Why I Stay

Every person who wasn't born and/or raised in Alaska has a story of how they got here: a job, a partner, a vacation that turned into real life, whatever.

In August 2003, I wrote my mom a long, handwritten letter on the plane back from Bethel, a rural city off the road system and the only place I had lived in the state up to that point.

I cried as I explained why I was in love with Alaska and why I was going to live there no matter what. Fat little tears smudged the ink on the page, and I knew I wasn't ever going back to the East Coast or anywhere else "Outside."

Not if I could help it, anyway.

I miss my friends and my family, of course. Many of them (mostly those who haven't visited yet or who only know about Alaska from Sarah Palin and reality TV) want to know why I stay here.

Here's why.

I stay because the people here will do anything for you, when you ask for what you need, and sometimes even when you don't.

I stay because I get to do things professionally that I could never do anywhere else at this point in my career.

I stay because the open wilderness is literally right outside my door, even if I get out in it a whole lot less often than I would like to.

I stay because the women here are my idols in competency: they drive boats and grow things and have a million practical skills I can only aspire to.

I stay because my kids are happy and rooted here now.

I stay because the weather is bad most of the time, but when it's good, in winter or summer, it's amazing.

I stay because no one here really seems to care where you went to school, or what you do for work, or how much money you make, or what you paid for your house, or what you are wearing.

I stay for my friends here, and for my kids' friends.

I stay because it's big enough to get lost and small enough to make a difference.

I stay because of the community and the authenticity of the people and the wildness of this place.

Nowhere is perfect, and nothing is forever. I don't suffer any delusions that Alaska is either one of those things. But it's as close to both as anywhere I've ever been, and that's why I stay.

Why?

Why did the dinosaurs go extinct?
Why do grown-ups’ armpits stink?
Why are we out of eggs today?
Why do people like to pray?
Why is that man so big and fat?
Why does the earth feel like it’s flat?
Why do we have to go to school?
Why is there doody in the pool?
Why is the garbage truck so loud?
Why has the snow not yet been plowed?
Why is Venus in outer space?
Why are there eyebrows on my face?
Why are all sharks vertebrates?
Why can’t I stay up extra late?
Why can’t I do an experiment?
Why can’t we light candles in a tent?
Why is England next to France?
Why is there a hole in the knee of my pants?

Why do worms live underground?

Why can't that toy I lost be found?
Why are nickels bigger than dimes?
Why are you sighing all the time?
Why can't men wear skirts to work?
Why did you call that guy a jerk?
Why do pickles taste like salt?
Why was the Holocaust Hitler’s fault?
Why is my Bandaid coming off?
Why do puppies sometimes cough?
Why is throwing up so scary?
Why is mom's vagina hairy?
Why are subways fast as lightening?
Why is Finding Nemo frightening?
Why did my classroom turtle die?
Why is that woman wearing a tie?
Why is a man sleeping on the street?
Why is that kid allergic to wheat?
Why can’t I have more Lego sets?
Why do people smoke cigarettes?
Why don’t Jews have Christmas trees?
Why don’t you buy us processed cheese?
Why are they singing about getting high?

Why does rain fall from the sky?
Why do parents get divorced?
Why do police use too much force?
Why do soldiers fight in wars?
Why don't we knock on strangers' doors?
Why do we need to brush our hair?
Why do we have to sit in this chair?
Why do kids lose all their teeth?
Why did they name their baby Keith?
Why does mom love vodka sours?
Why does this plane ride take six hours?
Why is there vanilla in macaroons?
Why do caterpillars make cocoons?
Why did Martin Luther King get shot?
Why is this lasagna hot?
Why are people politicians?
Why doesn't grandpa become a magician?
Why is Alaska wet and cold?
Why do people shrivel up when they're old?
Why do volcanoes sometimes explode?
Why are we driving down this road?
Why do people make big bombs?
Why do some kids have two moms?
Why do pigs play in the dirt?
Why is there nothing for dessert?
Why are we going out for dinner?
Why can't I be the "Go Fish" winner?
Why is Newark in New Jersey?
Why are camels never thirsty?
Why is a zillion such a big number?
Why are there seeds in a cucumber?
Why does cottage cheese have lumps?
Why do eagles like garbage dumps?
Why is the ocean deep and blue?
Why does three come after two?
Why do you look like you want to cry?
Every time I ask you . . . “WHY?”

Why I Stay Part II (Crisis/Mantra Edition)

One of the most-read O.H.M. blog posts of all time was this one from February 4, 2015, called "Why I Stay." 

About 20,000 people (mostly Alaskans, I assume) read and shared this post, presumably because they could relate to the reasons I cited for wanting to live, work, and raise my kids in Alaska. Among the reasons listed there, two continue to resonate: that my kids are rooted here, and that Alaska is big enough to get lost in, but still small enough to make a difference. 

Obviously a lot has changed since 2015. But these two reasons for sticking with Alaska amid the current political/fiscal gyre are deeply intertwined, and they ring truer for me now than they did even four years ago. 

Life in Juneau is the only life my kids have ever known: they were born here, they love it here, all of their friends are here. And while I know they would probably thrive anywhere, I don't want to uproot them in the middle of their childhoods just because few powerful men who don't endorse my constitutionally-protected speech illegally fired me from my job. I'm determined to stay put and get beyond that, for my kids, if nothing else.

Which brings me to the next reason I stay: that Alaska is big enough to get lost in, yet still small enough to make a difference. 

Even as the state bakes under a heat greater than any in recorded history, the result of decades of slavish devotion to nearly unfettered resource extraction, I am still awed by the landscape here. The glaciers are smaller, the fish are less abundant, and the sky is hazy with wildfire smoke. Even the loudest climate change deniers cannot plausibly dismiss these realities any longer. 

Yet we still go out on the water, bike to the glacier, or hike into the alpine just to get a little bit lost.

It's in these places that I do my best thinking, and I consider the cost-benefit analysis of continuing to stay somewhere that I am clearly not wanted by a lot of powerful people. 

I have watched with grief and dismay the flagrant violations of constitutional doctrines, ethics, and norms that I previously took for granted; the deliberate starving and purging of intellect and expertise from our state because critical thinking and ethical conduct pose an existential threat to vested corporate interests. The persistent effort by our national government--mimicked now quite aptly at the state level--to make Alaskans meaner, dumber, sicker, more afraid, and gone. 

Yes, the budget vetoes will do more than hemorrhage jobs and brains, disappearing people in that way; they may actually kill people like seniors, the homeless, and Medicaid recipients--disappearing them not just from Alaska, but from life altogether.

Living here is a conscious decision every day. It's hard on many levels. I have to revisit that choice periodically. I've revisited it repeatedly over the past few months and I still want to call Alaska home, because I believe Alaska is a unique place that is worth fighting for. 

I strive to remain kind, smart, healthy, fearless, and rooted precisely because I am being pushed to the brink of the exact opposite of all of those things, and because I want to set a good example for my children and at least try to leave them a state and a planet that I feel okay about.

It is deeply draining, depressing, tiring, and unnerving to live under the normalized cruelty and sadism we have experienced since 2016. Nothing makes sense anymore. We don't know who to trust or what information is real. Some of our closest relationships have fractured, perhaps irreparably. Empathy feels more endangered than winter. And so I have a new mantra that I am applying not just to my choice to stay in Alaska, but to my life in general:

Take care of yourself because they want you to be sick. Read because they want you to be ignorant. Be kind to each other and seek common ground, because they want you to be mean and divided. Be brave because they want you to be afraid. And stay and fight for the place you want to live--whether that's Alaska or somewhere else--precisely because they want you to retreat and disappear.

Doing those small things alone, I think, can make a big difference.

Herbert Glacier, Juneau, AK, July 2019

Choosing Alaska

Yesterday, the ADN profiled a young Juneau couple who is leaving Alaska after four years because "they see a downturn coming and they don't trust the Legislature to handle it." The couple, a university economist and a massage therapist, are "highly trained people with marketable skills" who "can go where they want, when they want," and are choosing to leave. The point of the op-ed, I think, was that legislative cuts impacting an educated professional class result in a brain drain, which in turn drags down the economy. 

I have no idea if that's true or not (I'm not an economist) and I don't know the featured couple personally, but the comments on the op-ed were predictably harsh and hostile. Stuff like, "don't let the door hit you on the way out," and "can afford to move when things get tight, still complains. Just leave if you're gonna leave or stay and help us fix it." 

I'm ashamed to admit I felt a small twinge of these same sentiments, so I asked myself why. 

A hard part of living in this state is watching people come and go. It's difficult to invest in friendships and professional relationships when you know it's likely people will leave. When you're committed to living here--whether it's because you have to or because you want to--it feels like a personal indictment when someone moves. You feel a little abandoned and put-off, like: Oh, I see. Alaska is good enough for me and my kids, but it's not good enough for you? Screw you then! It makes you bristle, shut down, and feel angry and judgmental.

I confess I've felt all of these things at various points in my 11 years of living here, but ultimately I know that's my own issue, and I don't judge people for their choices. It's not a simple matter of loyalty; people have all kinds of reasons for leaving Alaska: family obligations or new opportunities Outside, the high cost of living in the state, its weather, its isolation, emotional baggage. All people must make careful, highly individualized evaluations of their lives and make the decisions that are right for them and their families, personally and financially, at any given moment in time.

I have a graduate-level education and (presumably) the ability to move if I wanted to, and my job is also subject to the whims of the Legislature. But I don't want to move, and I don't plan to. 

One of the most-read posts on O.H.M. is this one about why I choose to stay here, and it feels more relevant than ever. It pretty much sums up the reasons why I think Alaska is a special and unique place, and why I don't want or plan to leave. Even with a bleak economic forecast, and even though I'm indisputably one of the deeply-maligned-by-ADN-commenters-professionals-with-supposed-options.

There are intangible benefits you get from living here that you can't monetize or otherwise put a price tag on: Access to the outdoors; a lack of materialism and acquisitiveness; a lifestyle where you don't have to sit in traffic and commute for hours; quirky, supportive communities of people who share your values. In short, things you can't easily find in the Lower-48, no matter how great the next job is.

All economies are volatile, perhaps ours more so than some others. To be sure, it's not always easy to live here, and the latest doom-and-gloom economic outlook paired with prospective legislative gridlock is simply one more reason why. Alaska doesn't work for lots of people, for lots of different reasons, and that's okay. Maybe it will stop working for me someday too. Who knows. All I know now is that every time I come home to Alaska, I feel like I'm in the right place for me and my family. 

And that's why, each day and for as long as I can, I will continue to choose Alaska.

Song Lyrics I Never Want to Hear My Children Singing Out Loud

Regular readers of O.H.M. know that I generally reject censorship. In my opinion, censorship is a slippery slope that leads straight to democracy's erosion, which is why I practice bluntness and don't generally try to shield my kids from the written or spoken word.

That being said, popular song lyrics have come a long way since the 1952 hit, "How Much is That Doggie in the Window?" Now when you turn on the radio, you never know what you're going to get, but you can bet it's going to be something disturbing, especially something disturbing sung by and about women and girls.

Despite my condemnation of censorship, I find myself turning down the dial on my car radio when I am shuttling my kids around, because I frankly don't want to invite a conversation about (or repetition of) lyrics like this, all of which I've heard on the radio in the past week alone:

From "Habits" by Tove Lo

I eat my dinner in my bathtub
Then I go to sex clubs
Watching freaky people gettin' it on
It doesn't make me nervous
If anything I'm restless
Yeah, I've been around and I've seen it all

I get home, I got the munchies
Binge on all my Twinkies
Throw up in the tub
Then I go to sleep
And I drank up all my money
Dazed and kinda lonely

You're gone and I gotta stay
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
High all the time
To keep you off my mind
Spend my days locked in a haze
Trying to forget you babe
I fall back down
Gotta stay high all my life
To forget I'm missing you

Pick up daddies at the playground
How I spend my day time
Loosen up the frown,
Make them feel alive
Oh, make it fast and greasy
I'm numb and way too easy ...

I'm pretty sure my kids have heard this song several times and have asked why someone would be barfing up Twinkies in a bathtub. Thankfully, they haven't yet asked about picking up daddies at a playground or drinking up all their money or staying high all the time or making quote-unquote "it" quote-unquote "fast and greasy." Because children are very literal-minded, to the extent they are even listening to these words I suspect they're imagining literally drinking money, being high up in the sky, and physically picking up dads on a playground. It's probably just nonsense to them at this point. Still, I don't want either of my kids getting any ideas about their future conduct from this song. It's bad enough to contemplate the prospect of them doing one semester of community college after knocking someone up/getting knocked up at 17. Terrifying!

From "Milkshake" by Kelis

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard
And they're like It's better than yours,
Damn right it's better than yours,
I can teach you,
But I have to charge
I know you want it,
The thing that makes me,
What the guys go crazy for.
They lose their minds,
The way I wind,
I think its time.

Suffice it to say that I really don't want my daughter bringing ANY milkshake to any yard. Especially not a milkshake from McDonald's, because they are full of sugar and chemicals. And I definitely don't want her bringing her metaphorical milkshake and using it to summon boys to a yard. And then I especially don't want her charging a fee for Christ's sake, so that she can teach all of her peers her solid milkshake game that will make guys "lose their minds." Again, terrifying.

From "Don't Cha" by The Pussycat Dolls

Ya see this shit get hot
Everytime I come through when I step up in the spot (are you ready)
Make the place sizzle like a summertime cookout
Prowl for the best chick
Yes I'm on the lookout (let's dance)
Slow banging shorty like a belly dancer with it
Smell good, pretty skin, so gangsta with it (oh, baby)
No tricks only diamonds under my sleeve
Gimme the number
But make sure you call before you leave

I know you like me (I know you like me)
I know you do (I know you do)
That's why whenever I come around
She's all over you (she's all over you)
I know you want it (I know you want it)
It's easy to see (it's easy to see)
And in the back of your mind
I know you should be on with me (babe)

Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?
Don't cha?
Don't cha?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me?
Don't cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me?
Don't cha?
Don't cha?

Now. Aside from the serious grammatical problems with this song, it doesn't exactly send the best message. I don't want my daughter out there bragging and competing for male attention, much less by bragging about being a hot, raw, "freak." That scares the living crap out of me. I kind of want to write to the parents of all The Pussycat Dolls so I can figure out where things went off the rails here and do whatever it takes not to repeat it.

From "All About that Bass" By Meghan Trainor

Because you know I'm all about that bass,
'Bout that bass, no treble
I'm all 'bout that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble
I'm all 'bout that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble
I'm all 'bout that bass, 'bout that bass
Yeah it's pretty clear, I ain't no size two
But I can shake it, shake it like I'm supposed to do
'Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
All the right junk in all the right places
I see the magazines working that Photoshop
We know that shit ain't real
Come on now, make it stop
If you got beauty beauty just raise 'em up
'Cause every inch of you is perfect
From the bottom to the top
Yeah, my momma she told me don't worry about your size
She says, boys they like a little more booty to hold at night
You know I won't be no stick-figure, silicone Barbie doll,
So, if that's what's you're into
Then go ahead and move along
I'm bringing booty back
Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches hey
No, I'm just playing I know you think you're fat,
But I'm here to tell you,
Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top
Yeah, my momma she told me don't worry about your size
She says, boys they like a little more booty to hold at night
You know I won't be no stick-figure, silicone Barbie doll ...

Paige actually loves this song and asks me to find it and play it for her, even when it's not on the radio. She tells me she wants to hear "that song about having a big butt." Obviously she gets the basic message of the song, which celebrates a positive body image, and I certainly support that. 

Still. Do I need my child contemplating having "junk in all the right places" and condemning "skinny bitches" and thinking about boys holding onto her "junk" at night? Uh, no! For fuck's sake, I do not need that.

I'm not sure what the answer is, or what it says about our culture that all of these very popular songs seem to create and celebrate a highly sexualized version of women and girls that I plan to do everything in my power from validating in my own kids' lives. 

I mean, where is the song about the nerdy girl who grows up to be a civil engineer? I want a song about how a girl aced her statistics final and celebrated by filling out a Fulbright application!

Accordingly, the next time I hear one of these songs, I'll just dust off my old 2 Live Crew tapes and load 'em up. 

That should help matters. Right?

Measuring Up

The older Paige gets, the more I continue to reckon with a "problem" that is not really a problem to anyone but me, and to people whose opinions don't matter. Hopefully it won't be a "problem" forever. 

I want to get to the point where I no longer worry or care about my daughter's weight, or think of it as problematic. This is an incredible struggle for me, which in part is why I write about it frequently, and why I hope Paige reads everything I've written about all of this someday.

Paige is a big girl. There's no doubt about that. She's 8 and a half, and already 4"6 and almost 100 pounds. This is her genetic blueprint, as much as blue eyes, straight hair, and freckles are. She is incredibly active with healthy (if enthusiastic) eating habits, and my number one goal in parenting her is to make sure she stays that way.

I don't want her to end up like me: Weighing herself every morning, bringing a bathroom scale on a three-day business trip, criticizing and hating her body at every weight, enduring a chorus of criticism from within her own household, thinking about every calorie she consumes to the exclusion of far more consequential thoughts, spending her 20's struggling to overcome two different eating disorders.

I don't want any of that for her. I won't contribute to it. This is like a mantra I have to keep repeating to myself in order to stay the course.

I refuse to let adults criticize Paige's weight--to her face or behind her back--without intervening and objecting. I want them to understand what I've come to know is true: that Paige's weight is her weight, like her height is her height. They should be able to see that anyway just by looking at her brother, who is growing up in the same household with the same genes, yet has the opposite body type. 

This weekend I took Paige to a friend's house to help get measurements taken for an upcoming wedding. My heart sank as my friend read the numbers out loud off the tape measure. Those numbers told me this was all going to get worse before it gets better. That life was going to be "hard" for Paige, especially later in her teen years when she inevitably gets even bigger, and figures out that society won't let her wear the same clothes as her peers. 

I see her look in the mirror every day with so much confidence, but it's already almost impossible to find her clothes that fit. She already worries a little bit about being fat. She already talks about it in slightly anxious tones, like a dismal gray storm cloud preceding an emotional thunderstorm. 

Years and years of pain associated with this shit built up behind my eyes as I jotted down numbers. I started to cry and tried to hide it. Then I stopped myself, and I hated myself for worrying about this. I told myself the same thing I do every time these thoughts creep into my mind. 

My mantra.

I remember a great book I read that encouraged me to overcome my own body bigotry in service of parenting my "overweight" child successfully. I remember a This American Life podcast I listened to, in which successful women like Lindy West celebrate being fat and insist their bodies aren't just temporarily deformed weigh stations, so to speak, en route to being the thin woman (read: sexual commodity) they were always meant to be.

Paige is not meant to be thin. I know this in the way I know she's good at math and a great friend. She is about so much more than her body. She measures up in so many ways that matter, and in this one way that doesn't matter at all. She will not be a one-dimensional sex object always striving to meet society's paradigms of beauty.

That is my mantra, and I am in perpetual search of the courage to truly believe it. 

Courage to overcome my own entrenched body issues, shame, and stigma, and to keep reminding myself, every day if I have to, that I will not let Paige's weight dictate the measure of her worth. 

Not in my eyes anyway, and not in hers.

I don't always do a good job of this. Sometimes I fail miserably and wonder if I've just undone all my careful work. Sometimes I lose control, and accidentally criticize Paige for eating too much, or insist that she wear something that fits her better because her belly is sticking out and I am secretly embarrassed for her, even though she's blissfully unaware that there is anything "wrong" with her body; because of course there's not. 

She's so much smarter than me in this way. She knows better. I hope she forgets and forgives me these lapses.

It's easier said than done to reverse 38 years of female body shaming and break the cycle of that bullshit once and for all with your own daughter. But I have to do it, because I know that Paige's happiness and the sanctity of our relationship depend on it. This is too important for me to screw up.

The quality of our relationship and the level of Paige's self-esteem. Those are the only two measurements I should care about.

I'm trying. I really am.

What Do My/Our Google Searches Say About Me/Us?

So this is actually a kind of amazing thing I did last night after my kids went to sleep, 'cause I'm a total baller.

A fascinating and well-worth-your-time time waster is to type the first three words of a question into Google and see what comes up. I don't know jack about tech, so I don't know how this works, but I assume it's not always the same for everyone. In other words, I assume Google has your proverbial number, somehow, in that Big Brother way it has of knowing what you are curious about. 

However, I REALLY hope I'm wrong, because THIS is what happened when I typed the following one to three word "question" words into Google:

Is it Normal . . . 

To miss a period?
To poop blood?
To have discharge?
To bleed during pregnancy?
To talk to yourself?

Is it Abnormal . . .
To have no friends?
To urinate every hour?
To talk to yourself?
To bleed between periods?

Why Do I . . .
Have diarrhea?
Pee so much?
Crave salt?
Love you?
Waste so much time?

How Can I . . . 

Keep from singing?

It be?
Make money?
Investors receive compounding returns?

Where Is . . .
My refund?
The super bowl?
Potomac?
Cam Newton from?

Is there . . .

School today?
DNA in sweat?

A garland Alaska?

Life on Mars?

Who is ...

Kylo Ren?
Credited with the creation of plainsong?

Snoke?

What is ...

My IP?

Dabbing?

Uber?
Federalism?

Why Cant' I . . .

Cry?
Focus?

Find a job?

Why Can I . . .

Not sleep?

See the moon during the day?
Feel my heartbeat?

Not poop?

Why Do I Always . . .

Feel tired?
Have gas?
Feel hungry?
Have to pee?

Why Do I Never . . . 

Get sick?
Feel full?
Feel hungry?
Want to have sex?

Will I Ever . . .

Find love?

Be happy?
Be good enough?
Get a boyfriend?

Will I Never . . .

Get married?

Find a job?

Ever find love?
Hear from him again?

When Will I . . .

Die?

It Snow?

See you again?

Ovulate?

When Should I . . .

Wake up?
Take a pregnancy test?

Take creatine?

Take the GRE?

How Often Should I . . .

Pump?

Work out?
Shower?
Rotate my tires?

Why Should I . . .

Hire you?

Vote?

Live?

Drink water?

Should I . . .

Upgrade to Windows 10?

Stay or go?

Remove it?

Get a flu shot?

Why Shouldn't . . .

Minimum wage be raised?

I die?

We hire you?

School start later?

Do I Have . . .

Depression?
To file taxes?
ADHD?

Diabetes?

How Come . . .

I'm dead?

If in fact these are generalized Google search responses, my sense of relief in life just went through the roof. If not, I'm back to square one.

Thanks for Inviting Me!

Hi! Thanks SO much for inviting me to stay at your house for the weekend!

A few little questions first, though: Do you have a cat, dog, rabbit, guinea pig, or anything else with fur? Yes? Why? Uh oh. Well . . . see . . . how do I say this ... well . . . that means I can't be inside your house for more than ten minutes or I'll basically stop breathing. It's actually not just the fur itself. It's also the dried-up spit ON the fur! Who knew? I fucking love science! 

Also: have you heard of dust mites? No? Weeeeell . . . they're like these little itty bitty microscopic bugs that live on every particle of dust no matter how clean your house is. They are pretty cool looking. See? I even found a picture of one. Anyyyyywayyyy, it might help if you washed and vacuumed every surface in your house. But I don't want to impose and make you get your whole house professionally steam-cleaned, specifically every single fabric surface. Because that costs a lot of money and usually doesn't work anyway. That's why I say it "might" help.

Oh, you're so sweet! But seriously, you don't need to keep saying "bless you." You can dispense with that formality. 'Cause I'll be sneezing a lot. Does this happen to me everyday? Oh yes. Definitely! Yes, I take medicine for that, all day and night. Like, way more than the recommended dose. I actually can't believe my liver still works. No, the medicines don't work. Yes, really. What exactly am I allergic to? So glad you asked! No one's ever asked me that before and I've had the answer on the tip of my tongue all these years, and have been dying to explain it. Does it grow or live? Is it microscopic? Does it touch my skin? Yes? Well then I'm allergic to it. Oh and here's the kicker: new things are added and deleted all the time. It's like my immune system is a biological version of Microsoft Word track changes. It keeps things interesting though, because you never know what's gonna happen next! Wouldn't trade it for the world, seriously.

Anyyyhoooo, whatever it is, it makes me sneeze, gives me hives or blisters, makes my eyes water and swell up into two little balloons, and causes my throat to slowly constrict until I start to wheeze and panic and reach for my inhaler. Yes, I've gotten shots. Yes, I have an epi pen. (It's super fun to jam an epi-pen into your thigh, by the way. Remember when you waited tables back in college? Well, the adrenaline rush of an epi-pen is JUST like that feeling you get right before you're about to drop a huge tray of dishes during the dinner rush, except it lasts a little longer). Yes, I've been to an allergist (or five). Yes, I've tried acupuncture and yoga and elimination diets and essential oils from Tibet. They are all completely awesome. Except for the one teensy tiny problem that they work approximately zero percent of the time.

Oh. I almost forgot. Are there down feathers anywhere on or near the bed I'll be sleeping in? Hmm. Uh-oh. Ok. Well  . . . you'll need to take all of that out. And also wash all the sheets that touched the feathers because, well, hahaha,  you've gotta see it to believe it, but those feathers sure make me sneeze! And also: if I could just ask you to please encase the mattress and pillowcases in these special plastic sheaths that feel like you're sleeping on a diaper? You can find them at a medical supply store. That helps too.

Groceries? Let's see. Well, I haven't really eaten gluten or dairy since 2009, although I have no idea if that's even helping. I basically just desperately experiment with my diet to see if I can get my skin to stop cracking off my body and breaking out in blistering rashes all the time. For the past few years, I've been pretending that not eating wheat and dairy is making a difference. So far the placebo effect is totally working! Thanks SO much for supporting my delusion. I also generally stay away from shellfish because like every third time I eat it my whole body explodes. Everything else is totally fine.

Oh no thanks, I don't need a tissue. I'll take a paper towel though. Thanks again!

My House is a Shit Hole

No really, it's that simple. I can't tell you how many times per day I say that sentence out loud. I try to stay on top of the mess. Or to quote Homer Simpson, I "try to try." But like Sisyphus with his boulder, I "clean" my house repeatedly only to watch it descend into entropy again in under six hours. I put "clean" in quotes, because I'm really not a neat person. In fact, I have a pretty high tolerance for mess. But even my lengthy rope has an end. That end generally comes when the state of my kids' bedrooms rivals an archaeological dig; the sink is brimming with visible crusts of bread and other offal; two full loads of clean laundry await "folding," with another load each in the washer/dryer; and the bathroom looks like a Superfund site courtesy of Colgate.

It's at this point that I begin to silently ask myself a series of self-persecuting questions: Why do we have so much shit? Where did it all come from? Does its very existence make me a terrible person? How can we get rid of it? Can we burn it? Where can we burn it? Why are my children animals? Why do they never listen to me? Why can't I just clean the bathroom at night instead of watching Forensic Files and eating ice cream on the couch? Why can't I make my kids clean their rooms? Why won't they pick up their shit no matter how hard I try to make them? Why am I such a bad parent? Why do they not, as Eric Cartman would say, respect my authoritah?! What kind of citizens will they become? Was I like this as a child? Will they live in abject squalor their entire lives and contract tuberculosis as a result? Will they ever respect anything or anyone in the whole entire universe? Will they do hard time in a maximum-security federal prison...?

Next, my mental pendulum swings back wildly from delusional self-persecution to sanctimonious self-justification: It's okay! I'm completely awesome! My kids are completely awesome! There are more important ways to spend our time! Let's pick some other battle--a real one! One that matters! Cleaning is for people with a zillion dollars and/or nothing better to do! We will get rid of all this stuff next spring! It's not your fault! A messy house is a sign of a happy family! Yay, Harvard at 16! And so on. I'll leave you with an "after photo" of that one time when Paige "tried to try" to clean her room, successfully exposing carpet for the first time in weeks. Damn, that shit brings a tear of pride to a mother's eye. And it's Homer Simpson for the win.

Celebrity Tweet Critiques

The post I did yesterday about why I stay in Alaska was not well-received by at least one good New York friend, who continues to insist that she will visit only to help me pack up my house and return to New York "where I belong." 

This friend has mixed credibility, however, because she introduced me to both the Hitachi Magic Wand (good recommendation) and the $300 Isagenix "system" of "health shakes" that almost made me shit my pants and did in fact make me vomit after "eating" two of the "amazing" shakes (bad recommendation). (See prior post titled: "Why Do I Do These Things to Myself?").

But I must give credit where credit is due, and also repent for traumatizing her by confessing that I'm never living in New York again of my own volition. That's why I'm sharing this Pulitzer-Prize worthy piece of reporting she sent me from none other than the esteemed HuffPost regarding Kim Kardashian's private screening of Fifty Shades of Grey.

This got me thinking about other celebrities, and the various things they might review and critique that the HuffPost would want to report on. I'm pretty sure they would look something like this:

@JimCarrey: Just made another stupid and hideous mug for a camera! OMG I am soooooo funny! #myexwifeisafuckinglunaticplayboyplaymatewhothinkssheworksforthecdc #Worst.Actor.Ever.

@AdamSandler: Why did it take an act of terrorism for Sony to admit out how hard I suck? OMG my movies are sooooooooooooooo bad!!!! #shampooisbetter #conditionerisbetter #robschneiderisevenworsethanjimcarreyandworsethaneiethershampooorconditioner

@GwynethPaltrow: OMG I am eating Dominoes cheesy bread right now and it is sooooooooooooooo delicious! #betterthanajuicecleanse #processedpizzacleanse #newcookbook #imtwinswithabroomstick

@MelGibson: OMG I just punched my ex-girlfriend in the face in the foyer of The Holocaust Museum and it was sooooooooooo embarrassing! #iamscum #andalsoverycrazy #nothinggoodsincelethalweapon

@TomCruise: Just filed a new gazillion dollar lawsuit against the producers of that anti-Scientology movie. OMG we are gonna make soooooooooooooo much money! #jumpingonacouch #brandnewliftsinmyshoes

@AdamLevine: OMG @peoplemagazine just named me sexiest man alive! Too bad my music is still sooooooooooooooo shitty! #uberdouche #withasignaturefragrance

@GeraldoRivera: OMG my salt and pepper handlebar moustache is soooooooooooo awesome! I can't believe I still manage to get myself on TV! #thisguyisliterallythemostfamousalumnusofmylawschool #holyshitthatisembarrassing

@DuchessKate: Put on another skirt suit and wedges, cut some more ribbons, and blinded someone with my teeth. OMG this job is soooooooooooo boring #ineedout #cantbelieveisignedupforthis #livingmannequin

Positively Powerful

Some folks have asked for the text of my speech at the Juneau women’s march yesterday. Here it is along with a photo and a screenshot and a transcription of a letter from the man who inspired it, my grandpa.

I never met my grandfather. His name was Alexander Cournos, and he died in 1948 at the age of 56, when my mother was three years old.

But he was a criminal and a felon.

He served four years of a ten year sentence at Leavenworth, a federal prison in Kansas, from 1917 to 1921. He refused to take a plea deal from the government and contracted tuberculosis while incarcerated. His mugshot is the only photograph we have of him.

His crime? Union organizing.

He and 30 co-defendants were prosecuted and convicted in less than two hours under the federal Espionage and Sedition Acts, for undermining the war effort and advocating industrial sabotage by organizing copper miners during World War I.

My grandfather’s letters to his mother from prison live in the Labor Archives in Detroit. In those letters, he explains his principled stance on the labor movement, and why he chose to go to jail rather than promise the government he would stop union organizing.

I have this man’s blood running through my veins, and I think of him every time I feel afraid.

Because it is not easy to stay positive, loud, and powerful when the whole world wants you to be negative, powerless, and mute. I tell myself, if my grandfather could go through all of that for what he knew was right, and for what this country subsequently recognized in law as right, then certainly I can put a little bit of skin in this game.

I can take some personal and professional risks. I can endure threats to my job, and even threats to my body, and I have, and I do. Why?

Because I am not afraid. 

I have a secret to share with all of you. Fear is a petty bully. Fear is weak. And it can be conquered by two weapons that each of us has within ourselves: our time, and our voices.

How we use our time, how we use our voices, is our rebuke to fear. This is not a political statement. This is a human statement. We are living in a time that transcends politics. This is not politics, what is happening now. And you know what? That's a good thing. It’s a once-in-a lifetime opportunity to stand for human rights and the protection of our constitutional democracy. It’s a unique moment to speak up for social justice. For what’s right and wrong. These principles are being tested daily, and you are all standing here because you know it.

And guess what? You're right. We're right.

You can do this. WE can do this. We can stay positive and powerful even when it feels like the entire world—even our friends and families—are gaslighting us by telling us we are wrong and careless and irresponsible and we should shut up and go away.

We have that power within each of us. We have that within ourselves. We might feel beaten down and demoralized by this past year, but we have to keep going, and we have to keep fighting. We KNOW the difference between right and wrong. We KNOW what we see with our own eyes. We have agency over how we use our time and our voices.

And nothing—least of all fear—is going to stop us.

Leavenworth, Kansas, July 4, 1921

Dearest Mother,

It grieves me to think that you place more confidence in the logic and statements of others, who have shown themselves indifferent or hostile to your and my interests, rather than in what I say. To take two flagrant examples:  you believe e.g. that we are each striving to be last and that we are infatuated with the place, even the tubercular patients being so infatuated with it as to prefer it to going to a better climate and being better taken care of.

Yet, after all, if one cares to stay here, it would not be hard to prolong one's stay or to come back. But, it hurts me especially to think you consider me so callous or cruel and inconsiderate of you that I prefer to stay here either for someone else's praise or because I love the place or for any of the other base, ignoble, or despicable motives that have been suggested in the past.

And these from people who, if they had stood fast, we would have been out a year ago at least, if not considerably earlier. Nor have they hesitated to spread the most horrible ideas to hinder the campaigns in our behalf and to encourage propositions that can result only in keeping us here.

To take one instance, they have said that one group was guilty of actual crime; Senator Reffer's report denies this. Now if you consider deeply the kind of character one must have to spread such a report, perhaps you will at once discredit all they may say in the future.

They, and others with them, reputed "brainy," but whose brain force is used only in intrigue, regardless of what cruelty they inflict, are quite ready to torture you through me and me through you, e.g., false reports on my health.

If at least you had some faith in what we are enduring for, it would of course make it easier for you to some extent. But they do not scruple to pervert our purpose nor to be pessimistic to you as they can. 

Yet never, I repeat never, did things look so bright as they do now. Far from being determined to stay here (a statement I have never made to you or anyone else), unless it is unavoidable that it must occur, I am firmly convinced that this year, probably in several months, will see us all out.

Either an unostentatious time can be chosen or else labor day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, or New Year; for to keep on refusing release on opposing grounds is hardly confidence-inspiring, and they will sorely need all the confidence they can inspire. The election will not be along party lines but along issue lines and therefore one is not to judge by the election of a president what the people willed but rather by the congress they elect.

Undoubtedly, if not released before, this matter will be brought up before congress, for a Christmas release. I may in conclusion say that I am not taking this stand because I personally prefer my own happiness to yours, for my personal happiness would be greatest by being with you. But there are other things besides personal happiness.

If you exclude the pain I feel because of your unhappiness, I am blessed with excellent health and a nature such as cannot help but extract a good deal of happiness, no matter what the situation. This is the least matter you need worry about, my happiness. Have faith, and you will find your faith justified.

It would be a great pity if those evil men so worried you so as to make you lose out by such a short period of time. You can see for yourself, by the fact that the commitations were not fully made known till the trip was nearly accomplished, that it was thought very likely that it would not meet with general approval.

The fact that agitation has been greater in the past few weeks, than in the entire last few years, and that there is great certainty of its becoming much greater in the ensuing months. This agitation not being confined to radical papers but also being expressed in big daily articles and large two page feature articles in large newspapers, leads me to think the matter will wind up as after the civil war.

Your loving son,

Alex.

Obligations

We all have "obligations" in life. But I've come to recognize that there are real obligations, and then there are things that feel like obligations but actually aren't. As I've gotten older, I've tried harder to separate the two. 

I feel increasingly protective of my time, my body, and my mind. I think all of us have probably felt a sense of false obligation at one time or another: that retirement party we have to attend; that night out we've promised to friends; that work teleconference we can't afford to miss. Each of us has a different idea of what our life's "real" and "false" obligations are, but my point is that everyone's got both. 

There was a time when I would routinely push myself past my comfort zone to meet false obligations. I still do that sometimes, but nowadays, I really feel it. Against my better judgment, I'll go somewhere or do something that I'm just not in the mind or body space to do. This most often happens in the context of severe allergic flareups or attacks. I'll stay for dinner at a house with cats to be polite, because I didn't realize the person had cats, and it's "just" a stupid cat allergy. I'll go to a party even though I feel distraught, self-conscious, totally beaten up by my body, and unprepared to socialize (the latter of which, as anyone who knows me knows, is a pretty rare mindset for me). Sometimes I'll be pleasantly surprised and enjoy myself. But usually, when I ignore my instincts in favor of meeting false obligations, I end up not having--or being--any fun. And then I just feel bad, because my emotions show through and everyone can tell I'm miserable. 

Life is a process of learning to trust oneself. For me, that means convincing myself that I'm not a total flake and no one will disown me just because I "can't deal" at a particular point in time. Between my ACL surgery and my skin, I've had to put this theory into practice more than usual these last few weeks. I value stoicism and prior commitments, which is why I rarely call in sick to work and why my friends can count on me when it matters. 

But the operative words are "when it matters." Because as the saying goes, there's a difference between giving up and having had enough.

Whatever it May Bring

I wasn’t THAT into Sinead O’Connor.

I mean, like, I didn’t see her in concert or have her poster on my bedroom wall or anything. I bought the Nothing Compares 2 U single for $2.99 on cassette at the Columbus Circle Tower Records. I gawked at her shaved head and her shock-and-awe heresy on Saturday Night Live like everyone else. 

“This bitch is CRAZY!” I remember thinking to myself at the time, with something between voyeuristic cringing and a subtle undercurrent of envy. 

What was that about?

I didn’t find out until later, when a few more of her songs started to show up on mix tapes mailed back and forth between me and my friends. I could see that her tortured sense of social justice (along with mental illness probably) both defined and doomed her to mockery and ultimate obscurity. 

There was no internet then, so I could only guess at why she hated Margaret Thatcher, but I later came to get her lyrics stuck in my head. Like REALLY stuck, and from two songs in particular.  

From Black Boys on Mopeds it was:

I’ve said this before now

You said I was childish and you’ll say it now ...

These are dangerous days

To say what you feel is to lay your own grave 

Remember what I told you 

If they hated me, they will hate you....

Remember what I told you

If you were of the world they would love you ...

Then from the Emperor’s New Clothes:

Everyone can see

What’s going on

They laugh ‘cause they know they’re untouchable 

Not because what I said was wrong 

Whatever it my bring 

I will live by my own policies 

I will sleep with a clear conscience 

I will sleep in peace 

I could not stop thinking about these lyrics then, and years later they crept back into my head, occupying real estate I could’ve used for things like my kids’ social security numbers and the password to my credit card statement. But there they were again, and after being unconstitutionally fired for criticizing the government, I finally understood why.

“It speaks to me,” people say. They say that about books, poems, or art. In this case, I felt like Sinead O’Connor’s lyrics were speaking to me, and I didn’t even want to hear them. I would’ve just as soon forgotten these words, but there they stayed—not so much inspiring as nagging, warning, and haunting me.

These are dangerous days ... to say what you feel is to lay your own grave ...

Whatever it may bring ... whatever it may bring ... whatever it may bring .... 

Those last four words—specifically—have been on loop in my head since 2015 when the Trump era began. I kept telling myself that I was not going to stay silent, but I needed the courage to absorb the consequences of speaking up.

I needed to find a way to stop trying to conform to things I couldn’t bring myself to conform to, and instead just be myself by saying what I thought—in the way I wanted—and letting the chips fall where they may.

Those four words brought me courage and reminded me that there is always a price to pay for living by your own policies. If there weren’t, everyone would do it. They don’t, and that’s because when you do you get laughed at, gawked at, called crazy, lose friends, jobs, credibility, opportunity. You’re walking across what feels like a gauntlet of burning bridges at all times.

But the sleeping in peace part is where the comfort is. It’s the faith that there are lucid clearings beyond those incinerated bridges. It’s the conviction that you’re more at peace being yourself and letting the world burn down around you than you are burning down yourself to satisfy the world.

https://youtu.be/n14lwdpYkAA