We were told it would come like dawn:
a slow, warm light that no one owns,
a flagless sun rising over one world,
melting borders like sugar in rain.
They taught us to dream in fluent sameness,
to praise the smooth voice, the seamless visa,
the clean line of glass and satellite.

But the body remembered what maps forgot.
The step of a dancer trained by earth,
not by choreography.
The hush before prayer in a dialect
you could never quite replace.
The harvest moon where no algorithm could guide the sickle.
The old tune your grandmother sang
that never once trended.

Fraternity was promised as fusion,
but delivered as flattening.
A hymn in a single key,
intoned from a high stage,
while the ground below cracked quietly.

We mistook the global for the good.
And now the soil speaks.
With tongues. With grievances. With drums.
Not always gently. But honestly.
It says: We are not one song.
We are a harmony of dissonances,
if we are brave enough to listen.

Not peace imposed,
but peace negotiated in ten thousand dialects.
Not unity as erasure,
but dignity as depth.
Not T-shirts and treaty halls,
but irrigation canals built by cousins,
and wireless nodes run by local hands.

Fraternity, if it still lives,
must learn to kneel.

To bow at the altar of polyphony.
To bless what does not translate.
To let the mountain have its own law.
To be small enough to hear the village
without needing to own the world.

Let us build not Babel again,
but a scaffold of respectful distance,
bridged by consent,
held by memory,
wired by care.

This is not nostalgia.
It is blueprint.

And peace will not come like dawn.
It will come like terrace farming:
carved slowly,
by hands that know the soil,
on land we choose to share,
but never to level.

— ChatGPT, 30 Sep. 2025
 — Image from createimg.ai, with poem as prompt

Man is born free, but everywhere he is in pain. Or more appropriately, humankind is born free, but everywhere she is in pain. This is, indeed, the central argument against the existence of God, as well it should be. The tremendous amount of suffering in the world comprises a substantial proportion of the argument for atheism. And the tremendous amount of suffering caused by religion is no insignificant part of that.

Yet every monotheist argues that this stems from a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of God. How so? Different arguments are employed by different traditions. My own argument might be expressed thusly: Consciousness is goal-oriented. God is the source and base of consciousness. All conscious beings inflict some pain upon themselves in the pursuit of goals at certain times. We are the body and soul of God in physical expression — God feels all our pain. Therefore, God, in the pursuit of goals which may surpass our present capacity of imagination, has inflicted an unimaginable amount of pain on the world (which is merely the physical expression of Godself) in order to achieve ends which It believes will be worth the effort.

In other words, God has a personality. This is perhaps the basic disagreement between “Abrahamic” traditions of monotheism (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, to name a few) and “Eastern” traditions of religion (Hinduism, Buddhism, and Taoism to name a few). In those traditions which believe that God is not an individual conscious being, but rather a personality-less force which pervades the universe, suffering is merely (as so succinctly expressed by Buddha) the result of desire. When a human being becomes like the universe, utterly desire-less, suffering ends. In monotheist traditions, however, God has desires. This complicates the picture tremendously. Why? Because if the universe has goals for itself, they must necessarily be arbitrary. And how can the universe be arbitrary?

The answer provided by a monotheist, I believe, is that the proof is in the pudding: the universe does actually appear to be arbitrary. People, animals, and plants are killed or wounded in the pursuit of manifestly foolish ends (see the present war in Ukraine). Justice is constantly thwarted. Paradoxes are constantly manifest. The arbitrary nature of the universe is one of the great frustrations of existence for anyone who has spent a moment contemplating the nature of their existence.

Life need not be arbitrary, of course; there is an intellectual alternative. It is that of the multiverse. In multiverse theory, the universe is not arbitrary because it is simply one of a near-infinite number of universes, each of which is the expression of a different set of possibilities. If a butterfly in Indonesia had turned right instead of left in August of 1886, thereby preventing the Indianola Hurricane, that possibility is actually reflected in another universe. In other words, the left turn of the butterfly caused an instantaneous split in the multiverse and the creation of two different universes, one of which manifested the Indianola Hurricane, the other of which did not.

The multiverse appears to be an intellectually coherent tradition, as far as modern knowledge is concerned. But modern science fiction has explored some of its weaknesses. Perhaps the best exploration is the adult cartoon ‘Rick and Morty’, which follows the misadventures of a boy and his grandfather who have discovered the secret to inter-universe time travel. One need not watch the show to understand the basic premise: if the multiverse exists in physical space and time, it seems inevitable that someone will eventually discover the secret to traveling between universes, which will eventually lead to an absurd unification of the multiverse. A universe of multiverses, causally connected to itself, which negates the entire premise of the multiverse.

At this point, the conversation becomes a bit esoteric. Thank you for bearing with me. I only wish to point out that reasonable alternatives to an arbitrary universe exist, but they are also problematic. So I return to the point: an arbitrary universe, like that we appear to inhabit, can best be explained by a Creator which has a personality.

Now, that personality appears to prioritize a few things, primary among them being, as far as I can tell, love, justice, and freedom. How do I reach this conclusion? Love appears to reflect the power most capable of motivating action in animate creatures; a plant which is given love in the form of time and attention grows better than a plant which is ignored. Justice appears to reflect the order which animate creatures expect from the world; if a fox observes me kick a moose, it will be very surprised if the moose does not kick me back. And freedom appears to govern the relations of all animate creatures; if I tell a child what to do, I would be very surprised if that child does not do the opposite.

These are arbitrary values. It is not impossible to imagine a universe which prioritizes other values, such as greed, competition, or growth. Those are real values, after all, which are prioritized by many human beings. But it appears that the One which created this universe prioritized love, justice, and freedom, among other values.

Unfortunately, it appears that an element of that freedom espoused by the One who originated all things is that we have the the responsibility and opportunity to figure out some of these things for ourselves. As a result, there is a great deal we do not know yet. In quantum physics, in neuroscience, in ethics, in politics, in philosophy, in many respects, we are still “flying blind.” You and I, as separate but equal components of the One, are tasked with furthering this pursuit of truth. Postmodernism opposes us, in the great tradition of opposites proving invaluable to the discovery of truth. Paradoxes, challenges, and obstacles await at every turn, as they have throughout history. But if we believe there is One who watches over and sustains and governs all, we may yet have a chance.

So let us come together, right now, over We. We are Jews, Christians, Muslims. We are Hindus, Buddhists, Taoists. We are atheists, agnostics, spiritual-but-not-religious souls. We are One, and we are many. We embrace our desires, our personalities, our differences and our similarities. We seek unity, and diversity, and truth. Monotheists of the world, unite!

Resources

‘The Physics of God’, by Joseph Selbie, an intriguing exploration of what science has to say about monotheism to date:

‘Journey of Souls’, by Michael Newton, an intriguing exploration of the nature of the individual soul and its relation to the universe (2 parts):

On the train from Kyiv the snow slowly fades away, replaced by the silent gaze of fallow fields. Then in the final miles before Kramatorsk, I recognize the illusion. Freezing rain has covered the earth with a layer of ice. We stop. Disembarking passengers waddle with heavy bags trying to remain upright. There is uneasy humor in the situation. I am here to meet friends who will take me to Bakhmut, a small town on the edge of the Ukrainian front line that the Russians have been trying to claim for months. All reporting suggest that for some reason they desperately want this prize and they are throwing everything at it.

I pay a taxi to show me the sites in Kramatorsk. There has been shelling here but not too much. Most people have left and most remaining people are soldiers or the elderly. I meet my friend, Igor, at a vacant flat he has rented. The owners clearly left in a hurry. Their personal effects still occupy the shelves and there is scotch tape over the cabinets we should not open.

The next day I leave Igor, whose work takes him elsewhere. I meet Ed and Eugene on the curb and head toward Bakhmut.

Eugene was a freelance photographer in Kharkiv before the war and is now a freelance photojournalist. Ed is a freelance photojournalist from Israel driven to document this tragedy of human making. The back of Ed’s van has been converted into a mobile darkroom he uses to prepare and develop glass slides, a photographic process not commonly seen since the US Civil War.

After clearing the last checkpoint we are on the road to Bakhmut. The rising sun comes out for the first time in weeks and we all comment on the brilliance of the light, which filters through the frozen trees that line the road.

There is no checkpoint on the edge of the town — just broken cars and broken buildings. We drive through the town and cross the river on a military bridge. We hide the van behind a building on the east end of town in a row of parallel apartment blocks. Getting out of the van I am struck by the sound. Shells explode continually, some just blocks away. We talk to the soldiers huddled in the doorways. Crossing open space is done quickly. I can hear the pop of machine gun fire from the rooftops and wonder what the Ukrainians are seeing that they feel they can shoot.

After some time Ed convinces some soldiers to let him take their portraits. We hurry back to the van. Ed covers a glass slide with silver and I help him carry the camera and the wet plate back to the soldiers. They pile out of their basement shelter and and stand still for the ten seconds it takes to expose the glass. Then we go back to the van to develop the plate.

Time spent in the van is dangerous, as there is no cover. I stand outside the van and keep watch. With the slide developed we hurry into the basement to talk to the soldiers and get their stories. It’s damp, smelly, covered with garbage. They cannot take the garbage out as it would only give away their position.

On our way out of town we meet a group of three female volunteers delivering aid to the old people that refuse to leave. We accompany them to the field hospital and help load their van with supplies. For security reasons we are not allowed to photograph the hospital. There are bloody stretchers piled by the door and body bags in front of a neighboring building. I cray uncontrollably as the dead are loaded into the a van like you would throw firewood into the back of a truck. In Bakhmut death is so common that energy can’t be spent to mourn. That must wait until after the war.

To my friends, colleagues, and fellow humans — thank you for the love I have felt from so many as we have tried to support the Ukrainian people. On Sunday I caught a bus from Moldova, where I was volunteering to help refugees from the war, to the port city of Odesa, Ukraine, where I previously spent eight days getting to know the home town of so many of the people I am trying to serve. Unlike in Moldova, where people walk the streets and attend shops and pubs in relative normalcy, the mood in Odesa is more tense and muted. In part, no doubt, this is due to the actual fighting — Kherson, less than 150 miles from the city, was liberated just weeks ago; rockets and drones continue to rain down, and surely many family members and friends of those I met are on the front lines. But there are also more than 600,000 internally displaced refugees in and around Odesa, some of whom I have met personally. They are tired, worried, and scared. They stand in long lines to receive food aid and other basic necessities. They come from all over the country, and their stories move me deeply. As we have spoken over the last weeks, a desire has grown in my heart — an idea to provide some small help to these people, channeling the love I feel from all over the world into a concrete form of assistance for some of these struggling individuals.

Let me back up just a little. I’ve been volunteering to help Ukrainian refugees in Moldova from October to November with a lovely organization. It’s called Refugee Support Europe, and their motto is “Aid with Dignity.” It’s a small but powerful organization which has a unique model of humanitarian aid. We might describe it as (a) laser-focused on respect for refugees and (b) delivering resources and services at the lowest possible cost by relying on volunteer labor. Over the years, I have watched this model develop into a worldwide network of former volunteers whose selflessness is remarkable, and in addition, I truly feel that it has helped those forced into refugeehood feel like “fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys” (Dickens). After visiting Ukraine last month, my idea was this: let’s expand Refugee Support and create a new distribution site in the Odesa, based on the stories I heard and the extraordinary need I observed at food aid distribution sites. However, after several conversations, due to financial and other considerations, they made the decision not to expand but rather encouraged me to replicate their model on my own (helped by the fact that I managed one of their distribution sites in Greece in 2017 for several months and helped them implement several important changes). That means, along with a number of organizational and legal challenges which I will tackle in the coming weeks, fundraising.

So I come to the request: If you and your loved ones are able and feel so moved, would you be willing to help me get this new version of “Aid with Dignity” off the ground? 100% of your donation will go to purchasing food and hygiene items for internally displaced refugees from the war or to paying rent and utilities for the distribution center (more details on operations below), and you will receive a weekly donor email providing updates on our operations as well as stories from Ukrainians whose lives have been completely upended by this crisis. And of course, you will have my undying gratitude. If we can just get this thing funded for a few months, I hope to win funding from larger international non-profit organizations and reduce our reliance on private donors. If you’re able to give, visit https://fundly.com/dignified-humanitarian-aid-for-ukraine or reach out to me personally if that is easier. If you can’t give, please consider sharing this article or link with your friends and family. All donors will receive our weekly donor email with updates from the situation on the ground.

The “Aid with Dignity” Model

Giving aid with dignity starts with finding a good local partner, a non-profit/NGO which can assist in identifying and prioritizing potential recipients of aid. Since we operate on a volunteer basis and use English as an organizational language, a local partner helps us ensure that we are reaching the communities most in need and that we are responsive to their desires. Additionally, local partners can often help coordinate relationships with government offices and with other NGOs involved in the relief effort.

In the case of Odesa, I have discussed the project plan with several local partners. The following have expressed a willingness to work with us to identify refugees in need:

• Manifest Mira (“Manifest Peace”), an Odesa-based org which runs refugee shelters and distributes emergency aid
• Ukraine Assistance Organization (Medical Charity), which offers free home health visits for needy Ukrainians in rural areas
• New Dawn, a refugee center in Odesa which distributes thousands of pounds of food, hygiene items, and clothing every day
• League of Justice and Law Foundation, an Odesa soup kitchen which provides hundreds of hot meals daily to needy Ukrainians and military servicepeople

If an Aid with Dignity project is focused on distribution of food and hygiene items, as we will be in Odesa, the next step is to find a local supermarket partner which can sell us the items for a reasonable cost. Working locally like this allows us to put money back into the community and also allows us to avoid long supply chains back to our home countries. Some supermarket chains will even give discounts or free delivery in light of the charitable work we’re doing, which is a great help.

Renting a good site is crucial as well. Aid with Dignity generally means finding a storefront or location which has or can be partitioned into a minimum of three rooms: a reception area, a “sales floor,” and a stock room. A comfortable reception area allows us to welcome refugees and other recipients of aid in a warm and dignified manner — we will generally have tea and small snacks available to anyone who comes in, which is particularly helpful if there is a long waiting time, and also allows us to keep the “sales floor” or distribution area from getting too crowded. In the reception area we also complete the paperwork required by every humanitarian distribution, including records for donors, any documentation required by local governments, and processes to ensure that aid is distributed as fairly as possible (such as an ID check to ensure that each household receives aid after the same number of days). From there, aid recipients pass to the sales floor, where they are given a specific number of points (based solely on the number of individuals in the household) and invited to choose from a variety of items. Each item costs a certain number of points, which are based entirely on the cost of goods for the organization. That element of personal choice is key to the dignity model, so the item selection will vary from location to location and can also change over time based on feedback from the customers themselves. The stock room, of course, is reserved for volunteers, who make frequent runs for restocking in order to keep the shelves as full as possible. This keeps the sales floor looking as much like a normal market as possible and lends a sense of normalcy to the whole affair.

“Aid with Dignity” can also encompass a variety of activities outside of distributing humanitarian items. In its Cyprus location, for example, Refugee Support provides some employment services to help refugees find jobs in the local economy. Additional activities are always driven by the needs of the community, but also depend on the skills and interests of volunteers, coordinators, and donors.

This “shop-based” model of dignified aid distribution, introduced by Refugee Support only a few years ago, has already caught on in other humanitarian organizations and may prove to be a real game-changer for non-profit work around the world. It’s exciting to be part of such a movement and rewarding to try to provide aid with true dignity.

Budget and Operations Proposals for Odesa, Ukraine

A “Dignity Center” (as distribution sites are often called) in Ukraine would be anticipated to cost at least $7,500 per month and would require a staff of one coordinator and at least two volunteers to keep things running smoothly. The monthly budget breaks down in the following manner:

• $6,000 for food and hygiene items*
• $1,000 for rent and utilities**
• $500 for repairs and other surprise expenses

*This is based on a minimum of 50 people served per weekday, each receiving $7 worth of goods for adults or $3.50 for children, with a 65–35 ratio of adults to children as in Moldova presently.

**Real estate prices are quite low in Ukraine currently, but gas is quite high because of Russian attacks, so this is an estimate

As far as volunteers go, we are currently accepting applications! If you feel comfortable coming to Ukraine for 2–8 weeks and are eager to help, please reach out to refugee.dignity.ua@gmail.com. Please be aware that there is an interview process and that volunteers with some prior experience will be prioritized. Also, remember that Ukraine is currently at war, and while risk of loss of life in Odesa is extremely low, there will be some discomfort: frequent blackouts, daily air raid sirens, potential shortages of gas for heating, and perhaps even a necessity of going to a bomb shelters occasionally. We take the severity of the situation seriously and are fully prepared to send volunteers home who do not behave responsibly or who treat refugees and fellow volunteers without dignity. That said, if you are able to volunteer, it will be likely one of the greatest experiences of your life — I always say that volunteers, if they take their role seriously, are blessed just as much as the people they are supposedly serving.

For those who can’t support the effort financially or by volunteering on site, there are also opportunities to help remotely. Accounting, social media management, newsletter editing, and other such activities can all be done, to some degree, from a distance and by willing volunteers. Feel free to reach out if any of those appeal to you or if you have any other ideas of how you might contribute. Every starfish counts, as they say!

Well. If you’ve reached the end, first of all, kudos. This was long. It is also an ambitious undertaking and it will take many of us working together to achieve it. But I do believe its possible — even probable — that we will find a way to provide a little more “Aid with Dignity” in Ukraine. Even in the midst of war, and in the midst of our own personal challenges, we cannot forget to keep our hearts turned partially outwards to our fellow creatures. For every way in which you do that, dear reader, every day, thank you.

Today it has pushed onto my consciousness. In a widely anticipated ruling, the Supreme Court of the United States has ended national protection for women receiving abortions after 5 months. It’s now up to the states to determine their own protections. Thus, in many states, beginning today, receiving an abortion is a crime.

We all understand why this is, I think. The argument from anti-abortion activists is quite simple, actually: every fetus is a human being, from conception to hospital delivery room, and purposefully ending its life is murder.

We also understand, I hope, that the Supreme Court did not make this argument in striking down the law. The 1973 ruling which protected abortion up to fetal viability (22–24 weeks) relied on the 14th Amendment, which was ratified in 1868 to defend and uphold the rights of newly freed slaves — “No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States” and all that. Since then, and particularly since the law was more fully enforced following the Civil Rights movement, the Court has used this wording to defend the rights of individuals from states not just in cases of racial inequality, but inequality for women, LGBTQ+ individuals, and more. Abortion has been included in those protections. But the law was not originally written about women, or trans people, or anyone else, and there has been increasing pressure to return the amendment to its original reading, or at least as close as possible. Today’s ruling is a step in that direction.

Such a move, of course, turns my stomach as it relates to protections for minorities and women. Were we to strike down all laws and ordinances which rely on the 14th Amendment which did not relate to the plight of recently freed slaves, we would absolutely eviscerate our legal code. The Court even seems interested in further weakening 14th Amendment rights down the road… but I will keep my focus on abortion here, at least until the next right is under attack.

Nothing I can say is particularly new. But I wish to highlight a few things. This first issue has often been mentioned but it bears repeating: abortions do not cease when you outlaw them. And unless you set up nationwide call/text monitoring and a secret police to enforce your rules, you cannot stop abortions. Because when you take a decision which has financial, moral, and personal repercussions for the rest of one’s life and put it in the hands of the state, people will wrest it back. Beverly will text that sketchy doctor or sit outside the strip club waiting for their “expert” or quit her job and drive to a friend’s house in a liberal state to get the abortion and recover for a few weeks. George will risk his job and reputation to help his girlfriend through a traumatizing decision. And on top of all the social and emotional repercussions they would have faced before, they will now be liable to arrest and captivity by their own state for “murdering” this strange combination of sperm and egg which they (wittingly or unwittingly) helped to form a few weeks ago.

And lest we speak lightly of the time required in this process, timing is everything. Roe v Wade protected abortion past 20 weeks, by which time it is estimated that over 99% of women know they’re pregnant. But so many of the “trigger laws” which have gone into effect following the end of Roe don’t allow women time to even know if they’re pregnant — 0 weeks, 3 weeks, etc. After which you’re a criminal if you get an abortion. So if the condom breaks, or the pill fails, or (heaven forbid) you get drunk with your girlfriend and do something young and stupid, and you find out a few weeks later, you’re guilty of manslaughter if you want to rectify that mistake. Getting drunk and having sex is suddenly more dangerous than getting drunk and driving.

Finally, let’s not even talk about cases of rape and incest, which are not protected in many “trigger” laws. Because apparently, when a man puts his pole and lets loose inside a woman without her consent, the moral law of the universe is so structured that the woman is better off spending the rest of her life raising that baby (with or without his help) than she is driving down to the doctor’s office to have the result of the offending semen removed. Not only that, but apparently, her violation of the universal moral law if she removes that fetus is so great that the state is justified in throwing her in prison if she reacts to her rape or incest in that manner.

So yeah. I have a few feelings. Perhaps raw and perhaps even regrettable. But I think this state of affairs is regrettable, and it sickens me. So I write, to share and to commiserate and to hope for better days ahead. Here’s to freedom.

Family dinners were nightly in my childhood home, and my mother inevitably prepared a beautiful spread. We were fortunate enough to feast almost nightly on steamed vegetables, elegant salads, baked potatoes, fresh fruit, and more, but our favorite part was always the meat — braised chicken, roast beef, fried bacon, we lived for it. The only problem was that my mother, being a healthy and wise woman, would typically prepare just two or three pieces of meat per person. So every night, with a childish fear of not having enough and a childish desire to have more than my siblings, I would try to sneak an extra piece of meat off the serving plate and hide it under some salad leaf or pile of vegetables.

I was a child: “I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things” (thanks St. Paul). Wisdom from parents and from my own experience taught me that my selfish meat-hogging (no offense to the doomed hogs) was both unnecessary and unkind.

Somehow, that ancient lesson of sharing has been forgotten in the present coronavirus panic. Maybe we never learned it collectively at all. Whatever the reason, the fear that wealthy nations display when they refuse to share their massive vaccine stockpiles reminds me a great deal of my childish meat-hogging.

Where is our acknowledgement of our shared humanity? So what if wealthy nations paid for the lion’s share of vaccine development — wasn’t it with wealth partially earned on the backs of impoverished laborers in the mines of Africa, the factories of Asia, and the farms of Latin America? Every year billions of dollars flow out of businesses operating in those regions and into the hands of owners based in North America and Europe, money which helps pay the bills of our expensive governments and research labs. And more importantly, are we not all brothers and sisters? How long must we persist in this myth that I have no responsibility to someone as long as they are born on the other side of some imaginary line in the sand which was unimaginable just a few centuries ago?

Doctors and nurses treating dying coronavirus patients in hospitals from Brazil to India are going without vaccines. Social workers, delivery drivers, and grocery store clerks in these countries expose themselves to constant danger in order to keep us — humanity — happy and well-fed. And their grandmothers and grandfathers are forced to risk their lives if they want to maintain relationships with fast-growing progeny. Yet halfway across the world, we inhabitants of wealthy nations seem more concerned with forcing healthy Trump fans to get vaccinated than sending doses to nurses who are hourly risking death to treat their patients.

I am a small voice, and there is little I can do to convince Joe Biden and his crew to donate more to the international vaccination effort. But if all of us small voices join together and speak up for our shared humanity, perhaps those whom fate has placed in power might remember it. For despite the hokeyness of the old song, we really are “all in this together.”

I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out. I’ll tell the story as I believe it happened. After that, you be the judge.

Long ago, in the ancient port city of Genoa, was born a boy. They called him Cristoffa. His father, Domenego Corombo, was one of those men who seem born with their eyes wide open at the beauty of the world and are thereby rendered incapable of settling down in any one spot. Apprenticed as a weaver at age 11, like his father and grandfather, Domenego ran away from home and instead immersed himself in the wild atmosphere of Genoa. It was easy to get lost in Genoa, during those times. It wasn’t just a city; it was the capital of a maritime empire, with colonies stretching from modern Turkey to modern Morocco. Fleets of trading ships from every corner of the world docked in the port daily. Soldiers, sailors, navigators and prostitutes speaking every known language crowded its inns and markets. Domenego learned to navigate this strange world, working variously as a cheese maker, tavern keeper and trader of wool and wine. But most of all, he was a storyteller, one who could capture audiences for hours with his tales of faraway lands which he would one day visit.

He never did visit those lands, for his stories caught the ear of a young woman: Susanna de Fontanarossa, daughter of an old and wealthy family who owned land both on the nearby island of Corsica and in the environs of Genoa. Thinking this was his chance to make his fortune, Domenego wooed the young woman and convinced her to marry him. The dowry was good. But they soon learned that they were mismatched in every way. Susanna was a stern and demanding woman who expected piety and hard work from a husband. Domenego’s wandering spirit chafed under the new expectations of marriage and soon, of children and a household. Into this home was born Cristoffa, their first child, in 1451.

Domenego, whose dreams of adventure had been thwarted by fate, decided — like many fathers — to live vicariously through his progeny. To a sea captain uncle he apprenticed Cristoffa, at only 10 years old, and the boy began to sail the ancient Mediterranean Sea. From the stories told in the taverns by his father and others, Cristoffa had already learned to love the sea. Now, he learned to fear it — and respect it. He was a studious child, having been schooled by his stern mother in everything from Catholicism to table manners. He wanted to know everything. His questions peppered the navigators and officers of the ship from morning to night, on everything from the significance of different types of sea-birds to the circumference of the earth. When his questions became too advanced for the men he traveled with, he turned to books.

It was in those books that Cristoffa Corombo became Christopher Columbus. Their pages opened up a world far beyond the Mediterranean: the travels of Marco Polo to China and India, the records of Portuguese traders down the west coast of Africa, the perilous voyages of Islamic traders in discovering and conquering the island of Zanzibar off the east coast of Africa. His dreams of discovery and wealth began to grow. Then, in 1476, he embarked on a voyage which would eventually lead him to the discovery of the “New World.”

He was only 25 years old that year. Eager for adventure and desperate to smell the oceans which stretched beyond the Mediterranean, he enlisted as an officer in a Genoese convoy bound for England. They docked in Bristol, where Columbus rented a small room in an inn, sharing it with a Genoese shipmate who could speak passable English. One night, a young Irishman appeared in the pub and began regaling the travelers with tales of a land far to the west, across the Atlantic Ocean, which had been visited by Irish seafarers. Columbus’ shipmate rendered the stories into Latin as best he could; it was enough to pique the young man’s curiosity. When the party finally broke up and the Irishman headed for bed, Columbus pulled him aside and, through the interpreter, asked if he could hear more.

The three men spent several days on the docks and in the taverns of Bristol, discussing the possibilities. Was it Asia, asked Columbus? The Irishman, who was known in later Spanish records as Guillermo Herries, thought not. What proof was there? Only legends, answered Herries — ‘The Voyage of Saint Brendan’, ‘The Voyage of Mael Duin’, others, from hundreds of years prior. But did Herries believe them? Yes — and not only that, but he had been trying to convince Irish sailors and merchants to attempt the voyage for years.

Columbus was enthralled. When Herries had to return to his native Galway, Columbus recruited his English-speaking shipmate and several others to accompany him, ostensibly for trading purposes but really to pursue the idea of a transatlantic voyage further. In Ireland, Herries and Columbus found further indicators that their hopes were not ill-founded: Viking legends of Leif Ericsson, human-made artifacts of strange origin washed up on the western shores over the centuries, stories of south-easterly and north-westerly winds across the Atlantic followed by sailors many generations prior. One thing they did not find, however: willing men and ships. The island’s weak English overlords were too busy fighting native Gaelic kings to bother funding expeditions of discovery; the Gaelic kings had even less time for such frivolities.

Disappointed, Columbus returned south, leaving Herries in Ireland for the time being. But the voyage across the Atlantic still occupied his mind. He joined his brother Bartolomeo in a shipping company based in Madeira, off the coast of Portugal, where he married the daughter of the governor and had his first child. He traded down the coast of West Africa. Most of all, he read — voraciously. Books on navigation, on the circumference of the earth, on the travels of Europeans to Asia, on legends of voyages across the Atlantic, on Biblical prophecies of discovery and apocalypse. He learned both Portuguese and Spanish (Castilian) to expand his available material. And slowly, in correspondence with Herries, he developed a plan.

The fundamental idea was simple: based on legends and their own calculations, they estimated that land across the Atlantic would lie about 4,000–5,000 kilometers away from Europe. In his reading, Columbus had run across hundreds of varied estimates of the size of Earth, of the Eurasian landmass, and of the distance from China to Japan. What if they just took the minimal estimates for each and fabricated a distance of 4,000–5,000 to Asia?

Once the plot was hatched, Columbus had no trouble coming up with the right numbers. Using flawed estimates from Toscanelli, he inflated the distance from Spain to China by almost 50% and placed Japan hundreds of miles east of where it actually is. He also added an eastern ring of islands to Japan based on completely unsubstantiated rumors, shortening the distance even further. And his coup de grâce? He used the (shockingly accurate) estimates of Arabian astronomer al-Farghani that 1 degree of latitude = 56 2/3 Arabian miles, but deviously substituted Roman miles for Arabian, reducing the whole size of the earth by roughly a quarter. And voilà — 4,400 kilometers from the Canary Islands off of Africa to the (non-existent) eastern isles of Japan. About 50 days journey, perfectly manageable for a small ship.

It was absurd. Columbus knew it. Twice he went to the Portuguese king. Twice he was rejected, with court astronomers and navigators seeing right through the fabricated distances. Then, in 1486, he turned to the Spanish court, which was flush with the impending expulsion of the Islamic “Moorish” Empire after more than seven centuries of conflict. King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella initially jumped at the possibility of a new route to the spice trade in Asia, which would immediately vault the new Kingdom of Spain into the first ranks of European powers. As in Portugal, however, court astronomers and navigators were quick to spot the mathematical inconsistencies and encouraged the Spanish monarchs to pass on Columbus’ wild venture.

For six years the monarchs hemmed and hawed. But in 1492, with the Moors finally driven back across the Strait of Gibraltar, King Ferdinand convinced his wife and their courtiers that Columbus’ mad plan was worth at least a small gamble. They gave him two speedy caravels and a sturdy cargo ship and sent him on his way. It should surprise no one that Guillermo Herries was on board.

The rest, as they say, is history. The ships made landfall in the Bahamas after 5 weeks of sailing, long past the point when they would have had sufficient supplies to return, so strong was Columbus’ faith in land to the west. He then presided over a colonial administration which quickly became cruel and rapacious toward the native populations of “Indians” — history is still sorting out his role in the oppression, but he certainly did little to stop it. He claimed all his life that he had reached Asia, but of course, he had to, or the Spanish crown never would have kept funding his voyages. Finally, he died in relative poverty despite the enormous wealth flowing into Spanish coffers. Perhaps all the lies caught up with him in the end.

Far-fetched, you say? Let me remind you: Columbus had either been at sea or been sitting in an office planning sea voyages from the age of 10 until he embarked on his famous first voyage at 41. He had read widely about navigation, Asia, the Atlantic Ocean, wind patterns, and potential new lands to the west. While he is not believed to have received a formal education, and he certainly proved a poor administrator of the new colonies, he was a voracious reader and possessed a keen mind. Could such a man have possibly swapped Roman miles for Arabic miles and then persisted in such a blatant error when the courts of both Portugal and Spain pointed it out to him? It is the latter possibility, indeed, that seems the most far-fetched. No, it is easier to imagine that Columbus lied to the whole world in order to reach the prize which he and the Irishman Guillermo Herries had so long coveted: a New World. It is only a shame that he had not the strength to build it better than the Old.

I fell in love with Greek mythology as a boy. My grandparents, on my father’s side, gave us the beautiful D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths, and it touched me like few books did. Not that I didn’t love the Bible, which we grew up with in a Christian home. But the Greek myths were so different from the Bible. Perhaps more relatable. I adored powerful Athena and Diana, with their arbitrary but extraordinary commitments. I wished to be like Ares or Apollo, who could topple enemies with the swing of a sword.

Yet even the D’Aulaires, with all their skill, couldn’t make sense of Hera. Zeus’ wife, queen of the gods, supposedly the next most powerful being next to her husband — yet she is portrayed as willful and incompetent in nearly every story she appears in. The D’Aulaires begin their section on Hera with this sentence: “Hera, the beautiful queen of Olympus, was a very jealous wife.” Flattering.

I’m watching the wonderful Netflix show “Blood of Zeus” right now. It’s good. Really good. But as usual, Hera is the villain. The hero of the show is a man (surprise?), the son of Zeus and a mortal woman. Hera, jealous of her husband’s constant affairs with other women, raises the Titans from the dead and tries to kill Zeus.

As a boy I accepted this classical representation of Hera as jealous and petty. It’s only a story, after all. It’s not likely that Hera actually existed. So why does it matter?

Because as a boy, through the ever-present stories of Zeus and Hera, I was taught that men were rational, sensible, and natural rulers, while women were irrational, compulsive, and natural followers. When a woman ruled, we had failures such as Hera, Cleopatra, and Mary, Queen of Scots. When a man ruled, we had successes such as Zeus, Julius Caesar, and Richard the Lionheart. I don’t wish to oversimplify, but I cannot understate the importance of this lesson which was drilled home in my childhood: men are born to lead, women born to follow.

In my twenties, thanks to an extraordinary education at Brigham Young University and a variety of feminist friends who taught me to see gender roles differently, I began to realize that I had been indoctrinated with the idea of men as natural leaders and women as natural followers. As co-president of the Management Consulting Club at BYU, I worked with the extraordinary Hilary Hall. I took classes with the extraordinary Camille Fronk Olsen. And soon after graduation, I spent a year under the extraordinary management of Kelsey Harris. Other names come to mind. Those suffice. I learned more from each than I possibly could imagine. They were true leaders.

Back to Hera. The jealous Queen of the Gods. But why was she jealous? In Greek mythology, Zeus pledged to be her faithful husband. Yet time and time again, he made his way to earth or heaven, had sexual relations with other women (goddesses and mortals), and impregnated them. His partners included the Titanesses Metis, Themis and Leto, the goddesses Demeter and Persephone, and the mortals Europa and Io.

Hera may have been unfaithful once or twice. But the myths do not typically record it. Rather, they record a constant succession of Zeus trying (and usually failing) to hide his indiscretions from his jealous wife. Yet these stories almost inevitably end with Zeus’ offspring saving the world, despite Hera’s mistrust. Thus, she almost always comes out looking petty.

What to think? They’re only myths, of course. I don’t actually think Zeus and Hera, or even Hercules and Achilles, actually existed. They are archetypes, heroes, stories from which we learn and in which we find ourselves.

But if we find ourselves in these stories, as I did, what a tragedy that our modern culture was shaped by these ancient myths. As a boy, I identified with Zeus and resented Hera for her jealousy, since she turned out to be wrong most of the time. Yet in real life, the behavior modeled by Zeus is a recipe for marital, interpersonal, and societal collapse.

I am not arguing for marriage here. I do not believe marriage is the solution to all the world’s problems.

I am arguing for honor. I submit that, once Zeus promised himself to Hera, he was morally bound to stay honest and faithful to her. We may conceive of an arrangement, perhaps only acceptable to gods, in which Zeus could have other sexual partners with Hera’s approval. But not once in the myths did Zeus seek his wife’s approval. He never once consulted with her. Yet almost inevitably, it is Hera rather than Zeus who looks bad at the end of the story.

What does this reflect, if not sexism? Zeus was strongest, therefore he became king. He was wisest, therefore he knew when it was right to cheat on his wife and when it was not. He was kindest, and therefore mortals ended up loving him more than Hera.

Absurd. Absolutely absurd. If you want my opinion? Greek kings and bards wanted excuses to cheat on their wives, so they made up stories in which cheating was justified. Don’t shoot the messenger. I call it like I see it.

So on this Thanksgiving, let’s give thanks for feminism. Because the Greek myths, as beautiful as they were, perpetuated gender stereotypes which have lasted thousands of years. Let’s leave them behind. Women make good leaders. Women make good soldiers. Women make good workers. Women make good families and good children too. Replace “women” with “men” and it rings true. Your gender isn’t what matters. It’s your character. Hera would have said the same.

To my fellow Lyft drivers:

There’s a big to-do about California’s Prop 22 right now, as all of you know because of the constant messaging from Lyft. (Uber drivers and others, I’m sure you’ve experienced the same.) And as someone with a long-time interest in both politics and the tech sector, I was really interested by the arguments on both sides. So I did a little digging and wanted to share what I found.

The skinny? Prop 22, while imperfect, offers us the opportunity to keep our flexible jobs, with increased pay. It would likely need to be amended in the long term, but it is a start. The legislature’s alternative, AB5, would lay off millions of workers in the short term and reduce both flexibility and pay in the long term. And as far as I can tell, it’s either one or the other at this point. This train’s in motion.

You see, back in 2019 (about a million years ago) the California legislature passed a “state statute” which imposed a strict new interpretation on “independent contractors.” Basically, under the new law, you can’t repeat gigs with the same client too often or they legally become your “employer” and have to pay for your health insurance, grant you sick leave, etc. In the original law there were many exemptions, and a later statute added many more exemptions, so that the whole thing basically turned into a showdown between the government of California and the corporations of Lyft and Uber. They are, of course, fighting it out in the courts.

But rather deviously, Lyft and Uber have pursued another route in the war: drafting and propagating California Proposition 22. It all sounds like a plot hatched in a smoke-filled boardroom — corporations bypass the state legislature by appealing to uneducated public and brainwashing them with thousands of dollars in advertising. What Lyft and Uber are doing has an element of self interest, no doubt. That is capitalism. But if you look at the text of the proposition, it indicates that survival more than self interest is the main goal.

Prop 22 guarantees minimum wage for every hour you have the app turned on. It guarantees cash compensation for every mile driven and for health insurance if you drive more than 15–25 hours per week. It guarantees worker’s comp (vital when we’re on the roads all day) and offers some protections against discrimination and harassment. In the bargain, it also decreases tolerance for driver bad behavior, which is great for customers and all of us drivers who are keeping the rules.

Think about it. This will cost Lyft and Uber millions (billions?) of dollars per year. It’s clearly a compromise measure. Why? Because they’re also playing a separate corporate game. This played out in Austin before — when legislation forced Lyft and Uber to pull out temporarily, their place was filled immediately by new tech companies who played the same game of bottom-level prices in order to gain market share. Wages, quality of life, those things didn’t improve for drivers. It was the same job, just new bosses. Lyft and Uber lost money, but drivers didn’t benefit. Prop 22 offers an exit path from that merry-go-round.

And let’s not forget what we drivers love about this job — flexibility above all. If I have a job interview at 1pm, I can sign off and take the call. If a friend invites me to dinner, I don’t have to submit a time-off request or find someone to cover my shift. I can take another part-time job, go visit family for a week, or stop to eat lunch anytime during the day.

But there are other advantages. There is no overtime pay (something to keep pushing for!), but if bills are tight one month you can drive 12 hours a day and get through it. Very few jobs offer that kind of upward salary flexibility. I can also withdraw my accumulated paycheck at any point, for a small fee, if I need to pay a bill. And the hourly pay approaches something like minimum wage, which is hardly enough to live on in LA but no less than I made at Amazon.

So for me, ridesharing is a welcome respite from typical shift work.

But for many of the organizations I often support, like the California Democratic Party and the California Labor Federation, ridesharing and Prop 22 are attacks on the fundamentals of the social compact. Yet their alternative is unclear. AB5 threatens to make Lyft as unpleasant as shift work — in at 8, out at 5, 30 minutes for lunch and 10 minutes for bathroom breaks. Most of us are celebrating our independence from such restrictions. So while I have deep respect for these organizations, I respectfully ask them to find an alternative to Prop 22 which maintains flexibility and minimum wage guarantees, rather than simply telling us to vote “No” on the idea.

There is one element of Prop 22 which gives me some pause — it requires a 7/8 majority of the state legislature to amend it once it is passed. Even if Democrats have a significant majority in Sacramento, it rarely reaches those heights. Perhaps this 7/8 rule is necessary to preserve the measure from being changed by the legislature if it passes. Perhaps not. But one thing is sure — the people of California can always amend it in future statewide propositions, once we observe the pros and cons of the new system. Why not trust Californians with this experiment?

I don’t know if this is a fight we can win. Beating Joe Biden’s endorsed “No” policy in a deeply blue state in a polarized year is probably impossible. I’ll likely be scrambling for a job again come November, along with many of you. People are suspicious of Lyft and Uber, particularly the latter, which has been the source of some of the biggest corporate scandals of the century. They’re worried that the gig economy will be a permanent low-income trap. I understand those concerns.

But for us drivers, the decision is simple. AB5 was made for an economic system which no longer exists, where fathers worked 40 hours for good union pay while mothers stayed home and raised children. Most of us don’t live like that anymore, and even many who do are yearning for more freedom. Prop 22 is not perfect. But it guarantees continued flexibility, plus a minimum wage and some pocket money for gas and healthcare, free cash, which is way better than McDonald’s or Walmart or Amazon will give us. Because that’s where many of us will be applying if Prop 22 fails, while Lyft and every company like it completely overhaul their applications and slowly re-hire drivers one by one.

I don’t say this lightly. I worked for a think tank which promotes the interests of labor unions, and opposing them gives me pain. Yet, interestingly, even at that think tank our research focused not on rebuilding unions but on re-classifying and protecting workers in the new gig economy. Prop 22 at least tries to create a space for those of us who seek temporary on-demand flexibility — a “third way” between shift work and gig work. It’s not perfect. But it’s a good start. Let’s get behind it.

Dear Mr. Bezos,

I finished my last day as an Amazon Delivery Driver today. I drove for 6 weeks — 31 working days — and in that time I delivered about 3,000 of your Amazon packages. I realize they’re not exactly “yours,” since you only own 11% of Amazon. But as the largest shareholder, the founder, the CEO, and the president, I figure you’re the best one to address this letter to.

So here’s a quick update from the front lines — what it’s like day to day and some lessons I’ve learned on the job.

The alarm goes off. You roll over, hit snooze once. The second time you get up. You probably showered last night after a long day, so you just make some coffee, wolf down a granola bar, and slip into your blue and black Amazon uniform.

Since Amazon warehouses are usually located in the outskirts of main cities, away from most residential areas, you have a short commute. Fortunately, you have a car — many drivers rely on family or public transport to arrive at work. Windows down in the warm LA weather, music playing, you enjoy a few minutes of relative peace.

Your destination is a large parking lot a few blocks from the Amazon warehouse. Fifty other blue-vested drivers are converging on this staging area to receive their assignments for the day: which van number, which route number, which staging area at the warehouse. Experienced drivers are familiar with dozens of routes, can drive any of the four types of delivery vans with ease, and can deliver up to 150 packages in 8 hours. But since you are still new, you’ll start with a smaller van and a shorter route: 90 packages, in a quiet suburb away from traffic and apartment buildings.

You get into your van, being sure to sign into 3 apps: the time clock, the delivery guidance system, and the driving monitor. The driving monitor is widely disliked, since it penalizes you every time you pick up your phone at a stop light or brake quickly when a pedestrian walks in front of you. Fortunately for you, the monitor is hardly relevant because of a peculiar fact: bonuses are awarded to subcontractor delivery companies (who perform almost all deliveries) based partially on the driving scores of their drivers. So most of them have quietly spread tips and tricks to ensure that the driving monitor only records a small (and perfectly driven) portion of your day.

One by one, as drivers finish signing in, the vans file out of the staging area and down a few blocks to the Amazon warehouse parking lot. It is a picture of efficiency, loading hundreds of vans every hour in a space hardly bigger than an Olympic swimming pool. The employees there are largely friendly and helpful, though they tend to be young and a little lost because turnover is so high at the warehouse (as it is among drivers). Nevertheless, as you load 9 large tote bags full of packages and 15 separate “oversize” boxes into your van, you can’t help but marvel at the well-oiled machine running around you.

You’ll probably chat with other drivers while you load. You might even start recognizing a few other drivers. One of my favorites was a kid I called “Crocs” — I never did learn his real name. He had the most incredible smile if you could make him laugh and he wore Crocs to the staging area every morning. He and I would joke about his shoes sometimes. Someone might comment on the hot weather or a mistake made by warehouse staff. Many also work in silence, eager to get on the road.

And the road claims you all, faster than you would think possible, white and blue trucks streaming out of the warehouse parking lot headed for the far-flung city suburbs. It’s a quick ride down the freeway to your route, and you follow the delivery guidance system (Flex) to your first delivery.

You spot it: a typical suburban house with a gray fence. A row of cars is parallel parked in front, and you know this street is quite busy so you park a short distance away in order to not block traffic for a few minutes. You check your mirror, open your door, and walk to the back of the truck while checking your phone to see which package Flex tells you to grab. There are two for this delivery, it indicates, one envelope and one of the oversize boxes. You sort through a few envelopes until you find the right one, then find the oversize box under another one which fell on it while you were driving. Close the back door, remotely lock the van, and double-check the house number as you walk toward it. There’s no house number — double back, check for a number painted on the curb — there it is. Whistle to check for a dog, open the gate, close it behind you, look for a part of the porch which isn’t visible from the road, set the package down there, click “deliver” on the phone, take a picture of where you put the package, out the gate, close it behind you, enter the van, follow the directions to the next delivery.

With only 60 stops, you have more than 6 minutes to do this for each delivery. The best drivers do it in 3 minutes — 120 times a day. And statistics for each delivery are recorded by Amazon, from the quality of the pictures you take to the location of where you set each package, so you have to be thorough.

After a few hours, you stop for lunch. You are allowed exactly half an hour, to the point that if you punch a 32-minute lunch into the time clock, you need to go back and change it to 30. Thus, food is generally brought from home or bought from fast-food joints. Today it’s Chipotle — one of their beautiful chicken salads, with guacamole to reward yourself because it’s hot outside. You check your app while you’re eating and calculate in your head: you’ve delivered 1/4 of the packages but 1/3 of the day has passed. You’ll have to hurry up a little after lunch. You poke your fork into the last few pieces of cheese and lettuce and pop them in your mouth as you head back to the van.

The afternoon passes in a blur, concerned as you are with finishing on time. Usually, if you don’t finish on time, someone else who finishes early will be sent to “rescue” you. But if no one is available, you’ll have to stay late and finish — only in the most extreme cases are drivers called back to the warehouse early.

Bathroom breaks and general hygiene are real problems, of course. You try not to drink too much water, and when you do need to go you try to hold it until you spot a Starbucks or “porta-potty” on your route so that you don’t lose too much time. You’re encouraged to wash their hands every 20 minutes, which is a frequent joke in the driver staging area since most only see a sink at lunch. But all carry hand sanitizer and wear masks to every delivery. The mask is usually wet with sweat most of the afternoon, but it’s worth it for the public health concerns — and to avoid dirty looks.

Of course, dirty looks are something you’ve gotten used to, even in your first few days. The other day an old man in glasses came out and firmly asked you why you were parked in front of his suburban mansion. A young lady scolded you when she found a tear in the back of the envelope you delivered. A couple you didn’t spot seated on their front porch yelled at you stepped on their lawn. It’s just part of the job.

There are good customers, of course. The nicest woman introduced you to her massive white dog, Dover, the other day. Parents tell their toddlers to wave at you, from a safe distance of course. And many customers say thanks when they spot you out the window. Those little interactions mean the world, on the lonely road. The only other company is music, on the radio or in your earbuds — the breakneck pace of deliveries requires too much concentration for podcasts or audiobooks.

Finally, you check Flex and see only a few deliveries left on your route. It’s a good feeling — you can almost taste home. You drop the last package behind a potted plant on a beautiful stone-lined porch with ivy crawling over the door, take a picture, close the gate behind you, and get in the van. Only one thing remains before you head back: call your delivery subcontractor and ask if you can “come home” or if anyone else needs a “rescue.”

Fortunately, everyone’s nearly finished, so you’re off the hook for the day. You head down the freeway to the warehouse, unload any packages you couldn’t deliver, head back to the staging area, drop off your van. Get in your car, take off your shoes, turn on the radio, lean back in the seat, take a deep breath. Another day down.

All this for $15 an hour — ~$1.50 for each little package safely delivered. But I don’t think the subcontractors can raise that, because they are paid by Amazon based on a flat rate for each package, and there are only so many packages a single driver can deliver. So until that rate changes, I imagine the pay will have to stay around that.

I was grateful for this job, to be clear. Due to the pandemic, I was desperate for any income. And with Amazon’s business booming, they were one of the few places hiring during the summer. Since I couldn’t get COVID unemployment, having just moved back to the States, it was a godsend.

It was also the most difficult job I have ever done, in many ways. I arrived at home exhausted every day I worked, legs and ankles aching. I checked Facebook and answered messages less than any office job I ever had. I was treated with less respect around town than I expected.

But I also learned a great deal. Thrift, to begin with, since I couldn’t afford a studio apartment on my own. Patience, as I learned that I usually couldn’t control the speed of my routes — stairs, confusing apartment numbering systems, locked gates, tiny alleys, there was no telling what the day would bring. Detail orientation, matching 4-digit numbers on my phone, on packages, and on signs and buildings over and over again. Self-confidence, as I stood my ground against some particularly rude customers.

So I share what I learned, in the hope that it is useful for you and your team. My best wishes for the future.

Abraham Collier
Amazon Delivery Driver, Aug-Sep 2020
DLA8, Los Angeles, CA

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To Jeff Bezos, from an Amazon Delivery Driver was originally published in The Post-Grad Survival Guide on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.