1828) and New York City (1827).
When urban populations exploded in mid 1800s, these street-level collective networks buckled under their own weight. It triggered unprecedented structural crises. By the late 19th century, New York City was drowning in a public health emergency born of its own transit power. Imagine over 150,000 working horses blanketing the streets. Now imagine thousands of tons of manure and urine daily. When a horse influenza epidemic paralyzed the city overnight in 1872, New Yorkers realized they could no longer rely on street-level animal power. The city initially looked upward and built coal-fired elevated railroads — the “Els” — on massive iron trestles. While these steam engines bypassed street traffic and allowed Manhattan to expand northward, they rained hot ash onto pedestrians, blocked natural light, and shattered the urban peace with deafening noise.
True structural relief required going underground. Early pneumatic experiments, like Alfred Ely Beach's secret, air-driven tunnel in 1870, remained short-lived novelties due to political opposition and mechanical limitations (only 300 feet long, single-car shuttle). The project closed in 1873. The breakthrough for electric rail came in 1890 with the City & South London Railway in London, the first railway to use third rail electrification. The third rail — an additional, continuous steel rail running alongside the tracks that carries electricity to train cars — became the standard for underground and metro systems from around 1900.
October 27, 1904, the Interborough Rapid Transit Company opened its first official subway line from City Hall to Harlem. This permanently compressed densely housed humanity into a swift, subterranean network, channeling the city’s chaos beneath the cobblestones.
COASTAL CARRIAGES AND THE CYCLEWAY
While New York dug into the earth to consolidate its density, a parallel but radically different evolution was unfolding across the wide horizon of the Los Angeles basin. Between the 1820s and 1904, Los Angeles transformed from an isolated Mexican pueblo (population ~650) into a sprawling metropolis (population 100,000+). Here surface transit was not just responding to growth, but was actively engineering it. After bridging the distance to its seaport via the San Pedro Railroad in 1869 and connecting to the transcontinental rail network via Southern Pacific in 1876, the city experienced the Southern California real estate boom of the 1880s (1884-1887), which required vast spatial integration. The 1885 completion of the Santa Fe Railroad's direct line to Chicago triggered a development boom that dwarfed the earlier one, transforming the region.
Rather than stacking millions of people into a vertical core, transit magnates like Moses Sherman and Henry Huntington realized that electric surface rail could be weaponized as a tool for land speculation. They built lines out into empty fields, bought up the surrounding acreage, and subdivided it into suburban tracts for commuting workers. A similar strategy played out in Chicago. Founded in 1901, Huntington's Pacific Electric 'Red Cars' rapidly expanded, opening its first interurban line to Long Beach on July 4, 1902.
At its peak in the 1920s, the Pacific Electric system became the largest electric railway system in the world, with over 1,000 miles of track connecting dozens of isolated towns across Los Angeles, Orange, Riverside, and San Bernardino Counties, stitching together hundreds of square miles. By scattering its population across a massive geographic basin, this surface network wrote the genetic code for LA’s modern identity. This decentralized layout was perfectly primed to swap the shared space of the streetcar for the individualized isolation of the highway just a generation later.
Yet, beneath both the subway tunnels of Manhattan and the streetcar tracks of Los Angeles lies a forgotten foundation engineered by an entirely different mode of transit. As Carlton Reid uncovers in Roads Were Not Built for Cars, our modern road networks were not designed for the automobile but were hard-won by late-nineteenth-century cyclists. For the moneyed elite who could afford the “safety bicycle” — the high-tech, liberating consumer gadget of the 1880s and 1890s — the machine offered an unprecedented leap in individual autonomy. Disgusted by muddy, horse-fouled, and rutted roads, these cyclists organized under the League of American Wheelmen, launching a powerful “Good Roads” movement that pioneered the smooth, paved macadam surfaces that motorists would later inherit and monopolize.
While New York carved out its first dedicated bike path in 1894, when civic pressure led to the opening of the nation's first separated bike path along Brooklyn's Ocean Parkway, wealthy urbanites could now cycle down to Coney Island detached from chaotic street traffic. The parkway became NYC's first dedicated bicycle path and the first in the United States, described as the oldest bike path in the world by Guinness World Records.
Simultaneously, the early elite of Pasadena and LA used the bicycle to weave together their sprawling territory. This culminated in 1900 with the opening of the California Cycleway — a spectacular, approximately 1.3-mile elevated timber bicycle toll-way running through the Arroyo Seco. Lit by incandescent bulbs and built from over 1.25 million board feet of pine, this highway offered a vision of uninterrupted, rapid commuter flow through open terrain. Though the full nine-mile route was never completed by the rapid rise of electric streetcars, its right-of-way established a profound precedent. Decades later, that exact path found a permanent place as the Arroyo Seco Parkway, LA’s first freeway, formally opening on December 30, 1940.
SUBTERRANEAN SABOTAGE AND THE SOCIALIZATION SYSTEM
The triumph of the automobile in Los Angeles was not an inevitability, nor was the city entirely devoid of subterranean ambition. In December 1925, Pacific Electric opened the Hollywood Subway. Boring a mile-long concrete tunnel beneath the Victorian mansions of Bunker Hill, they were able to bypass downtown LA’s already paralyzing surface congestion. Emerging from the Beaux-Arts style Subway Terminal Building on Hill Street, this route allowed Red Cars to escape street traffic entirely, cutting fifteen minutes off the commute to Hollywood and Glendale. This subway featured 800 cars and carried over 20 million passengers annually during World War II.
Grander visions for an expansive, multi-line underground network were ultimately thwarted by the financial instability inherent in private streetcar systems. There land speculating owners treated the tracks as loss leaders for real estate rather than long-term transportation infrastructure. When cars continued to flood the streets and choked the shared surface rights-of-way, the streetcars became agonizingly slow. Seduced by the promise of vehicular autonomy, voters repeatedly rejected ballot measures to publicly rescue the now dilapidated rail networks. By 1955, the Hollywood Subway was permanently shuttered, its tracks torn up, and the era of the freeway commenced.
Yet, the ghost of this old network continues to dictate the spatial reality of Southern California. When LA began aggressively rebuilding its rail transit system in the 1990s, planners did not draw a new map from scratch. They followed the exact blueprint laid down by their turn-of-the-century predecessors. Today’s Metro light rail lines heavily reuse those original, preserved rights-of-way. The Metro A Line runs directly along the old Red Car route to Long Beach, while the E Line utilizes an 1875 steam rail corridor to connect downtown to Santa Monica. Because LA’s original commercial districts sprouted around these historic streetcar nodes, the region’s current high-density transit-oriented developments naturally cluster along these legacy paths. LA is resurrecting a collective socio-technical network within the very corridors carved out a century ago.
This haunting of contemporary geography by obsolete infrastructure is not unique to the West Coast. Manhattan mirrors this architectural resurrection in the form of the High Line, where a decades-abandoned elevated freight rail line was dramatically salvaged and transformed into a lush, floating pedestrian thoroughfare. Much like the ghost corridors of LA, this steel-and-concrete relic from a bygone industrial era was not demolished, but re-engineered to dictate a new rhythm of urban mobility. This shows that even when the original motors fall silent, the skeletal memory of our transit history retains the power to reshape how we move, meet, and experience the city.
SOMATIC SWARMS AND THE SPATIAL SCALE
To understand the jarring shift between the enmeshed collective of New York and the isolated individual of LA, we must look beyond human culture and into the very architecture of living systems. We are accustomed to thinking of ourselves as singular, autonomous decision-makers possessing a unified will. In reality, a human being is a cooperative collective — a high-level agency born out of the coordinated actions of trillions of individual cells, each working together without a central dictator to maintain a shared physiological boundary. When we move through a city, this nested intelligence does not end at our skin. The cities themselves are higher-order organisms. Their grid lines, subway tunnels, and freeway arterials function as an emergent collective anatomy engineered by the uncoordinated actions of millions of individuals over centuries.
Just as a developing embryo relies on a distributed intelligence among cells to build and repair a complex body without a master architect, a city shapes its layout through emergent collective agency. No single planner willed the current configuration of New York or Los Angeles. Instead, these vast geographies are the bi-product of millions of cellularly nested actors. They coordinated as if through a process biologists call stigmergy — where actions leave physical traces in the environment that automatically stimulate and guide the next action.
These externalized anatomy deposits act like large-scale forces that encourage individual parts to develop specific habits that guide our daily lives. It’s like space holds a memory that tells us how to behave. And if you think you’re being entirely rational in determining the most efficient path across that distance, human mobility science proves otherwise. Recent empirical findings demonstrate that pedestrians and vehicle drivers consistently fail to follow mathematically optimal routes.
Instead of calculating the shortest distance, our choices are heavily distorted by the subjective features of our surroundings. We are unconsciously biased by prominent landmarks, influenced by how regions are hierarchically organized in our minds, as we’re pulled toward our goal. Our cognitive routing is actively hijacked and reshaped by the physical structure of the street network itself, alongside environmental variables like the presence of greenery, traffic volume, and noise.
It seems we don’t possess the total, isolated agency we imagine. When we step onto a street, into a subway car, or into a vehicle, we enter spaces where private autonomy and collective systems intricately intertwine. The freedom we feel when moving is a distributed property, bound up in whether our individual cellular collectives can harmoniously interface with the larger socio-technical system of the city. Road networks may promise ultimate individual autonomy, yet their uncoordinated use inevitably collapses into the shared immobility of gridlock — a collective consequence born of uncoordinated individual choices.
The “carsons” of Los Angeles, encased in their hermetically sealed exoskeletons, represent a shift in the morphology of higher-order urban organism. Drivers choose to wall themselves off in private vehicles…or vacuoles — tiny fluid-filled compartments inside a cell. “Carsons” glide along asphalt pathways originally demanded and paved by nineteenth-century wheelmen whose bi-cycles gave way to quad-cycles from which automobiles emerged. Whether drifting through the subterranean capillaries of the Interborough Rapid Transit or the resurrected neural pathways of the Pacific Electric, we are constantly transitioning across nested scales of kind of collective intelligence.
Across generations, our preferences are encoded early by our environments, yet human practice remains remarkably adaptable. We are all capable of shifting habits when embedded in new spatial layouts. Ultimately, we are not isolated travelers making independent choices in a static world. We are interlocking parts of a grand, multi-generational biology. The vast superstructures we craft — from the subterranean capillaries of the subway to the asphalt arteries of the freeway — are not separate from nature, but act as an extended phenotype of our species. Over generations, in New York and LA, a co-engineered metabolic network surrounds us and shapes us. We are biological superstructures within living human-made superstructures generated through encoded scripts.
Divided by a vast continent and a century of divergent design, New York and Los Angeles appear to share almost nothing in common — one a dense, vertical labyrinth of concrete and shadow, the other a sun-bleached, horizontal expanse of asphalt and sky. Yet, look past the geometry of the infrastructure, and the human ecology within them is identical. One day I was navigating the deep subterranean shafts of Manhattan the next I was tracking the sweeping curves of a California freeway.
In both cases I was embedded inside different machinery but driven by the exact same instincts and societal pulses that drive urban mobility. Across differing geographies and distant time zones, the human element remains constant. Together we, and our cities, evolve to sustain and channel the collective currents of humanity crossing space and time, like individual cells using subtle electrical signals to coordinate movements that ultimately flow together into complex, living shapes we call humans.


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Hello Interactors,
Neuroscience research on narrative shows that stories sharpen attention, improve recall, and recruit shared brain networks that help us organize events into a coherent arc. The trouble, for anyone who works with spatial data, is that the reality on the ground refuses to cooperate with clean narratives despite this inherent bias. Today I look at how the popular telling of how Homo sapiens came to contemplate such things — to become ‘modern’ — is not the story the evidence keeps telling.
THE LURE OF THE LEAP
We like our origin stories well defined. The popular telling — the Israeli historian Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens is the bestselling version — locates a moment when archaic humans crossed a threshold and became modern, transformed by some neurological windfall in Africa. But a recent paper by anthropologist Huw Groucutt on Homo sapiens dispersal argues this says more about Homo sapiens’ neurological bias toward clean narratives than about the evidence we have.
This ‘revolution into modern’ frame has traceable historical roots. In the 1960s and 70s, the only deeply excavated record was in a western sliver of the Eurasian landmass called Europe. There, the transition from Neanderthal to Homo sapiens congregations did look abrupt. It was reasonable, given what was known at the time, to read this regional shift as a species-wide threshold — a sudden flowering of cognition and culture. But that reading was a misinterpretation. What Europe records is not a transformation but a replacement where one population arrived as another receded. The arc of change was migration, not metamorphosis.
That correction took hold, but the ‘revolution’ story, like the species, simply relocated. There would be a coastal revolution in southern Africa, a cognitive revolution in the Rift Valley, a technological revolution in the Levant. The plot survived even as the setting changed.
The deeper trouble lies with the word “modern” itself. It is a relic of mid-twentieth-century thinking that anchors humanity to an imagined ethnographic checklist: symbolic art, refined toolkits, complex burials, linguistic competence. These traits are taken to constitute a package, and the package is taken to arrive together. But the evidence keeps refusing this neatness. The traits show up in pulses across regions and disappear again. They appear in populations we have been trained to call “archaic.” They fail to coordinate the way the model demands, and as Groucutt says, provide just
“another way of separating ‘us’ and ‘them’.”
For example at Panga ya Saidi in coastal Kenya, excavators recovered the burial of a child known as Mtoto dated to around 78,000 years ago. It is among the oldest deliberate burials known from Africa, and the kind of behavior usually slotted under “modernity.” Yet there is no continent-wide adoption of similar mortuary practice that follows from it. Burial complexity at Panga ya Saidi appears, then thins, then reappears elsewhere on different terms. It looks less like the leading edge of a wave and more like a local response to local conditions.
A second example pulls in the opposite direction. The Iho Eleru skull, recovered in 1965 from a rock shelter in Nigeria, is roughly 13,000 years old — geologically yesterday — yet preserves features that morphologists have long called “archaic.” It refuses to sit in the bin its date implies. The bone is doing something the category cannot absorb.
The cost of the revolution model, then, is not that it tells a tidy story. It is that the tidiness encourages researchers to treat their categories as facts of nature rather than instruments of description. Evidence that does not fit the frame gets explained away or quietly set aside. When you stop asking when our ancestors became human and start asking how, across thousands of generations and a shifting climate, particular behaviors were assembled and reassembled in particular places, the data reads very differently.
This point is not new. In 2000, Sally McBrearty and Alison Brooks published a paper titled “The revolution that wasn’t,” arguing that the complex behaviors taken to define modernity in Europe had appeared in Africa tens of thousands of years earlier, and gradually rather than in a single burst. That correction is over twenty-five years old. The fact that revolution thinking has persisted despite it — and persisted most loudly in popular accounts that sell in the tens of millions — is itself worth taking seriously. Models, like fossils, accumulate where the conditions are right for preservation.
The trait-list at the heart of “modernity” is a fragile instrument in its own right. Many of the behaviors taken to mark our species are anchored to ethnographic data on recent hunter-gatherer societies, assumed to provide a baseline for what fully human cultural life looks like. Those datasets have well-known problems; when the archaeologist Robert Kelly examined a portion of Lewis Binford’s widely used hunter-gatherer compilation in 2021, he was able to confirm the accuracy of only one percent of the entries. The benchmark we have been measuring the deep past against is, in places, made of sand.
PATHS, NOT PIVOTS
For anyone who works with spatial data, the revolution model has a second problem. It ignores the terrain. A revolution, mapped, would look like an expanding circle radiating from a source — like a wildfire expanding from a single ignition point. Human dispersal looks nothing like that. It moves along corridors, hesitates at barriers, doubles back, fragments around resources. It is shaped by climate cycles that open and close routes on millennial timescales. The footprint is irregular because the ground is irregular.
Groucutt’s argument benefits from a concept that geographers and geomorphologists know well: equifinality. The same observed outcome can result from different processes. A bowl-shaped depression on a hillside can be carved by a glacier, scooped by a landslide, or eroded by a spring undercutting from below. The shape alone does not tell you which. Read the depression as a single signature of a single cause, and you will misjudge its history.
The same caution applies to the deep human past. A scatter of similar tool types across regions does not necessarily document a single dispersing population with a shared cognitive package. It may document several populations independently arriving at similar solutions to similar pressures. A flicker of symbolic behavior in two distant places does not imply continuous transmission between them. The archaeological record is dense with cases where the simplest explanation — one cause, one origin — turns out to be the wrong one.
A telling example of how revolution thinking distorts spatial evidence comes from a long-running argument about the Levantine sites occupied by Homo sapiens between roughly 130,000 and 75,000 years ago — Skhul, Qafzeh, and others. Did these represent a genuine out-of-Africa dispersal, or were they merely an extension of African ecology into Southwest Asia? In the latter view, our species was so tightly coupled to its native biome that early presence beyond Africa was a kind of optical illusion. One prominent researcher has argued that Israel is outside Africa “only by modern political convention.”
But the Levantine mammal fauna of this period is dominated by Palearctic species — deer, gazelle, boar — and has been since at least the Middle Pleistocene. The supposed African flourish at Qafzeh shrinks under examination to a few rare elements, some of them present in the region long before Homo sapiens arrived. “Africa grew” is what the revolution model looks like when biogeography becomes inconvenient. Rather than accept that early Homo sapiens dispersed beyond the continent before achieving full “modernity,” the frame extends the boundary of “Africa” to wherever the species happens to be. The terrain bends to match the model.
This is where genomic evidence becomes interesting and dangerous in roughly equal measure. Ancient DNA has transformed what can be reconstructed about population structure, and the resolution is genuinely impressive. But the analytic culture around that data has often defaulted to event-style narratives: a bottleneck here, a split there, a discrete mixture of pulses at a specific date. These tidy events, plotted on a tree, recover the satisfactions of the revolution at a different scale. They imply that the past has crisp joints, making
“claims for events which never actually occurred.”
The caution Groucutt raises is that population structure across the deep African past was probably continuous, regionally varied, and persistently interconnected — closer to a braided river than a branching tree. Apparent “events” in the genetic record may be artifacts of how the analysis is framed rather than discrete moments in time. Treating them as facts encourages claims of historical specificity the underlying signal cannot bear. Equifinality applies to genomes too. Different histories of structure and gene flow can produce overlapping statistical signatures.
What follows, methodologically, is a shift in what models are expected to do. Instead of identifying the moment, the route, or the founding population, the task becomes mapping a field of overlapping processes whose visibility varies by region, by preservation, and by the history of where archaeologists have chosen to dig. That is a less satisfying answer than a date and a place, but it’s closer to what the evidence supports.
MANY CLOCKS, MANY PASTS, MANY THREADS
The physicist Carlo Rovelli, in The Order of Time, makes an observation that time is not a universal river running at one rate everywhere. It is local and relational. This is not intuitive but matches reality. Atomic clocks at different elevations tick at measurably different rates because gravity dilates time. There is no master clock against which “now” is defined for the whole universe.
The revolution model assumes the opposite. It imagines a master clock striking modernity for the species at a particular moment — perhaps in East Africa, perhaps a hundred thousand years ago, perhaps fifty — after which a transformed humanity disperses outward. The image is compelling because it is simple. It is also, as a model of history, incongruent with reality. The record Groucutt reviews shows differently timed histories running in parallel across Africa, Arabia, Eurasia, and Sahul, with regional sequences that do not synchronize. There is no single instant at which the species, taken as a whole, became what it now is. There are only many local trajectories that we have, in retrospect, gathered under one name.
One sign that the revolution frame is still doing harm is that the three main streams of evidence — fossil morphology, archaeology, and ancient DNA — currently tell stories that do not align. The dispersal chronology reconstructed from genetic data alone is not the dispersal chronology of the lithic archaeology of northern Eurasia, and neither matches the fossil record of Asia and Sahul. These are not minor discrepancies at the margins. They are different shapes of history. The temptation, encountering this, is to declare one stream definitive and explain the others away. The harder course is to take the disagreement as evidence. What it is telling us is that the histories these methods recover are partial, regionally weighted, and pitched at different temporal resolutions. There is no master clock available to bring them into sync because there was never a master event for them to be synchronized to.
This is closer to what might be called emplacement than to revolution. Homo sapiens did not arrive in time as a finished product and then unfold into space. The species emerged through space — through specific landscapes, specific corridors, specific neighbors — and continued to be shaped by them long after any putative threshold. Cognition, technology, and social practice were not delivered together and then carried outward. They were assembled, lost, and reassembled in different combinations under different pressures. Whatever it is that we now point to as the human condition is the cumulative residue of that long, polycentric making. In Groucutt’s terms, they are
“polycentric and mosaic.”
Letting go of the revolution story is uncomfortable because it removes the heroic frame that has organized so much storytelling about ourselves. There is no founding spark, no anointed lineage, no first true human. What remains is harder to compress into a sentence. It is also more honest, and more interesting. The work ahead — for archaeologists, geneticists, geographers, and anyone who builds models of the deep past — is to map the complexity of the terrain rather than identify a single point. To trace the connections that hold the picture together rather than the moment at which the picture was supposedly painted.
The mosaic is no runner-up to the revolution. It is the record itself — rough, regional, and real. We need only learn to read it.
References:
Groucutt, H. S. (2026). Revolution, modernity, and the dispersal of Homo sapiens beyond Africa. Quaternary Science Reviews.


This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit interplace.io

Hello Interactors,
It’s been a while. Traveling for family, and a bit flooded by the relentless sneaker waves of unsavory world events — the kind that usually inspire me to write but lately threaten to pull me under.
Spring in the northern hemisphere means Interplace turns to geographic information science and spatial analysis. How might we look at the complex unfolding of world events through this lens — and what happens when we push it further than emergence alone can carry it? That’s what I attempt to explore here.
PATTERNS PRECEDING PHYSICAL PLACES
Geographic information science is a relatively recent field. It emerged from mid-20th-century cartography and land-use planning. Computer cartography and quantitative geography of the 1960s is often considered the first true digital Geographic Information Systems (GIS). It became a science (GIScience or GISc) in the late 1980s and early 1990s when Michael Goodchild questioned if there was a genuine scientific discipline lurking within the software.
His answer was yes. He built an institutional home for that argument at the National Center for Geographic Information and Analysis at the University of California, Santa Barbara, my alma mater. Goodchild was my senior advisor in 1989 as UCSB was becoming a generative intellectual hub in the field. UCSB’s geography department continues to push the question of what space means analytically, not just how to map it. I’m personally invested in better understanding how GISc may be a natural partner for complexity science, a field I’ve been attracted to since I started researching and writing.
This partnership isn’t new. GISc provides a powerful framework for dissecting the spatial dimensions of complexity, where systems defy reductionist analysis and emerge through nonlinear interactions. In the early 2000s, geographer David O’Sullivan, and others, articulated this as the study of
“the behaviour of macroscopic collections of many basic but interacting units endowed with the potential to evolve in time”
emphasizing these characteristic elements of complexity science: self-organization, path dependence, and the irreducibility of wholes to their parts. Around the same time, sociologist John Urry (and others) extended this to global scales, portraying globalization as co-evolving systems marked by unpredictability, irreversibility, and positive feedback loops that amplify disorder within pockets of order.
These parings are a good start, but computational biologist Michael Levin offers what can be seen as a genuinely unsettling upgrade. His recent work on the origin of cognitive and morphological patterns suggests the dominant appeal to emergence as an explanatory endpoint may itself be, in his words, a “mysterian” position — one that “does not facilitate further advances.” When a surprising pattern appears in a complex system, the emergentist says “that’s just what happens” and catalogs it.
But Levin proposes these patterns are not random facts to be noted and admired. They are part of an ordered, non-physical space that physical systems, when configured the right way, ingress into. Ingression is a term Levin borrows from mathematician Alfred North Whitehead as a potential that timeless abstract objects possess to become actual concrete experiences. “Red” only becomes red when its potential is realized.
These ‘ordered spaces’ of potential are portals into what Levin calls a Platonic Space. Plato argued that the objects we encounter in the world are imperfect instances of perfect, eternal Forms that exist independently of any physical thing. The most primitive form being the triangle. Levin’s argument is the triangle participates in a kind of Triangleness; it realizes it’s potential to exist.
Nature keeps arriving at triangles independently, across wildly different substrates, as if drawn by the same attractor. The triangle is the only polygon that is inherently rigid: push on any corner and the shape holds, which is why trusses, bridges, and bones all rely on triangular geometry for structural strength. Radiolarians, single-celled ocean organisms with no brain and no blueprint, construct intricate skeletal lattices of triangulated geometry at microscopic scales.
In Levin’s terms, nature is ingressing Triangleness — repeatedly, across billions of years and countless lineages — because the Form has properties that reward any physical system stable enough to express it. The truth that a triangle’s angles sum to exactly 180 degrees owed nothing to the first organism that built one.
Physical systems are, in this sense, less like containers and more like pointers — a term borrowed from computer science. Pointers are variables that hold the addresses that reference more information. Levin’s framework requires a specific kind of pointer: not a pointer to stored data, which retrieves a static value, but a pointer to a subroutine that calls up a routine that executes complex actions and outputs beyond the pointer itself. The pointer is small, while the executed routine may be vast and behave unpredictably.
Think of a street address. The address itself contains nothing — it is a short string of numbers and words that fits on an envelope — but hand it to the right system and it retrieves a house, a history, a neighborhood, everything that has ever happened inside those walls. This is Levin’s claim about physical structures. A genome, a city, an institution doesn’t contain its pattern so much as it points at one — and when the pointer is well-formed, you get considerably more out than you put in.
What does this mean for GISc? It means that spatial configurations — cities, borders, trade corridors, migration routes — are not merely sites where local interactions produce global outcomes. They are interfaces into a latent pattern space. When a hub city emerges, when a colonial border persists for centuries past the empire that drew it, when a pandemic spreads exactly along the topology of air travel, we are not only witnessing the consequential mechanical emergence of patterns derived from local rules. We are watching physical structures act as pointers that summon — ingress — specific patterns of collective behavior, whose full complexity exceeds what was put in. Levin’s core observation about biological morphogenesis translates here with uncomfortable precision.
Consider one of his more unsettling tadpole experiments. The creation of its normal bulging eyes are suppressed (by microscopically manipulating cellular ‘software’) and a replacement eye is instead induced — ingressed — on the tail. The optic nerve growing from that tail-eye doesn’t connect to the brain — it terminates somewhere around the spinal cord. By any conventional account, the animal should be blind. It isn’t. The tadpoles can still see and perform well in visual tasks. Somehow, the system routes around its own abnormal wiring to recover function. The pattern being pointed to — sight — was never housed in the eye itself, or in the specific neural pathway, or in any single component. The eye on the tail is a wildly improbable pointer, and yet it retrieves something far richer than its own structure contains. You get considerably more out than you put in.
Some GISc tools — like agent-based models or network analysis — already detect this excess in a geography context. A single infected traveler tips a system toward chaos not because of arithmetic addition of local interactions described in the GISc analysis, but because that traveler’s position in a network acts as an interface to a pattern of contagion whose scope was latent in the structure all along. The “geographic advantage” O’Sullivan, and crew, describes — GISc’s relationship to multi-scalar processes and human-environment couplings — is, in Levin’s vocabulary, a sensitivity to how physical arrangements act as pointers into a rich space of possible collective behaviors.
This reframes world events not as linear narratives but as navigations of morphospace — the full landscape of forms a system could take, where some configurations are reachable and others are not, and where attractors pull trajectories toward specific patterns regardless of starting conditions.
What pattern are current geopolitical configurations pointing toward? What is being ingressed by the particular architecture of today’s global institutions, communication networks, and urban densities? While GIScience sharpens our sight on outcomes, it leaves uncharted the deeper question of what is the shape of the latent space these material forms slip into.
BORDERS STORE WHAT BODIES KNOW
Levin’s work suggests at every scale of organization, we are dealing not with mechanical aggregation but with collective intelligence. To understand what he means by that, it helps to borrow an image from Einstein.
Because nothing travels faster than light, any event you could possibly influence — or that could possibly influence you — is bounded by how far light could travel in the available time. Draw that boundary in spacetime and it forms a cone. Everything inside it is causally reachable, everything outside it is not. Levin borrows this image to describe the reach of any cognitive agent. A single cell’s light cone is tiny — it can only sense and respond within its immediate chemical neighborhood, over milliseconds. A brain’s light cone is vastly larger — it can model consequences years out and coordinate behavior across great distances. The cone is simply a measure of how far an agent’s agency actually extends. And just as the body is a nested hierarchy of such agents — molecular networks, cells, tissues, organs — each operating within its own cone, pursuing goals whose scale its parts cannot perceive, so too is human society.
A city is not simply a dense clustering of individuals whose local interactions produce urban dynamics. It is, in Levin’s sense, a collective intelligence with a cognitive light cone that vastly exceeds that of any constituent. It pursues goals (economic growth, defense, habitability) across spatial and temporal horizons no individual cell — or individual person — can access. Institutions, legal codes, infrastructure, and cultural norms function as bioelectric memory — rewritable pattern memories that store the target morphology of the social body and guide error-correction toward it. Colonial borders, or the Great Wall of China, persist not merely through inertia but because they function like historic bioelectric setpoints. That is, they encode a spatial pattern that downstream processes continuously re-instantiate, even after the circumstances that produced them have dissolved.
Levin’s planarian flatworm experiments demonstrate this in biology. When bioelectric circuits are disrupted, the worm grows heads of other species — without any change to its genome. The pattern being expressed was latent in the space of possible forms, and a change in the interface (the bioelectric circuit) changed which pattern was ingressed. Geopolitical history offers analogies. How much of what we call a nation-state’s “character” is not in its people but in the pattern stored in its institutional circuitry? When those circuits are disrupted — by revolution, invasion, or collapse — new patterns rush in from the adjacent possible, sometimes from regions of the latent space that are recognizable, sometimes shockingly novel.
Pandemics also embody this scalar nesting. Viral replication is a molecular-scale process; its spread is topologically determined by the network of global mobility; its political consequences are mediated by institutional pattern memories about sovereignty, solidarity, and resource allocation. The COVID-19 pandemic did not merely “emerge” — it ingressed a set of patterns whose latency was already encoded in the physical architecture of 21st-century globalization. Competitive resource hoarding and cooperative vaccine-sharing were not just policy choices but different attractors in a landscape of a kind of “social morphospace”, pulling collective behavior toward different setpoints.
GISc tools (like spatial game theory and network percolation models) map the surface of these landscapes. But Levin’s framework asks us to go further. He wants us to not just map the attractors, but to ask what structured space those attractors are features of, and whether that space can be systematically explored.
The scalar interplay extends outward. Local ethnic tensions, mapped via GIS hot-spot analysis, interact with what social theorist Zygmunt Bauman might term “global fluids” — arms, money, diasporas — to produce cascades that reflect not random chaos but path-dependent trajectories through a space of historical patterns. History’s “nightmare on the brain of the living” becomes, in Levin’s terms, a pattern-memory etched into the social substrate. Territorial borders, attempted genocide, human displacement are held as bioelectric setpoints, where trauma lingers as a morphogenetic field, quietly organizing the tissue of the present long after the original wound.
MAPPING WHAT MATTER MERELY MISSES
Complexity science, via GISc, forecasts world events as probabilistic landscapes rather than deterministic paths. Urry describes global systems as “adapting and co-evolving,” with attractors drawing trajectories amid chaos. GISc simulates this through fitness landscapes like agents navigate peaks and valleys of viability, local adaptations generating global patterns like economic booms or institutional collapses.
Levin’s framework intensifies this picture in two ways. First, it insists that the attractors are not randomly distributed. The latent space of possible social patterns — like the latent space of morphogenetic outcomes — has structure. Evolution, as Levin argues, progresses rapidly precisely because the space has “a relatively smooth character” in which “past interactions with it carry non-trivial information about the adjacent possible.” The same may be true of cultural and institutional evolution. The reason certain forms of governance, urbanism, or economic organization recur across independent civilizations is not purely because of convergent environmental pressures, but because they represent attractors in a structured space of collective intelligence patterns that sufficiently complex social interfaces tend to ingress.
Second, and more provocatively, Levin’s framework suggests that we do not simply make the social forms we inhabit. We invite patterns to temporarily inhabit our collective embodiments. To see why, consider one of his most uncontroversial and disarming experiments. Levin’s lab studied simple sorting algorithms — the kind computer science students have used for decades. These are short deterministic procedures that take a jumbled list of numbers and rearrange them into sequential order. Nothing mysterious here but made for many an interview question at Microsoft!
When Levin’s team visualized the algorithm’s progress as a movement through an abstract sorting space, unexpected behaviors emerged that nobody had noticed in all those decades of use. When the algorithm encountered a number that refused to move — a piece of broken data blocking its path — it didn’t simply halt. It temporarily de-sorted the rest of the array, moved things around the obstruction, and then recovered its progress. It was exhibiting something resembling delayed gratification — the capacity to temporarily move away from a goal in order to reach it more completely later. Like a soccer player kicking the ball backwards to advance it forward.
This ability was not written into the algorithm. Nobody put it there. Then, when the team ran a distributed version where each number ran its own variant of the algorithm, numbers sharing the same variant spontaneously clustered together — a kind of social behavior, emerging without a single line of code instructing any number to notice or prefer its own kind. The algorithm was doing something it was never designed to do, and had been doing it, unobserved, for decades.
Now, imagine a democracy is not constructed from scratch by rational agents but an interface that, when configured appropriately, ingresses a pattern of distributed decision-making whose properties exceed what any designer or participant imagined or specified. Cities, constitutions, and international institutions become pointers. The patterns they summon may even surprise their architects — and may have been quietly surprising them and us all along.
This has immediate consequences for how GISc could approach attempts at predicting futures. For example, prospective spatial modeling — Markov chains, scenario planning — maps the probability surface of possible trajectories. But a Levin-inflected GISc would ask this: what new pointers are being constructed right now, and what regions of the latent pattern space are they configured to access?
The answers could become bewildering in a world of AI-mediated governance, hybrid human-machine urban systems, and the synthetic biological constructions Levin’s team pursues. These are vehicles of exploration into regions of Platonic space we have not navigated before. “We are now fishing in regions of Platonic space we have never explored before,” he writes — with implications not only practical (”what will it do to us”) but ethical (”how do we fulfill the opportunities and duties of an ethical synthbiosis with beings who are not quite like us”).
For GISc, this need not be merely philosophical. Spatial planning and governance literally configure the physical interfaces through which collective intelligence patterns are ingressed. Urban density fosters certain attractors of solidarity and innovation while sprawl ingresses different ones. Green civic infrastructure designed to buffer floods mechanically also reconfigures the relationship between human settlement and ecological pattern space which invites a whole different class of emergent resilience. The question is no longer only “what will happen here, probabilistically” but “what are we building a pointer toward?”
Fatalists may see the latent space as already barring our options. Pessimists will amplify the risks of novel pointers we cannot control. Realists might attempt to quantify via more Monte Carlo simulations. And techo-optimists may try to engineer and configure interfaces to access and profit from whatever attractors emerge. But what I like most of all about Levin’s framework is that it offers something more nuanced than any of these: structured humility. We do not know the full topology of the space we are pointing into. Every new city, every new institution, every new technological architecture is, in some sense, a bioengineering experiment — and like Levin’s Xenobots and Anthrobots, it may manifest competencies and patterns nobody designed or predicted.
If Levin’s intuition is correct, we are but temporary self-organizing forms that hold together for a time, perform actions that exceed their physical composition, and then yield to the impermanence built into any pointer’s relationship with the patterns it accesses. Humility does feel like the appropriate response. But more importantly, the recognition that mapping the structure of the space we are ingressing into is, at this moment, among the most important things we could do.
The information embedded in Geographic Information Science has the potential to demystify fatalism, especially when death’s certainty yields to spatial agency. Levin reminds us that information, at its Latin root, means to give form — to in-form. That is what geographic information has always done, long before it became a science. It did not merely transmit data, but impose structure on space, render the implicit geometry of human existence legible and actionable. Every map is an act of in-forming. The world is no doomsday script, but a co-evolving field — its attractors mappable, its interfaces legible, its vectors steerable — if we aim with care, with intent, and with the humility to know what we summon may exceed what we design.
REFERENCES
Levin, M. (2025). Ingressing minds: Causal patterns beyond genetics and environment in natural, synthetic, and hybrid embodiments. PsyArXiv.
O’Sullivan, D., Manson, S. M., Messina, J. P., & Crawford, T. W. (2006). Space, place, and complexity science. Environment and Planning A: Economy and Space.
Urry, J. (2003). Global complexity. Polity Press.


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