• Khallid Al-Alim: Absolutely not. Unfortunately UTLA spent $650,000 and mobilized volunteers before researching his social media pages which were littered with anitsemitism, the glamorization of guns, and porn. It’s not a good fit for a school board member.
• Sherlett Hendy Newbill: Yes. She’s taught for 25 years at Dorsey, is endorsed by everyone – including the retiring school board member, and is an advocate for community schools.
  

LA Community College District Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat 1

• Baltazar Fedalizo: No. This is not a serious candidate. I cannot be bothered to list all the reasons why.
• Andra Hoffman: Yes, she is currently in this position and her experience is valuable – see ballotopedia. Endorsed by LA Times
• Peter V Manghera: No, it is unclear what he has to offer that Andra Hoffman does not.
• Cheyenne Sims: No. She is impressive and could add value with HBCU routes but her press release is littered with typos, grammatical errors, and most alarmingly, biblical references. I’m certain her name will pop up again in other races but religion in your public school press release is deeply problematic and must not go unnoticed.
  

LA Community College District Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat 3

• Nancy Pearlman: I am still on the fence, she has an impressive record of service including 16 years in this same position but I cannot find any endorsements. She’s got the CV and knows endorsements matter. I will update this after poking around more. I like what she stands for, now I need to research what she’s accomplished (or not)
• David Vela: Fine. Current member of the board of trustees, endorsed by LA Times – other than more of the same I’m unclear why we’re voting for him.
• Louis Anthony Shapiro: No. He doesn’t appear to be seriously in this race

LA Community College District Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat 5

• Michelle M. Henderson: I mean this husband of hers is everything, the progressive democrats and LA Times both endorse her, but I think we just need to vote for her and get the man out of his “undisclosed location”.
• Elaine Alaniz: No. It appears she’s also running state assembly.
• Jason R. Aula: No. It appears he’s also running state assembly.

LA Community College District Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat 7

• Kelsey Iino: Yes
• Robert Payne: He has done a great job of identifying the problems but government (thankfully) moves slowly and I’d probably vote for him with a short list of plans that can be accomplished rather than a litany of complaints (which I wholeheartedly agree with)

Member of the State Assembly, 51st District

• Stephan Hohil: He sells cruise trips? I mean… I dunno. Even his website doesn’t have words, just some selfies. This cannot be real.
• Rick Chavez Zbur: Yes. He’s endorsed by everyone and he’s the democrat. This could be all the research one does with a post Trump GOP. It’s tragic and I wish I needed to know more about this person, but the reality is that being a Republican is completely unnecessary in a state with open primaries. It’s not so much that we vote for the democrat, it’s that we vote for the people who don’t align themselves with an insurrection.

US State Representative 36th District

• Melissa Toomim:
• Ted Lieu: Yes

Measure DD

• Yes. This has no opposition. During my lifetime Los Angeles’ redistricting has been a blood sport and this takes power away from politicians.

Measure HH

• Yes: this also has no opposition and requires city commissioners to file financial disclosures before they can be confirmed. We need this.

Measure II

At the moment I think my vote is no but I’m going to reach out to trusted friends for more information. This is what we’d add to the city charter:

● Clarify that the El Pueblo Monument and the Zoo are park property; (why?)
● Clarify that departments may sell food and merchandise to support City operations; (why does this need clarification? does this mean we will not be able to have vendors?)
● Include gender identity in non-discrimination rules related to employment by the City; (great!)
● Clarify the Board of Airport Commissioners’ authority to establish fees, rules, and
regulations regarding ground transportation at airports; (how are fees currently established?)
● Allow electronic signatures on certain City documents; (ffs I cannot…)
● Allow the City to lease sites in public parks to the Los Angeles Unified School District
for uses that are consistent with public park purposes; and (why would the city lease property to the city? it’s a park, lease it for a dollar. This is insane)
● Change the title of “Director of the Office of Administrative and Research Services” to
the “City Administrative Officer.” (idgaf – whatever)

Measure ER

Yes. This increases the power and autonomy of our city ethics commision.

Measure FF

No. It’s $23 million this year and more than a million each year thereafter that we don’t have. It’s for the police and fire pension funds. When LAFD requires their firefighters to live in the state of California I’ll consider it. Until then I’ll be voting no. This is absurd.

Measure LL

Yes, emphatically. We need politics out of our public schools and independent redistricting is an essential tool.

Measure US

Yes I hate adding onto my already enormous tax burden, but we need to maintain our schools.

District Attorney

• George Gascon: In a perfect world a progressive DA would work with a progressive police department and we’d all sing kumbaya and offenders would go to prisons where they would be rehabilitated. In this world we had a half dozen homes burgled in our neighborhood in two weeks and Gascon won’t use the gang enhancement for sentencing. We tried. We cannot do this anymore. I want to ride my bike under the freeway, I also cannot do that. We need a prosecutor who will actually prosecute.
• Nathan Hochman: Yes. I’m sure he’s deeply flawed too, but I want that gang enhancement in play. I’m tired of havoc in my neighborhood.

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 12

• Rhonda Haymon
• Lynn Olson

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 39

• Steve Napolitano: Yes – the LA Times makes a great case for Napolitano
• George Turner Jr: This would not be a wrong vote.

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 48

• Ericka J. Wiley: not a wrong vote, but not mine.
• Renee Rose: Yes.

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 93

• Victor Avila

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 97

• Sharon Ransom: Yes. LA Times breaks it down nicely and according to the bar association she is more qualified.
• La Shae Henderson: She would be good.

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 115

• Christmas Brookens
• Keith Koyano

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 124

• Emily Spear
• Kimberly Repecka

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 130

• Osman Taher
• Christopher Darden
• leslie Gutierrez

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 135

• Steven Yee Mac: The LA Times endorses him as the more experienced candidate which I find to be confusing as Ms. Huerta appears to be infinitely more experienced.
• Georgia Huerta: Yes. Voting for either candidate will deliver a capable judge but Huerta’s endorsements tell a story.

Judge of the Superior Court Office No. 137

• Tracey Blount: yes, the bar association finds she is the more qualified candidate.
• Luz Herrera

County Measure G

Emphatically Yes! This would increase the number of commissioners on the County Board of Supervisors and create an independent ethics commission. Currently Commissioners cover huge districts – you wouldn’t know it’s all the same city. This would also require department budgets to be presented in public meetings – of course the sheriffs and firefighters are against this, they never want oversight.

County Measure A

No. Current funds are woefully mismanaged, more money will only be more money gone, not more people helped.

State Measure 2 (California Prop 2)

No. It breaks my heart to vote no on a school bond, but we must take the charter schools out of it. If they won’t serve their local community they shouldn’t get local funding. We all know that the charter schools (funny how my typo autocorrected to cheater) will find a way to get the bulk of the funds.

State Measure 3 (California Prop 3)

Yes. Obviously everyone is entitled to marry. (If you’re deeply homophobic a yes vote means that gays would have to deal with divorce too so this should unite everyone)

State Measure 4 (California Prop 4)

No. I have read the full text and it looks to me like all of these objectives should be met with existing agencies and funds. If I am wrong then perhaps the text of the measure should be written in plainer language so we can see which gaps taking out more debt would fill.

State Measure 5 (California Prop 5)

No. Higher property taxes, higher rent, more homelessness. Stop it. This is dumb.

State Measure 6 (California Prop 6)

Yes. Amends the California Constitution so that prisoners aren’t forced into labor.

State Measure 32 (California Prop 32)

No. This isn’t the moment to increase the minimum wage, but it doesn’t matter all that much because the large city mayors will do it step by step the way they did for $15.

State Measure 33 (California Prop 33)

AbsoFuckingluetly NO. Michael Weinstein is behind 33 this – nuff said. (if it’s not enough for you read this, he’s terrible for our city)

State Measure 34 (California Prop 34)

NO This is insane. Anything with Michael Weinstein attached to it is bound to be problematic, but this is the worst one yet.

State Measure 35 (California Prop 35)

No. We already have a Medi-Cal Tax. We don’t need to make a $7 billion commitment permanent. Health insurance is not static, our funding shouldn’t be either.

State Measure 36 (California Prop 36)

No. This is a good enough idea but it won’t stand up in court the same way three strikes didn’t. Brown and Black youth will pay the price and it will cost us a fortune to defend the indefensible. We are better off electing District Attorneys who enforce existing laws and Mayors who will appoint department leaders that align with your personal beliefs.

United States Senator

• Steve Garvey: Never. He will strip away your rights to bodily autonomy starting with abortion and who knows where it will end.
• Adam B. Schiff: Yes. Without question Schiff is who we want and need on the Senate Floor.

United States Senator Short term

• Adam Schiff

I cried through much of March and April in 2020. When I finished crying I exercised, and when I was filthy and wrung out I’d clean our home. I oozed sadness; then discomfort. I desperately tried to tamp down my fears by controlling my environment. By May, I was fine, possibly even happy, and there was no corner of the house left to clean.

Los Angeles was quiet and I drove around town as if I owned it. We threw golf bags over fences and squeezed our bodies under them playing 9, 18, or fuckit maybe 7 holes of golf at a time. Most often I saw no one else during the hours I trespassed. Sometimes a friend would keep me company, sometimes Mr. G, most often I was alone, and I was content.

I adapt nicely to solitude.

As the world skipped over Summer and Spring turned into Fall I’d stopped worrying about the kids. I stopped caring about all that we missed and routine took over. I settled for what little was offered to me and expected everyone else to do the same. It wasn’t that I didn’t want more for them, it’s that I forgot more might have been available. They didn’t forget.

Humans are creatures of habit, and after a few seasons pendulums would swing, sometimes wildly, from contentment to rage. Our home was like many others, blissful and enjoying our family back under one roof. Content with languorous backyard lunches with my folks where we’d run up extraordinary bills for Bahn mi or equally absurd salad deliveries. Our kids would pop in and out of the garden and we’d watch them with their grandparents and our hearts would be full.

And then there would be rage because I just wanted to get out of the house goddamnit and be around people. I didn’t want to know the people. I wanted to eavesdrop or small talk or something else that I didn’t know what it was, they were flashes of heat that bubbled out in the most inappropriate moments. In retrospect, I note that indulging in sadness might have been too scary. I know how to recover from rage.

Everything passed. The feelings, most of the mourning, the losses, the gains. It all moved from foreground to back and the coldest of January almost did us in but gave way to February and our first vaccines.

The kids are in school and working, the offices are open, I pay for my golf these days, and I haven’t been angry in a very long while. I allow myself moments to indulge in the sadness of my kids having these oh so important college years stolen from them, but only as an indulgence, and not as a wallow. All the in-betweens are gone. I forget to notice the ordinary and uneventful.

Perhaps the in-betweens are what led to hugging a stranger.

After waking up to a text that read, “I’m all good and not near the shooting – haven’t left my apartment yet.” I read half a snippet of a partial headline and realized there was a subway shooting one, two, not quite three stops from our daughter’s home in Brooklyn. Not knowing more than the fact that it occurred, and that she was safe was enough for me to put my phone down, have some coffee and start my day quietly. Meditatively.

It wasn’t until four hours later that I would see the text reply that read, “it seems premeditated so I’m going to stay home today or at least until they catch him”. A few moments later I’d be on the phone and learn that she’d woken to a text alert for her neighborhood. A warning to shelter in place.

Shelter In Place wasn’t a term I heard until my 30s. My children, however, have been practicing it since they were 5-year-olds in North Hollywood, attending a school that was all too often crime adjacent, particularly on the side of the school where the organic garden is.

We talked about the shooter, about leaving the house, about school and work prospects, about friends, and about graduation. We didn’t talk about feeling afraid or being resentful that once again she was locked in her apartment. We didn’t talk about the insanity of the apartment, once again, being used to hide her from deadly events outside of her control. I told her I loved her because often that’s how we get off the phone, and because she is loved.

I would go on to spend the next hour folding and unfolding myself in a yoga studio. In a truly remarkable session, we concentrated first on tadasana and ended with an extended amount of time in sirasana.

Moments after leaving the studio I stood dazed and sweaty in front of the prepared food at Everytable. I tried to imagine which plates would make our staggered meals simpler for the next two days. Clear-minded I let out a breath that might have been confused for a sigh just as the store manager asked me if I needed any help.

“I have kids,” I told her, smiling.

I didn’t mean it in the, “I’m overwhelmed by my kids” kind of way. I meant it in the, “I’m standing here wondering if my son would eat cauliflower mac and cheese” kind of way (he hated it). No matter, she told me about her three, and between us, there were five teenage to adult children that were the apples of our eyes and the pains in our asses. We were the same age, the same size, the same height, but where I’d fought to tame my hair she’d piled hers atop her head. She sported an unconstrained crown of curls.

“You look like you need a hug. Would you like one?”

I don’t know that I’ve ever been asked that by a stranger, and as I stood there confused by the question my mouth said yes. I embraced her and relaxed my arms quickly, stepping back, as one does. She tightened her arms, pulling me in, and for the second time that hour, I sank into my breath. In the safety of her orbit, I thought about our daughter last September running from campus as a classmate was shot and texting me that the gunman was taking the subway in a different direction than she was headed, that everything was alright. It wasn’t alright then, and it isn’t today.

It’s easy to react passionately to an inescapable pandemic. The in-betweens are where the endemics live, and they’re sinister.

I took my cauliflower mac and cheese, my veggie curry, oatmeal cookie, and buffalo chicken wrap to the car, plunked myself down, and reflected on how very much I missed strangers. I missed touch.

Two days later I am caressing the arm of a boy, a man really, but since he’s the same age as my children, he’s a boy with me. I’m shipping some packages and we’re talking about the CHP shooting a motorist that morning. We’re talking about policing and his mother’s worst fears, and I tell him about the time I got a call from one of ours who had been pulled over at night by an inept highway patrolman. I can’t offer him a hug because he’s across a counter from me, but I continue to rub his arm the way I rubbed my kids’ arms when they were very young and needed to be soothed into a nap. I held both his hands in one of mine because they were shaking. Or perhaps that was me.

Reemerging is complicated, it might even be overrated. So I use the four corners of my feet, place my heart over my hips, and stand like a mountain. Unshakeable. Immoveable. Solid. Perhaps I’ll hold this pose when, inevitably, I am once again turned upside down.

He did also bring his daughter. We had a fun time shopping for dresses, trying Persian ice cream for the first and last time (she’s no fan of rosewater), and sampling every bronzer Sephora had in stock. We ate a lot, ran around a little, and had a few drinks too. After complaining once again about my inability to sleep, Owen showed me his ring.

He started by explaining to me something about how this ring monitors your body temperature and that the NBA used it during COVID19 to monitor for early signs of illness within their bubbles. And that’s when I tuned out. Completely. I’m not even willing to pretend I’m sorry about how my ears stop working when men start talking sports.

Next, he told me that its original use was to help people sleep better. Now I’m listening.

A few days and a couple of hundred dollars later I was wearing my Oura Ring. Shortly thereafter the absolute misery of my evenings was presented to me in text and graphs. I’d sleep three hours a few nights in a row, try melatonin at 2 am, and sleep 6 the next day – but sleep right through my morning appointments, and shiver from exhaustion too many afternoons.

I tried eating earlier, turned off screens for hours, exercised more, and I thought I paid attention to my activities. When presented with data from the ring I found that the nights where sleep eluded me most were the nights where I drank. I’m not talking about three whiskeys and a beer, I’m talking about sips of alcohol.

The smallest serving of bourbon means I’m awake at 3 am even if I take an Ambien. I’m awake, I’m thirsty, and now I’m panicked about the fact that I’m awake and wandering the house. I’d often creep downstairs and write something (a lower quality would be difficult to achieve) and then creep back up at 7 am to ensure that I’m late to meet my friends for a workout at 9.

I can’t drink and get a decent night’s sleep.

I’m not even looking for a good night’s sleep, I’m just looking for five hours that are mostly in a row. The only way to achieve that is without alcohol. So I’m mad at Owen because I really do enjoy bourbon. Or at least I thought I did.

The next steps may include weaning myself off coffee. When a new doctor suggested I get more than 20 minutes of cardio a day. I stared at him blankly. When he asked how much cardio I get each day I assured him only that I was trying to stay under two hours, in an effort to preserve the health of my joints. I do a fine job of wearing out my skeletal system, my brain – not so much.

Less traditional meditation:

I’ve been an on-again-off-again meditator, but when Covid 19 brought us all indoors it was on again in a meaningful way. Sometimes more than once a day. I wish I could say that this has helped, but the numbers prove otherwise. It does leave me kinder, so I’ll keep it in the mix of mindful things I do for my health.

Recently I was invited to try floating, but it was a different kind of floating. SpaceVR has you in a traditional float tank except here it’s in concert with Virtual Reality (VR) goggles. I floated in body temperature water and gazed into outer space for an hour or so. It felt like five minutes and Space looked nothing like what I expected. It was weird and glorious, oddly womb-like, and an experience I highly recommend.

My friend Andrew and I were odd 17-year-olds. With some regularity we floated, right up until our early twenties. There used to be a place called Altered States inside an apartment building in West Hollywood. We’d go before final exams and other momentous events we largely didn’t bother to prepare for and floated in what I suspected at the time were modified coffins. Even today I vividly remember the sensation of floating down a river. It seemed as though my fingers and toes never touched the ends of the tank.

Floating has always been a journey inside my mind.

I never had issues with small spaces so the panic that some people describe when plopping themselves into a dark tank doesn’t resonate. I strongly suspect that my friends who suffer claustrophobia would enjoy the experience of floating with Space VR. The tank is close to the size of a room, and since you’re looking through a VR headset it doesn’t much matter if the lights are on or off. The floater would be unlikely to know either way.

I know floating is meditative but I’m not sure it’s meditation? The same goes for VR. I’d probably call it hypnotic more than meditative. In either case, I slept soundly that night and the night thereafter. Ambien and melatonin free.

We talk about sleep (too much?):

I don’t know when sleep became such a popular conversation, and I can’t help but wonder if the constant chatter about hacking everyone’s sleep isn’t leaving us all a little restless. One of the Other Moms (the gaggle of women that raised us all) likes to remind me that I tried dieting for weight loss at age 17 and promptly quit because thinking about food all day long seemed like a horrendous way to exist in the world.

Has my obsession with sleeplessness kept me awake at night? It’s certainly taken over my social life. I found myself talking mattresses during two different dinners with friends and then again in endless text strings with family. I didn’t even start the conversation but everyone I know seems to be talking about new mattresses and if anyone has one they love.

I think I love Tuft and Needle, we’ve bought a few of them, but I’m not convinced the love lasts long enough. Perhaps I’m someone who keeps mattresses too long?

I hesitate to trust a mattress review, but I wholeheartedly recommend reading what Fast Company has to say about The Mattress Wars. I suspect my next mattress will be 8 Sleep or something from Sit ‘n Sleep. I love the concept of 8 Sleep, but I also know that our wifi is stretched to its limit and I’m not convinced that I’m ready to invite IoT in my bedroom, even less so my bed.

But hey, I resisted Oura and ended up sleeping with it.

Currently, my Oura Ring is en route to wherever 2nd Gen Oura Rings are sent to be refurbished, and my Gen 3 Ring should arrive any day. Allegedly it will alert me six days and then one day before my period is due to start. I wonder if this will be more accurate than simply wearing my most expensive white pants or booking a wildly romantic trip. To date, those have been the most reliable predictors.

My ring does suggest a bedtime around 12.45 am and I’m not sure how to change that. I’d much prefer to sacrifice evening fun than morning productivity.

Overall, I wonder if this focus on sleep is a function of having a little too much time on my hands or if it’s an important piece of a health puzzle. Either way, it’s got to get resolved.

Bruce wasn’t Jane’s first car. Bruce was the first car we let her treat as her own.

This summer, unlike other summers, Jane isn’t coming home. She’s working in another part of California for a few months and needed a car. Fair appears to have gone offline and with rental cars charging a $35 a day premium for drivers under 25 I had three decent options:

I could rent a car for myself and let her take my car to Northern California to live and work
I could buy a used car for her and sell it at the end of summer
I could help her buy a used car and help her sell it at the end of summer

As much as I love driving a well worn compact sedan with the smell of grandpa’s hair pomade wafting from stained fabric seats in the heat of July, I decided that I would help our daughter buy her very own first vehicle. This would also provide a nice opportunity for her to build her credit history.

Buying a moderately priced used car in 2021 is exhausting.

We did all the usual things, checking eBay Motors, Craigslist (OMG why?), local dealerships, TrueCar, and even one of the rental agencies, and we were not impressed.

A visit to CarMax with a salesman who couldn’t decide who he hated more, me or my daughter, left us with a 2014 Nissan Sentra as a backup plan, but the promise of 2 hours with him made us leave in search of… anything really.

Watching a geriatric salesman tell our 22-year-old daughter why recalled brakes aren’t an issue is ire-inducing. The already perilous relationship devolved when she explained that she’d been the brakes and rotors lead on her university’s Motorsports Team for the past year. Middle school teaches young women to say I hate you with their eyes, she dusted that skill off and executed it in style.

Searching for cars under $10,000 is complicated in 2021. As many already know, Covid 19 affected the supply chain as well as the factories themselves leaving both new and used cars hard to find. So as we left CarMax I searched local dealers and figured I’d kick in some cash and help make up the extra fund. I wanted to try to get her into a Jetta. That’s when we hit the jackpot.

We saw a 2013 Jetta advertised at a VW dealership for just $9,500. After calling to confirm availability we headed over there tout suite. We could barely contain our excitement, and I was waiting to find out what was wrong.

After confirming that there were no outstanding recalls, Jane gave the salesman a copy of her license. I emailed the dealership a copy of our insurance, and our guy went to go grab the car from a nearby lot. It was in fabulous shape and everything was perfect except for one thing. It had a manual transmission. A stick shift. Jane doesn’t know how to drive a stick.

“I’ve been wanting to learn to drive a stick shift!” Jane practically jumped up and down.

I just stood there. I was tired, bone-tired, and she needed to leave the next morning. If we didn’t buy a car soon I was going to spend a summer in the Hertz special. Jane had been nagging me for years to teach her to drive stick, but in a city like Los Angeles they’re not practical, and anyone who has one is probably in a sports car or a collectible, nothing you can borrow for teaching purposes.

Worn out, dejected, and ready to admit defeat, I handed a confused salesman my driver’s license and buckled myself into the driver’s seat of the 2013 Jetta. Jane hopped in the passenger seat and I figured since we’d come this far, we might as well take the thing around the block.

Because of Covid salespeople no longer accompany drivers on test drives. Our guy waved goodbye and off we went. I took some right turns, some left turns, a few hills, and then hopped on and off the driveway. I shifted gears at 2,500rpm and then I redlined the thing in second. I’d almost forgotten how fun driving a well-tuned car could be. There are a million reasons to love a Japanese import, but there will always be a million and one reasons to love a German car. I was having fun. Finally.

As it was Sunday I ended my portion of the test drive at the DMV parking lot. This is where I hopped out from behind the wheel and then back into the passenger seat where I proceeded to teach Jane how to work a clutch.

Our test drive became an impromptu driving lesson.

I figured if the driving lesson was a disaster we’d ruin someone else’s car, end the test drive, and find a halfway decent rental car for the summer. I’d send her to work in my car and I’d suck it up, sometimes that’s just how it is when you’re the mom. If this experiment was anything less than a disaster we’d figure out a way to get Jane and her Jetta to Northern California while hoping for the best.

I’d forgotten about the hideous sound of grinding gears. Lurching forward as Jane perfected the upshift was jarring at best, concussive at worst, fortunately for everyone, she had first and second gears mastered in about 20 minutes. I assured her that second to third would be much easier, and just as we were working on reverse my phone rang. We’d been gone nearly an hour.

It was the dealership calling. They wanted to confirm that we were safe. I believe that safe might be code for not a car thief. We were indeed safe, and we were not theives. Well, one of us wasn’t.

“We’re great!” I chirped into the phone, “She’s just figuring out reverse and we’ll be right back.”

Silence was followed by only more silence.

“Hello?” I said.

“You…. you’re teaching her to drive?” He stammered.

“Yeah, she’s doing great! Don’t worry, we’re at the DMV. We’ll be back really soon.” I saved him the embarrassment of trying to find the right words and immediately hung up.

After Jane mostly figured out reverse I returned to the driver’s seat. As we made our switch, one of the dads who had been supervising the skateboarding 10 year olds at the other end of the lot gave Jane a standing ovation for her work behind the wheel. We all had a good laugh.

Everyone I talk to smiles when they reminisce about learning to drive a stick. We were just out there spreading joy and not stealing cars.

She bought the Jetta with her own money.

My mechanic checked the car out and offered to buy it at the end of summer for the same price Jane paid for it. I suspect that won’t happen because I’m kind of in love with the car now. If anyone’s buying her out of that car, it’s going to be me.

Now came the tricky part. A few evenings after Jane was safely moved into her summer housing I’m sitting on the sofa with my husband and explaining to him what happened at the dealership.

“So the guy brings the car from the lot and we look in and realize it’s a stick shift….” I started.

“Oh no, so when did you find her car?” He interrupted.

“That is her car,” I announced.

I guess that until that moment we’d not mentioned to him that it’s a stick shift. Must have slipped my mind. Then I told him about the driving lesson.

There’s a look on Mr. G’s face that I’m very familiar with. Some may think it’s a look of exasperation, I like to believe it’s his face reflecting the joy he feels at having a resourceful wife. I got that look from him the other night. It was just before he called our daughter to confirm that she knows how to drive her car.

She knows. My kids get lots of lessons from me.

After my teeth are repaired, the dentist tends to my night guard and we discuss the holes I’d ground into it. I ask him if this is normal as my night guard is less than two years old, and typically they last nearly a decade. He asks me if I am experiencing undue stress. Pointing at the holes, I show him that this is exactly what stress looks like, but I can’t fix this kind of stress, and I don’t want to spend hours in the chair again. I don’t want to lose my teeth. I’m looking to him for a solution.

Perhaps that’s some of what I’m ready to feel. Because I’m not a woman who deals with her feelings in the moment. I have things to do, so when the crisis is over, I’m ready to examine things. Maybe it’s time for me to recognize that this is familiar.

When I was the age my son is now, I was having girls night in with Steven and Frank, occasionally Tony too. We’d drink sweet wine with our pizza, wear green masks, and do our nails. Our dogs Baby and Killer would run around the apartment; we’d smoke light cigarettes and gossip about the people who came through the salon they owned. We’d lament the disappearing men and whisper about who was and was not positive.

I am a woman who spent the end of her teens and the first half of her twenties watching a community disappear.

We watched the die-ins as activists lay on the streets in Westwood. We were rapt when ACT UP brought the ashes of victims of AIDS to the White House lawn. Even in our terror, we learned how to plan a funeral for every religion and how to talk to a grieving mother – send the straight girl to the front of the line in case the family showed. And back then, I was very much a girl.

In a fruitless attempt to regain control of my world, I delivered meals to homebound people with AIDS via Project Angel Food. This was when they were a half dozen people in a church basement. I changed my route because the old man who always yelled at me was really just lonely, and if I delivered to him last and lingered to chat, he didn’t yell. That’s when I found out he wasn’t yet 30.

Frank died with my secrets just before I was 23. I was the only person at the funeral Frank’s father didn’t spew venom at. I was straight. Frank’s family was Catholic and Panamanian.

The next year, another friend, Gene, would have that same skeletal look. I found myself chanting ohm with a group of beautiful strangers while Gene overdosed and beat the virus to the punch. For the next 15 years, Steven and his new partner Robert would hold my secrets and then my babies until his death when I was a new mother. Steven knew babies and his friendship was, once again, a special gift as I entered motherhood.

Here I am just halfway through this lifetime having outlived the men that ushered me out of childhood and into my newly adult life.

But that last pandemic didn’t have to be so deadly. Someone should have touched and hugged those men (and women too). Pastors and Preachers and Rabbis didn’t have to talk about loving the sinner and hating the sin because we all know that love and yearning for human connection cannot possibly be a sin. All of those parents turning their backs on their children, that was the real sin, and no one is alive to forgive them. The only thing worse than being gay during the height of the AIDS pandemic was to be black and gay.

This is not our first pandemic. This is not the first time our leaders killed us with the lie that there are good Americans and Others.

Had we acknowledged our humanness and provided condoms, needle exchanges, and education, how many people might have lived? How many mothers wouldn’t have collapsed when they had to bury their sons? Ronald Reagan was HIV’s strongest ally, refusing to discuss even the existence of the virus while actively working to dismantle the few freedoms granted to gay citizens.

Unforgiveable.

Had we acknowledged in 2020 that a plague was spreading worldwide, how many of us would have lived? What if we didn’t blame China? What if we were protective of Asian Americans? How many more people would be alive today? News networks that would never dream of airing the n word ran clips of Trump saying K*ng Flu and worse ad nauseam, and of course, there were four years of the way he said China.

Yesterday six Asian women were slaughtered in Georgia. We all helped Trump kill those women. We all let that happen.

This pandemic is just like the other pandemic. The Megachurches and mega donations put angry old men in power. The first plague had a B List Actor in the White House losing his mind to Alzheimer’s, and this plague featured a fiscally and morally bankrupt reality show host who never had a brain in his head to lose.

We aren’t meant to live this way. Our marriages were never supposed to be our sole relationships. Our children were supposed to have privacy and independent lives. We were supposed to attend weddings and funerals and birthday parties too. Our parents were supposed to get hugs.

Mr G and I took a walk the last week and our almost two year old neighbor told us that for her birthday the thing she really wants is friends.

Same.

Congressman Krishnamoorthi’s proposal claims to be evidence-based, claims that it will reduce traffic fatalities, and claims to create a culture of safety. I don’t doubt that it was written with good intentions. I do doubt it was written with good data. No data from 2020 can be seen as predictive for any other year. Everything from commutes to emergency services was aberrant.

I recognize that the National Safety Council has provided Krishnamoorthi with a mountain of evidence that this stack of initiatives and bundle of cash will save lives, but before we examine the flawed evidence I would ask that we also examine the researchers. I went to the National Safety Council’s website and grabbed the bio photos from the board of directors and the C Suite.

I looked very hard at the faces of leadership here and I didn’t see anyone who might have gotten The Talk when they were little. The Talk is one that Black parents have with their children early and often. The Talk is how to survive a police encounter.

Right now a parent is teaching their Black child how to survive an encounter with an American Police Officer.

Because this is our tragic reality, no laws, policies, or mandates large or small should be made without Black and Hispanic leaders. I’m not calling for employees to be involved, but leaders. I cannot elaborate on what those Black and Hispanic leaders would bring to the table, I don’t know the details because I’ve never lived them.

The faces of leadership at NSC are faces I recognize. There’s nothing wrong with middle-aged white people, I am one, and I’m married one, but you shouldn’t trust us to make legislative decisions about your Black son or Latinx daughter’s life. We’re not qualified. Yes, I recognize that not every face is white but just wait until you see the recommendations. The document is troubling to me, and intellectually dishonest.

Interestingly the letter (petition) that the Congressman and NSC are asking americans to sign goes into detail about the protections they want to offer low income and BIPOC. There is some level of awareness that not all Americans are offered the same opportunities and I find that encouraging.

Unfortunately, awareness of the disparate realities of Americans did not guide the NSC or Congressman Raja Krishnamoorthi as much as one might hope. I’m stunned that Congressman Krishnamoorthi hasn’t given more thought to the consequences of empowering the police in the manners suggested by NSC. Now, to dissect the press release that Congressman Krishnamoorthi enthusiastically shared.

“The preliminary estimated rate of death on the roads last year spiked 24% over the previous 12-month period, despite miles driven dropping 13%.”

I am not prepared to argue that this data is anything other than tragic. I will, however, argue that no policies should be made based on data from 2020. 2020 is a year without parallel, we had a global event that skewed every dataset on Earth. Curbed covers many of the things that went sideways in New York, including the fact that the people out driving are the ones most likely to take risks.

According to NHTSA traffic fatalities were down 1% in the first quarter of 2020.

This country effectively shut down in mid to late March. Therefore it was only during the last nine months of 2020 when American deaths on roadways spiked. During the last nine months of 2020 our emergency rooms were at and over capacity, ambulances were unable to transport patients, roads were empty, speeds were higher, and every single American was stressed in ways we were sometimes unable to articulate. Our roads didn’t get more dangerous in 2020, and though they could be safer, the sky is not falling. 2020 was a dreadful year for public health. It might not have been the roads, let’s figure out what the cause is before shotgunning solutions.

National Safety Council Recommendations

Here we have the text of the NSC Recommendations and I’ve taken the time to highlight some of questions that should be answered before any further actions are taken.

Equitable implementation of roadway safety laws, policies, procedures, infrastructure improvements is sorely needed. Communities of color are disproportionately impacted by motor vehicle crashes, roadway policies, lack of access to public transportation and poor infrastructure, among other critical elements that make a safe system. 

Even as NSC plainly addresses the problems of policing in America this call to add traffic stops is perilous for many of our citizens. The LAPD Inspector General’s most recent report about traffic stops is damning, and ought to serve as a cautionary tale. Traffic stops are routinely made my officers who are looking to identify gang members and other criminals. Interestingly one of the first recommendations from the Inspector General is, “Refocus the Department’s strategies for addressing violent crime away from the use of pretextual stops, broadly defined as the use of minor traffic, bicycle, or pedestrian violations for the purpose of conducting a criminal investigation unrelated to that violation.” After a year of civil unrest was anyone listening? Why would we add more traffic stops?

Mandatory ignition interlocks for convicted drunk drivers, lowering state BAC levels to .05 and better education about the nature of impairment and when it begins

Lowering – not raising – speed limits in accordance with roadway design, using a safe system approach

Installation and use of automated enforcement to support safe speeds and adherence to traffic lights

“NSC encourages communities and states to adopt best practices for their use, including engineering, maintenance, calibration, yellow light timing, testing, camera placement and use of photos only for traffic safety and pursuit of criminal activity.” The pursuit of criminal activity is a pretty alarming group of words. Do you know what it means? Does anyone? This is carte blanche for police to target citizens as they go about their daily lives. There appears to be no limits to the rights the National Safety Council will cede up on behalf of America.

Laws banning all cell phone use – including hands-free – should extend to all drivers, not just teens. States with existing bans need to upgrade enforcement from secondary to primary. 

This is absurd. Modestly priced vehicles now rely on consumers to bring their phone’s technology to the car. Automakers cannot compete with the speed of app developers and should not be forced to. Again, we compounding the already existing policing problems for low income Americans. Further, those who cannot afford cars with the latest technology will lose access to navigation, music, and traffic news or risk a ticket. Has anyone thought of the implications of this on lower income americans? 

Seat belt laws should be upgraded from secondary to primary enforcement and restraint laws should extend to every passenger in every seating position, in all kinds of vehicles

Primary enforcement means citizens will be pulled over for not wearing a seatbelt. I cannot imagine a scenario where this isn’t abused by police.  

All new drivers under 21 – not just those under 18 – should adhere to a three-tiered licensing system for novice drivers

Automated Driver Assistance Systems (ADAS) that have life-saving potential should be standardized and accelerated into the fleet

Motorcycle helmet laws should be passed or reinstated

Communities and municipalities should adopt comprehensive programs for pedestrian and bicyclist safety

I care about safer highways

I care deeply about the safety of drivers and pedestrians alike. At the moment this feels like a reaction to a problem that doesn’t exist. I’m not saying that this is an attempt to extort money from the taxpayers on the false premise that our roads became more dangerous in 2020. I am saying that the premise is false, the methodology is suspect, and that following these recommendations is sure to be disastrous. It just wouldn’t be disastrous for the people in the photo, because they can pay a $160 seatbelt ticket, and they are less likely to being injured or killed by a police officer. 

We should be working together for safer roads, but not at the expense of our most vulnerable citizens. 

“I didn’t buy it. I stole it.” I said, truthfully at the dinner table.

And the girl got mad and yelled, “Mom I hate it when you steal things.”

And this is where my kids and husband pretend like I’m a pro pilferer and have paid for nothing in my life. I don’t do it often, but I did steal a chicken this Springtime. In fairness, it was on the bottom of the cart and it was raining outside and few Angelinos would return a stowaway fried chicken in the rain. I am not alone.

Mr. G has a reasonably long diatribe about middle and upper middle class women who steal things. It’s inaccurate. Mostly inaccurate, but ever since one of the Moms Club ladies stole his Vicodin I do treat housewives like potential felons and lock up anything that might be too tempting.

With all that being said, our kids are raised. I don’t have to be a role model anymore. They know better than to be like me. If they want to return chickens, they’re free to do so.

I mistakenly stole the chicken in the beginning of the pandemic, but I willfully stole the watermelon in autumn. As we’re more than six months apart in events, the pilfered watermelon isn’t part of a trend. I am not a crook.  

There’s a very good reason I stole the watermelon (and the ginger). You see, I went to Pilates in a parking lot – because that’s where Pilates is now, and I kind of hope that outdoor Pilates survives a Covid-19 vaccine. After Pilates, I, and the rest of the class, popped into the market to grab groceries while the rest of the world sat in Zoom meetings and wondered what happened to the best life that Oprah has been promising us. 

I’m in the produce section and I see watermelons. Stacks of watermelons. I think a watermelon might be a nice treat for the kids, but I also suspect that this far out of season they might be mealy or bland. The produce section is where I shine, and as I have the solution to either problem I am free to grab a vine-ripened watermelon with a lovely yellow spot and a hunk of ginger. If it’s mealy I’ll juice it with ginger, if it’s underripe I’ll rub ginger on it. If it’s good, and I don’t expect that it will be, I’ll juice the ginger with some apples, or it will find its way into another recipe. Ginger is my secret weapon. I toss a hunk of ginger into my cart. Ginger is small.

I take watermelons off the display and set them in my cart one at a time, only to reconsider and return them to the stack. The third watermelon is a keeper and I proceed to self-checkout where a 20 something with curls to her waist helps everyone. She is unskilled, clearly part of the mass hirings we see at grocery stores, and she is delightful so no one cares about her lack of precision. 

After paying for my groceries, all of them, I make my way with the cart through the mini-mall, behind the store, and then past the Pilates tent where the 10.30 class is now doing abs. I’m jealous. I want another hour of Pilates. This class is full. I tried to stay for it and was turned away.

As I pick up the watermelon to put the groceries in the trunk I realize it’s mush. There’s a squishy rotten spot on this fruit that no amount of ginger can cure. Turning the cart around, I walk past Pilates, feel sad once again, and attempt to return both watermelon and receipt to Curly Girl.

No one is checking out, yet she’s ignoring me. I try to make eye contact and Curly Girl has a thousand-yard stare, making me feel sorry for her, she’s young and this is a physically taxing job where she’s likely been since dawn. Still, there’s a 59¢ a pound $8 watermelon rotting in the upstairs-downstairs cart pointed straight at Curly Girl. Finally, she glances at me, notes the empty registers, and spins on her heel to sprint three lanes over where a handsome man close to her age is holding a nearly empty basket. She explains to him twice that if he comes to self-checkout she will take care of him. The second time he complies. She is delightful again, just not to me.

“Miss! Oh, Miss!!” I’m waving my hands and she’s avoiding seeing me like I’m Medusa and she and her curls will turn into stone. 

I surrender to the moment and stand waiting as Curly Girl helps Handsome Man scan his groceries. It’s refreshing to watch him play dumb. She’s smiling with her eyes and he is rapt. I melt when she gets his number. She is happy. It’s a rom-com moment at the market. I’m happy for her. Carpe Diem sister!

After he leaves I explain the melon situation and she explains that for a refund I’d need to go wait on one of two lines that are full service. The lines are prohibitively long. I’d rather waste $8 than let my frozen goods melt.  

I roll my eyes. She nods in understanding and tells me to go grab another watermelon and not worry about it. 

I smile and thank her and then tell her that the man she was helping had a nice way about him. “You were wise to ignore me,” I say. “25 years ago I’d have ignored me too. Priorities.”

We shared a smile. We are co-conspirators in the rom-com she’s starring in. She smiles, “Go grab another watermelon and just come back here.” I assume it’ll be a swap, maybe they’ll lose a few cents, maybe I will. I won’t be waiting in line, that’s all that really matters.

When I return with my watermelon- the one I’d meant to take in the first place  – I’m handed a receipt and $8 from Curly Girl. It’s a refund for my watermelon. 

I line up to weigh the new watermelon and she waves me off. 

“You’re good, go put your watermelon with your groceries.” Curly Girl tells me.

I do as I’m told and steal the watermelon. 

I’m not sure which one of us is the ringleader and which one of us is the sidekick.

It was mealy but very sweet so I made watermelon and ginger juice, tossing the flesh but enjoying the sweetness.

I regret nothing. 

I’ve sent your ballots to you, fill them out and drop them in the mail. Here’s a quick note how I’ll be voting and why. You’ll probably change a few things, you’re both much more progressive than I am. It’s okay. We still love you. Unless you vote for Kanye, then we’re cutting you off.

The ballot is in three sections, so are my recommendations:
Los Angeles
Los Angeles County
California

LA Community College District Seat 1:

Andra Hoffman. She is competent and mindful and she’s fought for LGBTQ rights, no one will be better. When you’re home for Thanksgiving we’ll talk about how LACCD kept this selection out of the primaries, and how disappointing that is.

LA Community College District Seat 3, 5, and 7:

Gerald Anderson, Nichelle Henderson, and Chris Han or do your own research. I really don’t know enough to make a good voting decision so I’m going to defer to the LA Times. LAist didn’t mention this race but I’d keep checking there. LAist is more progressive than LA Times so you guys will trust them more.

State Assembly 54th District:

Sydney Kamlager earned great scores from the Sierra Club and from Planned Parenthood. I suspect Jones would do the same. She came to the seat in a special election, which always feels like an interesting opportunity. I don’t think she’s bad, I’ve never met her, but she’s not from here and at the risk of sounding provincial, Los Angeles has a unique history that even your father doesn’t understand after 30 years of living here. Tracy Bernard Jones came through Crenshaw High and has taught special education. This means he’s been a teacher, healthcare worker, social worker, and referee all before noon. It’s a feeling and a terrible reason to vote for him. Do your own research, Daddy and I are voting for him – I’ll explain to Daddy that he’s voting this way.

United States Representative:

Karen Bass. Literally cannot and will not waste my breath explaining why you don’t want a Republican documentary producer instead of the chair of the Congressional Black Caucus.

Los Angeles City Ballot
California

Measure RR:

No.

Supervisor 2nd District:

Holly J Mitchell. I met with her recently and there is no question that she is who we need. I found her to be thoughtful and measured, but still passionate. She’s been fighting for prison reform when no one else was, and she knows how to get things done. Wesson isn’t bad, he just isn’t as good, she’s great. You want to vote for her.

District Attorney:

I liked Gascon enough, but kids – Jackie Lacey is poison. She has to go. Voting for George Gascon is one of the most important things you can do for our city.

Measure J:

Yes. We need to find alternatives to incarceration. We are monstrous in this regard. (see! progressive!)

Los Angeles City Ballot
Los Angeles County

State Measure 14:

No. This isn’t the moment for a $5.5 billion loan. That’s what a bond is, a fixed interest, unsecured loan. No.

State Measure 15:

Hell fucking no. Let me introduce you to the third rail of politics, property taxes. You’re about to experience the second recession of your lifetime and you don’t want to do it amid rubble. I understand that people think they’re taxing the rich. The problem is that the people who think that don’t understand where wealth lies. My hope is that this is misguided, because the alternative is that these people think they’re going to get rid of Prop 13 – and that’s not just misguided, that’s terrible.

State Measure 16:

Yes. Yes. And yes again with your whole heart.

State Measure 17:

Yes. Prison sentences have an end date. We need to allow people to return to society and participate in democracy.

State Measure 18:

Remeber how bugged I was that the LACCD didn’t have candidates on the primaries. How can you vote at 18, and not be allowed to have participated in the primaries? This is an easy yes.

State Measure 19:

No. People are building in fire areas and then rebuilding after the fire everyone expected burns it down. I know this sounds callous, but I’m not willing to pay for someone else’s risk. Oh, also that handing down property thing? It’s not a thing… people who are really rich still won’t pay taxes. This just attacks the upper middle class, which, in California, is middle class because everything is too damn expensive. No, kids, no.

State Measure 20:

Lol. No. You guys are too smart to need an explanation.

State Measure 21:

Listen, I know you’re going to think this one’s good because it’s all, “ooh you can’t raise rent on granny.” But it sucks. Let me tell you who has rent control. Santa Monica, CA. New York City, specifically Manhattan. Can you afford rent there? You can’t, you know why? Because rent control is bullshit. Those people will stay there forever and in order to make up for that you can have a 200 square foot closet for $923 a minute.

I know you think you want more control of these things, but I promise you a free market will give you a better start in life. Hell no on 21. It’s a disaster.

State Measure 22:

I’m working with Yes on 22 so I’m saying yes in a Mom capacity and not in a work one. The work me says that yes on 22 is what the drivers overwhelmingly want and it’s what our communities need as far as safety and economic security.

The mom me (and this isn’t what YesOnProp22.com says) is baffled that people still don’t understand that you’re not going to get a job straight out of high school, work your way to middle management and retire at 63 with a gold watch and a fixed benefit pension. The mom me understands that you work your way through school and find the jobs that fit into your schedule and take you the places you want to be. Pretending that a return to taxis is a good idea is absurd. Yes on 22, it’s what the drivers want and it’s what your mom knows is smart.

State Measure 23:

No. No, no, and no again. The unions put this dumb thing on the ballot every time and it’s never going to work because we’re all too smart to play with the lives of people who depend upon dialysis. It’s not broken, leave these patients alone.

State Measure 24:

It doesn’t matter, it won’t work. No I guess… Yes if you’re eternally optimistic and have never worked in tech.

State Measure 25:

This is the most upsetting measure on the ballot. In theory a yes vote is a vote for cash bail reform. In practice will it allow judges to put people in cages while they await trial with no recourse? I am conflicted here. I want to vote no but the thought of voting hand in hand with bail bond companies disgusts me. This is a compelling argument for no on 25. I am sickened by this. Truly.

I think you guys will vote yes because it makes it seem like something is better than nothing. I think something is going to be a lot worse than nothing, but you need to read about it and make up your own minds. I’ll make up Dad’s mind for him, don’t worry.

EDIT: I was wrong. Very wrong. Vote YES on 25. I had it mixed up.

I wouldn’t have known that this building housed a consulate — that behind inexpensive and uninteresting doors I would be standing on German soil. Yet, after a three-year process my brother, son, and I found ourselves, three American Jews, sitting in strikingly ordinary lobby chairs as a slender blonde woman handed each of us an Einbürgerungsurkunde, a certificate of naturalization. 

I’m very American. My children are American. We speak English in our home and listen to German only when prefaced with der Kinder. We learned pieces of German, Yiddish, and Polish this way. We also learned to curse because we rode in cars with our family, most notably one uncle who might have gotten himself into more trouble had anyone but I understood the filth leaving his mouth. 

As a child I assumed our immigrant family left their Germanness in Europe. As I set up my adult homes I recognized quickly that one simply cannot accomplish a task so great. My grandfather would always be a German first and everything else second. Dust did not exist in my grandfather’s home, nor did chaos. Chaos meant things like eating while not seated at the dining room table, canned food labels not aligned and facing forward like soldiers, or roses dropping their petals. My grandparents’ manners were impeccable and reliable, a source of comfort and of bewilderment. How did these people who hopped off trains, butchered cows, and sewed garments refashion into gentlemen and ladies as they entered their apartments? 

They were German first, but they were also refugees. I suspect, but do not know, that most of them would not identify as refugees even as they were reunited at DP camps. They talked about cousins and siblings, parents and grandparents, but the family trees are hazy and I have long suspected that after enough time at Sachsenhausen or Buchenwald, your cousin becomes your brother and your neighbor the uncle. I never asked, though, because the histories they created for themselves helped them survive the unthinkable.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder wasn’t a term we’d hear much until our adulthood. Had a researcher spoken to us, we’d have supplied all necessary anecdotes. 

One uncle escaped the camps in his early teens and stole motorcycles here and there until he landed in Spain where he would live, marry, parent, and then die. He once admired my mother’s passport and asked her where she got it. He didn’t believe that anyone in our family had a government-issued passport, nor would they limit themselves to just one. My son couldn’t understand escaping to Spain, “Why Spain?” Why not Spain? He was a 13-year-old on a stolen motorcycle with dead parents and missing siblings. You just run, I suppose. 

Survivors always have two exit plans.

They all changed their names. Then they changed their ages so they could work and exist. They got older and needed to retire, so they changed their names back — their ages first. Adolf became Alfie became Adolf again. And the accent. His accent got stronger because when you’re 75 or 80 or whatever age he decided he was, working that hard to pronounce a J wasn’t worth the effort. I would always be Yessica. J made a sound that never came. 

My spices are in alphabetical order. I use a label maker on their lids so that the text is uniform. There is one way to eat, it is Continental. Everything else is wrong. This is non-negotiable. One of my children holds their fork improperly, I won’t say which child, but they know. They also know it makes me teeter between rage and shame. This part of parenting that I have failed connects me to that generation. I cannot tell you why is matters so much to me, I wish it didn’t matter. I know only that it does. 

That generation in between was always and remains in between. My parents ‘ generation who were born here and there, shuttled from ship to tenement —they straddle these worlds and translate everything for their parents. As children, they translated poorly because knowledge and wisdom come at different moments, and — like the Latinx kids in my own backyard — they know too much. They read their parents’ documents and fill out their tax returns, they tell them what teachers and headmasters have said, they report the news, and they soften blows. They read letters from the tax assessor while their peers read comic books. 

That generation shielded their parents, and much like any coat of armor they tarnished and dented. Many remain understandably if not forgivably broken. 

And with this — all of this misery — the executions, the escapes, the pillaging, the ruined health, and psychic trauma. Through all of that, we decided, my brother and I, that these passports should be ours. We are Americans, we are the American Dream. We are the children of an immigrant made good, and I have no intention of being anything less than American. We have homes and children, degrees, and careers. We have hobbies and pets, and we give of ourselves to our communities.

No German would look at us and think we are one of them. Culturally we are not, and I doubt sincerely that we could be if we tried. 

And now, too, we are German. German Jews, once again, the kind of Jews that reject religion, the type of Jews that religion rejects.

I tell myself I did this for my children. They can now study or work in Europe without a visa. I tell myself I did this because I could, and even I know that is a lie. There’s always a reason just as there are always two escape routes. Perhaps more.

So a month into logging into the app at least a few times a week has left me with some interesting thoughts about RA Healthline and online communities in general.

I don’t enjoy thinking about RA every day.

There are people with chronic diseases in their social media bios. There are people with fantastic websites devoted to their diseases. These people have helped me a lot. This is not who I am. I am not resolved/accepting/okay with the disease. I have it, I hate that I have it, and the last thing I want to do is think about RA.

The best way to live well with RA is to think about RA every day.

Isn’t that something? All diseases are a bit cruel, but these chronic ones really have a way to getting into your life in some crazy ways.

I never would have started an RA app, and I’m exactly the person who needs one. Isn’t that odd? I’ve been working with RA Healthline since the beginning of June, popping into the app, greeting new people, participating in daily chats (5pm pacific!), and learning. I’ve learned a lot.

Many times I opened the app with a feeling of dread because I just didn’t want to deal with the fact that I have RA. A few minutes in and I’d be comforted, which is not what I expected but a wholly delightful outcome.

You see RA is a tricky diagnosis. Not everyone is diagnosed the same manner, and symptoms can be all over the place. When I try to talk to my friends about it they tell me about their aching joints, and I cannot stress enough how this is not about my joints. For some people it is, for me it’s fatigue. I’ve been able to connect with people via social media but I’d rather not have some things on a public timeline.

Because RA Healthline is a standalone app I’m able to get the information I need without the discomfort a public forum provides.

Again, I hate that I have RA (I’ll probably say that 923439 more times today). I know that no one wants to hear that. I’m supposed to get online and be like, “Look at me! I’m a success story! I play tennis, and practice yoga, and play golf, and plant my own garden.” But what I really want to say is more like, “Look at me! I play tennis because I can’t run more than 5 miles at a time. My body may look fine to you, but I can’t get a runner’s high. I’m practicing yoga because I can’t get that runner’s high, and if I don’t get some time to meditate each day I’m a twisted up pile of rage!”

I get it, I know that this makes me the worst ambassador on earth because when you’re newly diagnosed you’re looking for someone who can be hopeful with you. I’m also that person. But not on the same day that I’m the cranky person, and if it is on the same day that means I started out happy then ended up not-so-happy because it seldom goes the other direction.

No one on RA Healthline thinks I’m kooky. All of these bonkers up and down feelings about Rheumatoid Arthritis are shared by the men and women I’ve interacted with there.

I like RA Healthline because it’s agnostic, I feel comfortable matching with people via PM, and I’m also confident that people are being greeted as they enter the app. Covid-19 has made life lonely for everyone, particularly for people with compromised immune systems so being greeted is really wonderful. Mostly though, there’s a group for everyone, and those groups matter.

I’m not a fan of alternative therapies, and that’s never been a secret. But there’s a group for people who are. I’m finding the lifestyle group to be the sweet spot for me, with lots of chatter about how we’ve all adapted to our new normal, and periodically Escape From RA is the group for me, with just silly stuff. You see, the news is too dense and fast to use social media for anything else right now. How would you talk to someone about how ibuprofen and acetaminophen combined relieve pain as well as Tramadol? I’m going put that on Twitter? Probably not.

Additionally, RA Healthline has chats every evening at 5 o’clock. These remind me of hashtagged Twitter chats before they were taken over by sponsorships and discount stores. It’s a comforting visit with robust discussion, that is sure to get evolve as new users join in.

The app is a breeze. I’ll be hosting some of the 5 o’clock chats on there. Please be sure to join me. And if you have Rheumatoid Arthritis or live with someone who does, what are you looking for in an online community? I want to hear from you.