Author Archives: Alan O’Hashi, Whole Brain Thinker

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About Alan O’Hashi, Whole Brain Thinker

I’ve been involved with community journalism since 1968 when I wrote for my junior school paper, the "Tumbleweed," through high school and college and then wrote for the "Wyoming State Journal." I put aside my newspaper pen and began Boulder Community Media in 2005. There wasn’t much community journalism opportunity, so I resurrected my writing career as a screenwriter. My first short screenplay, “Stardust”, won an award in the 2005 Denver Screenwriting Center contest. I've made a number of movies over the years. Filmmaking is time-consuming, labor and equipment intensive. I recently changed my workflow to first write a book and make a movie based on that content. - Electric Vehicle Anxiety and Advice - This is a memoir travelogue of three trips covering 2,600 EV miles around Wyoming (2022) - Beyond Heart Mountain - Winter Goose Publishers released my memoir in February (2022) - The Zen of Writing with Confidence and Imperfection - This is a book recounting how luck planed into my signing a book deal after a 15-minute pitch meeting. (2020) - True Stories of an Aging Baby Boomer - War stories about living in a cohousing and lessons others can learn when starting their communities (2021) - Beyond Sand Creek - About Arapaho tribal efforts to repatriate land in Colorado (PBS - TBA) - Beyond Heart Mountain - Based on my memoir about my childhood in Cheyenne facing overt and subtle racism toward the Japanese following World War II (PBS - 2021) - New Deal Artist Public Art Legacy - About artists who created work in Wyoming during the Great Depression (PBS - 2018) - Mahjong and the West - SAG indie feature which premiered at the semi-important Woodstock Film Festival (2014) Over the years, I’ve produced directed, filmed and/or edited several short movies, “Running Horses” (Runner Up – Wyoming Short Film Contest), “On the Trail: Jack Kerouac in Cheyenne” (Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Top 10 Wyoming Short Film Contest), “Gold Digger” (Boulder Asian Film Festival), “Adobo” (Boulder International Film Festival), “A Little Bit of Discipline” (Rosebud Film Series), and two feature length documentaries “Your Neighbor’s Child” (Wyoming PBS and Rocky Mountain PBS), and “Serotonin Rising” (American Film Market, Vail Film Festival). He also directed and produced the award winning stage play “Webster Street Blues” by my childhood friend Warren Kubota. Boulder Community Media is a non-profit production company dedicated to democratzing media in all their forms - large and small screens, printed page and stage by providing sustainable and community-based content. I mostly work with community-based media producers, organizations, and socially-responsible businesses to develop their content via – the written word, electronic and new media, the visual and performing arts in a culturally competent manner – I’m what’s commonly called a niche TV and movie producer. Along with all this is plying my forte’ – fund development through grant writing, sponsorship nurturing and event planning.

The Credit Card I Can’t Read

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A braille credit card and a season in a wheelchair changed how I see the world

When my Discover card expired, the company offered several replacement designs. I could choose a cat, a dog, flags, business logos, and a bunch of others.

Instead, Braille caught my eye.

The funny thing is, I can’t read Braille.

When the card arrived, I ran my fingers across the raised dots and realized they were completely meaningless to me. Embedded on that card is information that someone who is visually impaired could understand immediately. To me, it might as well be Morse code.

At first, I thought my new card was a novelty. Then I started thinking about all the Braille I’ve encountered over the years.

The elevator in the building where my office is located has Braille on every button. I’ve never knowingly shared the elevator with someone who was blind or visually impaired, but I’m sure I have. Most of us don’t notice accessibility features because we’re not the people who need them.

At least that’s what I used to think.

Twelve years ago, I had a medical emergency that left me hospitalized and then in rehabilitation. For about two months, I depended on a wheelchair and a walker.

Suddenly, the world looked different.

I became aware of every curb, every step, every narrow doorway, and every inaccessible entrance. Ramps and their location became important.

What I discovered was that retrofitted ramps weren’t designed into buildings. The accessible entrance was around the side, down an alley, or at the far end of a parking lot. While able-bodied people walked straight to the front door, people using wheelchairs, walkers, scooters, and canes had to travel farther to get to the same destination.

I noticed things I had never paid attention to before.

Even today, I find myself looking for ramps. Once you’ve spent time navigating the world from a wheelchair, it’s difficult not to notice how much extra effort accessibility can require.

That’s why I find my braille credit card strangely meaningful.

The raised dots don’t help me make a purchase or tell me anything I can understand, but they remind me that the world includes people whose experiences are different from mine.

Accessibility is about accommodations for a small group of people and about recognizing that all of us move through life differently. At one time, I was young and healthier. Then I recovered from surgery. Temporary conditions become permanent.

The truth is that accessibility isn’t for “other people.” Given enough time, it becomes relevant to all of us.

The Braille on my credit card serves a practical purpose for someone who cannot see. For me, it serves as a reminder that thoughtful design matters.

Inclusion is invisible until you need it, and a reminder that every person deserves the dignity of navigating the world independently.

Maybe I should learn to read Braille. Not because I expect to lose my sight anytime soon, but because understanding another person’s experience is never a wasted effort.

When I pull that card from my wallet, I run my thumb across those raised dots and think about the ramps, elevators, curb cuts, and countless other accommodations that most of us pass by without noticing.

They’re reminders that a community works best when it works for everyone.

Growth on Our Terms: How Communities Can Take Control of the Digital Boom

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Silicon Prairie: Episode 1

Alan O’Hashi, here. I’m a Wyoming native, having grown up in Cheyenne. I have a new American Outlands podcast called “Silicon Prairie” about the data center land rush in the Rocky Mountain West, although these monstrosities are popping up anywhere there’s vacant rural land.

My family moved to Laramie while I was a sophomore at Hastings College in Nebraska. Upon graduation, I had no job skills and sat out the post-Vietnam War recession in grad school at the University of Wyoming. I ended up taking a job with the city administration of Gillette, in northeast Wyoming.

There, I had my first experience with an economic boom cycle.

Economic booms and busts are as much a part of the Rocky Mountain West as dust storms, pickup trucks, and someone insisting this year’s growth “will be different.” The newest growth explosion thundering across the region and the nation isn’t gold or fossil fuel extraction. It’s what I call digital foundries that crunch cryptocurrency transactions, stream high-speed video content, and feed the ever-growing brain of Artificial Intelligence, otherwise known as AI.

In this five-part series, I’ll draw on my experience watching rural communities grapple with energy-driven growth spurts.

I’ll look at what happens when gigantic Digital Foundries arrive in places built for cattle, coal mines, or low-stress living, and suddenly require enormous amounts of electricity, water, land, and infrastructure.

Along with the promises of jobs and tax revenue come less glamorous realities: the constant hum of cooling fans, industrial-scale backup generators, and massive warehouse-like buildings rising from open prairie or ranchland. What looks like “the future” in a corporate brochure can feel very different when it’s humming outside your back fence at 2 a.m.

Beneath the big promises from digital economy backers, boom-and-bust questions arise: Who gets the water? Who pays for the power? And who’s left holding the bag when the boom cycle ends?

I took my first job in the Powder River Basin at the onset of the coal boom. I remember driving from Laramie to Gillette, sight unseen, after surviving the Big Thompson Flood, and dropping out of grad school to take my first job with the city government in 1977.

When I drove into town, my first stop was 611 Kendrick Street, where I crammed into the light green, one-bathroom house I shared with four other guys. The water from the tap smelled like rotten eggs, with crud floating in it.

That was just the beginning.

Welcome to what sociologists call the “Gillette Syndrome.” Too many people swarmed into a small town. The locals quit their jobs as EMTs, store clerks, and school teachers to become dump truck drivers and coal shovel operators. The rapidly expanding population outstripped the community’s ability to keep pace.

The place was nutty back then: lots of guys with a lot of money and nowhere to spend it. Then-mayor Mike Enzi dubbed Gillette the “Energy Capitol of the Nation.” Mike went on to represent Wyoming in the U.S. Senate.

I was part of a team of carpetbagging young professionals who moved to town to increase the town’s capacity to handle growth. As much as we wanted to make things better, we all became part of the juggernaut.

Governor Ed Herschler famously coined the phrase “Growth on Our Terms.” Easygoing Gov. Ed had no problem wrestling with the fossil fuels industry. In 1975, he signed the Industrial Siting Act into law and established the Industrial Siting Council (ISC). At the time, the ISC was primarily concerned with permitting energy projects and their effects on communities.

Although many viewed Gillette and Campbell County as politically conservative strongholds for a long time, these two entities took the lead in the state by developing a comprehensive regional plan early on. Gillette had approved one of the state’s strongest zoning codes.

Gillette officials worked hand in glove with the ISC as coal mines moved through the permitting process. Companies were required to construct employee housing, pay for public street improvements, and expand parkland.

Campbell County and Wyoming have reaped the benefits of the fossil fuel boom over the past 50 years and are now seeking the next commodity. As with every other bust cycle, some folks pack up, and others will stay. This time around, what are the positive benefits and negative consequences of the digital Foundry migration coming of age in Wyoming?

What can communities learn from the coal boom? Microsoft, Meta, and Google want to expand across the vast, open prairies. The digital data boom won’t require as much labor as the fossil fuels industry, but an integrated approach can address other issues, such as electricity and water consumption, and excessive noise.

With Digital Foundries as core resources rather than standalone entities, and a little foresight, Digital Foundries can anchor successful mixed-use environments.

The commercial offices and research and development facilities surrounding the Digital Foundry are a natural fit for businesses that rely on its high-speed connectivity and computational power. This creates an innovation hub where technology companies, startups, and research institutions can collocate, fostering collaboration.

What will digital foundry communities look like? The residential component of a Digital Foundry would appeal to residents who work in the tech hub, value an efficient lifestyle, and enjoy unique amenities, including year-round fresh produce from on-site greenhouses. The development would have a distinct identity, driven by its technological and ecological integration.

A Digital Foundry is a building and a foundational anchor that can generate energy and heat and provide high-speed internet connectivity. By designing with a city planning mindset, potential problems such as the need for a steady source of power, heat, cooling, and mitigating sound pollution are reimagined as opportunities that create resilient and economically vibrant communities.

I visited a data center east of Cheyenne. Inside, I saw the behemoth brains of the futuristic cloud flashing and sending information into cyberspace. The sprawling industrial machine consumed staggering amounts of electricity and water just to keep the digital world spinning.

Digital Foundries across the West are arriving faster than the infrastructure needed to support them. In Silicon Prairie Episode Two, I’ll explore what happens when the digital economy competes with towns, farms, and families for electricity.

In episode 2, I’ll explore what happens when digital-foundry carpetbaggers roll into town promising jobs and economic development, and the community isn’t prepared to handle the sudden growth.

When Fireworks Were Legal

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Firecrackers and weed shopping malls would be better than data centers.

I grew up in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where summer wasn’t official until the fireworks stands opened. The nearest one was biking distance from our home in the Cole Addition. In the 1960s, the neighborhood sat on the edge of town, where open prairie began just a few blocks beyond the last houses.

That was then.

When I was a kid, firecrackers an inch and a half long were perfectly legal. The Zebra brand was the gold standard among neighborhood experts. I have no idea whether this was scientifically verified, but I was convinced Zebras had fewer duds than Black Cats. Every kid had an opinion, and every kid was certain he was right.

My parents allowed a few bottle rockets in the alley, but the real Fourth of July celebration happened at the Kishiyama place south of Cheyenne. Looking back, I’m amazed I survived childhood.

One of the men who worked for my dad made an annual pilgrimage to Nebraska and returned with contraband treasures: M-80s and cherry bombs. These were illegal in Wyoming, which increased their appeal. The M-80s were legendary. The cherry bombs looked harmless enough until they detonated with a satisfying boom that echoed across the prairie.

My dad allowed me to light them, fling them as far as I could, and wait for the explosion. Today, that sentence alone would give a safety inspector heart palpitations.

The vacant land behind our neighborhood became our battlefield. My friends and I played endless games of combat among the sagebrush and dry clay. Like countless boys of our generation, we experimented with homemade pyrotechnics that seemed ingenious at the time and reckless in retrospect. We dug foxholes, created miniature craters, and generally behaved in ways that would horrify modern parents.

The miracle is that we still have all our fingers.

Then came the fire.

At some point, a fireworks stand near the city limits caught fire and exploded like the first barrage of World War III. The city responded with an ordinance requiring that fireworks sales be conducted well outside town.

When we were adults, my cousin Matthew came to town over the Fourth of July. We decided to reexperience our childhood. We bought some fireworks and looked for a place to light them off. The Kishiyamas no longer lived on their ranchette. Everywhere we went, fireworks were not allowed.

What a letdown. I don’t know where we ended up, but the experience was no fun.

Entrepreneurs, being entrepreneurs, saw opportunity where the government saw regulation.

Soon, giant fireworks stores appeared south of Cheyenne near the Wyoming-Colorado travel corridors. What had once been a few temporary stands became a regional industry. Colorado customers crossed the state line in droves. Entire warehouses sprang up to meet the demand. Fireworks became big business.

In retrospect, Wyoming may have stumbled upon one of its more successful economic development programs.

Today, when I drive past the sprawling fireworks superstores south of Cheyenne, I think about those childhood summers. I remember the smell of gunpowder hanging in the evening air. I remember bicycle rides to the fireworks stand. I remember arguments about whether Zebra or Black Cat made the better firecracker. I remember the anticipation of waiting for dusk on the Fourth of July.

Mostly, I remember a time when Independence Day felt a little more independent.

Of course, every generation looks back on its childhood through rose-colored glasses. We remember the freedom and forget the close calls. There was something uniquely American about those Wyoming summers in the wide-open spaces, imagined war zones, fighting alongside Sgt. Saunders, of “Combat!” fame. The Fourth of July was the greatest holiday on the summer calendar.

Speaking of economic development, instead of sprawling data centers, a pretty good business would be selling marijuana on the Colorado side of the state line and fireworks on the Wyoming side, straddled by a casino.