In the announcement section, we were reminded about the employee parking lot policy.

On any given day, there are fewer spaces in our lot than the number of driving employees. This has created a practice of parking behind other people’s cars if nothing is open when you arrive. If you don’t know the blocking vehicle’s owner, you get the parking permit number from their windshield and go to the security desk. At that point, you learn their identity and call them to find out when they are leaving and how you will coordinate your cars. To make matters more complicated, people are not often at their desks, or most part-timers move around departments and who knows where they are.

For many reasons, including the chaos of this parking lot, I ride my bike to work as often as possible. When I drive, I often arrive an hour or more before other employees (except security) because the bulk of my job happens on the road. I’ll have my pick of spots, and will either grab a space that nobody can park behind, or I won’t worry because my expected return is at least an hour after the museum closes. Everyone (except security) will be gone.

On occasion, I arrive with the masses. That sucks. Some days, we’ll have construction workers in the lot along with full staff because of events or camp. Five company vehicles are permanently kept there. The cars jam in like sardines. It’s challenging, even with no one directly behind you, to pull in or out in the middle of the day.

Adding to the frustration, there are a number of reserve spots that often go unused. They are saved for board members, other muckity-mucks, and a few for upper management. If an employee’s car is discovered in the reserve section, that’s a problem. Additionally, there has been confusion as to what is a reserved spot. I was told to never park in a spot with a reserved sign, but there are a few numbered spaces without a sign.

During the morning meeting, we were reminded of the policy about parking behind someone and provided clarity on the reserve space situation. As you can imagine, with the system I described above, it was not rare for someone whose shift ended early to find themselves blocked by another employee’s car as they attempted to leave.

Words like “your responsibility” and “infraction” were emphasized. The inadequacy of our employee lot was never acknowledged. Quite simply, it fails to meet the institution’s needs (workers are part of the institution). It causes us chaos and stress. But that’s not upper management’s problem.

The museum cannot provide adequate resources to its employees; yet, it is not only our responsibility to manage the deficiency, but we must accept punishment if we fail. My anger boiled because it speaks to a much larger issue.

These everyday shifts of responsibility from an employer, institution, or government that cannot provide minimum resources to the lowest on the hierarchy are so pervasive that they go unchallenged or unnoticed. Instead of accountability, we get authoritative policy. The big brass give no thought as to how the problem might be solved, or how policy might be directed at more efficient and creative management, or how more resources might be obtained. The quickest solution is to divert accountability onto employees with a built-in reprimand. Wielded fear through the threat of punishment jars us into acceptance. No one questions the justness or balance of the situation.

We live in a world where resources are hoarded, depleted, or diverted at the top. Most of us are forced to make life work on less and less. We stress and fight each other over those precious resources rather than directing our ire toward greed and injustice, and claiming a share that is actually equitably distributable. It’s been going on forever. We are in a horrific cycle of this right now. America is devouring itself rather than raid the king’s stores. He gets fat, and we tear each other apart and starve.

Anyway, that’s how a four-minute morning meeting puts me in a shitty mood. If only I couldn’t see metaphors…

Martha Jones “Toots” Virostko rests in Riverside Cemetery outside Clinton, Indiana. Per instructions, her cremated remains were interred next to her husband in a plot that already held a child. Like much about my paternal grandmother, it was atypical.

Several years after Joseph Virostko died of lung cancer, his sister’s adopted daughter approached Martha regarding her granddaughter’s death. The economically strapped family asked to place the little girl next to Uncle Joe. A miniature casket and adult ashes could easily fit inside the 8’ X 3’ space. The small body would not supplant Toots (pronounced like boots), just keep her company. Still, no one would have blamed her for refusing to share her grave with a child she didn’t really know and that her husband never met.

To her immediate family’s surprise, Toots granted the request. We were not surprised when she later expressed regret. Her mixed relationship to acts of kindness ranged from grossly cunning to perplexingly random to heartfelt. Those close to Toots learned a cautious approach to her generosity. Most often, and despite reassurances, there were strings. Sharing the cemetery plot was a noble thing.

At eighty-seven, Martha Virostko died hard, but came to understand that, even if she didn’t always get her way, she was loved. She was also disliked and frequently infuriating and made things so much more difficult on herself (and us). First off, she kept swearing that she was really sick and; even though she’d been “dying” for the last fifty years, we believed her. Toots, however, wouldn’t stay in the hospital long enough to get a diagnosis. It’s challenging to provide care if you don’t really know what’s wrong, not to mention that her unwillingness to cooperate exacerbated her suffering.

Finally, when we knew the reality of what we were facing (late-stage colon cancer possibly metastasizing in her brain), everything calmed down. My Dad got power of attorney. We worked with hospice through a nearby assisted living facility. Grandma weighed over two-hundred and fifty pounds and was prone to falling. We couldn’t manage her at home. That didn’t mean we would abandon her. Toots spent her last month surrounded by children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces, and in-laws nearly every moment of visiting hours. Internal demons intermittently haunted her until she seemed to find peace in the final days.

What did my grandmother believe about death and the afterlife? I’m not really sure. She prayed but never attended church services (other than funerals and weddings). Heaven and Hell were mentioned in broad conversation along with God and angels, but only as general Protestant dogma, nothing specific to a denomination. She was born a First Christian, tussled with atheism, and technically died a Mormon. Adamantly bigoted, Martha disliked Jews, Blacks, and others, but especially Catholics, which had a lot to do with her husband’s family. Intelligent but a woman, Grandma was denied a higher education. All her brothers attended trade school or college. Toots never reached her potential and remained frustrated throughout her life. Both of my grandmothers seemed born before their time and it cost them (as well as those close by).

Toots Jones grew up in Clinton, Indiana as one of six children. One of seven, my grandfather was raised in nearby Universal (known as Bunsen to locals). Both were the second to youngest child. I believe they met at a dance. After marriage, Joe and Toots moved to Chicago for about a decade before returning to Clinton at my grandmother’s insistence and stayed there until death they parted.

In the Wabash River Valley near the central Illinois border, Clinton was a pretty safe and easy place to raise kids. Retired from the phone company and the Teamsters respectively, Toots and Joe watched me and my brother while our parents worked. They lived across the yard in a modest well-kept house with a finished basement, central air, and cable television. A short path connected their back door to the rear porch of our trailer, which sat on land they gifted to Mom and Dad (who were young, pregnant, and poor).

My folks worked hard. A modular replaced the trailer about ten months after my brother was born. We remained on the same lot for another fifteen years, next to Grandma and Grandpa. Though a pretty good deal for us kids, for our mom and dad, the situation proved a mixed bag. Martha, in particular, was meddling. She also inflicted her phobias, such as a terror of thunderstorms, and got in the middle of my parents’ relationship. It stunted Dad’s emotional growth and tested my mother, who had reluctantly and under pressure, relinquished her kids’ daily care to their grandmother. Toots was oh-so-happy to usurp maternal duties. I would have preferred my own mom.

In the early seventies, Mom went to high school in Paris, Illinois. My father lived in Clinton and had recently dropped out of college (he had gone on a basketball scholarship). Dad sang lead and played guitar in a local band. He met my young mother at a dance. They started dating. Several weeks later, I was conceived in the back seat of a car, somewhere near the state line.

The couple married in August of 1971. She was four months pregnant. After the wedding, he worked for CBS in Terre Haute and Mom completed her senior year at Clinton High School. Then, she worked at Zenith in Paris. He finished college at Indiana State University. After that, Mom worked blue-collar jobs while Dad taught middle and high school history and coached basketball.

Back then, options beyond family for affordable childcare were limited. Original latch-key kids, most Gen X matured in a world of working parents. Nearby Grandma and Grandpa meant that I rarely had to lock myself in the house alone. It takes a village as they say. Even if far from perfect, my brother and I were lucky to have one.

Winters — between the time change and briefer sunshine — we would not see Mom and Dad until after dark. On summer break, Dad took us on outings and errands, and we played around the house. Grandma Toots still acted as the main supervising adult until Mom arrived home. Loving and attentive when present, Grandpa Joe was a functioning alcoholic and disappeared for bouts. My grandparents argued horribly. They screamed nasty and insulting things to each other. We all got numb to it after a while.

A flaky and anxiously pre-occupied Toots often left me to my own devices. At four, I explored questionable crevices and wandered around the neighborhood until Grandma called me home for meals or to go shopping or if there was a storm warning. Fortunately, I never made it too far (my little brother was a different story).

Grandma Toots visited cemeteries for duty and pleasure. As a child especially, I often accompanied her. She read aloud the names, birth and death dates, and occasionally judged descendants or cursed groundskeepers for dilapidated conditions. On journeys to Crawfordsville or Parke County, Grandma impulsively checked burial grounds to see what kind of dead they had. Other times, we’d stop deliberately if Toots was searching for distant relatives (which she did often when joining the Daughters of the American Revolution). She researched remote small cemeteries as well as isolated graves and hidden family plots.

On the local front, Grandma told stories about deceased neighbors and townsfolk as we passed their headstones in Walnut Grove. Though never one to let facts get in the way of a good story, much of what she said was true. I researched some accounts at the Clinton and Terre Haute Libraries (tediously inspecting microfiche in the days before Google) and looked to other family members as supporting sources.

A young boy, dressed as an angel, was murdered on Halloween night when Grandma Toots was a child. Years later, a girl dropped suddenly when a tractor mower threw broken fencing wire under her sternum. It pierced her heart. She died in her father’s arms. Sepsis arising from pregnancy complications killed Great Grandmother Tina’s close friend. The woman had ten children and was pregnant or recovering from pregnancy her entire adult life. Toots recalled the horrid swelling and oozing black bile as the mother lay dying, surrounded by weeping daughters. Favoring the more tragic, sensational, and graphic deaths, Grandma also mentioned relatives who passed from heart attacks and cancer or other common ailments.

Her parents, Philip and Tina Jones, were also buried in Walnut Grove. We tended their graves on several occasions, weeding the plots and planting fresh flowers. Toots told fond stories and anecdotes and recalled Great Depression childhood hardships. Until after she died, I never knew that both of Grandma’s parents had divorced other people before marrying each other. Not only that, each cancelled alliance produced a child. In all her reminiscing, Toots omitted key facts.

Tina’s (pronounced like China) first son was known because Phil Jones adopted and raised him. Uncle Jim died first of the siblings, but I remember him (mostly because Grandma Toots despised his second wife). Martha always claimed that her favorite big brother was born out of wedlock and Tina refused to marry the young man responsible because he was an alcoholic (ironically, Great Grandpa Phil would become an alcoholic, self-medicating dark days in the coal mines as his limited option for feeding six children during a total economic collapse).

To my mind, an unmarried pregnant woman was more scandalous than a divorce in the early 1900s, but I could be wrong. Joe Virostko was a serious lapsed Catholic. Martha never converted to her husband’s faith so she didn’t have an “eyes of the Church” problem. Divorce was a big no-no, though she and Grandpa once separated.

Joe moved into their stilted cabin on the banks of the Wabash River. She remained in Clinton with the kids. Toots thought he would come crawling back, but Joe seemed to get along fine. Unlike other women back then, she had the means to leave my grandfather (a known serial philanderer who likely fathered an illegitimate child or two). Gainful employment, a secure home for her kids, and nearby friends and siblings could not overcome her pride. Divorce was a monumental moral failure. She would not have it.

As for her father, there were murmurs, but Phil Jones’ first wife was never openly discussed. Several years ago, my dad and his sister discovered a previously unknown half-aunt. 23andMe followed the Jones’ family trees through public records and uncovered marriage and birth certificates. Martha’s older half-sister had resided less than fifty miles from my aunt while both were living in Florida. Unfortunately, no awarenessn of each other’s existence meant that they never met. Now my great half-aunt is long dead.

In life, Martha Virostko was a self-proclaimed history buff and a genealogist. The woman traced two bloodlines to the pre-Revolutionary War. She overcame her terror of flying and traveled to Wales to research her ancestors. Toots covertly chastised a neighborhood family for formally changing their surname from Uhrine. It was pronounced as you’d think so you can imagine what hell was paid (especially by the children). “That makes it so hard if someone in their family tries to trace their ancestors,” Grandma secretly scolded them.

Yet, thanks to her fact distortion, we know virtually nothing about my great-grandfather’s oldest daughter. As poor as they were, I can’t imagine that he sent child support, but did he know her? The knowledge has been lost and unanswered questions are infuriating. Sadly, for Toots (and vicariously, the rest of us), when optics and truth collided, appearances prevailed.

By my early teens, cemetery visits were becoming a drag. During a last outing with Grandma, we tended her brother-in-law’s grave in Riverside. Great Uncle Paul had died in Vermillion County Hospital from TB and alcoholism in early spring of ’78. I’d turned six that winter. Mom was pregnant. Uncle Paul looked forward to meeting his new great nephew but didn’t make it.

His shotgun shack sat on a three-quarter acre in Universal, a tiny former mining town. The property had a manual-pump well and an outhouse. Grandma and I would visit early to pick garden vegetables before the sun grew hot. Each time, we entered through the back door to find Uncle Paul sitting at the head of a narrow table in a sparse kitchen with no lights on. Instead of coffee, he’d slowly sip whiskey to soothe his shakes. World War II service left deep psychological wounds, and he never emotionally recovered after his second wife’s suicide. His wilted face and quiet intensity sometimes frightened me, but Uncle Paul was always kind. He once tried to tease a big wild strawberry from my dirty little hands (I had plucked it near the garden fence). Laughing to his face, I popped it in my mouth and savored its juicy sweetness.

Later, after my grandmother died, we found sweet letters from Paul Virostko to his young niece (my aunt) in the guest room closet. I scanned them into a Family History folder. Inexplicably, Grandma Toots (the proud amateur genealogist and autodidactic historian) had burned correspondence between Paul and his second wife after his death. When my mother challenged Martha, she claimed the explicit content justified her actions. It still baffles me. For better or worse, family history is family history. I desperately wish to read the doomed couple’s loving and spicy exchanges, when each believed hope had finally found them, before despair suffocated euphoria, and the worst outcome befell them.

Martha Ellen Jones Virostko frequently behaved selfishly and self-destructively with surges of self-awareness and unconditional generosity. Her irrational fears and controlling nature were understandable considering all she had been through in her life. Compassion doesn’t necessarily make things easier, especially when there was far less understanding at the time. I loved Toots and miss her, but my feelings are mixed. She was a difficult woman and damaged both her kids (one of whom is my father).

Since my early adulthood, I have regularly visited my folks in their ranch-style house on a semi-secluded three-quarter acre in Paris, Illinois (they sold our Clinton home while I was in college). Young and living in Chicago, I saw my parents several times a year. Blocks away, on the east side of Paris, there is a cemetery dating back to the early 19th Century. It fans on all sides from a small hill. Early morning jogs on its quiet grounds became my routine. For leg strength and cardio, I rounded the hill from varied winding access roads. With looming old trees and two centuries of community history, Paris Cemetery was a pretty and serene place for exercise and head clearing.

I moved to Los Angeles in my early thirties and didn’t visit my parents as often (about once every year to a year and a half). The long distance required somewhat expensive air travel and time off was tricky. Lost work hours meant a perilous reduction in my small pet-sitting income. Even while visiting, I didn’t hang in the cemetery. With an occupation involving ten miles of bike riding a day and another five or six of walking, who needed exercise? Jogging was no longer necessary. On the contrary, foot rest on my off-time was essential.

As my Los Angeles life wound down, I got interested in photography. In Paris, visiting my parents, I found myself again in the cemetery — chasing shadows and light. Early sunshine flicked monuments during the golden hour. If you didn’t understand granite particles and refraction, you might think that wee rainbow orbs were lingering gilded spirits.

Always, except the most frigid winter days, there would be wildlife. The tree-filled grounds teemed with large red squirrels, chubby from black walnuts. There were typical birds — sparrows, robins, doves, and not so typical ones like woodpeckers, owls, hawks and a rare bald eagle or heron. I saw a few foxes over the years, a couple skunks, several groundhogs, and many deer. In the summer, mother does and their fawns found shelter from predators. During hunting season, small herds hid in the cemetery, including bucks. Hunters cannot pursue them onto sacred grounds. The deer know that.

Having grown up in Indiana, I knew nobody in this Illinois graveyard. Time and routine bound me to dead strangers whose lives I had casually pondered as I ran or strolled passed their markers. Intending to be cremated or composted, I thought about my own death and envisioned the immediate aftermath (presuming that I lived a reasonably long life and died naturally). Who will mourn my passing or see me off?

I recently shared Grandma Toots’ cemetery tradition with my niece and nephews (I have no children). Last July, we were all at my parents’ house for an informal family reunion. On a clear and humid morning, the kids and I marched to the Paris Cemetery on a bird-watching mission. My nephew added two new avian species to his bird book before death diverted our attention.

We came upon the mausoleum, which was something foreign to the kids. We discussed family crypts near the top of the hill and how they were similar. They asked if the small, crumbling buildings held actual bodies and the answer was yes (though I explained that people didn’t really use crypts anymore).

“You mean everyone dead in those buildings are related?”

“Pretty much,” I said and pointed to the varied sizes of monuments. We brushed into economic class and public importance as it applied to different time periods. They loved finding graves of the oldest deceased. Some were born in the mid-18th Century.

We examined military markers for the simplicity and tidiness. I talked about the difference between limestone and granite and the various headstone trends, like concrete tree trunks in the late 19th Century and modern laser-printed carvings or embedded photos.

Children’s graves obsessed the kids. Anyone could die at any time, including those younger than them. “Look for lamb statues or carvings,” I instructed, which signified a young child or baby’s burial marker. We read the names and birth and death dates, just like Martha.

My niece wondered why there were so many deceased children, especially in the older part of the cemetery. My sister-in-law had joined us at some point (after tracking her son’s location through his new birthday watch). She and I explained the difficulties of childbirth, lack of medical advances, unsanitary conditions, and other hardships that were different from modern existence.

The kids — ages 11, 8, and 6 — contemplated their mortality to the extent one could as a child. A strange honor came over me, that I was present for something rather significant. Thankfully, their mother guided the moment, where children glean a deeper understanding of death as it personally applies. When my niece once asked where babies came from, I directed her straight to her folks. I wasn’t embarrassed or without an explanation; it simply wasn’t my place. Parents get first crack at those queries. I’m grateful my sister-in-law had found us. It was not my intent for a bird watching trip to get so philosophical.

My oldest nephew announced that he wanted to be buried under two bushes with a bench-style monument so people could sit while visiting him. He pointed to an example. It was a rather snap decision as he, only minutes prior, had begun considering the matter. I could have challenged him with alternate options — becoming a tree, medical study, etc. — but refused to think for SINGLE MOMENT about a niece or nephew’s lifeless body. “Tell your siblings,” I directed him. “I’ll be long dead when it’s your funeral.” Please God, LONG dead, I silently prayed.

The kids were gone the next day. During a solo morning walk at the cemetery, I was suddenly floored by how much it had grown. I had been visiting for nearly thirty years, mostly for exercise and art. Tree loss due to climate change and thunderstorms storms struck me as more pronounced than death’s expansion. Barely noticed over decades, the slow broadening mortality hit hard. The west side had filled to its limit. A road, solid trees and a long drainage ditch formed a hard boundary. On the south and west, there were major roads. North was the only way to go. I remembered when the graves only reached twenty feet beyond the last ring of the northern access road. They’ve added two more access roads since then. The first new sections have nearly reached capacity. Beyond that, a cornfield was cleared for grass and baby trees and soon more bodies.

A heaviness, like a giant blob of gel, plopped over me. Things that had long been were about to change. My father is in decline. His sister’s health is not great. He’s mid-seventies and she’s in her early eighties. We have some longevity in our family, but we’re still nearing that time. My brother’s firstborn is almost an adolescent. Soon all the kids will be teenagers then grown. Yes, it goes unbelievably fast — suddenly like it’s almost gone. People who’ve been around my entire life are nearing their great absence. I am heading toward another of life’s big transitions. Nothing seemed bad, just inevitable and terrifying. There was no escaping. I could only carry the feeling until I grew accustomed to it.

In mid-July, we drove to Piquot Lakes to see my husband’s family. His sister and brother-in-law own a cabin. My husband spent boyhood summers on nearby Whitefish Lake. A year older than my mom, he’s no spring chicken either.

Our more direct (and toll heavy) route to Minnesota amounted to nineteen hours of driving over two days. On the way back, we spent the night at my parents to save the tolls and hotel. Fortuitously, we avoided the Canadian wildfire smoke. Toxic clouds left Minnesota the day before our arrival and raised a code purple in Baltimore while we were gone. For once, timing was on our side.

At the rural Minnesota property, we slept in an open screened, one-room cabin next to the main house. Our accommodations also boasted a compost toilet and a kitchenette, including a sink with potable water. Time behaved in that precious way, where nature and light slow the world and bathe you in goodness. My husband’s sister and brother-in-law grow food and build whatever they need (throw and fire their own mugs and plates). We ate fresh, home-cooked meals, talked about everything, and swam in the lake. Three days felt like at least a week. We went kayaking. I met family friends and cousins. On a nature walk, we learned about the medicinal properties of native plants and fungus. I felt closer to my husband’s family than ever. And, I’ve always liked them.

We left Piquot Lakes early as to arrive in Paris before my father fell asleep. Dinner awaited in my mother’s kitchen when we pulled into the driveway. That evening, my husband chatted with Dad. In the back bedroom, I introduced my mother to Riot Women after she showed me the Ride or Die pilot. I recently finished a women-of-a-certain-age buddy trilogy that also included Hacks. The three series could have not been more different. It was nice to watch shows with my mother on our short stopover and laugh. She and I don’t always have the same taste in entertainment.

The final day of driving was long but unremarkable. The next morning, I had to work on the other side of DC. On the way back, my performance partner and I got stuck in traffic. An already long drive took so much longer. I like and enjoy my colleague, but sitting in a miles-long, three-and-a-half hour parking lot was hell.

At the end of that same week, my brother’s family closed their annual road trip in Rehoboth Beach and invited us to join them. Baltimore is two and a half hours away. My husband was unable to come. I definitely went, even though I felt like I lived on the road.

It was a beautiful early morning jaunt from Baltimore with gorgeous weather over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Idyllic rural highways in Vermont reminded me of childhood day trips with Martha. I didn’t realize how much Rehoboth is a serious beach town until I got there. Families from the entire DMV pounce on the small village to enjoy the ocean and boardwalk.

Thrilled, the kids rushed toward me as I exited the car. We embraced in the rental house driveway and I chatted with their parents. At 9:30 am, we headed to the beach and got caught in traffic. It was more than expected, but not horrible. We parked a half block from the shore, and trudged over sand for about a hundred feet with chairs, bags, and towels. No one had taken the area next to the life guard station. We passed a long line of settled beach goers to the last sand spot directly in front of the water.

A mildly choppy ocean was reasonably swimmable. The kids and I held hands and “jumped waves.” My niece and nephews branched to independence. Gleeful children leapt thrusting white caps that knocked them to the sand. The youngest got instantly brave, venturing further than his older siblings. I thought, given the water conditions, that Mama Atlantic could snag him. Without a thought, I dove through a cresting wave and bobbed beyond the breakers. If an unexpectedly strong backwash pulled my nephew into the ocean, I could easily grab him. Later, I scouted the best boogie boarding waves for the two older children.

That was the first time I’d swam past decent breakers in over fifteen years, since getting badly tumbled by Papa Pacific when I lived in Los Angeles. Playing safety monitor for the kids easily motivated me. I forgot about the fear. Their parents kept eye from their chairs, getting some much-needed relaxation, before joining us.

We later strolled along the busy Boardwalk, ate lunch, and got lemonade and ice cream. The kids took turns holding my hands and fought over who sat next to me. I’ll cherish the adoration while it lasts. It won’t be forever. That night, we swam in the above ground pool at the rental house before dinner and watching a cartoon movie. To my niece’s disappointment, the boys chose Arco over The Pout-Pout Fish. While I appreciated the European Anime’s gorgeous artistry and psychological complexity, watching future imaginary families coping with climate change wasn’t exactly relaxing.

My brother planned a hike the next day. I’d told him that I would leave before they went. As we headed out for breakfast in the morning, I began to regret my decision, but didn’t want to intrude into their vacation. I checked my sister-in-law’s temperature, while my brother was in the bathroom. She encouraged me to stay as long as I wanted.

Back at the house, I felt exhausted. We found some classic games in a drawer, like Twister, Monopoly, playing cards, etc. My energy was low, but I made it through two Twister rounds. Maybe I shouldn’t stay, I thought. It’s almost a three-hour drive back to Baltimore. But I don’t get to see the kids very often. A hike might rouse me.

Then my brother said something about my leaving before they headed to the park. I panicked and decided to go home. He offered me fresh coffee, but I’d had enough caffeine. The kids expressed disappointment when I said goodbye. My chest ached. For some reason — exhaustion or insecurity — I continued to leave.

A mile away, I felt my heart breaking and knew I should turn back. The kids would be happily surprised and another five or six hours would be grand. Again, inexplicably, I kept driving. At home, I sobbed at my mistake. I should have still been in Rehoboth, hiking with the kids. So what if I was tired? A short nap would have easily done the trick.

My exhaustion fed a momentary panic - this fear that the kids would suddenly get bored with me. I couldn’t overcome it in time to change course — this feeling that I was unwanted. I’m sure it goes back to childhood stuff and trauma and all that jazz, but I’ll never make that mistake again. Life is too short and too precious to cut out early when you’re bathed in love.

It’s not written down and I don’t have a will, but I plan to be cremated after death. So does my husband as well as my parents. No one has purchased a cemetery plot. We’ll probably all be scattered in some way. I don’t wish to take up space on an overcrowded planet after I’m gone or be confined to six feet underground. I don’t need an “I was here!” monument.

But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Everyone’s legacy is complicated. Links, even if tarnished, must be shared or a chain is broken. I may not follow her lead, but understand a lot more about my grandmother now.

A permanent grave helps us imagine that we are never alone. Each plot is a chapter of local history, some short and some long. Strangers pass a marker with a name and two dates and wonder what kind of person lies beneath.

Cemeteries are parks and nature preserves. Children watch animals and feel for babies they never knew. Exercise among ancestors evokes quiet contemplation. Sacred ground holds faiths and nations.

Ornate memorials and simple markers sit side-by-side atop the underground where all lie equal in eternal community and silent grace.

If only we could live that way.

From 2016 to 2022, I worked for the Office of Elections in Charlottesville, Virginia. In November of 2020, the City of Charlottesville offered Active Attacker Civilian Response and Casualty Care (CRCC) Training. The General Registrar thought someone from our department should attend. She applied no pressure. The workshop was not mandatory. It seemed practical, so I agreed to participate. If only I had known what awaited…

The Virginia Department of Criminal Justice Services (DCJS) sent two retired State Police (VSP) Officers and other first responders to instruct around thirty participants. COVID-masked, we attended from multiple City departments. Though edifying, the life-saving information was disheartening and grim.

The presentation split over five modules:

• Module 1 served as an intro and overview (a covert indoctrination).
• Module 2 covered surviving the initial moments of an attack, from fleeing to fighting.
• Modules 3 and 4 dealt with casualty care and critical first aid.
• Module 5 involved an informal exercise and practice tourniquet application.

According to their bios, the retired VSP Officers boasted impressive law enforcement and instructor careers. Their decades-spanning expertise was well-earned. They seemed like nice men with the good intention of saving lives. I found them knowledgeable and sincere.

Before they could instill their survival wisdom, we had to accept that mass casualty active attacker events (particularly those involving guns) were embedded in the fabric of American society. Either we or someone we knew would be a victim in the future. The odds grew increasingly likely each year.

The PowerPoint projected a large image of a pristine United States — white and blank inside. The graphic’s animation started in the seventies. Isolated red dots marked a scattering of active attacker events like distant cast-off spatter. As the timeline rolled through the eighties, those hard round blemishes proliferated to a pox, then burst after Columbine into seas and lakes of red. In less than thirty years, mass casualty violence saturated the United States in a trend more likely to swell than dissipate.

Guns were a fundamental right (the former VSP Officers urged), violence being the trade-off. An increasing number of bad actors, emboldened by the dark web and social media, necessitated active attacker training for ordinary citizens (it had nothing to do with a Wild West interpretation of the Second Amendment, driven by greedy capitalism, control, and fear-mongering). Americans possessed a non-debatable right to bear any and all arms regardless of our Founding Fathers’ understanding of a “militia” and Eighteenth-Century firearms when they wrote the Bill of Rights.

The white male trainer officers did not refute that the easy availability of guns contributed to an alarming rise in mass casualty deaths. The obvious correlation failed to meet their threshold for any significant restrictions on gun ownership. (SPOILER ALERT: There was no threshold.)

We learned that the bad actors were nearly always men, and in America, usually white. Both officers had worked undercover in cagey chat rooms to infiltrate our homegrown fringe dwellers. (Wow, did those retired VSP’s hate Incels!).

Our trainers openly detested “cowards” who inflicted atrocities on innocent people. Regardless of cause or agenda, indiscriminate killing was unacceptable. Orchestrators of mass maiming and murder were evil. The VSP Officers provided no examples of acceptable violent extremism.

The well-meaning men may have been a tad traumatized. Whatever they heard in those chat rooms had profoundly disturbed them. They weren’t the only ones. Some of their colleagues had stormed Norris Hall during the Virginia Tech shooting. Alerted by news reports, frantic friends and relatives placed repeated calls to maimed and dead students as law enforcement secured the scene. Ceaseless and desperate vibrating phones, never to be answered, still buzzed in the first responders’ nightmares.

For our next wave of programming, the DCJS Instructors shared mass casualty case studies and survivor interviews. Haunting first-person accounts caused considerable distress. To save future lives (possibly our own), we all needed to accept hard realities (according to them).

We could forget hide and hope. In an active shooter situation, if you survive the initial seconds, you must remain vigilant and alert. That’s when they whipped out the Columbine Librarian 9–1–1 call.

Before playing the recording, our trainers excused what they implied was a mistake made by the librarian. Before a pair of mentally disturbed students barged into the school, loaded with ammo and guns blazing, a tornado drill stood as her only remotely comparable emergency reference. While metaphorically similar, a tornado is not an armed white male. If you don’t know or remember, most casualties occurred in the library.

First, we heard the gunshots in the background, progressing up the hall. Shocked and wounded, the librarian ordered everyone under the tables. “GET DOWN! GET DOWN!” she screamed over and over in desperate bellowing authority.

For seven and a half minutes, those kids cowered like ducks in the demented arcade of sick infantile teens. The shooters knew the library would be populated. They didn’t skip it because students were hiding (or thought they were hidden) under the tables. While seven and a half minutes seems a short span to kill ten people and wound twelve others — you figure two attackers with a cache of semi-automatic weapons and a total of fifty-two trapped humans — it was an eternity. The shooters chose their targets. Twice while in the library, they paused to reload their weapons. The killers maniacally taunted the kids, who, for the most part, waited their turn to be taunted, hoping they would somehow survive.

Our active attack instructors emphatically theorized that you are more likely to live through a mass shooting by maintaining a dynamic and adaptable mind. Unfortunately, this might prove difficult with bullets flying and colleagues dropping. Civilian Response Active Attacker Training was designed to condition the average person to make the most effective survival choices while under severe duress.

Our trainers introduced Escape, Avoid, Deny, Defend (EADD) as potentially life-saving concepts to implement during an active attacker event. In light of Columbine and other mass killings, this model replaced run, hide, and hope (a limited survival strategy that ended in passivity). Blind running might prove unwise if you head nowhere fast or attract a shooter’s attention. As for hiding and hoping — well, you may be relying on a higher power or dumb luck when options remain to control your own fate.

Getting crackerjack at identifying gunfire served our best interests. For a female survivor of the Harvest Music Festival sniper attack, it may have meant the difference between life and death. Familiar with firearms, the young woman immediately recognized shots and ran toward an exit ahead of a frantic stampede. Most others lost critical seconds processing the sound, leaving them more vulnerable to assassination or trampling.

However you discern the identifying markers of an active shooter situation, if you’re still alive after the first few seconds, keep sharp. Distance from the killer(s) provides the best survival odds, but that’s not always in the cards.

“Escape” meant removing yourself from the vicinity of the attacker, which could involve different strategies. If there is an available exit route, run from the area or building upon hearing shots fired. Quietly fleeing in a rapid yet discreet manner may remove you from danger without attracting attention. While you’re escaping, warn others if possible. Call 9–1–1 once you are safe.

Depending on the circumstances, flight may not be an option.

“Avoid” deploys when the attacker operates in relative proximity and limited options or encumbrances prevent a safe exit. In the short term, can you remove yourself from immediate danger? Can you effectively hide until the attacker moves on? You must continually assess and reassess your situation. Does that break in gunshots mean the attacker is reloading? Could this be the moment to dash from your temporary shelter toward the exit? Or are you stuck until authorities arrive? Then, you must implement the next steps, knowing survival odds fall at every dead-end turn.

At this point, the trainers recommended forming an exit strategy before an attack occurs, particularly for the workplace and other common settings. Even with a plan, we could still be trapped with an active gunman. That didn’t mean we had to die or die in vain (but we’ll get to that later).

Escalate to “Deny” when escape from the general vicinity seemed highly unlikely. How can you best deny access to yourself? Intelligent hiding meant maximizing your circumstances. Can you shelter behind a locked door? Turn off all lights. Silence your phone. Is there a shelf or desk that can serve as an additional barrier? Don’t worry about breaking or knocking things over. Hindrances could mean that deranged evil moves on. He’s interested in a body count; his enemy is time. He’ll look for easier targets before authorities arrive.

“Defend” was literally do or die. Be ready to strike. Is there a makeshift weapon — umbrella, golf club, letter opener, paper weight, or aerosol can? Can you leap off a shelf or spring from behind a locker in a surprise attack? Before barricading under a table or desk, can you grab any found objects to hurl or to stab the shooter? Fight dirty; fight hard; gouge eyes; pull hair! At the very least, go down swinging and keep the attacker occupied long enough to help others. Two seconds could make a difference down the line.

A noble sacrifice could save one or many lives. The trainers lingered on the courageous acts of ordinary people, like when a Virginia Tech Professor and Holocaust Survivor died bracing the door against a gunman as nearly all of his students fled through a classroom window. Not only were most of his students saved, but they would now go on to have children and grandchildren, and their families would not have to suffer their loss. Preventing even a single death had an exponential effect. Sharing this viewpoint, our trainers shone light in their eyes and supreme reverence.

A self-less act requires motivation and will. Could I sacrifice myself for others? Strangers? With something moving as fast as a mass casualty attack, it’s hard to say.

I might charge a maniac with a gun if that seemed my only chance — there was nowhere to go, and it was just a matter of time. But, in general, I’m not your hero. In that respect, most folks were probably the same. Under intense pressure, the survivor-brain shifts into razor-focused self-preservation, or we turn to jelly in the terror of the fray.

Later that day, while formulating the recommended emergency exit strategy, I contemplated my likely actions in relation to my colleagues at the Elections Office. I liked and respected them, but the second that poor Paul’s brains hit that glass window between his front desk and my office — I would have been out the back, down the hall, slamming doors and knocking shit off shelves until I got behind a third bolted door that would be barricaded as fast as possible. Sure, I hope other employees would reach the kitchen before I sealed it, but the small office had limited exits. Lightning-fast action was our only chance. Slow-acting folks would die anyway.

As far as family, my nieces and nephews, my life would be valuable only in its usefulness to save them. I hope I would feel the same if responsible for any child, even a stranger’s kid. I never wish to answer these questions about my character in a live-action setting. Speculating, I feel my ability to play hero would depend on the existing circumstances. I don’t want to find out.

While Escape, Avoid, Deny, Defend were the spoken survival concepts in an Active Attacker situation, Play Hero or Self-Sacrifice was heavily implied.

Applying the EADD principles to the Librarian’s words and actions, what should have been done in that unthinkable situation? Instead of “get down”, she could have yelled, “GET OUT! RUN! GET OUT!” Maybe a few kids would have made it. Did they have a window of escape? Who can say?

What if the Librarian had known Deny and Defend? Would “BARRICADE THE DOOR”, “KNOCK OVER SHELVES”, or “THROW BOOKS” have meant more kids lived? If the woman had screamed, “GET THEM!!” with all her might, maybe the kids wouldn’t have just hunkered under the tables, praying for death to choose someone else. Would that have resulted in less loss of life?

What if the Librarian had spurred the high school students to a quick-acting DENY? Kids, shaking defenseless under tables, easily presented as psychotic fun. Barricading the library door (or at least knocking over shelves and other equipment) and students scattering may have done the trick. Mounds of books and sharp-edged shelves and everyone strewn into who-the-fuck-knew-where would have presented a different scene. It might have convinced the grisly teens that easier bloody glee lay down the hall.

On the other hand, a layer of piled books and sharp-edged shelves surrounding known, but not visible, targets might have inspired relentless gunfire or an IED tossed into the room. Can we say with certainty that DENY would have meant a better outcome? Ten people were killed in the library. Forty-two were spared.

DEFEND carries the same unpredictability factors as Deny. A student-mounted aggressive defense or surprise offense could have quickly turned provocative and more deadly. (It’s worth noting that students who played dead after being shot fared better than the students who fought back.) If the shooters had sprayed ceaseless automatic rounds in the library for seven and a half minutes (or even forty seconds), the bodies would have been more numerous and shredded.

What if the students had coordinated a counter-attack, jumping from multiple directions as the killers entered the room, knowing there was a chance one or more could die? Well, our DCJS Trainers certainly placed heroism on a pedestal. That kind of action, however, takes will and courage (or the ignorance of youth that doesn’t really comprehend death). Also, if our shooters had felt threatened, would they have been disabled or backed down or, again, would they have indiscriminately fired?

Hindsight is not always twenty-twenty. Extreme violence is relentlessly unpredictable, even when you are trained to face it. No matter your preparation, survival is no guarantee.

As the VSP instructors explained, a gunman or bomber arrives to inflict maximum carnage as quickly as possible. Dark websites celebrate active attackers as folk heroes. Legend is about body count, reducing humanity to a psychopathic video game. The retired officers stressed how law enforcement understood the active shooter mindset. To mitigate casualties, their response protocol was always to engage the attacker as quickly as possible. (When I watched the Uvalde coverage and learned that law enforcement remained outside the school for forty-five minutes, I wondered if my former VSP trainers were as stunned and sickened by the lack of action while children were slaughtered and traumatized as I was.)

In an active shooter situation, I can still see where Escape, Avoid, Deny, Defend could save you if you lived long enough to apply it. Sadly, you might be the receptionist confronted by a guy off the elevator who pops a bullet straight through your head. You may be dancing at a concert and fall bloody and dead, alerting others that a sniper attack has commenced. You might be cheering your friend across the finish line and fail to notice that the young man standing next to you just left his backpack behind. You may be a small child in a classroom on a very, very bad day.

Let’s say that luck and acuity are on your side. You survive the mayhem within the attack perimeter, and the shooter is gone or disabled. Now it is time to save lives. Well, as long as you know how and are psychologically functional. To that end, Modules 3 and 4 covered First-Aid in the aftermath of a mass casualty attack.

Best case post-attack scenario: 9–1–1 is called immediately, law enforcement headquarters are nearby, response is robust, and the Police and Special Units storm the scene within a few minutes. Unfortunately, arrival of cavalry doesn’t mean that everything is instantly okay.

When officers and tactical units enter an active attacker scene, their priority is locating and demobilizing the shooter or shooters. It’s a high-stress, usually chaotic situation. They often have no idea what they’ll encounter. They don’t treat injuries or allow medical responders inside until the scene is secured (which can take some time, especially if there are multiple attackers and IEDs). The carnage may be widespread. Paramedics, once cleared to enter, are often overwhelmed or cannot instantly locate those most critically injured.

Our trainers underscored that many lives were lost in those minutes between the end of an attack and receiving professional medical care. Blood loss, suffocation, or hypothermia claimed victims that could have otherwise been saved. It is up to the severely traumatized (but otherwise uninjured) civilians to salvage whatever life they can.

The trainers divided the human body into three sections, each with a unique critical care strategy. Neck and head treatment involved clearing obstructed airways and identifying shock. Arms and leg wounds required manual artery and vein staunching (bleeding out took two minutes or less). Sealing chest wounds prevented blood loss and the collapse of lungs in the torso area.

We applied practice tourniquets to arms and legs (double tourniquets are required to staunch a femoral artery). Improvised tourniquets could be created from found objects such as scissors and a widely wrapped electrical cord, cloth belt, etc. PowerPoint slides illustrated a thumb capping a severed artery by inserting into the leg, almost to the bone. At each table, the DCJS trainers provided a large, round, silicone block with a deep slit. We practiced applying the necessary pressure to seal an artery (which was quite a bit more than you’d think).

The trainers demonstrated chest seals that could be purchased in affordable packs. If we didn’t keep professionally manufactured seals onsite, a gloved hand or tightly pressed sheet of plastic could do the trick. Block any air from entering through a wound. You must also remember to close both the entry and exit wounds. Depending on the angle of entry and amount of blood, a wound opening can take some effort to locate (they used Reagan’s armpit wound as an example — appearing externally superficial but causing serious internal damage to the President).

We learned the different classifications of the injured: Yellow to Red to Gray. Medical responders use this assessment system to prioritize care. Reds required the most urgent attention. Yellows needed help but were likely stabilized and not immediately critical. Grays included the deceased and, once classified as such, a victim received no medical assistance. (FYI — a Gray may not necessarily be dead but perceived as beyond recovery given the available resources.)

Our trainers suggested that we purchase tourniquets and chest seals for our offices and personal use. These emergency response items were small enough to fit into a purse. Though I highly doubt they received commission, our trainers recommended brand names.

Physically unharmed and beyond danger, could I tend to the injured? I can usually do what needs to get done. If I break apart from something traumatic, it’s later. Still, who knows? My psyche could crack under that kind of stress. It might depend on what was witnessed and how far that dropped me into shock, depression, or hopelessness.

Did I order tourniquets and chest seals just in case? No, but I kept a rolled cloth belt in my purse for a while. After all, tourniquets could be useful following a car crash or other catastrophic accident (though no one ever argues that tourniquets are fundamental to vehicle safety). Packing tourniquets and chest seals feels like an act of brutal cynicism, conceding the inevitability of encountering an active shooter. Do we submit to this vicious narrative and plan accordingly?

My current job takes me to various K-6 schools across my state. Many classrooms are now equipped with active attack defense gear, such as easy-applied door barriers and signs to remind little ones what to do when a man brandishing a semi-automatic gun enters their school. When I see it in context, there are no words.

Have we arrived at get armed or get dead? Is empowered victimhood really our only hope?
_____

Findings of Library Events. Jefferson County Colorado Sheriff, 2000 edition.cnn.com/SPECIALS/2000/columbine.cd/Pages/LIBRARY_TEXT.htm. Web. Accessed 9 Jun. 2022

Colombine High School Massacre. Wikipedia, 2002 en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Columbine_High_School_massacre. Web. Accessed 8 Jun. 2022

When I was seventeen, something happened to me and a couple of my friends in our government class that I never forgot (during the 80s and 90s, we still took government and social studies classes). In a single instance, harsh experience-acquired knowledge permanently embedded its lesson into my teenage brain: Women are punished for intelligence, dedication, and competence if it is even perceived to humiliate, displace, or best a man.

During the second semester of my junior year, we did a mock trial. Three girls (academic achievers including myself) were selected for the prosecution. A team of three boys led the defense (an athletic academic and two popular kids).

The gals took the assignment seriously — maybe a little too seriously. We met for a few hours with the synopsis and prepared (two of us were mystery and crime procedural buffs). During the “trial,” we presented a clear, evidence-supported argument and discredited defense witnesses in cross examination; while the boys barely asked a difficult question to the police officer and store owner and stitched their case, half-assed and patched, leaving tons of gaping holes and unanswered questions.

As the lead prosecutor, I made a strong closing argument, tying together the evidence and testimony, and reminded the jury about the myriad of defense witness inconsistencies that called their credibility into question.

By the look on his face, our teacher was impressed.

The boys’ final remarks were thin and flippant — all self-assuredness and attitude, spiced with flirtation and flattery. For the record, our presentation was also confident with its own attitude, though with a different style. My closing delivery was equally as entertaining. This was not about showmanship versus substance. We had both. The boys only wielded the former.

The judge presented the jury with three verdict options: a felony, a lesser misdemeanor, or acquittal. While sure we would get a misdemeanor conviction (the evidence was pretty clear on that), we believed - due to our more thorough preparation - we might see a guilty on the felony charge.

The jury acquitted on both counts — quickly. From the sitting class of spectators came a smattering of light claps and a burst of short cheers. The boys shot their hands up in victory and gave each other high fives. The girls looked at one another, confused and dejected, our backs bowing in our chairs, almost in shame for what we had no clue.

Somewhat flabbergasted, our teacher asked the female jury foreman to explain their reasoning. She instantly stammered and became tongue-tied, finally blurting, “We just thought the defense had a better case.” Yeah, obviously, or you would’ve returned some kind of guilty verdict. WHY? Why had you come to that conclusion? No explanation was forthcoming, and the teacher did not push.

We gals had a fellow nerd friend (marching band and honor roll kid) on the jury. Apparently, as soon as they gathered in the other room to deliberate, a male juror (popular kid) expressed his thoughts on justice: “Let’s do ‘not guilty’ just to see the look on Jamie, Robin, and Carrie’s faces.”

The female jury foreman nodded and smiled, sanctioning the proposal. They reviewed no evidence or discussed the case in any meaningful way. While our fellow nerd understood this to be wrong, he did not counter when everyone else’s keen complicity seemed obvious. He instantly voted ‘not guilty’ like the others.

Peer pressure is powerful. At least he had the decency to tell us.

From our teacher, the girls received a glowing ‘A’ with many encouraging written notes. Maybe it would have been some justice if the boys received a lower grade, which is possible. I never inquired. Regardless, an early-middle-aged white man impartially evaluated our work, recognized the achievement, and enthusiastically encouraged us — privately.

At seventeen, I learned from my society of peers that, as a woman, you could do all the right things (put forth great effort, apply logic and intelligence, present superior work) and not only would you get no acknowledgement or admiration, but you would be punished where a man would succeed, thrive, and receive showers of public praise. You were often punished harshest by other women because they wanted to seem cool to the guys, or they were attracted to a guy, or both, or some other reason. (Whenever this lesson is forgotten or things appear to have finally changed, I have usually received a brutal reminder.)

Certainly, in the 80s and 90s, for the sake of non-threatening mediocrity, midwestern women were socialized to preserve the male ego (even if it meant denying truth or fairness). This was particularly evident when that mediocrity came in a form that was also young, caucasian, charming, and attractive.

Jump hoops for those pretty, sweet-talking boys! They MUST succeed! Handsome means heroic! America depends on it! How dare three teenage girls expose the popular boys’ averageness and threaten the entire patriarchy!

There is no correlation between charm and integrity (or talent for that matter). While charm and integrity can reside together, they operate independently of each other. Integrity is often dry and boring, and charm sometimes masks depravity. And yes, sometimes very good-looking and charismatic people also possess tremendous virtue.

Regardless, charm feels good on the receiving end (don’t I know it), a reward for our culture’s endless pursuit of specialness (Make White People Special Again is more accurate, but “mwuhpsa” doesn’t ring the same as the other acronym). We’ve been easily brainwashed into thinking that charisma is a bridge to trust — and unfortunately, it is a bridge (an enticing one), but provides no indication whatsoever of what you’ll find once across.

Hard work, consistency, thoughtful action, honorable behavior* — these tell you so much more than long warm gazes and affirming words. Americans like what feels good, however, and to many, that means truth. The problem? This consuming tingly sensation does not last, only our addiction to it. Investing your soul into fantasy is almost always a trap. What lies across that validating bridge is disaster.

But how can that be?! The bridge felt so good! Forget the damn bridge. It is lying in a canyon, charred and twisted. Our world is on fire, and most of us have no escape.

Despite what I learned in high school, my spirit will not be tempted, seduced, coerced, broken, or charmed by bullshit.

Somebody get me a hose. Let’s fix this mess.

_____

*I’m not asserting that all white men are incapable of these qualities; many have and are capable of expressing a solid character and incorruptible ethics (but there are a lot of bad apples).

In 1995, I moved to London for drama school. By the end of the post-graduate program, a kind, white, South African man had become my first real mentor. Among other incredible instructors and accomplished stage professionals, Brian forged me into an actor. For many years, I felt his influence on my entire life. I departed Mountview Theatre School ready to take on the world. Purpose finally derived from authentic self (well, as much as I could operate from authentic self at the time).

After I moved to Chicago, we kept in touch through email and became friends. His advice guided me and strengthened my resolve when things got tough. One winter, Brian and I connected in Boston, where he taught and directed as a guest artist at a university. We talked for hours into the night about life and theater. In his late fifties, he was sweetly paternal, like a dear old uncle. He shared warmhearted stories about raising his step-daughters and gently encouraged me to persevere in my dealings with other humans, particularly men.

Around that time, Brian self-published an acting manual that I should have been all over, but I never read it. I knew from the Boston trip that he delved deeply into EMDR and dream recall as a directing and acting method. Having begun to doubt myself and my path, I resisted further knowledge.

Unrealized dreams and wounding life experiences took their toll. Brian and I grew apart — mostly due to time and distance — but there was something more. Shortly before I relocated to Los Angeles, our conversations were strained. He scolded me for “whining” when I repeated a poorly articulated pain. In response — though I partially blamed him for my unprotected psyche and soul — I embraced silence, stiffened the proverbial upper lip, expressed gratitude for the “kick in the ass”, and never mentioned any frustrations again.

Brian died on March 5, 2020. Medical staff briefly revived him at hospital following a heart attack on the London Tube. His students surrounded him. We had not contacted one another in at least a decade (though we were connected on social media). I received the news of Brian’s passing during a rehearsal for a doomed play (COVID’s descent upon U.S. soil was but a week away). My indifferent emotional response seemed strange and ironic. After all, he had been my mentor and my emotional access teacher — my Yoda.

In late September of 1995, I had not landed in the U.K. as some plucky American girl lacking in experience, but brimming with confidence who would stumble but ultimately triumph. I was more a deer-in-headlights, traumatized, this-one-needs-a-HUGE-makeover kind of person.

A train, a tube, and three buses took me to a B&B in northern London. Alone in my room with two giant suitcases and an overstuffed carry-on, I collapsed on the bed. Petrified and sobbing, I pined to go home to my family and be with my boyfriend and forget the actor dream. The time for changing my mind, however, was before securing an eighteen-thousand-five-hundred-dollar student loan, investing six thousand of those clams, hopping into an airplane, and crossing that big pond.

Staring at the ceiling, dull from fear and exhaustion, thousands of miles from my friends and former life, I considered my options. The school had required the payment of two terms in advance. The final installment was due at the beginning of the second quarter. I planned to cut my losses and split the difference, resolving to stay for one term. I’d get something from the program, then clear outta Dodge upon receipt of the next bill.

At our orientation, Mountview did not particularly wow me. The cramped and dank training center in Wood Green has long since been replaced by a large, state-of-the-art complex in a different part of town. Back then, two floors of cobalt-painted steel, barely adequate lockers and toilets, several basic rehearsal rooms, a cozy canteen, decent natural lighting, and a small downstairs office comprised the facility (different buildings in Crouch End housed Mountview’s administrative offices and main public theatre). Working class residents, light industry, a pub, and a grammar school surrounded the tiny campus. A mid-grade retail district bustled a few blocks away, centered by the Wood Green Tube Station. While not idyllic at first glance, Mountview would become one of the most treasured times of my life. Ah, that such a beautiful memory should smell of sweat and old plumbing.

Back then, the One Year Post-Graduate Acting and Musical Theatre Course (non-degree) was divided over four quarters. For three terms, we attended six to seven classes, five days a week, with devised project work or play practice in the evenings. The first three terms were dominated by training courses and concluded in workshop performances in front of the faculty. During the final quarter, we prepared for our only role in a public performance and the year-end showcase. While the former involved a play or musical (depending on whether you sang), in the showcase, all were required to dance and carry a tune. Back then, singing was not my bag (nor was dancing, to be honest).

By Christmas break, I hadn’t exactly blossomed or cracked through any shell, but I’d sorted my living situation and managed to keep apace in most of my classes (though singing and dancing nearly wrecked me). I flew home, very much planning on returning to resume my training.

After three weeks on “holiday”, lodged with my boyfriend in Terre Haute, Indiana, I silently yearned for London. The boyfriend’s college apartment sat adjacent to various drug dealers and a crack house. He shared the filthy, two-bedroom joint with a high school chum and a ferret that shat all over the place. I couldn’t escape his possessiveness and controlling behavior. While replying in a high-pitched “yes” to my five-year boyfriend’s marriage proposal at his parents’ home on Christmas morning, I ignored inner voices shouting to run for the highest hills. I’d deal with that in the far-off autumn once I’d finished drama school.

My transformation had already begun, even if I didn’t know it. Over the next two terms, my life steadily bloomed, fertilized by teachers’ praise and supportive friendships. Even criticisms such as “you seem all pinned up” or “Jamie, I was just banging your notes but could do nothing to help you” challenged and delighted opposed to crushing me. I would graduate a different young woman than the shocked and dazed small-town girl who landed at Gatwick Airport the previous fall.

As the Head of Acting, Brian primarily taught the three-year course. The Post Grads only saw him when he subbed. During the winter and spring, Brian led voluntary Saturday morning emotional access workshops. The focused and intimate half-day practice never drew more than four participants. All-in-all, I would say there were about six sessions. I attended each one. Back then, I believed that Brian was a genius and profoundly wise (and I was super into Star Wars), so I dubbed him “my Yoda”.

In the late seventies, a famous playwright, a renowned actress, and her photographer husband (Brian) founded the Space Theatre in Cape Town, South Africa. Despite the constant threat of arrest or violence, they created a performance “space” for interracial expressions of outrage. They challenged the white minority status quo at a time when you could be killed for doing so.

The Space — Theatre of Survival tells the story of this extraordinary company of brave artists who won Tony Awards and cracked apartheid. The documentary is must-viewing for understanding true racial justice advocacy, or if you currently run a theater in America. During his interview, Brian asserts, “the impossible is possible.” Against the present state of national affairs, I repeat this like a mantra.

Brian did not arrive to theater through formal training. As a young photographer, he fell in love with an older woman, an actress, who introduced him to an entirely new world. Head first, he dove into the deep end, where he happily remained. Brian directed plays, and taught acting and creative writing until the day he died.

Early in our friendship, Brian admitted to a privileged upbringing with a racist perspective. His delusions of superiority shattered at university, when he found himself awed by two Black South African Professors. He claimed that one man was the most intelligent person he had ever met, a mind so insightful and developed that he could barely comprehend it. The other professor helped Brian tread water for as long as he could. He dropped out of college after a couple of years, ripe for a universe expansion.

He met Yvonne, an actress; they hooked up with Athol, the playwright; and, together, they punched apartheid in the face. Eventually, apartheid hit back. The Space closed. Brian remained in theater and supported his wife’s career until her death from cancer. Yvonne’s passing devastated him. She had been gone for nearly five years when I met Brian. Though still grieving, he found therapy tremendously beneficial and healing.

Continuing his journey of self-education, Brian studied therapeutic rebirthing and EMDR by reading books and articles and interviewing psychology professionals. He incorporated this knowledge into his directing and acting techniques. Looking back as a middle-aged woman, I now see this aspect of him as problematic.

By my mid-thirties, I thought that Brian had set me up for emotional and spiritual slaughter. At the very least, he was complicit among a myriad of factors that did not exclude my own questionable choices. The veracity of that belief was debatable, but for many years, that’s how I felt.

Young, naïve, and eager, I surrendered unreservedly to Brian’s Saturday morning workshops. Actors were meant to feel purely and potently. Blocks would be obliterated. Any character could access any emotional memories from my personal history. This was necessary work if I wanted to be a great actor, which I desperately did.

Every session began with a prepared monologue, which Brian would gradually dissect into its most emotionally unadulterated components. Those would be repeated. Depending on how deep into the work an actor dove by the end of their allotted time (which seemed like an eternity), Brian moved into rebirthing. I had merely peeked at this step when my first session ended.

As I opened my eyes, returning from a somewhat altered state, Brian pushed on my locked sternum with his index finger and observed, “You’ve lost someone. They’re stuck. Right there.” Releasing a small cry, I confirmed it. Yet, I had not said a word about Grandpa Joe to anybody since I arrived in England.

Brian identified another actor in the workshop as prematurely born. He was right again. That poor actor, my classmate, vomited during his session. In his introduction to the emotional access work, Brian had held up a small plastic bucket and declared, “You’re not going to throw up. Nobody ever has. But actors use nausea as an excuse to stop, often as they are about to break through.” He told us if we felt like we were going to throw up, by all means, do so. That is exactly what my unfortunate peer did — every single workshop.

Actor Boot Camp to say the least…

During our third emotional access session, I experienced a full rebirthing. It was pretty freaky. At some point, things went dark; my heart rate increased, as well as my breathing. In a kind of child’s pose with my forehead against the wall, I burrowed on the floor as if trying to push through or dig free. Brian suddenly grabbed my legs and flipped me over, lifting me a few inches before gently setting me on the old, flat carpet of the rehearsal room. I opened my eyes to a bright, almost blinding light and felt freezing, as if bursting from a warm pool, naked, into the cold night air. My vision cleared. Brian smiled from above like the proud papa of a newborn. I felt euphoric and unencumbered, a sensation that lasted for several days.

During the subsequent lunch break, Brian looked at me and said, “You were caesarean born and you were stuck for a long time.”

Again, there is no way — other than observing — that Brian could have known this about me. For over twenty hours of labor, my petite, seventeen-year-old mother cried in horrible agony. Finally, a doctor ordered X-rays, which revealed a misshapen pelvis. I was jammed against a bone that blocked her small birth canal. The hospital performed an emergency C-section.

It was not without reason that I called Brian my Yoda.

Drama school tracks as a successful period of my life. Brian was not the only instructor who invested extra time to nurture my talent. I played Cavale in Cowboy Mouth for our final public performances. A brilliant New Zealand woman, Tessa, directed the production. She and I worked together like a song. It was one of the few instances of my existence where I could genuinely accept compliments. I knew my teachers and peers were blown away by my performance. They did everything possible to assure me that I was a good actor, maybe even a great one.

But, it wasn’t enough. Nothing from outside of myself would ever be enough. What I did not realize at the time, unfortunately, was that people pleasing for approval drove my initial success. People pleasing is an ill-advised road to unconditional love, but I was only twenty-four years old and deep-down broken in a way that it took me decades to realize. What did I know? Since acting felt like my genuine purpose (unlike playing basketball to make my dad happy or working a thankless day job for years to please my mother), I did not notice how much pleasing my teachers motivated me. The more I pleased them, the harder I worked.

While I am a talented and intelligent actor, the need and compulsion to people-please stalled my potential and got my ass kicked in the real world. Minus the structure of school, I found myself in many situations where this trait rendered me unsafe. Sure, I sometimes made progress by pleasing others, but usually at the expense of authenticity. I developed one-sided friendships or attracted selfish sycophants who took advantage of me. That got worse as time went on, along with a lowered investment in people who loved me for who I was (those people came more rarely, but they did come).

The crux of my issue took root in early childhood. Of course, that was not Brian’s fault. However, ill-informed of his students’ personal histories, on the strength of having read a few books and articles, perhaps he should not have been rebirthing us and poking around in the depths of our psyches with EMDR in a bi-monthly acting workshop before setting us off, inexperienced and unprotected, into the world. (CUE: “Ya think?!” reticent sarcastic laughter and raised eyebrow.)

Maybe it would have been okay - if only he had provided some tools or techniques for engaging our shields when we encountered predatory environments, worked in dangerous spaces, or found ourselves creating art with toxic human beings. Before drama school and Brian’s workshops, I was quiet, protective, and careful. Upon returning to the United States, for decades, I repeated a pattern of meeting danger or uncertainty with heightened vulnerability — something that went well beyond being nice and hoping for the best.

Once certain emotions engaged me, I was like a runaway train. Rushing in without regard for myself, driven by adrenaline and the excitement of mystery, I often placed myself at the mercy of strangers or masked “friends.” I look at some of those memories and wonder how I did not end up robbed, raped, and left for dead. Regardless, my recklessness finally burned severe enough to be shelved — along with my dreams and faith.

That’s where I was when I met my husband in 2013. Following my heart or expressing its sentiments was much rarer for me and coincided with a strained relationship with God and a loss of belief in everyday magic. Oddly, this also corresponded with a period of stronger self-esteem and setting healthy boundaries. The main attraction to my husband was the peace he brought to my life, which was a big change from the usual kind of guy who engaged me.

Going pure Aquarian as we moved to Charlottesville, I took a job managing elections, joined a hiking group, and tried to make white-privileged small-town life work for me. Unfortunately, reckless vulnerability had not been conquered, but merely dormant, waiting to strike.

Rediscovered for purity’s sake and detached from anything but truth, acting found me. A reawakening began. With that, reckless vulnerability seized upon a path and hitched to my sudden need to be seen (when I had been so content in service and traipsing through the woods). Unfortunately, I opened my heart to a monster, a masked “friend”, who ate me alive in my own home (a body untouched, but my soul robbed, raped, and left for dead — finally, reckless vulnerability destroyed me).

During a long and hard recovery, my psyche stripped to childhood before I could even begin to heal myself. I’m fifty-three years old and finally standing on my own solid foundation. The house still needs some work, but the blueprints are looking promising, and I’ve built a sturdy frame.

Once again, I am a professional actor. This time, there is no need to please, no trying to “make it”, nothing but me and the character. With all my dings and flaws, I serve story, truth, my fellow actors, and the audience. There’s not much more to it than that.

While portraying Mary Stuart’s lady’s maid last spring, I joyfully realized that what made our production beautiful was not perfection. Shortly after hitting the wrong guitar chord on the very first note of the show, I threw up my hands and shouted, “Whoa, folks! Gonna take a do-over!” The audience laughed. It was such a freeing moment. Up until my late thirties, I commonly reacted to failed perfectionism with shame. This time, I soared from it and gave one of the best, most present performances of my life. Embarrassment and shame have long abandoned their grip. Knowing who I am and valuing myself replaced them over time.

The Space — Theatre of Survival was released in 2019. In late 2023, I finally watched it from my living room in Baltimore and wept and wept and wept. Brian’s purity shown so evidently that I forgave him immediately and mourned his death. Having come to theater, the manner in which he did, and given the circumstances that forged him as an artist, Brian could not have conceived of the MeToo climate awaiting a young naïve American woman that emerged from his workshops brimming with hope, but utterly defenseless. He could not have conceived of the egos and pretension, the power games — all in the name of entertaining and patronizing the affluent and changing nothing.

Theater was life and death to Brian. Theater was a safe place for those who needed to speak of the daily horrors and indignities they endured. Theater was for truth. No one used each other, played each other, or jumped on stage for applause and attention. The stakes were too high for any frivolous or selfish motivations.

Reflecting on our crumbling nation and the planet’s increasing volatility, I realized that although Brian may not have adequately prepared me for the world in 1996 when I graduated from Mountview, he certainly trained me for the world we live in now.

I’m ready, my Yoda, here to help wherever needed. All God has to do is use me. I can follow or lead.

I was sheepskin shamed last week. No, I wasn’t scolded by a lover for requesting a natural condom. I practice kundalini yoga on a literal sheepskin, and someone said something to me about it. The rather stunning yogi who approached me in no way wielded shame. After our conversation, however, I discerned that there had been some behind-my-back discussions. Someone was bothered and perhaps even made assumptions.

Several months ago, I started kundalini and other yoga classes at a new studio in Baltimore. It did not go without my notice that I was the only person in the kundalini classes who practiced on a sheepskin (that included all teachers). I considered not using it; and instead, doing the various kriyas on my mat and a blanket. After some careful mental deliberation, I consciously chose to continue practicing on my sheepskin.

A week ago, as I rolled open my mat with the sheepskin laying on top, the yoga instructor told me of an artisan who wove the sheep’s wool into a felt binding. (She had a lovely non-confrontational technique for starting difficult conversations). That way, no animal died. I told her that I had considered the ethics of my sheepskin and some brief detail of how I arrived at my decision, assuring her that, once this sheepskin wore threadbare, I would not replace it. She accepted my explanation amicably only mentioning that she owned a sheepskin that she never brought to the studio.

This is the long version of my sheepskin story:

In 2006, I worked for Dualstar, a celebrity brand management firm located in Culver City. One of my colleagues (the CEO’s admin assistant) recently completed her kundalini yoga teacher training at Golden Bridge, a large and luxurious yoga studio in Hollywood. With the company’s blessing, she offered pay-what-you-can kundalini classes on Thursday evenings in a large back room of our office. About five people attended the first session. After that, I was usually the only one.

Sat Siri introduced me to Yoga West, a small and intimate studio where she practiced and also subbed. Group classes and once-a-week private sessions constituted a kundalini yoga immersion. The practice felt amazing and cleared my head, though I often found it extremely physically and spiritually challenging. Studio classes were relatively gentle; Sat Siri pushed my limits.

Not only was she my teacher and co-worker, but I spent time with her and her children. The kids were half Native American. In the autumn, we all camped and attended an inter-tribal pow-wow together. In Ojai, I met some of their extended family by marriage. She was quite close to them, though she and her Native American husband had been divorced for many years.

For my birthday in 2007, Sat Siri gave me a sheepskin, something I never would have purchased for myself. They were expensive, even at the smallest available size (and with her instructor discount). Her generosity actually caused some embarrassment, but I was wholly grateful and accepted without reservation.

Truthfully, practicing on a sheepskin is next level in terms of support and comfort, not to mention the sacred binding and stored history. Because it was a gift from a woman that I admired, my teacher and friend who introduced me to a life altering spiritual practice, I cherished it.

Considerations regarding the sheep never occurred to me. Absorbing kundalini innocently and totally, I somehow failed to realize that the sheepskin was part of a dead animal. Every yogi taught from a sheepskin. Half the students had them. They were prominently displayed as merchandise in the Golden Bridge gift shop and the Yoga West lobby — large, luxurious, sheened golden by track lighting.

My private lessons with Sat Siri lasted for about six months, but I continued regularly at Yoga West through 2009, participating in a guided cleanse that summer. By mid-2010, my home practice deteriorated before falling off completely. Resuming yoga in 2014, I took up vinyasa (where sheepskins would have not only been unnecessary but cumbersome). In 2019 while living in Charlottesville, I resumed my kundalini practice (there were two kundalini classes taught at my health club where one instructor had a sheepskin and the other did not; students in the sparsely attended sessions never used them).

When I dug the sheepskin from the closet and considered whether or not to wash it, I felt the underside and knew that it was leather. For the first time, I thought about it — the potential hypocrisy of a spiritual philosophy that espouses veganism but performs its rituals on a dead animal.

What should I do now?

Un-deading the sheep is not an option. In the late aughts, I was less evolved in my consideration of the living animal, but I can’t travel in time and change that fact. Back then, sheepskins were not only commonplace but encouraged in the practice. What point is there in pretending that this history never happened by hiding evidence? And if not used as intended, what should be done with the sheepskin? Should it rot in a landfill? Should I burn it? Bury it? Stick it in the bottom of my cedar chest and forget about it?

Ultimately, I felt it best honored the animal to use the sheepskin for the purpose that it unwillingly died — to remind myself that I always need to be evolving and growing because I used to think differently and with less compassion.

On the practical side, as a middle-aged woman, the sheepskin cushions my tender joints and foot bones like nothing else; one sinks into the sheepskin in a way that minimizes friction, so no rubbing or irritation of the skin; and it provides a warm barrier from cold flooring for my sensitive spine while in shavasana and other reclining poses.

But here’s the thing? The sheepskin is bothering someone at my yoga studio, maybe several people — to the point that a revered teacher said something to me. There is an unspoken rule that using a dead animal in your practice is not appreciated. While I wish someone had mentioned this rule to me months before, it does seem to be a house regulation.

Not long ago, I gave up on belonging because the desperate pursuit of “home” has mostly been disastrous, an invitation for vultures and predators. Deep belonging is rare, especially that magical sort that involves fireworks, moonbeams, and singing fairies. Fake total acceptance has lured an emotional investment into fraudulent people or situations too many times. Believe you me, I have finally learned that extraordinary enthusiasm — especially in the early stages of any kind of relationship — is a potential red flag not to be ignored.

Having said that, I also understand that much desired belonging has eluded me in part due to old wounds, fear of self, and a lacking sense of worth. I could never quite accept that I bring value to the table and have squandered my energies on serving a temporary purpose or playing a role.

My yoga studio has a younger crowd for the most part. How I experience the world is different and I feel somewhat disconnected from others or unable to plug in (except when actually practicing). Initially, I interpreted moments of massive openness at the studio as an arrival of belonging — after lost in the desert my spiritual oasis reward! Then something would happen; I would feel socially awkward; all sense of belonging gone.

Instead of riding a roller coaster that sometimes fell off the tracks, I released this need to belong. Just because I don’t feel that a place is home, doesn’t mean that I cannot benefit as a guest. Yoga is very good for me — for my body, spirit, and mental health. This studio is conveniently located. They charge reasonable fees. It’s a school, for all intents and purposes. And though school served a vital role in my development, it was the last place that felt like home.

As far as the sheepskin, I could say — well, I don’t belong anyway, so I’ll just do my thing and practice exactly how I choose.

Or I could assent; it’s not my house. The gracious (if indirect) hosts are quietly bothered when I bring a dead animal coat. So, I’ll be a good guest, leave my sheepskin behind, and make do with an extra blanket.

__

4/14/25 update — Below are two comments from my Facebook post about this article that add more perspective to this debate:

“I love my sheepskin. It’s sad that we’ve been taught to think that plastic is a better substitute for natural fibers. Animal skins have been prized by humans for millennia and sheep don’t live forever! ” — HC

“So wait-- the sheepskin is part of traditional practice and some colonizer yoga students were fauxffended by traditional culture? Sounds like they need a session with Susan Baratanki.” — PS

As police searched for the killer of a United Healthcare CEO, I asked myself several times if I wanted the guy to be caught. Scrutiny fell on the CEO’s policies. United Healthcare stood at the top of the denied claims podium. The CEO likely used knowingly faulty AI to override provider recommendations.

How many died or suffered horribly because they couldn’t get the care they needed, care their medical providers deemed necessary? All because a greedy and unscrupulous CEO wanted to enhance his company’s bottom line and fatten his bonus.

Should a self-appointed executioner get away with his murder?

I don’t believe in vigilante justice because where will it end and it’s always an easy tiptoe into terrorist or lynch mob territory. But the problem with these white-collar super-villains like the Sacklers and this CEO? They never face any justice. Most of the time, as a business, they operate within the law while perpetrating their most heinous crimes (this CEO mass tortured people, certainly his policies were; the Sacklers murdered hundreds of thousands of people and destroyed millions of lives while making a mint off the opioid crisis — yet heroin dealers rot in jail). Money and influence often ensure that the rich and powerful evade accountability. If you’re in pursuit of profit and corporate glory, you’re allowed to bend and break the rules as long as you can pay cash. That’s America. That’s always been America, folks.

We are a country built on greed and violence and maybe we’ve all accepted that now. Our population is about to get a serious dose of what it means to have the Capitalists actually run the entire government instead of merely buying its policies. Oh, and it could hurt more than you realize and in ways we haven’t even imagined.

As bad as things are now, healthcare in America may get worse. Much worse. Instead of righting the ship, we are setting the course for disaster.

Millions benefitted from the Medicaid expansion and, though it’s far from perfect, even more Americans benefitted from premium-assisted insurance available through the Affordable Care Act. I am one of those Americans and currently insured through the ACA. If the extended subsidies, which are due to expire next year, are not renewed, I may be dropping my insurance. At fifty-three, my premiums could be beyond my financial reach, even though I am healthy with incredibly low lifelong medical costs thus far: I’m on no medications; eat a good balanced diet; exercise regularly; and see a doctor on average of about every fifteen months (primarily for preventative care).

Since 2012 (either through the ACA or employer-based coverage), I’ve remained consistently insured. That was not the case during most of the seven and half years that I worked as an independent contractor in Southern California before the implementation of Obamacare. (From about 2008 through 2010, I probably could’ve qualified for MediCal, but didn’t realize it until I’d started making more money).

About a year after the launch of my sole proprietor pet-sitting business, a dog bit me. It was an accident. We were playing fetch. I prepared to throw. The hyper bulldog jumped for the stick while it was still in my grasp. He missed the stick. His fang ripped a three-quarter inch gash in the web area between my thumb and index finger on the back of my hand.

The cut penetrated all layers of the epidermis, but no deeper, thankfully. I could’ve used a few stitches and some antibiotics to prevent an infection (at least the dog was fully vaccinated). I’d recently filed for bankruptcy. No credit. No cash on hand for a doctor’s visit (earlier that week, I’d gotten excited about finding a quarter on the ground that provided the means for a cheese stick lunch). I cleaned the wound myself, kept it covered, limited the use of my right hand for the next several days, and hoped the injury wouldn’t swell or start oozing puss.

My neighbor, Bob, hollered for my attention when he saw the bandage on my hand. I explained the situation and he offered assistance, “You want some fish penicillin?”

“What? For fish? Is that safe?”

“Oh yeah. Penicillin’s penicillin. This is just, well, you might have to take a little extra, cause, you know — the pills are for fish.”

I accepted a handful of Bob’s fish penicillin and reluctantly took it three times a daily for the next few days. The wound healed nicely with no infection (and I didn’t grow gills). Maybe I got lucky. Maybe it was the fish penicillin. Who knows? (Apparently, fish penicillin was often purchased for human use by people who could not afford doctor visits and was popular with off-the-grid survivalist types.)

In late July of 2010 (still uninsured), I wasn’t so lucky when I awoke in horrible pain. The intensity reached such extremes that it caused vomiting, diarrhea, chills, and hot flashes. I dropped to the floor in agony unable to rise. After a pain wave subsided, I stumbled to my neighbor, Ray, and asked him to take me to the hospital.

At the Marina del Rey hospital, an admission nurse met me at a window directly inside the entrance. Though I could barely hold myself in the chair, she thrust about eight different forms in my face. I couldn’t focus from the severity of cramping in my lower abdomen and back.

“Honey, sign these so we can give you something to make the pain go away,” she instructed when I faltered in distraction, unable to lift myself upright. Her tone felt coercive, similar to what a torture victim might hear: “Tell us what we want, and we’ll stop hurting you.” Granted, the hospital wasn’t responsible for my pain, but they sure as hell weren’t going to lift a finger to help me unless I agreed to take total financial responsibility, right then and there, for whatever they decided to do next.

Bringing me inside, they hooked me to an IV and injected pain medication, which did nothing to dull the agony. When the nurses were satisfied that enough time had passed for the medication to take effect (and it made no difference), they administered a dose of morphine. That did the trick. No more pain.

Exhausted and zonked on opioids, I was wheeled into various rooms for tests. At one point, an old white male ER Attending administered a pelvic exam. It seemed my period had unexpectedly restarted (it definitely annoyed him). I remember later having a sonogram. No one ever explained anything nor were reasons for procedures offered. I’d signed their forms. The hospital did as they pleased without any need for a patient consultation.

Late afternoon, the attending rendered his diagnosis with a shrug and an eye roll, “It was probably just bad menstrual cramps.” I didn’t have the strength to give him the stink eye, let alone hit or throw something at him.

Before discharged, I stopped at an administration desk to discuss the costs. The clerk couldn’t give me an invoice or tell me the amount. My tests, medications, and procedures had not been entered into the system.

Upon confirmation of my uninsured status, the clerk explained, if I could pay $900 within five days, that would be my total cost for the basic ER visit. She emphasized the actual cost, yet unknown, would likely be significantly higher than $900. There would also be a doctor bill and maybe some lab fees, but the basic ER bill was the one to focus on for now. After five days, if I hadn’t paid the $900, I would be responsible for the entire amount — which was a big secret at this point. (There must have been some uninsured patient law in California. If I could come up with $900 within five days, it served as some sort of deductible and the State picked up the rest of the tab.)

I didn’t have any form of payment but responded that I would see what I could do.

Now, imagine preparing to make any other kind of purchase while having no idea of the cost before being mandated to buy. Imagine that you are starving and go to the grocery store with no clue how much they charge for food until you get to checkout, then you are obligated to pay the full amount no matter how high.

Knowing what I knew about hospital fees, scraping that $900 together became paramount. Bankruptcy less than two years behind me, I had only recently opened a new credit card account, which offered a less than modest $250 limit. Still, it was something. I could write a $100 check that wouldn’t bounce and probably get an advance on under-the-table admin work from Fish Penicillin Bob. That got me to about $475 when, thankfully, a good dog-walking client of mine, heard my hospital story from a colleague and generously gave me $500.

At the deadline, I managed to clear the bill. However, the hospital did not process my payment until the following day. The system generated an invoice. (I’ll save you the suspense and reveal that one phone call quickly resolved the matter in my favor — I had paid the $900 by the due date and did not owe any more.) Thankfully, because I’m not sure how long (on my dog walker wages) it would have taken me to pay the additional $8,604, which brought the half-day emergency room visit costs to $9,504 (this was back in 2010). I won’t get into all of the itemized figures, but there was a $1,052 charge for simply walking through the hospital door. At those prices (mostly absorbed by the taxpayer), did I receive high-quality care?

While receiving my Peace Corps physical at the free clinic about a week later, I learned my white blood cell count was elevated on the day of my emergency room visit. “Didn’t the attending say anything about this?” the young, female, Nigerian physician asked while looking over my test results. The old white male ER Attending had not mentioned a word about my blood tests and no one from the hospital ever followed up. “This blood work says to me that your body was dealing with a serious infection.” (BTW — I did not ultimately go into the Peace Corps.)

When insurance became available through the Affordable Care Act in 2012, I happily jumped on that ride. At first, it was great. The Los Angeles market boasted numerous carriers. The cost, as promised, was affordable with a large network of medical providers and access to a decent selection of hospitals. Once I married in 2015, I quickly learned what a pain in the ass Obamacare could be on one’s finances — particularly if one were trying to rise from poor to middle class.

First, the year before leaving Los Angeles, I got hit with the marriage penalty. Even though I spent the first eight and a half months single on Obamacare — when we filed our joint tax return for 2015, the government treated me as if I had been married the entire year. We had to pay $900 in taxes because I forfeited premium assistance — premium assistance that was based upon my actual salary and marital status for three-quarters of the year, but only my filing status concerned the IRS. (If one or more of you are on Obamacare and are getting married, do yourself a favor and marry within the first quarter of the year and update your income information on your state or federal exchange immediately.)

Then we moved to Charlottesville, Virginia which put us into the excellent UVA Hospital Network, but at the cost of holding the nation’s highest premiums. Accepting premium assistance so I could afford health insurance gave me a frighteningly high potential tax liability.

See, once in Charlottesville, my insurance premiums became subject to some variant factors: 1) I lived in a state with far less insurance regulation than the one I left; 2) I went from residing in an urban to a rural area, where there were only three insurers in the marketplace (our region would boast only a single health insurance provider in 2018 and premiums would skyrocket); 3) Trump was elected and did everything he could (which turned out to be more limited than expected) to destabilize or kill the ACA; and, 4) while the UVA health system may have been wonderfully modern and one of the best in the country, it also made medical costs quite expensive (i.e. the threshold for specialist referral was low; PCPs, GPs, and Family Doctors didn’t directly treat nearly as much as they did in Los Angeles).

By the time we hit the 2018 enrollment period, it wasn’t my first rodeo with Obamacare. When I realized there was only one insurer in our area and that my premiums were going to be over $2,700 a month, properly estimating our income and ensuring we did not exceed the amount was of the utmost importance.

Would I be paying that $2,700 out of pocket? No. With premium assistance, I personally paid less than $250 a month. The government paid the rest. However, if I underestimated our income — even by a mere $5,000 or $6,000, it would have been financial devastation.

While I was on Obamacare in Charlottesville, our income hovered between $42,000-$53,000 per year. Barely above the poverty line, it kept us tight with the ACA. If our income had risen above $60,000 in 2018, I would no longer have qualified for premium assistance. (This threshold is different under the ACA enhancements passed during COVID, more comprehensive and covers more people).

As an independent contractor with a fluctuating income, it can be difficult to guess how much money you are going to make, especially if you are trying to advance in your career or grow your business. For example, my husband is an actor and was so as well in 2018. Let’s say he unexpectedly booked a two-day guest star on a television series at the end of November of that year, adding a sudden $12,000 to our income at a time that options were limited to offset it. Instead of making $53,000, we made $65,000. Losing all my premium assistance, I would have been required to reimburse the government almost $30,000. That would have been nearly 45% of our income.

Of course, we would not have been in such serious financial jeopardy had I lived in just about any other town or city in the country. At that time, Charlottesville and Albemarle County had the highest premiums in the nation.

Tax risk is yet another aspect of disparity in American Healthcare. As usual, it falls hard on the middle class. If you sign up for Obamacare, you have to commit to poverty or at least lower middle class or you run the risk of taking a significant or even life-altering financial hit upon filing your tax return.

Trump will soon be back in office. The Medicaid Expansion and Advanced Premium Assistance provisions of the ACA are about to expire. It is unknown if they will be renewed. I’ve been back on the ACA since leaving my city government job in 2022. Again, if there is no premium assistance or it is significantly reduced, I (and millions of others like me) cannot afford insurance.

In this country, you spend so much money on insurance before you need care and, sometimes, even if you never need it. After all that, to be denied a claim that will save your life, end your pain, or greatly improve your entire well-being, is infuriating. My story is not even one of tragedy, serious illness, or horrible accident. I’ve always been essentially healthy. I can only imagine what it is like to suffer long-term with the solution right in front of you but be denied because your insurance company decides your treatment based on what they are willing to pay, not on what will heal you.

Healthcare should not be a for-profit industry even in a capitalist country. There should be no middleman insurance companies only interested in financial self-enrichment who call the shots. Dismantling this decades-long embedded industry of greed feels impossible but is what needs to be done (sorry for the job losses, however, you’re working on the Death Star, folks, and I’m with Clerks on this one).

Capitalism and Healthcare do not mix. They have diametrically opposed objectives. In the United States, money beats humanity. Capitalism always wins. It should have no part in our healthcare system.

I do not condone violence, but what are we going to do about this? How are we, as average Americans, going to save our own lives when American Healthcare is killing us?

Last week, the nation’s top Conservative Justices ruled in favor of Virginia’s “non-citizen” voter purge (blocked previously by the state’s Supreme Court). The lower court felt that Republican Governor Youngkin’s cleansing of approximately 1,600 voters occurred too far into the 2024 Election Cycle.

While the unsurprising six-to-three U.S. Supreme Court decision allowing Youngkin to remove voters is disappointing, it likely won’t impact the results of this Tuesday’s high-stakes political contests. Once the ruling establishes national precedent, however, the potential of widespread voter suppression will quickly intensify.

When I worked as an election manager in Virginia, I saw maybe a handful of voters per year in our locality’s Non-Citizen Hopper. In VERIS (Virginia’s statewide voter registration database), the Non-Citizen Hopper was populated with registered voters who had been flagged with evidence of non-citizenship (i.e. by the DMV or Vital Statistics or after a court document or other official paperwork had been inputted by a state level election employee). There are over a hundred localities in Virginia; we could only access voters who resided in our own district. I have no clue about statewide statistics when it comes to alleged non-citizen voters.

As far as the voters in our locality, we would open their record in the Non-Citizen Hopper to vet the pending cancellation. We checked the information of the flagged “non-citizen” against the voter on file. Once we had a confirmed match, the system generated correspondence and an affidavit. The voter had ten days to return the affidavit which affirmed their citizenship. If they failed to respond, the system terminated their registration and generated another letter with a cancellation notice.

Occasionally, voters returned the affidavit and avoided problems. We entered that information into the system, scanned a hard copy, and attached it to the voter record. This halted the cancellation process and generally ended the matter. Unfortunately, most voters did not respond to the initial letter.

Once the voter was cancelled (after ten days), they would usually call, visit, or email our office. The conversation always went something like this:

“My voter registration was cancelled because it says I’m a non-citizen, but I was born and raised in the United States.”

“Did you receive a notice that the cancellation was pending with an affidavit asking you to affirm your citizenship?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t fill it out because I’m a citizen.”

Beat. Pause. “I see.”

The fix was usually simple. The cancelled voter completed a new Virginia Voter Registration Application, careful to check “YES” on the Citizenship Box in the top right-hand corner. Once the registration was received, we entered the person into the system as a new voter. VERIS would eventually update and the non-citizen flag would disappear a few weeks later. At that point, we linked the voter’s new registration to their former record. We couldn’t merge the new and old records immediately because the system removed the flag, not us. The flag and cancellation, however, could’ve been prevented altogether had voters returned the affidavit. (In fairness to voters, mail delivery could be slow and unreliable in our area. We didn’t have a policy of following up with an email or phone call.)

In every case where I spoke to a voter who was pending cancelled or cancelled due to non-response to the affidavit, it was because of an error at the DMV. Back then, when a voter updated their registration at the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles, they were required to answer a series of questions. If I remember correctly, the citizenship confirmation appeared twice, worded differently each time, and once as a double negative.

When I prompted a cancelled lifelong Virginia resident about a possible recent visit to the DMV, the seventy-five-year-old woman (born in Louisa County) responded, “Oh yes! And I remember that some of those questions confused me.”

Never once in my six years in elections did I encounter a case in which an actual non-citizen had registered to vote. There was always an error made somewhere — usually by the voter while updating their registration at the DMV*. Chances are, when Youngkin’s purge goes through, many of these voters will be caught in the crossfire. However, due to current Virginia Election Code, I see no reason for Commonwealth Citizens to concern themselves — at least not for this upcoming election.

Why am I not worried about Virginia election access? Virginia has same day registration. Any U.S. Citizen who was wrongfully purged can simply re-register as late as Election Day. At that point, a voter might have to cast a provisional ballot; but, as long as the voter is a U.S. Citizen, registered in the locality within which they reside, casts their ballot in their correct precinct of record, and has not cast another ballot for this election, the vote should count. (I’ve watched many provisional canvasses. Each ballot is considered and counted or not counted based on federal and state law and state-level election department guidance.)

The issue that I have with the Supreme Court Ruling is the precedence. It sets a frightening standard for someone (with a vested interest in the outcome of a political contest) to purge voter rolls under circumstances where voters have little or no recourse. Many states do not allow for same-day registration. Virginia closes its books twenty-one days before the Election. Prior to implementing same-day registration laws in 2022, that was a hard deadline under which only rare late voter registrations were granted (pretty much isolated to active-duty military and proven election staff errors).

Non-citizen voter registration is highly unusual. The person has a lot to lose and little to gain because discovery is likely. Non-citizens (particularly undocumented) generally lay low. Registering to vote is a big gesture when it comes to visibility. Your name goes on a publicly accessible list of registered voters. Since deportation is a possible consequence if one is caught, non-citizens tend to stay away from registering to vote. When it does happen, it is generally by accident. They’d never consider actually voting because they don’t even understand that they registered. Almost always, it is only the grossly manipulated or misinformed who actually attempt to cast a ballot as a non-citizen of this country.

Virginia Governor Youngkin has proven a willingness to misuse his powers. We see that in his handling of felon rights restorations. Three Governors prior to him (two Democratic, one Republican) expedited the Restoration of Voting Rights process, particularly for non-violent felons. Youngkin brought the whole system to a virtual halt. We’re not fooling anybody here — it’s to keep minority citizens, especially Black voters, away from the polls. (Virginia has a long history of selective enforcement and felonizing minor legal infractions to incarcerate Black citizens and disenfranchise them).

With the Supreme Court ruling allowing the late-cycle voter purge, Governors, State Attorney Generals, or high-level appointed election officials could find an excuse to purge their voter rolls mere weeks or days prior to an election. In many instances, it could be too late for the voter to do anything about it. They will likely eventually be able to re-register, but not before an upcoming election cycle is over.

While I currently find the modern politicizing and delegitimizing of our voting process appalling, when working in elections, I was often shocked at how little care or effort citizens put forth regarding their most fundamental and important civic duty. I encountered many — particularly young adults — with a very low threshold for learning the process because the expectation is that voting is one hundred percent simple and election offices are properly funded with adequate educational resources. As a citizen, you need to be proactive because that expectation could cost you your vote.

My experience was one of transparency in elections. That’s how we ran things. Vital processes and information were nearly always publicly accessible or viewed by party representatives and local media. We didn’t keep secrets, and we didn’t hide our mistakes. Please remember that transparency and clarity are not exact synonyms. A system may be completely transparent and not understood. When you add misinformation to the mix, well, you get a potential disaster on your hands, which is, sadly, where we are heading.

I admit that election offices don’t often have the best websites with the most modern tools available for user friendliness. When I left elections in 2022, our office ran on old computers, aging landline phones, and no ability to text (I have no reason to believe that has changed). As a manager, I was okay about posting to social media; but since I left, there has been hardly anything. That doesn’t mean that the staff isn’t dedicated or unwilling to communicate the information.

Whenever voters called or emailed with direct questions, we took the time to thoroughly answer them as well as providing additional important information. If you’re confused about the election process, contact your local election office. They will give you the best information on how to register and vote.

PRO TIP: Do this during down times. It’s best to contact the election office weeks or months before voting day when they are not under the gun. An election official can spend more time walking you through the process if you catch them in the off season. They will also educate you on how to follow up on your registration status (easy to do online, electronically, or by phone) and make you aware of all the deadlines such as the last day in your area to register to vote or apply for an absentee ballot.

It often amazed me how many people didn’t bother to find out anything about the voting process until days before they planned to cast a ballot. When our books closed three weeks before Election Day and college kids discovered they were ineligible because they had failed to register — oh my goodness, the cries of “VOTER SUPPRESSION!”

The system is flawed. I won’t argue that. But, if citizens were more educated and foresighted about voting, things would run better. Under the circumstances, the system is doing about the best it can.

During a Presidential Election, my biggest pet-peeve involved another repeated conversation. Whenever there was a Presidential Race, our phones rang off the hook all day long. Voters desperately made sure they had everything right. It was high turnout time. People called often with questions about the process and to follow up on applications and deadlines. The conversation would often conclude with variations on the same line, “I just want to get everything straight because this election is so important!” — meaning it was a Presidential.

They are all important, humans! You should vote in EVERY single election for which you legally qualify — local, state and national. But God help us all, please vote in this next one. If you don’t like any candidates or have no idea what’s going on, vote a blank ballot.

Always exercise your civic right.

__

*You might ask why we simply would not contact the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles to correct the wording in their system, since election offices observed that a high volume of mistakenly flagged “non-citizens” were due to incorrect answers to poorly phrased questions at the DMV. First of all, Motor Voter was a fantastic law that resulted in a great increase in voter registrations, but Motor Vehicle Departments across the country resented it because that wasn’t part of their mission. Certainly, in Virginia, there is a history of a tense relationship between the VDE and DMV. It’s not without cause. Implementation of Motor Voter put quite the burden on DMVs. But the BIG problem? When I left Virginia Elections, the DMV database was managed by a DOS operating system (and likely still is). Getting our patched, glitchy, outdated, statewide voter registration database to communicate accurately with DMV’s ancient DOS system was precarious at best. Reprogramming any miniscule aspect of the shared system could easily bring the whole thing crumbling down, not to mention the time-consuming, pain in the ass that would be on the DMV’s internal reprogramming team. Near the end of my elections career, I attended a meeting between the DMV and the Department of Elections about some wonderful, (but long overdue) improvements to the DMV voter registration process. It was eye-opening. Fast easy fixes — no matter how logical — were rarely options.

Looking back on the 2016 Presidential Election (in which Trump defeated Hillary Clinton), I don’t remember any poll watchers in our office during early in-person voting. In 2020, on the other hand, they camped in droves.

Running a high-turnout election during a major public health crisis is sheer hell. Around eleven thousand people came through our tiny office in a liberal college town over the 2020 Pandemic Presidential. Hundreds of citizens arrived each weekday (and two Saturdays) to execute their fundamental civic duty while in proximity to each other and our staff.

There were no vaccines. We didn’t do temperature checks or ask health questions because, legally, we couldn’t turn any registered voter away, even an obviously sick one who was not wearing a mask. Our protocols were to treat every citizen as if they were infected. Staff regularly worked ten-hour days fully masked, repeating voting instructions and answering questions over and over. The phones never stopped ringing. The data entry never stopped coming. The crises never stopped erupting.

If that wasn’t enough, from the first day of early voting until it ended six weeks later, we had poll watchers in our small inadequate office every single day. While there were some Democratic poll watchers, Republicans by far dominated in attendance.

During most of early voting, poll watchers were sent by the local Republican Party Chair (he had ties to our community). These poll watchers were hyper-vigilant and annoying, but they were well-trained. They knew what questions to ask, what reports to request, and what to look for. Always, we could reconcile the numbers and the poll watchers were satisfied. They were a pain in the ass, but it was fine because they knew their jobs.

In the last few days of early voting, we received poll watchers sent by the State Republican Party Chair. These were a different sort of poll watcher — more angry and suspicious and ready to uncover fraud.

A young woman presented her poll-watching credentials from the Virginia GOP Chair on the last Friday of early voting (four days before the November 2020 Election). Problematic from the beginning, she hovered over voters while they marked and scanned their ballots. As a manager, I told her several times that her behavior was unacceptable. She was not to stand where she could see marked ballots. She argued, tossing accusations of rights violations. I countered that she violated the voter’s right to privacy and needed to change her behavior.

When summoned by front-office staff again because of the poll watcher’s hovering, I caught her saying that something was wrong with the scanner. She claimed that when a single ballot was scanned into the voting machine, the counter went up by two or three and sometimes it subtracted.

Any malfunction of the machine that tallies and provides the election results is real freaking serious. We immediately ran our numbers, comparing the voters checked-in to the ballots scanned (number on the counter). After factoring in one voided ballot, the numbers matched perfectly.

An Electoral Board Member happened to be in the office. When the poll watcher pressed her claim, the Electoral Board Member ran the same reports and showed her the same thing.

Together, election staff, the Electoral Board Secretary, and the poll watcher checked the ballot counter number immediately before a voter used the scanner. Then, we stepped back and allowed voters to insert their ballots. When we looked at the counter each time, it had increased by the appropriate amount.

“Well, it only does this thing just when I’m looking!” the GOP Poll Watcher forcefully asserted, lifting her nose at the indignity of being the sole truth seer.

At that point, what else could we do? When she left in the afternoon, I witnessed her furiously call on her cell phone as she dashed up the block, desperate to report some terrible ill. Her adamant willingness to deny facts in the face of hard evidence was extremely upsetting.

My mental health deteriorated during 2020, much more than I immediately realized.

The Biden-Trump Pandemic Presidential Election was non-stop taxing and terrifying. What made it somewhat okay and worthwhile were the voters. In 2020, they were wonderful. They knew we risked our health and possibly our lives so they could exercise their right. They were patient and grateful.

In 2021, that changed. The voters were anxious in a very different way. They were cranky and distrustful and took it out on election staff and poll workers. It wasn’t just them. We got hit from all sides — by the city, other departments, the political parties, special interest groups, the activists…

By Election Day of November 2021, my nerves had frayed (we had run busy Primaries the previous June and March; and I had directed a play just before COVID landed).

You get into a kind of zone during election season. You start going nine hundred miles an hour extinguishing fires, knowing you’re not going to stop because if you do, the whole freaking thing is going to burn down. (It’s kind of like doing theater.)

During the 2021 General Election (that included the Governor’s race), I was in charge of the mail ballot counting precinct that, in Virginia, we call Central Absentee or CAP. It was run by citizen poll workers just like a regular voting precinct. Not to brag, but I was great at the part of my job. Thankfully, I also had a cracker-jack CAP team.

Unlike in 2020 when EVERYONE voted because it was a Presidential Election and most voted by mail because of COVID; by comparison, in 2021, we didn’t have that many voters cast mail ballots. We preprocessed most mail ballots prior to November 2nd. As such, we only had around five hundred mail ballots to process on Election Day. My fabulous CAP team could do that in about three and a half hours standing on their heads.

Regardless of how busy CAP was on Election Day, it had to accept ballots until 7:00 PM. For election workers, there was a good amount of administration and packing once the polls closed — especially for CAP. Traditionally on Election Day, CAP fully wrapped and turned in their paperwork between 10:00 PM and midnight (always last among the precincts). Most of my CAP poll workers were over fifty. Several hovered around seventy years old. Election Day was long and exhausting.

As an election manager aware of my poll worker’s age and ability to function for long hours, I also had to consider our budget. Poll workers get paid. In most places, it’s a small fixed stipend, but in Charlottesville, they got paid hourly at a minimum of fifteen dollars. So, I made the decision that we wouldn’t open CAP until 11:00 AM on behalf of my elderly poll workers and the town’s taxpayers.

On Election Day 2021, it came time for me to finish the CAP setup before poll workers arrived. I’d been up since 3:00 AM and dealing with panic, hostility, and insanity upon arriving at the office at 4:30 AM. At 10:00 AM, I walked into CitySpace, expecting the peace of aloneness. Smack in the center of the processing table sat this big middle-aged guy in a gray suit with his papers and crap spread all over, drinking his oversized cup of gas-station joe.

I inquired as to his identity. In a thick New York accent, he told me he was a Republican Poll Watcher. He showed me his paperwork, signed by the State Republican Party Chair. Handing it back, I said, “Sir, this precinct is not open yet. You can’t be in here without the election officers.”

He didn’t like that and refused to leave. We went back and forth. I repeated that the space was a polling place and he could not remain unattended. I informed him that we didn’t open until 11:00 AM. He said the Chair told him that CAP opened at 8:00 AM.

I instructed him that he should have checked in at the registrar’s office before going to CAP. We would have escorted him. The address given to him, he responded, listed CitySpace and not our office. He said it was his understanding that he should see the Precinct Chief upon arrival (which was acceptable procedure).

“Sir, you can’t sit at the processing table. They need that space to work,” I grew agitated. “Please take your things and wait in the lobby.”

Then, he might have said something defiant and snarky. And, I might have implied that he was trespassing. Then, we might have started shouting until he gathered his crap and stormed from the precinct, saying that he would be filing a complaint about me and our election office.

I immediately went to an Electoral Board Member. Of course, that Board Member told me that there was no legal reason why the man could not be in the room unattended since none of the voting equipment was present. So yeah, it wasn’t technically a precinct when the poll watcher was sitting there, just a public space over which I had no authority.

At that moment, I knew it was my last election, regardless of whether the poll watcher’s complaint was going to get me fired. I said to myself — this is not how you would have handled things last year or any year. Something had happened to me during the 2020 Election. I wasn’t myself anymore. My patience had abandoned me.

I knew I was wrong — especially in getting so angry and emotional. I’d basically threatened him and backed myself into a pretty nasty corner. I would be dealing with this guy for the rest of the day.

I returned to the CitySpace lobby and told the Republican Poll Watcher that he could sit in the processing room at one of the side tables. (My pride and deteriorated mental health were not ready to apologize). The Poll Watcher defiantly refused and said he would stay in the waiting area until the election officers arrived. He repeated his earlier assertion about filing a complaint.

I ignored the remark and continued doing my job. My people soon arrived. They greeted me warmly. They were all fond of me as I was of them. I introduced the Precinct Chief to the Republican Poll Watcher and tried to avoid him. A few minutes past 11:00 AM, the Democratic Poll Watcher arrived, having been accurately informed of our starting time.

Things remained pretty tense for a while but gradually improved.

The election officers walked the Republican Poll Watcher through every step of the process with humor and grace. They shared their snacks. The Assistant Chief offered him food and water or a soft drink. The Chief validated his parking (which she really should not have done).

As the day went on, the Republican Poll Watcher saw that I was transparent. He anticipated that I would resist providing him with a copy of the Cumulative Report. I provided updated versions without his requesting them throughout the day.

When the scanner rejected a ballot, I called both poll watchers over. I asked the Republican Poll Watcher if he agreed that a particular ballot should be put aside for hand-counting. He concurred.

Eventually, I apologized.

He saw how hard I worked, how stressful the job, how much the election workers trusted me. I think he realized that, in the morning, I was only trying to protect my people. He respected that. He said it was all water under the bridge. I never heard about any complaint filed against me. (Thankfully, too, he was a New Yorker with whom you can brawl in the morning and share a beer in the afternoon — not so much the case with Southerners).

A poll watcher arrived on guard and suspicious (and met someone equally as jaded). He was there, however, to see what was — not what he wanted to see. He saw transparency. He saw accountability. He saw humanity.

He forgave me.

Sadly, that room for growth, for humanity, for forgiveness after an understandable error made under duress — is disappearing, not only from our polling places but from all of America.

As we are in an extremely challenging election season, try to have some understanding for election workers who believe in what they do and who have not wavered from their commitment to free and fair elections — even if they get a bit curt or rude.

Try to be a little kinder and understanding (and less suspicious) of each other, too.

Toots pushed aside the pudding cup (after not touching her dinner). We knew the final spiral had begun. Though she would lose considerable weight in the weeks following, skeletal was not achievable in her remaining time. Organs would fail and lungs would fill with fluid before she could waste away.

Around two-hundred and eighty pounds when diagnosed with colon cancer, my grandmother had long consumed each meal as if she knew not where her next would come (when it would come within hours or minutes from her stocked pantry, refrigerator, or freezer; Pizza City or some other fast-food joint; brought by the Mormons who regularly visited; from a fine dining restaurant accompanied by family; or fresh cooked from her daughter-in-law). Like everyone, she had favorite snacks and dishes; but in all honesty, she consumed about anything put in front of her — thanks to poor kid, Great Depression eating habits. (She also plucked from other people’s plates mid-meal, if you were a slow eater.)

If only Toots allowed the same variety and impulsivity of love in her life as she did food, she might not have died so hard. Her culinary repertoire included an array of tasty recipes (crisp catfish, spaghetti, mild chili, chop suey, cabbage and noodles, scrumptious Italian beef, fried chicken, breaded wild mushrooms). However, she remained tunnel visioned about love. My grandmother gave and received love rigidly, through a narrow and often twisting route.

Toots lavished praise when her children’s accomplishments brought public recognition such as her eldest daughter’s academic achievements or her son’s athletic ability. I don’t doubt that she loved her children. She made genuine, selfless sacrifices and I saw the love in her eyes. Wielding control through complex manipulations often created the impression that her maternal affections were dependent upon terms.

If her love was not appreciated in the specific manner she anticipated? Or, if others’ expression of love were not up to her precise standards? Gaslighting, anger, and disappointment usually followed. If her vision of happiness in a blue package with a gold bow arrived, instead, wrapped in red paper with a silver ribbon? It would likely be left unopened very much to Grandma’s tragedy and sadness for the sender.

Toots was more flexible with her grandchildren, practicing greater unconditionality in her love. She once gave me five thousand dollars with no strings attached. It was money I did not request, but certainly needed to move to Los Angeles. “I always felt a special bond with you,” she said to me almost desperately. In that moment, I did not know what she meant.

We, by no means, had an idyllic relationship. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” Grandma Toots once screamed to me in anger as I fled her company when she refused to curb her racist remarks. If she annoyed me too much, I had no qualms about cutting our visits short. She finally realized that she couldn’t provoke me and stopped trying (that wasn’t quite true for her children).

Her less conditional love also never prevented attempts at control. Though her efforts redoubled at various stages, her tactics were ineffective by the time I turned twelve or thirteen. For years, my parents had openly discussed her as meddling, absurdly histrionic, and “crazy.” Plus, Grandma Toots made a couple of bad choices on my behalf which were not life threatening but physiologically painful (she allowed me to go down the water slide after my bathing cap slipped off when I was six; my adenoids had been recently removed and replaced with tubes; I screamed bloody murder the entire night; our doctor had been abundantly clear that under no circumstances were my ears to retain water.)

Credibility and Toots Jones were never really synonymous for me, except if it had to do with history or family genealogy (she also fudged those when it suited her). Add to that my eldest-daughter/Gen X kid self-reliance and my buttons just couldn’t be pushed.

Once Dad (the youngest) lost all trust in Toots, they bickered constantly, sometimes as if they hated each other. When her husband died, she became particularly ferocious and adept at riling my father. After graduating from university, my aunt (the first-born daughter) married an older college professor and moved south several states, regularly calling but only visiting annually (later every other year or so).

On an angry occasion, Toots threw it in my dad’s face that he was less successful than his local mortal enemy (a despicable, conniving man).

Following another occasion of failed manipulations, she told my aunt to go back to Florida with all the other old lesbians (my recently widowed aunt was not even gay).

Though far less affected, I didn’t escape her influence. Living across the yard, Grandma and my grandfather (who I called Poppy), served as caregivers on behalf of my working parents. Ultra-hyper about other’s impressions, Toots transferred her perpetual anxiousness.

Once when I was twelve, she frightened me about hiking in the Smokies with my father, mom, and little brother. As we left for vacation, Grandma repeated recent bear attack stories and her premonition that one of us was going to die. (The attacks were by Grizzlies out West, nothing to do with Tennessee Black Bears; still what should have been a beautiful memory of nature, was a day of irrational tears and terror; the woman had death premonitions our whole lives).

Oddly, I’ve never cared much about what other people thought, but I still experienced profound shame avoidance and social anxiety through early adulthood. Maybe that had to do more with my mom and dad than Grandma.

An obsession with appearances might have been overcompensation for her lack of a formal education (she became furious with Poppy when he told me about his convicted bank robbing older brother of whose existence I never knew; and, despite priding herself a truth-seeker and self-taught genealogist, Toots lied about her parents’ marriage records).

Highly intelligent among six siblings, she was denied college (her brothers went). Toots devoured history, news media, poetry, and novels. Overcoming what would now be diagnosed as a severe anxiety disorder, she traveled to England to research her Welsh ancestry. Her intellect grew and sharpened outside of the university halls. Nonetheless, limited formal education meant limited career options. For someone like her, that was a nasty pill. Unlike many women of her day, Toots worked full-time. At fifty-five, she retired from the phone company with a good pension and benefits.

Toots honed her frustrated potential on mind games and manipulation tactics. Those early years of hunger and poverty left deep scars. Traumatized people traumatize people as they say. Toot’s wounded children would shred each other in the immediate aftermath of her death, but that’s a sad story that I won’t tell.

My grandmother was irrationally afraid of thunderstorms; she hated cats; was racist and homophobic; a blue dog Democrat (but voted once for Nixon because she despised Catholics more than Republicans); she was a staunch union supporter; pro-choice; a member of the DAR, having traced two lines of family (one lightly brushing Robert E. Lee) back to the American Revolution; she attempted to bribe my maternal grandmother to convince my sixteen-year-old expectant mother to give me up so she could raise me; she was both proud of her distant Native American heritage and a great admirer of Andrew Jackson; and, her maternal grandmother disliked her because an American Indian Tribe bloodline thrice-removed gave Toots jet black hair, brown eyes, and darker skin than the siblings and cousins favored by the hateful ol’ granny.

As a young woman, Toots set her sights on a tall handsome, blonde and blue-eyed man (the best dancer in the county and heavily sought by the ladies). Passion and wanderlust brought Toots and her wild dancer together in a powerful but fleeting love bomb. The crazy kids left their small town for the big city (only to return within a decade). When reality quickly settled, in terms of ill-suited for their good and bad qualities combined, you could not have found a more perfect couple. The surreptitiously bitter Toots married a philandering alcoholic, sealing a half-century, two-can-tango fiasco-union of vitriol and disappointment until, after fifty-two unforgiving years, at his death did they part.

Grandma periodically cursed her late husband for going first. Preceding him would have proven how much he really loved her and how difficult his life would be in her absence. (First off, I’m not sure he would have taken it as hard as she imagined; and, secondly, she prepped her failed vengeance for almost half a century, inflicting considerable damage on her children’s psyches and her own health.)

After her death, we found a photo booth picture of Grandma and Grandpa when they first started dating. A pretty Toots seemed a bit Little Bo Peepish snug against her beau with a wicked grin and flash in his eyes, every bit the Big Bad Wolf. That was one of those good quality/bad quality differences. Grandpa could be a scoundrel, but never really hid what he was. Grandma on the other hand — well, she could play the victim.

At times, like when he bloodied her lip or threw her naked into the hallway of their urban apartment building, she certainly was abused. But that did not make her meek or docile (maybe because his physical violence was infrequent, never too severe, avoidable if you stayed clear when he was heavily drunk, and disappeared in later years). Her unwillingness to forgive or accept accountability was also abusive — equally as insidious, but much more subtle and escalating with time.

When it came to their home stretch, I have to say, Grandma Toots was a good grandmother, but Grandpa Joe was a stunner grandfather. With my brother and me, he truly wanted to make up for his deficiencies as a husband and father. (I never knew about the bad stuff until I was much older.) He died over thirty years ago. I miss him all the time. Toots, never reached the same level of self-awareness as her partner did in late life. I miss her every once in a while.

At the nursing home dining table in early June of 2005, Toots pushed away the pudding cup. Dad and I exchanged knowing looks. She loved vanilla pudding. If she ate again after rejecting her dessert, I never witnessed it. We saw her every day — a close family member present at her bedside through the nursing home visiting hours.

In honor of her wishes, we had attempted to care for her at home, but she kept falling. Between her weight and a combatively irrational nature, we couldn’t manage it. Early on, we tried professional care visits, but Grandma always rejected them — usually not before getting nasty and accusatory.

After her last tumble, she spent a week in the hospital. The doctor then admitted her into a convalescent facility (fully covered for up to thirty days by her Medicare and supplemental insurance benefits). At the end of thirty days, her savings would have suffered. She would die on day twenty-nine, ever the good money manager.

We wheeled Toots back to her room. Dad helped her into bed. Once she stopped eating, my grandmother’s focus and concentration lasered on death — preparing and willing it. Her voice claimed by oblivion, she rode the turbulent steed of her soul’s exit journey in silence, save for the sounds of labored inhalations and some occasional cries of internal anguish. My father took over as the legal manager and spokesperson for Toot’s yet breathing shell.

The staff put my grandmother on an IV. The on-call physician recommended a feeding tube but needed my father’s permission because it involved minor surgery. Exhausted, Dad vaguely agreed. When the doctor left, our hospice nurse intervened. “What was the last decision your mother was able to make for herself?”

“She stopped eating,” Dad answered without hesitation (I cannot express the shock of seeing Toots Jones reject a favorite treat).

“So, do you think she would want a feeding tube?”

The son with the Power of Attorney shrugged, “Probably not.”

“You want to make the choices your mother would make, which wouldn’t necessarily be the ones you’d make for yourself.”

We took the hospice nurse’s advice. A few days later, tests revealed that my grandmother’s kidneys were already failing. Her body would have likely rejected a feeding tube, exacerbating her discomfort.

After that, we left Toots to the business of death. Because she often refused to wear her hospital gown or stay covered by a sheet, this was sometimes distressing to my prudish father. The hospice nurse explained that when people died like this, the sheet could feel like a slab of iron.

I also had some trouble staring at my grandmother’s nudity. Layers of fat had melted away from her frame. I could see my own body underneath. At that moment, I realized the expression in the Little Bo Beep picture mirrored my own hopeful gaze as I set upon the world after drama school knowing I was going to make it as an actor (I never did.) Though I have danced with bitterness, it has never gotten a full grip. I often credit watching Toots Jones die hard as the reason I’ve evaded it.

While Grandma lay naked and dying, her estranged younger brother visited (who hardly took note of her bareness). She was nicknamed Toots by her brothers because of a semi-popular early Twentieth Century song — Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye. Despite living in the same small town, the siblings had not seen each other in the decade following a horrible argument. Once close, they should have crossed paths at their older brother’s funeral. However, my grandmother had previously realized that she was responsible for the estrangement.

Toots accused her great-nephew of stealing a bag of old coins when he came to the house to help her with chores (my grandpa recently passed). Against the advice of my mother, Toots called the police. Although she decided not to press charges, word got back to her brother (very small town). He immediately confronted her. They revived every wrong and resentment back to birth in a screaming match heard by the entire block.

A few weeks later while home from drama school, I found the heavy bag of coins hidden in an old humidifier, placed there by Toots and forgotten. “Don’t tell anyone!” she cried in horror when presented with the evidence.

Several years later her older brother died, who was supposedly her favorite. She claimed illness and missed the funeral. Everyone knew why she wasn’t there: fear of seeing her younger sibling. Her older brother’s sons never really forgave their Auntie Toots for her absence.

Speaking of not showing up. On the day we expected my aunt, the nurse’s aids dressed Toots in her prettiest house dress, brushed her hair, and did her makeup, eagerly relaying that her oldest daughter was on the way.

We waited and waited. Unfortunately, there was a miscommunication about my aunt’s TOA. Adding to the confusion, we couldn’t reach her for about thirty-six hours. Though I never asked, I always suspected that Toots’s oldest daughter had a panic attack about facing her mother’s death. My aunt was not a selfish or compassionless woman. Toots, sadly, embedded in both her children a series of psychological IED’s and booby traps.

Regardless, when it became apparent that my aunt would not be arriving, the nursing home staff turned against her before introduction. At that point, we as the family were a little concerned that something might have happened to her, but the staff was more cynical when it came to absent relatives — with good reason. Each day on my way to see Grandma, I passed lonely, long-term elderly residents, languishing in the halls or their rooms; rarely did I see a visitor.

Dad or I sat next to my grandmother every day, nearly every minute of visiting hours (occasionally Mom filled a gap). Mistaking Dad (whose hair had recently gone white) for my grandfather, Toots spoke sweetly and expressed tender gratitude for her family who was always by her side. Speaking to her dead husband marked the only return of Grandma’s voice and awareness. Unfortunately, Dad corrected her, when he probably could have let her be. The Departing see who and what they need to see. (In his final weeks, Grandpa spoke repeatedly to his mother who died when he was thirteen.)

Toot’s brief hallucinatory moments of joy and love were beautiful and remarkable. Wonder and surprise removed decades from her fear-ravaged face. She recognized love in a way that she had never before pictured or pre-determined. In those brief precious moments, she accepted it without conditions or as a means to an end. Love existed because her family was there. All she had to do was feel.

In truth, none of us particularly liked Grandma (though she was clever with a sometimes wicked sense of humor and could be a lot of fun). My dad and Toots never stopped viciously arguing — even near the end, her button-pushing always got to him. Getting her diagnosed and treated had been sheer hell (she had a horrible doctor and refused to stay in the hospital for medical testing). But, when we knew she was dying, the family stuck to her side (well, my aunt didn’t exactly come running, but again, that was complicated).

Toots lived alone in her house after my grandfather’s death, but she was never abandoned. Less than twenty miles away, my mother visited at least twice a week with meals, to take Grandma to appointments, and do her chores. Dad did yard work, managed some of her bills, and saw her a few times a month. I abandoned my non-life in L.A. and came home for the summer when I knew it would be my grandmother’s last. My brother saw her somewhat regularly in brief appearances. He would brush in and charm her and she’d give him a little money or cook a favorite meal. At times, she made us so angry (and we probably could’ve given more), but despite her abuse and provocation, we did right by love.

In the final week, Toots drifted in and out of consciousness. Only lung draining roused the old gal. But it was either that or drowned in body fluid. She fought and scratched, hitting the LPN and the aids, prompting them to force the tube down her throat. At least that is what I imagined from the sounds of struggle. The nurse always ushered family from the room.

Three days before my grandmother died, I relieved Dad and assumed the second bedside shift. Toot’s lungs rattled; her inhalations were labored and shallow. She seemed resolute rather than distressed. An aid entered on her rounds. I asked about the breathing. With a heavy sigh she said that it was probably draining time. The aid summoned the nurse. I stepped into the hallway, the door closing behind me.

They stayed in the room a good spell before emerging, panting and disheveled, shaking their heads. The aid’s face showed two fresh bleeding scratches (Toots probably needed her nails trimmed). The young woman angrily skulked away, holding her cheek. The nurse smiled weakly, then sighed rubbing her right hand. “Your grandma got my fingertip. She bit down on that tube and wouldn’t let go. We finally got her jaw pried open.”

I bobbed my head, sorry for what Grandma put the nurses through, but at the same time, concerned by the ferocity of their counter measures. I returned the weak smile, gingerly stepped through the door, and stood next to my grandmother.

Eyes closed, Toots held acute tension in her face and shoulders. The heat of recent battle rose from her body. More than the pain from a plastic tube thrust down her trachea, she was angry because they had disrupted her determination. How did I know that? I had started to feel that special bond that she had mentioned the summer before. I, too, had stopped eating around the same time as Toots, only occasionally forcing down food for sustenance. Ironically, just as I became aware of the bond, it began to fade. That’s how I knew she was almost gone.

I took my grandmother’s hand. Leaning close to her face, I said, “If that happens again, I promise not to get the nurse because I think that’s what you want. But remember, you’ll drown in the fluid. That might be awful hard. If you change your mind, you have to let me know.”

Toots’s face relaxed, overcome with peace. The fiery energy swirling above transformed into a tranquil cerulean bath. She seemed to smile like the Little Bo Beep girl from the old photo with her man.

Mid-afternoon passed to evening. At one point, my mother popped in to see her dying in-law and cried knowing that the end was near. Mom, after all, had spent the most time with Toots in her latter years.

As the summer light faded in the west facing window, I sat alone with my grandmother in the final minutes of visiting hours. The rattling and shallowness had been going for a while. I observed her closely. Her fortitude seemed solid. But soon, her face looked troubled, distorting in repeated and irregular twitches around her mouth.

I took her hand. Shallow inhales grew increasingly desperate. In her ear, I urgently whisper-shouted, “Grandma, if you want me to get the nurse, squeeze my hand.” Instantly, I felt her firm grip and rushed down the hallway to the nurse’s station.

The same LPN with a different aid entered my grandmother’s room as I waited in the dim hall, gaze down, breathing the scent of sanitizing chemicals. They emerged within minutes perplexed and smiling. Shaking her head in disbelief, the nurse reported, “That was the easiest your grandma’s been. She didn’t fight or hardly move or nothing.”

Because it was her choice. To release control, Toots needed to know she had it. Drowning in her own fluid proved too challenging. She decided that she wasn’t ready. Also, her only daughter had yet to arrive. Was it the physical discomfort or the realization that aborted her death mission?

Once Toots settled, I kissed her cheek and said goodbye.

My aunt arrived late that night. As a family, we visited Toots at the nursing home the next morning. The hospice nurse, rather curtly, explained to my aunt that her brother held the power of attorney (she did not want any complications regarding who would be calling the last shots). I told my dad and my aunt what had happened the prior evening and how to listen for the rattle; to pay special attention to the shallowness and struggle; to hold their mother’s hand and ask for a squeeze if she wasn’t ready.

Passing the torch, I left the nursing home and retreated into long naps on my parent’s backyard bench swing, feeling my grandmother’s spirit slowly release. I could see her begin to permeate the clouds and the blue skies and the whisper of the wind in a wild rushing of wisdom — a wisdom that had always been available to her in life, but she refused because she couldn’t see: the freedom of fearlessness and loving unreservedly.

The next morning, as I calmly scarfed a huge breakfast, my father dawdled. Mom kept telling him that he better get over to the nursing home; Toots was probably not going to last much longer. Pacing, losing focus on distractions, going off on trivial tangents… He was so much like his mother. When my aunt called to say Toots was gone, his anger at having missed his mother’s final breath was almost comical - if it hadn’t been so distressing.

“You weren’t supposed to be there,” I tried to tell him, but I don’t think he heard as voices in his head blamed his sister. In the presence of Mom, Dad, and me, Toots clung to her body, so constant and tangible had we been in recent months — reminders of unconditional love and catastrophic maternal failures abandoned and unresolved. When my aunt arrived (in a more distant presence), my grandmother could let go, holding a loving but non-binding hand. The final piece fell into place and, alone, became the key.

Toots died peacefully in the company of her daughter. She left troubles and messes behind. Nineteen years later, some of us are still lost in the piles, but understanding, at least, from where we came.