Molly McArdle’s “The Wearied Cords” appeared in our December issue. We talk about rewriting geography, the reversal of colonial power, and building out of loss.

1. Tell us a little bit about the process of building “The Wearied Cords”; where the inspiration came from, what research was involved, etc. What was the initial spark that brought this story to life?

I was born and raised in DC, and I’ve always been really passionate about city history, especially hidden or elided or forgotten or ignored histories. I had (and have) been toying around with this idea of a series of short stories that illuminate iconic – even mythic – aspects of DC history or culture or geography and look at them from an unexpected perspective. One of the first things that came to mind was the Three Sisters Islands, a tiny outcropping of rocks that lie just north of Key Bridge in the Potomac River, right beside Georgetown. I always thought there was something romantic about them growing up, because of their name, because of their size, because of the opaque and imprecise myths about their origin, which the story draws from. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I found the framework of the story on the village’s Wikipedia page, where I read about the capture of this British captain, Henry Fleet – the narrator’s father in the story. I loved this reversal of the traditional colonial power politics that our histories have recorded: unblinking domination by British forces alongside a seemingly inevitable destruction for outmatched native communities. I loved too that Fleet was forced to assimilate into this community’s language and culture, not the other way around. I ended up reading some of Henry Fleet’s memoirs, century-old essays by DC historical societies, websites written by Fleet’s descendants, lots of weird historical flotsam and jetsam. My primary concern wasn’t so much accurately representing a historical moment in time, but allowing this story exist there in a natural and believable way.

2. So much of this piece is concerned with the names of things, the variations in what we call something, whether it’s the name of a colonial force or the place where we live. How does this play into the relationship between the English and the Nacotchtank in the story?

Names are so important. Growing up in DC, I’ve seen Malcolm X Park – located in a once primarily black neighborhood – increasingly referred “Meridian Hill Park” as the area gentrified. The buildings where my family lived in that same neighborhood were once called Clifton Terrace, but are now called Wardman Court – renamed after a renovation (and one’s conversion into condos) that occurred only after money began to flood into Columbia Heights. I’ve seen the geography of my childhood rewritten before my eyes. It’s so disorienting! It’s also a profound expression of power, a way for a new group of people to claim ownership. The erosion of the name of the place I write about in the story, which here I’ll call Nacotchtank, is a testament to this effect. Even though the village was a very important trading center in its day, no firm or authoritative version of its name exists today, just various Anglicizations. But just as (re)naming is an enormously powerful tool for any kind of encroaching force, its also a potent instrument for fighting back against that encroachment. It is a way to say this is who I am; know me. Continue reading →