Pandemic postcard #37: 'We are still here'

Eight miles west of Highway 101, I had a decision to make: Continue straight to La Push on Washington 110 or turn right to Mora. I had a reservation at the Mora Campground near Rialto Beach, but check-in was many hours off, so I thought I'd spend the morning at Second Beach near La Push. As I neared the intersection, I saw the choice had been made for me: The temporary road sign flashed "QUILEUTE RESERVATION CLOSED."

Good for them, I thought.

As the pandemic took hold last spring, tribal governments up and down Washington's coast closed their lands to visitors. When summer came and the spread of the virus slowed, many adjacent areas in Olympic National Park opened to stir-crazy Americans seeking outdoor relief from isolation. I saw license plates from all over at Rialto Beach and cars parked a half-mile down Mora Road. But just across the Quileute River, its eponymous tribal nation remained off-limits to outsiders, as did the Makah reservation at the northwestern tip of the contiguous United States and the Quinault Indian Nation in southwestern Washington.

I applaud tribal nations for doing whatever they can to keep the coronavirus at bay, especially given the long history of indigenous people dying from diseases brought by outsiders and the high COVID-19 toll some Indian nations are facing in 2020. The closures are a reminder that the 574 tribal nations in the United States are sovereign and have the right to self-determination as well as the right to receive benefits from the federal government.

At least most of them do. Here in Seattle, we live on the unceded land of the Duwamish people. Our city was named for Duwamish Chief Si'ahl, who famously said, "The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. This we know: all things are connected like the blood which unites one family. All things are connected." 

The Duwamish are a federally recognized tribe under the 1855 Treaty of Point Elliott, but they are not currently on the list of federally acknowledged tribes. According to the Duwamish website, in 1978, the federal Bureau of Indian Affairs basically amended the treaty by adding seven new rules with which the Duwamish must comply to receive land, benefits, and services. The case has been under review by the Interior Department's Board of Indian Appeals for more than five years. 

Meanwhile, despite being in the heart of one of the wealthiest areas in the United States, many Duwamish people cannot access health services, nor can the tribe profit from tourism and gaming, as so many others do. (Seattle is surrounded by high-end resorts run by the Snoqualmie, Puyallup, Suquamish, and other neighboring tribes.) Even if the Duwamish prevail, I'm not sure how likely I'd be to hit a future casino. But along with more than 10,500 other people--half of whom have signed up in 2020--I've decided it's time to pay a small, symbolic amount of rent to the Duwamish people in recognition of the centuries they've spent caring for the land where I live today.

In last Sunday's online service, my minister Rev. Beth Chronister advocated for Real Rent Duwamish, and she also acknowledged that our physical building is on Duwamish land. I am part of a faith tradition that is grappling like never before with our nation's history of settler colonialism and enslavement. But Rev. Beth cautioned us against absolving ourselves with what theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer called "cheap grace." We can pay token rent and say a land acknowledgment and call it good, or we can go deeper, into real relationship and covenant with each other. 

I can think of two ways beyond church that I will try to do this. Early in my freelance writing career, I authored two guidebooks that explored the Oregon Trail and the Lewis and Clark Trail. I know I tried my best--given my body of knowledge in the 1990s--to offer a nuanced view of how the United States expanded westward, yet I am sure I fell fall short. As I get future opportunities to write about history, I will do better.

Second, I recommit to living as lightly as I can. I retain a small footprint by American standards, dwelling in 400 square feet, yet like Henry David Thoreau, I need to leave my cabin now and then. I usually go on foot, but I have a car, and I occasionally use it to visit nature that's not within walking distance. A paradox, I know. So when I go into the woods and walk beside the waters, I want to be as mindful as I can of what I find there. "We rarely care for that we cannot name," says British writer Robert Macfarlane, who has worked with artist Jackie Morris and musicians to re-animate lost words from the natural world, just as many Americans seek to authentically connect with indigenous wisdom.  

This is not wisdom from the past. Its practitioners are here now, seeking the right to harvest salmon and protect their water from oil spills. As best I can as a 21st century urban creature of comfort, I want to know plants by their names and birds by their songs. I want to invoke spirits and spells and "sing the things I see," perhaps gaining a tiny fraction of the knowledge possessed by the people who have lived here for millennia and who still live here today. I honor their wisdom and would be grateful for a small measure of it, if I am worthy. Spirit of life, let me be worthy of these gifts, and let us share them widely.

_____

Thank you for reading Surely Joy. You can find the new version of the blog here.

Pandemic postcard #29: Turning into my dad

Today is my father's birthday, and if all goes well, my brother and his husband and I will be toasting Dad's memory on a San Francisco beach, not far from where we scattered his ashes. Dad has been gone almost a decade, but--as I wrote a few weeks ago--my parents' memories have been strong with me this fall. I miss them both as much as I ever have, and I think I may be turning into my dad.

I know that many women worry they'll turn into their mother, but that was never going to happen for me. Like many mothers and daughters do, we clashed during my adolescence, and I was just starting to know and appreciate Mom as a fellow adult when she died at age 62. By then, I'd been away from home for eight years.   

Dad was also 62 when Mom died. That's the same age my husband, Tom, was when he died in 2018, and the same age my stepchildrens' maternal grandfather was when he passed on. I'm just a few years shy of that mark, and as 62 looms ever closer, it hurts to be "losing" a year the way we are in 2020. 

Yet it's likely I'll live far beyond 62, as my dad did; he was 87 when he passed away in 2012. He lived long enough to see my ill-advised first marriage end, and to see me meet a good man and marry again, and to see my brother find a loving partner, and to spend lots of time with his only grandchild when she was young. At the end of his life, he gave me the sacred experience of helping a loved one have a good death. Today, on his birthday, let me tell you a little more about my dad. 

Sparrow, #14

Byron Fanselow started out a little guy, and his nickname was "Sparrow," but he still played baseball and basketball. His high school yearbook reports that he was usually laughing. After graduation, he grew several inches, so his nickname went away--until the 1970s, when Dad (and my brother and sometimes I) became "Fonz." Thank you, Happy Days, for helping America finally learn how to say our last name.

Dad went to Illinois Tech for mechanical engineering, then he joined the Navy near the end of World War II. After that, he became a salesman--the natural job for someone with his personality. He started out selling windows and went on to rep several metal building companies in the Midwest. He was offered a transfer to San Francisco but wound up taking one to Pittsburgh instead so he and my mom would remain reasonably close to their families in Chicago, where most of my extended kin still live.

For a short time when I was in elementary school, Dad had an office in a downtown Pittsburgh high-rise, which was fun. But usually, he worked from home and on the road, calling on clients across the Mid-Atlantic states, eating lots of dinners at Howard Johnson's and racking up plenty of points at Holiday Inns. He loved to travel and he loved meeting people, and my brother and I both found careers that incorporated those things.  

Dad worked on commission, money was sometimes tight, and Mom loved to shop. She meant well; she loved to give people gifts, but she'd lose track of what she'd already bought, so we always had lots of stuff but never much extra money. Mom went to work at a fast-food place to help send me to college. That's where she had her first fall, on a slick floor at Wendy's. I took the call on the hallway phone in the dorm my freshman year at Ohio University. Mom had broken her hip, and soon after that, she got cancer, too. I doubled down at school, maxing out my course loads so I could graduate in three years.

Thankfully, Mom beat lymphoma and she and Dad were able to travel a bit. They went to Tokyo and Hawaii mostly for free with all those points from Holiday Inn. But her hip replacement hadn't healed especially well, and one day, her cane caught on the top step of the basement stairs. She fell and hit her head, and we had to let her go. Dad was heartbroken at the loss of his wife of 37 years, and I cannot imagine his grief, even after losing the love of my life. But he'd go on to live another two-and-a-half decades, most of them in a healthy, happy retirement.

You're probably wondering by now: How am I turning into my dad?

I find myself cracking really bad jokes. For example: On my camping trip to Olympic National Park this summer, I arrived at Rialto Beach first thing one morning and found three bored teenagers sitting at a picnic table, ignoring the Pacific Ocean. I tried to get them excited. "It's going to be a great sunrise!" I said. "Too bad we're on the wrong side!"

I find myself wanting to talk to everybody. I'm sure the pandemic and living alone are driving this, but when I see other humans, especially in person but even on Zoom, it's sometimes hard to contain myself. I genuinely miss people at this point. Dad was the same way. I think he was happy living alone--he never had a serious romantic relationship after Mom, that I know of, and he knew how to entertain himself. But the longer he was alone, the more he missed seeing people, and that manifested in wanting to talk a lot when he saw them.

Dad in 1993

What I most admired about my dad was his curiosity about everything. We always had plenty of books around, of course, plus stacks of newspapers and magazines. Dad had no serious lifelong hobbies other than photography, but he'd get interested in something--astronomy, astrology, CB radios, ice cream making, magic tricks, meditation, computers, physics--and he'd learn all he could (or all he cared to), then he'd move on to something else.      

Dad did get downright cranky for a while in the early 2000s, when he started watching too much Lou Dobbs on CNN and briefly, alarmingly, became rabidly anti-immigrant. Fortunately, this xenophobia didn't last long, since it clashed with his moderate politics and his liberal Christianity.

Dad ultimately developed dementia and had a rough last few years, though the course of his disease was fairly swift. The cognitive reserve theory suggests that people who spend a lifetime keeping their brain active may die faster once in the later stages of dementia, and that mercifully seemed to be true for Dad. Unfortunately, his sharp decline came at the very same time I had soul-taxing political work and a teen daughter and a marriage that was showing some strain. I'm adopted, so it's anyone's guess what my fate might be in the brain health department, but the heartache of Dad's final few years is gradually fading for me, and I am not afraid.

I am not afraid. I think that's something else I got from my parents, and something I've tried to pass on to my daughter. Love was our family's default position, and Mom and Dad showed it in their volunteer work, in their friendships and family ties, and at the ballot box. And they showed it to each other; they had a rule that they'd never go to bed holding a grudge. 

Although things are unsettled in our country right now, I believe that love and reason and liberty and justice will prevail, though perhaps not without a fight. I miss my parents, but I'm not sorry they're missing this--and I am grateful for their legacy of valuing love over fear. 

Thank you, Dad. You too, Mom. Keep sending those good vibes, for we surely need them.

My parents on their Havana honeymoon.

 

 

Pandemic postcard #28: Will write for tips

Update: I have taken down my Patreon page as of April 2021. If you'd like to support my work, you can check out more recent posts at Surely Joy's current site, where you'll find a tip jar. Thank you for valuing creativity and the written word.

It's Friday morning, and word has arrived that our First Couple have confirmed cases of coronavirus. Could this year possibly get any weirder? 

It seems like a month ago already, before this latest news and before the raucous debate, but I actually turned down a job this week. After a summer coming up short in my search for work, I was glad to finally have a job offer, especially with the CARES Act federal unemployment assistance long gone and my state unemployment pay ending soon. But something didn't feel right. 

I would have had work for about five weeks this winter, monitoring tests in school classrooms--a job I did a few years ago, too, but that was before COVID. Would the work even happen, with most schools still closed? Then there were the logistical hoops I'd be jumping through to take and keep the job: fingerprinting at a time when it's nearly impossible, weekly COVID tests, heavy-duty PPE requirements. All for a short-term, minimum wage gig with no benefits. 

I finally realized that I'd applied for the job out of fear--of making my rent, of ever working for a wage again. I wound up turning it down out of hope for something better.

Of course, it's a marker of privilege that I can do this. Plenty of people are taking whatever work they can to make ends meet from week to week, despite the threat of a disease that's disproportionately affecting working-class Americans. Many people don't have savings to use in an emergency, never mind during a few lean months. I have savings I can dip into if I need to (and I’ll need to).

Most of all, though, I realized that I want to focus on doing what I do best (and what I'd done my entire adult life until most of my work vanished in March): make a living with words. For seven months, I've been writing these pandemic postcards--essentially a weekly column--to try and make sense of these times, but I have been writing them for free. Not so long ago, before Craigslist and social media decimated local journalism, someone with my background could land a job writing a column or human-interest stories. Those opportunities are rare these days, yet I know I ought to be paid for at least some of my writing. 

That's why--although Surely Joy will remain free (and ad-free)--I've decided to set up a page on Patreon where, for $3 a month, you can let me know my work has value to you. I know this may be a big ask at a time when we are all being asked to contribute to the usual member-supported media outlets plus maintain subscriptions to major journalism organizations that are doing critical work--but if you have $3 a month to spare to support my experiment in crowd-funded punditry, I'll be grateful.

The $3-a-month tier is my "You like me" level. Pledges of this amount can really add up in my small-footprint micro-economy, and I will write at least one patrons-only post each month at Patreon for folks who pledge that amount. (Here's a sample.)

People who pledge $9 a month ("You really like me") will also get access to some behind-the-scenes peeks at my notebooks and work in progress (like this). And because I sense that some of my readers would love to pursue a more joyful, intentional life, I offer the "You want to be like me" tier, which is $27 a month. For that level of support, I will be your personal creativity coach. We'll talk at least once a quarter about how you'd like to live more fearlessly and creatively. I'll encourage and question and inspire you (and you will do the same for me). 

Surely Joy will never be all I do, and that’s OK. I love to interview people and write feature stories; I just finished my first one since March, an article for 3rd Act magazine about how musicians are weathering the pandemic. I like to edit and I have some possibilities in that area. I fervently hope to be working back at the ballpark next year. It’s a seasonal, minimum wage job, too, but I enjoy the fans and the people I work with.

But the writing I do here feels important--to me and, I know, to some of you. We are in historic times, and I am trying my best to make some sense of them while also lifting up my original reason for this blog: the practice of living a simple, beautiful life and of pursuing joy, described by Brother David Steindl-Rast as "the happiness that doesn't depend on what happens." Joy is more essential than ever as we work hard to make real the world we imagine. And today, we might even permit ourselves a bit of schadenfreude while wishing the Trumps a speedy recovery. Or not.    

Thanks for reading this far, and for considering a pledge. It is an honor to write for you. Let's continue to navigate these strange times together.

Mural at Olympic View Elementary School, Seattle

Pandemic postcard #26: Practicing for winter

It's been nine days since I've been outside for more than about five minutes. Six months ago, I stayed home on March 13, the day the seriousness of the pandemic really hit home in the United States. But once I knew that it was safe and even smart to continue walking outside every day amid COVID-19, I did exactly that, every morning--until the middle of last week, when the air quality here in the Northwest became too dangerous to venture outside.

The first few days of the air-quality quarantine were the worst, but as I heard more about what was happening in Oregon, I could not feel anything but gratitude for what I have: for the roof over my head, for food to eat, for breathable air inside my apartment--and for plenty of time to read, think, and learn. I've had that all year, of course, but making the best of this homebound week-and-a-half, I've leaned into it a bit more.

"I am fortunate because I have been able to spend my life in the study of the world," says Alma Whittaker, the main character in Elizabeth Gilbert's The Signature of All Things, which I read with uncharacteristic speed over just a few days this past week. Indeed, that is why I became a journalist: because I am curious about just about everything. I, too, am an avid lifelong student of the world, and while I may not be getting paid for my curiosity very often these days, I can indulge it more than ever.

Online conferences, webinars, classes, lectures, and concerts have helped me get through these past six months, and I've taken especially great advantage of them during these recent smoky days. Since last weekend, I've attended three online church services, a real-time film screening and post-movie discussion, a lecture on the presidential race, a virtual walking tour of Seattle's Denny Regrade, and a "Moth"-like program of stories about the pandemic and the fight for racial justice.

I have relished personal connection, too. A college classmate has convened a Zoom happy hour every few weeks, and it's been fun catching up with a fascinating, opinionated group of folks, even if everyone but me is in the Eastern time zone, ready to raise their glasses when it's still mid-afternoon in Seattle. I've talked with a few friends on the phone, including one whose daughter-in-law is the acting ranger on one of the hardest-hit forests in Oregon. I haven't seen anybody in person since my last shift volunteering at the food bank two weeks ago, but I don't feel as isolated as I might.

It sounds like the rain will start tonight and we may have clean air again sometime tomorrow. I look forward to walking outside and to opening my windows again.

Autumn arrives in a few days, and lately, it's always been a season of introspection for me, ahead of our long, dark, wet winters in Seattle. I know this pandemic winter won't be easy, but after the past nine days, I feel better prepared for the many months of interior life ahead.

 

Pandemic postcard #24: Hearts for the arts

I know I said I'd be taking this week off from posting, but I'm excited about a few time-limited projects I've heard about, so I want to pass them along to you. 

Today (September 4) only, you can spend $20.20 (or more) for "Good Music To Avert the Collapse of American Democracy." Yep, that is literally the title of a digital-only compilation album release that--again--is available today only, with 100 percent of net proceeds going to Fair Fight, an organization that promotes fair elections. The album features 40 tracks, and it's a great way to hear from some longtime favorites and sample new talent, too. Get it while you can!  There's also super-cool cover art and a limited-edition poster by Shepard Fairey; proceeds from the latter will benefit racial justice organization Color of Change.

I was absolutely charmed this morning by an account of how the Berkshire Theatre Group has pulled off the only Actors Equity-approved live theatrical production of the summer, a revival of Godspell. The show's run has been extended, and while tickets are spendy by regional theater standards ($100), that's a bargain in a year without Broadway. If you live in Massachusetts or can present a negative COVID-19 test to enter the state, you can get more info here. Listen to Michael Paulson's story on The Daily, and check out this video showing the protocols in place for the audience. 

Finally, closer to home--but open to folks from anywhere given the magic of Zoom--I plan to attend Jet City Improv's women's improv jam tomorrow afternoon (a first for me, though I've done some in-person improv). In a similar vein, Playback Theater Northwest has a show set for 5 p.m. Pacific tomorrow, "What Have You Learned Lately?" Given that "learn" was my word for the year--and how much we've all learned these past six months--it should be good. Maybe I'll see some of you there. 

Pandemic postcard #21: Summer reading report

All my life, I have dreamed of having endless time to read, and I've always figured I'd need to wait until retirement for that dream to come true. Then 2020 happened. I have had plenty of time to get lost in a book these past many months. 

Here's a selection of books I've enjoyed so far during the pandemic. All are available via The Optimist, my online independent bookstore at Bookshop.org, and if you enjoy Surely Joy, it'd mean a lot to me if you'd buy a book, any book. Your purchase will help me...and small bricks-and-mortar bookstores, too. As I write this, Bookshop.org says it has raised nearly $6 million for indie bookshops. I'm still working on my first $25. Still, every little bit helps, especially now that the CARES Act unemployment pay is gone.

So without further begging or ado ... 

How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy by Jenny Odell. This book captivated me from its first pages, where Odell describes one of her favorite parks in Oakland. (I know it, too.) Odell's mission is to help us pay attention, not to the endless clatter of commerce, but to our heart and soul's delight. This is my favorite book of the year so far. 

The Art of the Wasted Day by Patricia Hampl is part memoir, part travelogue, part meditation on loss. We can't justify distant travel this summer, but we can travel via books. Hampl ranges widely in this volume, from Iron Curtain-era Eastern Europe to Montaigne's France, but I was most captivated by the trip she took closest to home on the upper stretches of the Mississippi River. Like Odell, Hampl understands the inherent value of day-dreaming and drift.

The Vanishing Half  by Brit Bennett. "I've been reading too much non-fiction this summer," I told my daughter. "I really want to read a novel." So this was a birthday gift from her to me, fitting because this is also a story about family love: in our families of origin, families of choice, and families lost and found. It's also timely with its themes of racial and gender identity.

The Hummingbird's Daughter by Luis Alberto Urrea. This had been on my to-read list a long time, and it was the very first book I was able to check out of my local library once it reopened for curbside service last month. Urrea, who spent a few decades researching this satisfying historical novel, has a knack for creating big, well-drawn casts of characters. I look forward to reading the sequel to this, too, as well as The Devil's Highway, Urrea's nonfiction book about U.S.-Mexican border culture. The latter should be a good companion to something else I read earlier this summer, On the Plain of Snakes, a warts-and-all love letter to Mexico by Paul Theroux.

Old in Art School by Nell Irvin Painter. The author is best-known as an acclaimed historian (The History of White People), but she always wanted to paint, so she chased that dream into her 60s while also looking after her elderly parents, who lived 3,000 miles away. An inspiring, illuminating look at one woman disregarding ageism and racism.

The Cactus League by Emily Nemens. One of two fine baseball novels released this year, both written by women. Nemens turns an unassisted triple play with her debut, deftly wrangling multiple plot lines, indelible characters, and strong sense of place. I also enjoyed The Resisters, an anti-authoritarian tale by Gish Jen.

Becoming Wise: An Inquiry Into the Art & Mystery of Living by Krista Tippett. The On Being Project created a new position this summer, Audience Editor. I wanted it so bad, but I'm sure they've hired someone brilliant to help amplify the project's mix of thoughtful voices and practical wisdom for tumultuous times. I've been an On Being fan forever, listened to this on CD when it came out a while back, and recently revisited it via a copy in a Little Free Library.

Keep Going: 10 Ways to Stay Creative in Good Times and Bad by Austin Kleon. I bought this when it came out last year, then it sat on my shelf until May. It was time...and it still is.

When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times by Pema Chodron. Another book that merits re-reading, with short chapters that share Buddhist wisdom on how to sit with uncertainty. 

Atlas Obscura Explorer's Journal. I used this for what turned out to be Volume One of my Pandemic Journal. (I started Volume Three last week.) It's too big to use as a travel journal, but it was perfect for documenting the weird inner journey that is 2020.

Next up on my reading list ...

I've been dipping in and out of The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America's Great Migration for the past month. I'll finish it this weekend, and I look forward to author Isabel Wilkerson's brand-new book, Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents.

Next up is my library book of On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, another novel I've been meaning to read for a while.

I also just ordered a copy of Jailed for Freedom: A First-Person Account of the Militant Fight for Women's Rights. This little-known book by Doris Stevens is the source material for Suffragist, a new Broadway musical that was to premiere in league with this summer's centennial of the 19th Amendment. The production is delayed now, but just hearing creator Shaina Taub describe her discovery of this book was enough to make me want to read it.

Pandemic postcard #19: Keep calm and get ready to vote

It's three months before the general election, and things are getting wacky. Just this past week, the would-be king canceled his coronation party and wonder-tweeted about whether the election ought to be delayed. I honestly have no idea what we're in for these next 93 days--and indeed, what might transpire between now and January 20, when a peaceful transfer of power should occur. Given what's already gone down in 2020, anything could happen. 

Yet I know the Constitution provides guardrails in these matters. I believe that the better angels President Lincoln summoned are still looking out for us, and that other events this week--federal troops standing down and past presidents from both parties eulogizing the great patriot John Lewis--show that cooler heads will prevail as this tense national drama unspools. 

Meanwhile, it's still primary election season in Washington state. We vote by mail, so I am able to complete my ballot in a leisurely, considered way. Yesterday, while getting dinner ready, I listened to a debate in the lieutenant governor's race--one of the most interesting contests we have this year. The current office holder, Cyrus Habib, is leaving politics to become a Jesuit priest, so it's an open seat. Our likely-to-be-re-elected governor Jay Inslee may well wind up in the next Cabinet, so Habib's successor might get a swift promotion. I'll read up on this key race and several others this weekend, and I'll make my picks by Sunday night. On Monday, I'll drop my completed ballot in the mail--or probably one of the special collection drop boxes my county provides to make voting even easier.   

Five states now do all their voting by mail, and every state allows it in what's usually called absentee voting, though some states make it more difficult than others. This year, alternatives to in-person Election Day voting have become essential due to the dangers of COVID-19 and attacks on voting rights, yet this has also turned vote-by-mail and absentee voting into political flash points. I get it; for decades, I loved the ritual of going to the polling place on Election Day and casting my ballot. My daughter reports that she'll vote in person this fall; she likes the tradition, too. 

However you choose to vote this fall, it's important to have a plan for how you'll get it done--and for planning to do it as soon as you can. In addition to voting by mail or absentee voting, many states have in-person early voting, where you can go to your polling place at your convenience a week or two before the first Tuesday in November. Early voting cuts down on long lines, so it's an especially good option this year. 

Or say you're voting by mail but you wonder whether the United States Postal Service might somehow bend to political shenanigans--or maybe you simply don't have a stamp. In many states, you can drop off your ballot in person. Here in the only U.S. county named for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., we have nearly 70 ballot drop boxes that are available 24/7 for several weeks before Election Day. So easy. Our ballot return envelopes are postage paid, too, eliminating yet another hurdle for people who choose to put their ballots in the USPS' care. (By the way, Washington state's top elections official is a Republican--and I will likely vote for her again.)

I suspect that most of my readers are registered to vote, rarely miss an election, and don't need this information. But if you're curious about voting by mail, early voting, or absentee voting, now is the time to do some research, learn about your options, get ready to vote--and maybe have a Plan B. I've included a couple of tools below for super-easy registration and an absentee ballot request via Vote.org. Your state and county elections offices are your best source for in-person early voting information. And of course, those who seek to subvert this election are going to be messing with us at every opportunity. Don't believe everything you hear, read, or see. Don't believe most of it. Do your own research; use multiple sources and fact-checking sites. This is my favorite.

It's easy to feel a boy-who-cried-wolf vibe when people invariably say that an election is "the most important of our lives." Don't we hear that every four years? But 2020 is not simply another year. Most of us sense that a functioning, fair democracy is clearly at risk. The decision atop the ballot is one that might save our country, and the down-ballot races are opportunities to make progress toward the nation we want to be. 

It's been more than a century since more than two-thirds of voting-age America turned out for a presidential election, and barely half of us showed up in 2016. We can do better, America--in so many ways--and this year, we must, and we will.  

 

Pandemic postcard #17: Expecto benignitas

Every summer but one since 2003, I have spent the second full week of July at a Unitarian Universalist family camp in Seabeck, WA, gathered with about 250 other people who long ago became dear to me. A norovirus swept through the camp the first year my family was there, sickening many of us. I got a mild case, but I had no question I'd be back the next year and the year after that and the year after that ...

Alas, the past two summers at camp have been a bit bumpy. In 2018, I arrived two weeks to the day after my sweetheart Tom died. It was a hard week, but camp was where I needed to be, especially since it was where Tom and I had fallen in love five years before--and where I had so many good people looking after me and my stepchildren and Tom's first wife, who were also there.

Last year was tough for other reasons. Our 2019 speaker had to leave part way through the week as a family member was near death. I remember with pain how, a day earlier, a young adult friend passionately and publicly called out the speaker (who had cluelessly appropriated a phrase and intonation used mostly by Black people) on his middle-age privileged white guy-ness. Later that day, I told my friend that when someone needs to be corrected, it might be kinder to do so in private rather than in the heat of the moment. One of my favorite quotes comes to mind: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

It was a wearying week in several other ways, and by the end of last year's camp, I had decided it was time to take a year off--a decision cemented by the idea that the July 2020 theme was going to be how our faith's failures to address systemic racism were failing us. My July 2019 mindset was "I've done this work. This isn't why I come to camp." Instead, I signed up for the more lighthearted August arts camp, eager for a sort of reset button.

Now we're all living through much more of a reset than we ever imagined. The 2020 arts camp was canceled altogether, the July camp is online, and I have belatedly signed up. Systemic racism is no longer the topic; as the pandemic took hold and it was still uncertain whether we could gather in person, camp leadership wisely decided to defer that topic to 2022 when we can give it the attention it merits. (Next year's speaker had already been booked.) But in light of this summer's Black Lives Matter uprising, and because this camp is filled with folks fervently seeking justice, it seems likely we'll be wrestling with racism and privilege, and that's as it should be. I just hope we can be kind, especially as we gather over Zoom in these fragile times.

I've been thinking a lot for a few years now about the problems with cancel culture. Publicly shaming people, usually online but sometimes in person, has become rampant--and the malicious person occupying the White House threw gasoline on the flames of cancel culture when he used the phrase in his speech at Mt. Rushmore last weekend, seeking to deepen the already gaping divisions among Americans.

People do and say stupid and spiteful things, often intentionally, sometimes out of ignorance, and we are losing our ability to contextualize and modulate our responses. This "hot take" culture prompted several dozen writers and public intellectuals to sign a letter to Harper's magazine this week--but the letter was dismissed by many because its signatories include J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter books, who has recently made several cruel statements about people who identify as women but weren't born with that gender assignment. Transgender activists and allies have tried to tell Rowling why her comments are harmful, yet she's dug in deeper.

Whether she is transphobic, mean, or simply blinkered, Rowling's motivations are increasingly suspect. At worst, she risks coming off like a version of her detestable character Dolores Umbridge--yet so do the inquisitorial people who wish to unilaterally cancel Rowling and negate her body of work. The Harry Potter books have helped millions of kids (and adults) feel more at home with themselves and with the notion of difference. As long as I've attended July camp, Harry Potter readings have been a fixture after lunch. It'll be interesting to see whether that continues this year. It may be time to retire the tradition, but if so, let's do it in love, not cancellation.

We need an activism that is sustainable and rooted in kindness. We need an activism that is able to sit with discomfort, engage in dialogue, and help people retain the possibility of changing their minds (and publicly admitting they have changed). I want that for J.K. Rowling when she realizes the unnecessary harm she is doing. I want it for myself when I admit I have only just begun to address my white privilege. I want it for everybody who is right now so passionate and sure in their beliefs on any number of topics, but who may come to know years from now that their thoughts, words, and deeds lacked nuance--or were even flat-out wrong. 

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Pandemic postcard #16: Happy Interdependence Day

" ... when it comes to creating a multiracial, multiethnic, multireligious, democratic society, we are still a developing nation." -- Vincent Harding to Krista Tippett, On Being, 2011 (rebroadcast this week)

I used to love the Fourth of July--then 2003 happened. That Independence Day was the first one after our country went to war in Iraq on false pretenses. I was in Casper, Wyoming, visiting family and attending a holiday celebration at the local events center. From the fireworks to the jingoistic music to the diesel-belching monster trucks, it all rubbed me the wrong way. Being in Dick Cheney's hometown didn't help.

Of course, many of us now view the Bush-Cheney era with a mild pang of nostalgia. Things were bad then, but we had no idea how much worse they could get. Tomorrow may be the most divided Independence Day in our 244-year history. Maybe the rancor was worse during the Civil War or Vietnam, but we didn't have 24/7 media saturation to amplify and magnify our differences--and of course, we didn't have a global pandemic.

Ironically, this is also a Fourth of July of more promise than we've had in a long time. A growing majority of us have finally decided to recognize and reckon with the reality that our country was literally built on the backs of once-enslaved people who are not yet totally free, by immigrants, and by indigenous people. The pandemic continues to be a huge challenge, but it is also making us creative and resilient, and the new surge of cases reminds us that science is in charge.

Eighty-five years ago, poet Langston Hughes was riding a train from New York to Ohio when he wrote "Let America Be America Again," his poem noting that for many, our nation's promise has yet to be realized. Eighty-five years later, every word continues to ring true--despite the civil rights victories of the 1960s, despite having had a Black family in the White House, despite the general civility with which most of us live our lives. We still have work to do, and the Fourth of July gives us a chance to commit anew to the cause.

Our break from Britain was a long time ago. Maybe it's time to rename this holiday Interdependence Day as a reminder that we need each other--that, in the words of the Rev. Theresa Soto, "All of us need all of us to make it."

Pandemic postcard #13: Anti-racism as a practice

There is no anti-racist certification class. It's a set of socioeconomic traps and cultural values that are fired up every time we interact with the world. It is a thing you have to keep scooping out of the boat of your life to keep from drowning in it.  -- Scott Woods

It's been another monumental week in America as we wrestle with our trio of pandemics: COVID-19, the recession, and our collective awakening over racism. So many of us now feel the urgency of taking a hard look at the complacency and privilege we have enjoyed for so long. Until two weeks ago, I sometimes thought my anti-racist studies were done, that I had graduated and gotten that certification of allyship. Now, I finally understand that anti-racism is a lifelong practice I must undertake together with every other white person.

We will now--hopefully--be giving this issue its due for some time to come. So just as we can't revert to lax hygiene routines, we must now figure out how to make anti-racism a daily practice. I want to define and pursue that practice for myself. You should, too. No one else can do it for you.

For some people, anti-racism will mean being a physical presence in the streets, calling the structures of power and abuse to account. For others, there will be a more inward journey of reading, writing, reflection, and learning. For many of us, it will mean increasing our support of black-owned businesses and black artists. Perhaps the key thing I've learned this past week is that addressing white supremacy must be an embodied journey--one we inhabit not only in our heads, but in our hearts and in our souls, for privilege and racial harm are deeply lodged in our DNA. (Thanks to the conversation between Resmaa Menakem and Krista Tippett from last week's "On Being" for this knowledge.)

Last Friday night, there was a Black Lives Matter protest at a large park near me in Seattle. I didn't attend, but I wound up there on my early morning walk the next day, as I do on many days. The names of people of color who'd been killed by police were chalked every few feet around the half-mile path around the park. I said their names aloud as I circled the loop in a kind of walking meditation. It felt like a start in what I need to do. Writing this post is another step.

Although I've been reading rafts of essays about racism and privilege and white supremacy over the past fortnight, few statements boil the issue down as well as the passage from Scott Woods that I quote at the top of this post. (You can read the whole 2014 essay it comes from here.) If you're viewing this blog on a desktop, you can scroll down to see a 3-D collage I made in 2016 at the end of a year in Wellspring, a program of deep spiritual reflection I've done twice through my church. It's centered on "a palette of practice" that features the tools and values I try to use regularly in my life. The collage hangs on the wall over my desk, so I see it every day. I took my Sharpie this week and added the words "Bail out your boat."

God of our Being, Spirit of Light and Life, help me see and address my privilege every day. Help all my white brothers and sisters begin to reckon with this reality, one step at a time. After 400 years, we may finally be getting a chance to set things right. Let's not turn away now.

I am a teacher!

One of the things I love about travel is how it helps me be creative and solve problems as they arise. Sometimes, I’ve had to decode a mysterious European lock or appliance, or find well-hidden light switches. Once, I had to use an impromptu game of charades to locate a late-night pharmacy. 

In my 12 days (so far) in Guadalajara, I’ve had many moments of thinking I’ve finally gotten in over my head. I am in a big, intense, unfamiliar city (Mexico’s second largest). Last week, I joined a beginner immersive Spanish class a week after it had started, and it was muy stressful, especially since I had a cold and wasn’t sleeping well. This week, I have begun a four-week course in Teaching English as a Foreign Language, and I am by far the oldest person in my class. (There was one other “mature” student in our cohort, but he bailed out today, on Day 3.) Amazingly, you teach your first class on the third day. That was today. 

For my first class, I had to help the students review future passive tense, which I rarely use myself. I had to look it up to remember what it means. To top it off, I had to do lesson plans today for my first two classes since the second is at 8 a.m. tomorrow.

It’s been an anxious week. But now I feel like, OK, I’ve got this. 

Mr. Ruiz, a really popular and good teacher, observed my first class, the one on future perfect, for an intermediate-level class of young adults. The theme was outer space, and over the course of the class, the students needed to decide who among them would be sent back to Earth. I’d written a lesson plan for a class of seven students, but when I arrived,  there were only five, so I had to adapt on the fly—and I did. 

In the first part of the class, I had the students talk about the positives and negatives of being an astronaut. Risk was one factor they cited, and I was able to tell them the sad story of the Challenger—as well as introduce the word “quarantine,” an experience the early astronauts had upon their return to Earth, and a concept in the news again now with the coronavirus. 

Next, I had the students talk in two groups to justify their jobs. As they talked, I had an idea to hold a secret ballot among the whole group, since it was so small. All five voted to jettison the psychologist rather than the engineer or the captain— so I got to teach the word unanimous! It was interesting to see how the class became a blend of activities I’d planned and spontaneous actions. 

At my review session, Mr. Ruiz asked how I’d rate myself and I said about a 6. “Why so low?” he asked. I mainly felt like I had plenty of room to improve. So I was a little surprised but very happy when he gave me a score of 9 out of 10! He was very complimentary of my classroom management, board use, demeanor, my low TTT (teacher talk time)—even my handwriting! One of my students, Cynthia, said it was a great class, which Mr. Ruiz said is the best compliment you can get. 

Mr. Ruiz noted that my future scores will go up and down since some classes are harder than others. His main piece of advice was that I could rely on students in a higher-level class to explain even more—to paraphrase instructions instead of simply reading them, for example. 

So my first class is behind me—and by lunchtime tomorrow, I will have taught another, and then about a dozen more over the next three weeks. I have no idea what I might do with my TEFL credential, or where I will wind up using it. But even with just one day of teaching behind me, I feel newly confident that this was a good idea. I will do something good with this new skill, something to help people achieve their goals—and something to give my own life new purpose and meaning. 

Live and learn

My theme word for 2020 is learn. I was inspired to pick a word for the year by Tim Atkins, who wrote about how he's chosen one each year for a few years now. "I started this practice five years ago, and it’s changed my life," he says. "It becomes a mantra I meditate on throughout the year. When I’m questioning what’s the right thing to do, I will look to my word of the year for guidance."

Learn was an easy choice for me for this year. Later this month, I'll be traveling to Mexico to learn how to teach English as a foreign language. It's an intensive program and I haven't been in a classroom for a long time. I have to admit I'm feeling a little intimidated; although I have made a living as a writer and editor for many decades, I am not the world's greatest grammarian. I think I missed the day we learned how to diagram sentences back in middle school, and I'm not at all sure I can explain the finer points of adverbs. But that's why I am taking the TEFL class. I look forward to learning more about my own language so I can help others learn it, too.

On January 1, I walked the Golden Gate Bridge with my brother and several friends. One of them, Felicia, compiles a list each year of new experiences she wants to try in her beloved Bay Area region. With that as an inspiration, I am making a list, too. Here are eight* experiences and activities I plan to try in 2020:

Learning to teach English as a foreign language. 
Improving my Spanish.
Trying a new art activity.
Volunteering at Treefort, Boise's big spring music festival.
Going to a professional soccer game.
Seeing a concert at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley, Calif. (which will give me another excuse to visit my Bay Area family).
Taking a solo road trip around the Olympic Peninsula.

*This is a bonus one: I may go to Alaska. (If not in 2020, I'll aim for 2021.) I've been to all 50 states but four: Alaska, Alabama, Mississippi, and South Carolina. I want to get to them all by the time I turn 60. 

Before I close, I'd also like to celebrate a few things I did in 2019: I re-read all the Harry Potter books, learned to make Greek yogurt in a crockpot, went camping by myself for the first time in decades, walked an average of four miles a day, visited Ireland for the first time, saw my cousins at Christmas for the first time in decades, spent 10 nights on a train, and made progress in mending a broken heart. It was a good year.

I wish you a bright new year of living and learning.

Laugh is another word I plan to hold close for 2020. The older I get, the more comfortable I am not taking things so seriously--especially myself.