Why they called me Coyote (and what it means for this newsletter)
In Latin America, they called me “Coyote.” At the time, I wasn’t sure why.
Years later, I would learn that Coyote is a shapeshifter. Which made sense, as I had grown up in theater.
One time, when I was very young, I even shapeshifted into a tree.
It was a dark winter morning, the world muffled in snow. I was waiting alone for the bus. Suddenly, a moose came around the corner. A full-grown bull moose, tall as a streetlamp. Antlers as wide as a couch. Thousands of pounds of muscle. It was charging straight at me.
Moose didn’t live around these parts. Plenty of bears in Juneau, Alaska, but no moose. Still, I remembered my Girl Scouts training: If a bear charges you, pretend you’re a tree. If it knocks you over, pretend you’re a rock.
I closed my eyes and held my breath. Moonboots rooted into the earth, quiet and still as a tree. Soon, I’d be on the ground, covering my head and face with my arms. Then I’d be a rock. But for now, I was a tree.
The moose galloped right past. So close I could hear its nostrils chugging the cold air.
Suddenly, the school bus came around the corner. The moose had been running from the bus, not at me.
How could such a powerful creature be so afraid? I wondered. And me, afraid of it, when I only needed to shapeshift?
In my teens and twenties, I shapeshifted to survive and thrive while living alone in various Latin American and Caribbean cultures. In Costa Rica, I fell in love and married a Venezuelan, brought him to the U.S., and helped him through the immigration and naturalization process. He didn’t speak English, so I filled out all the paperwork and accompanied him to every appointment. I waited hours in line with him outside court houses in Santa Ana.
Most of our friends in Southern California were also Venezuelan, having fled a dictatorship in their own country. When I heard the stories, I’d think, Thank God my country isn’t like that.
Seven years later, we separated. I moved to Alaska and became something entirely different: a mother.
When I started this newsletter, I did not intend for it to veer into the political. It was a place to examine Anglo-American culture deeply, connecting behaviors and values that no longer serve us and offering new ones that do. But I made it my mission to show up here honestly. As culture evolves, so have I.
The immigrant community I belonged to for ten years in California, the community I once married into, is under direct attack. Hundreds of thousands of Venezuelans have suddenly lost their temporary protection status. Migrants are fearful of going to work, church, and school for fear of being thrown in deplorable detention centers, deported and separated from their family, or sent to foreign countries.
I’m a Spanish teacher, mother, and deeply sentient empath. My background is in theater, education, cultural anthropology, and Latin American and Caribbean studies. The violence and brutality occurring in predominantly Latinx American communities don’t feel far away or distant.
I’m not just politically interested — I’m personally invested based on lived experience and professional expertise. The pain I’m feeling isn’t just emotional; it’s informed by deep knowledge of how cultures and systems work.
Even in this state of post-traumatic shock—to quote Laura Levins Morales—I refuse to disconnect and dissociate. Despite the repetitive injuries of widespread collective violence, I am watching and listening so I know when and how to adapt.
Any culture that has suffered hardship knows that times like these call for trickster energy. Shapeshifting.
Coyote survives because it adapts. Those who cling to old forms while the world changes around them don't survive. The animals that change with it will survive. Those who don’t will die.
Just as one must evolve with culture, this newsletter has evolved. I am not offering political commentary here, but reflection on the evolution of culture and translation of emotional truth.
I understand that some of you might have signed up expecting different content. If you feel called to evolve, I hope you join me in this journey. We're processing this cultural shift together.
Also, if you're struggling, know that you are awake, attuned, and reading the room. It takes honesty and bravery not to look away. Your discomfort might actually be a sign of clarity. As Krishnamurti once said, “It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”
On a personal note, I'm celebrating a birthday today—47 years. If you've ever considered becoming a paid subscriber, there's no better birthday gift you could give me than knowing this work resonates with you.
Thank you for being here with me,
Summer
Summer—
Happy Birthday. I’m holding your 47 with deep respect. The way you carry it—with grace, grit, and clear-eyed presence—feels like a gift to all of us walking beside you.
Your story called something forward in me, something old and fierce and true. I’ve shapeshifted too—out of necessity more than choice, across borders that weren’t always visible, through roles that rarely fit, through loss, through survival. I know what it means to stand still like a tree, heart pounding, waiting for the moose—or the system—to pass. And I know what it takes to not dissociate when the air turns thick with fear.
Your coyote energy rings familiar. Trickster not for mischief, rather for adaptation. You remind me that resilience isn’t always loud—it can be clever, creative, rooted in stories and movement and remembering.
I’m with you in this shift. Not because it’s easy, rather because I trust the ones who stay awake through the storm. And today, especially, I celebrate you. Thank you for offering yourself so fully. Thank you for evolving in public. And thank you for reminding us that adaptation, too, is love.
With care from one shapeshifter to another,
Jay
As always you make the world a better and stronger place. Happy Birthday Summer.