Over the weekend we took our friends, Jyothi and Rajeev, on a drive up the Columbia River Gorge. It was one of the first clear, sunny days all spring, and the air even teased us with a bit of warm. We stopped at many of the noteworthy spots within reason for a day’s drive. We’ve seen most of the sites previously, though as adults it has been a lot of years. With a new lens, even with all that has been preserved since the last time either Greg or I have visited, it seemed something was missing.
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Smack! I recognized the distinctive sound of car-on-car impact. Slowly looking up I wondered, “Did I do that?” I had been sitting at a red light with my foot on the brake and realized I could not have done anything. I was still looking at the tail lights of the car in front of me at a safe distance away, still waiting for the light to turn green. There was a dull ache at the back of my head. I looked in my mirror and saw the grill of a pickup through the opening where my back window had been with chunks of shattered safety glass hanging from the remaining frame. At the moment of impact I had been looking down in my lap to check the time, concerned I would be late for a meeting. 3:55. I turned off the engine and got out and met the driver of the pickup. After a moment I finally said, “I’m going to need a minute.”

“I think I do too,” she agreed.
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When my family was cleaning out my grandparent’s attic my uncle and I unearthed my grandmother’s diploma tucked away in the back of a closet. We stood and looked at it silently for a few moments before my uncle picked it up to examine it. It was beautiful under the grungy frame caked with 60 years worth of dust and dirt. We assumed her parents had it framed, complete with regal gold and chocolate colored ribbons. My uncle let me keep it. Grandma was still in foster care at the time, so during my next visit I told her of our discovery. “Just throw that old thing away,” she muttered. I was a little startled by her response. I said I took it home to my office to hang with my own diploma. “I don’t know why you would want that thing,” she said before changing the subject. Her words made it clear why it was so important for me to save and preserve it with pride, as her parents did so many years ago.
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“Why would someone kill someone like that?” Those were the words spoken by one of the neighbors of George Zimmerman to a 911 dispatcher the night he killed another neighbor, Trayvon Martin.

My heart aches for the family and friends of Trayvon Martin, the 17-year old, unarmed, African American student who was shot to death by a volunteer on neighborhood watch. I was pretty committed to not contributing to the media frenzy over his death. Because there has been such a feverish response I went to the source to get a sense of what could have really happened, so that I might be able to tune out the commentators and read the bias as it creeps into the daily news. Ignorance would have been easier. There were a few things that went right the night of this young man’s death, and some that went profoundly wrong. The deeper lessons about our society and culture are simultaneously heartbreaking and hopeful, as Martin has conjured for me an apparition of Emmett Till.
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The day after the SIN celebration to end domestic and sexual violence I boarded a plane to attend the public administrators conference in Sin City. We’ve visited Las Vegas previously, though this time the city presented itself in stark contrast to the SIN party the night before where in just a few hours we raised substantial funds to bring safety and respect to community members who have experienced gender-based violence. There is a real community amidst the larger-than-life entertainment and vice industries — or is it a single industry? A close friend lives in Las Vegas and I could not resist the opportunity to stay in a real home, in a real neighborhood, with a real family.
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The annual gala fundraiser for Portland Women’s Crisis Line is Safety in Numbers, affectionately known as SIN. To state the obvious it is a play on words: While the buddy system never assures immunity from violence, no one needs to be alone as a survivor of domestic or sexual violence and PWCL can help fulfill that role through the ten digits of its phone number (503-235-5333 or toll free 888-235-5333). On a social level, it is going to take a whole lot of individuals working together to change the conditions that allow interpersonal violence to persist so unnoticed. As a fundraiser, it takes a great number of people opening up their pocketbooks to pay for the infrastructure and ongoing training so there are enough advocates who can answer the 24,000 calls PWCL receives every year, and provide follow-up services to help survivors find the resources to feel safe and begin their recovery. There are a number of reasons to find safety in numbers.
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Last week as we were discussing dinner options I realized we’d missed Mardi Gras. Usually I like to have shrimp and something decadent for dessert. Then it occured to me that if I missed Mardi Gras, then I had about 12 hours to figure out what to give up for Lent. This is a preposterous line of thinking since I am not Christian, and I have not observed Lent in at least 20 years. As for the shrimp, it is just an excuse to indulge in the spirit of the Gulf region, even though the shrimp in this area have never swam in warm water. This is certainly not the first year we have missed Mardi Gras, and frequently I contemplate how I would observe Lent if I chose to do so. In my contemplations I have wondered what Lent is for anyway, and what makes me revisit it every year, even if only for a few moments.
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Last week I went to see the Vagina Monologues for the first time. I went with two friends who had also never seen it. Originally performed off Broadway in 1994 with its first U.S. tour in 1999, community productions of the Vagina Monologues have run annually in Portland ever since. In the early years of its Portland performances there was so much hype around it I had no desire to sit through a show where participants and audience members alike seemed so excited because they got to say the world vagina out loud every time they said the title of the script. Tee-hee-hee. It was worth waiting all these years until the executive director of Portland Women’s Crisis Line announced that she had been invited to read one of the monologues. The Vagina Monologues are just one vehicle of expression in the movement to respect women as the whole people we are, and to create a gathering place for exposing the common ground necessary to end gender-based violence.
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A number of my friends are turning 40 this year. I also have at least as many friends turning 53 this year, so it makes the shock of the big four-oh a little strange. It sounds daunting and ominous, but almost juvenile at the same time. As for me, I’ll be the age that suits me on any given day. Today I like 48.
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When we first moved to Portland we had a rule that we could only walk out the door if we had enough money for bus fare home and enough money for a phone call. That would have come to about two bucks back then. You never know what could happen while you are out and about. As it became more convenient to buy books of tickets the rule evolved to carrying one extra bus ticket, and then eventually the phone call turned into a phone. The principle has never changed: always be prepared to get home, no matter what happens, and always be prepared to call for help. I broke the rule.
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Friday I woke up to the news that Hull House is closing. After the initial shock, I experienced surprising feelings of loss and denial. It has been hard to hold back tears, like the death of a close friend or family member. What is really strange is that I have never had any direct experience with Hull House whatsoever. When Greg was in Chicago I persuaded him to wander over to the original Hull House site and visit the museum, which was closed the day he arrived. He still did it, and took photos of the structure that represents a profoundly important part of U.S. history, and up until Friday continued to represent opportunity, equality and social reform. I can’t help but wonder what will happen to the legacy and spirit created by Hull House founders, Jane Addams and Ellen Gates Starr.

I will go out on a limb and suggest that most people in the U.S. today (outside of Chicago) probably have never heard of Jane Addams. Honk if you know Jane Addams. Prove me wrong. Addams was one of the greatest civic and political leaders of her time, and should be the base upon which high school curriculum on the progressive era should be built.
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Despite the slow start-up period, there are probably few Americans today who would argue that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is not deserving of a day of recognition to honor his life and accomplishments. I was young when Congress established Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, but my memories of those early years were uneventful. Literally. Nothing happened. We did not even get a day released from school because administrators and teachers were concerned that one more free day off out of the classroom meant one less day of instruction. In fact, I don’t actually remember talking about King in school, other than clarifying that, much to our disappointment, the new federal holiday would not result in a day off. I’m sure we discussed the civil rights movement, but in a nearly all white community I’m not so sure. In that context, our society has matured a great deal in the years since, but sometimes I think we may have missed the point.
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When I was young and counting on the forces of luck for some fortunate outcome my dad used to tell me, “Don’t worry sis. It will all work out. It may not work out the way you want it to, but it will work out.” It seemed like I heard it a lot. It helped me, at least for a moment, consider that it would not be the end of the world if I did not get my way. As an adult when I hear my father’s voice echo those words in my head the context of adult experiences changes the meaning to suggest that I need to make whatever outcome work for me. One rather silly experience many years ago has colored Dad’s words in a way that helped me see the inherent opportunity embedded in his wisdom.
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“I don’t know how to put this,” my friend said on the phone.
“Just say it, whatever it is. It’s okay,” I told her.
“Dad died yesterday.”
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The rhythm of time in the US sets aside five full weeks of every twelve months to wind down the previous year, while gearing up for the coming year. During these final weeks of the year many of us contemplate our reflections to set goals and give ourselves fresh starts. As I get older the life cycle events of close friends and family take on greater importance in this process of reflection, renewal and looking forward. This past year we have seen the death of two fathers, a brother-in-law, and a neighbor; the birth of one baby; one wedding; two illnesses (one in recovery); and numerous anniversaries and birthdays, including one especially noteworthy for our little friend for whom each year of life really is something to celebrate. Also this year a neighbor’s house burned. The process of spark, destruction, cleanup and rebuilding that our neighbor and friend has had to experience is both symbolic of the annual change of seasons to welcome the coming light, and a part of the reflections upon which I set my priorities for the coming year.
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