The heat reminds me of desperate times.

While much of our class distinctions feel academic in a world filled with modern conveniences in public places, the internet on our phones, or the ability to virtually accept money through an app, our exposure to the elements is where we can usually draw meaningful distinctions.

Where I grew up, out in the country, the heat and stillness on the prairie is an oven where my parents barked reminders to watch out for rattlesnakes sunning themselves. That admonition would save my ass multiple times the moment I’d see the grass move or hear a rattle go off.

My mom wouldn’t cook until well after sunset, meaning we wouldn’t eat until 9 or 10 p.m. and on weekends while my brother might be out partying by the dam or the town people would be indoors with their air conditioning units running and aluminum foil on the windows, mom and dad would be splayed out on their beds with wet washcloths draped over their foreheads as the box fans shimmied from one too many days on the high setting. KINI, the Catholic-run rez radio station, would air PSAs every hour on the hour about the dangers of heat stroke.

Heat has always been a lethal danger in my world. But sometimes, it’s a reminder of desperation.My last summer in Reno was a desperate time and I had little relief from the elements.

The high desert steppe makes for a dry heat, as any good Nevadan will remind you, but the summer of 2010, I beat down on me and my family. My father had died two springs before, my brother was in federal custody the previous summer, and my mother had gone home to South Dakota to settle things with the tribe at home. I felt the most alone I’d feel until my mother died four summers later.

While trips to the Truckee River in downtown Reno would be happy memories for my family, they felt like a failure to provide for me.

In the house we rented, the only source of relief was a swamp cooler. Explaining it to non-Nevadans often puts me on the back foot, so I simply say, “it’s a cheaper way to cool your house.” But even that was a conceit to the poverty I was living in after the campaign I was managing came to a dead stop after the primary election. For as terrible as my candidate felt, I had gambled everything on a win, including the house I rented; the first-time landlords were supporters and were not happy with me for losing the election and for not being able to pay my rent on time.

So we’d escape to the river for a day, scrounging together enough money for some Arizona Ice Teas (the cheapest, coolest beverage available aside from water), and long enough to hide from the landlord.

But the night would come and the air would cool, but I’d still feel like a failure. The only solution I’d find would be to dip into my alcohol reserves and get as plastered as possible. My comrade asked me once what I was like when I was drinking and I answered quickly: “Oh, I used people left and right.” I’d make my way to the bar, poor as I was, dressed up and ready to party on a Tuesday night. But I’d find someone, anyone, to buy me a drink or four and stumble home oblivious to the impending dawn that would bring the same problems I thought I left at the bar.

The challenge in these days where I live without central air conditioning is to walk myself through good things in my life, that I’m sober with some sense of job security and marketable skills, but mostly that I have a community of people who care about me and mine.

In this Mnisota, the heat will break in June, and the water will evaporate into the air and while it will be humid, it will feel less bereft and the plant relatives will drink up from the soil and the air, providing shade. And my bills won’t always be as high as they are now and I’ll be able to get some window AC units to keep my family cool.

For all of this, I’m grateful.