Bead 11: Healthy California

There's nothing like an ambulance ride to make you glad that you have health insurance. 

The patient was my then-eleven-year-old son Zac.  The occasion was his ruptured appendix.  The setting was an October morning in Fresno, California.  The backstory is that we had been in and out of doctor's offices and labs for two days.  Until just a few minutes ago, nobody in a white coat could be convinced anything was wrong.

Zac on the ambulance

 

Our small-town pediatrician is wonderful; it's just that she had never seen an appendix case quite like Zac's.  His pain didn't stray much below the latitude of his belly button, and was milder on the right side.  On a scale of 1 to 10, he gave it a 3.  He smiled and told jokes, and at the end of our appointment, jumped down from the examining table.

Because our pediatrician is wonderful, she didn't dismiss our concerns.  She told us her hunch was constipation, but instructed us to call her if his pain worsened, or settled in his lower abdomen, and she would order a CT scan.  For the time being, she prescribed MiroLax.  

The next day, Zac was indeed worse, and our pediatrician was out of the office.  Now, our tribulations began in earnest.  We drove the hour to Fresno, where a nurse practitioner belittled my fears, repeatedly telling Zac, "You're not an appy!"  The culprit was nothing more than constipation, she said, but to appease me, she would order an X-ray and some labs.  Frustrated, I told her that Zac's doctor had recommended a CT scan as the next step.  She pooh-poohed the lot of us.  "I don't think there's anything wrong with him," she said, "but you seem to think so."  She prescribed milk of magnesia.

I was seething as Zac underwent his X-ray.  X-rays were for broken bones, not appendicitis.  Stupid nurse practitioner.  Stupid Kaiser.  Stupid me for not advocating harder for my son while we were sitting there with her in her stupid office.  Driving home, my eyes smarted.  Zac slept in the passenger seat.  In the backseat, hunched in a stupid small pile, were the overnight things I'd packed just in case.

Late that evening, I received Zac's lab results by email.  His white blood cell count was too high.  I was scared.  Nurse #1 on Kaiser's 24-hour advice line was not.  She told me that I would have received a phone call by now if it were an emergency.  She wished me a pleasant evening.  

Enter my boyfriend, Taylor.  He proclaimed Nurse #1 to be full of shit, and urged me to call back and talk to someone else.  By this point I was exhausted and apathetic.  I just wanted to believe Nurse #1, but to keep the peace with Taylor, I redialed the hotline.  This time I got Nurse #2, who told us to go straight to the ER. 

The ambulance ride came eight hours later, after an ultrasound, an MRI, and a lot of waiting around in between.  It was just two highway exits between the Kaiser ER and Valley Children's Hospital, an easy drive, but the ER doctor didn't want to take chances with a burst appendix.  We finally got the emergency I'd been anticipating, flashing lights and all.  

Zac the morning after surgery

Although, at the time, nothing about Zac's medical emergency seemed luxurious, I now look back at the experience and recognize how fortunate we were.  All I had to worry about, in the six days between our first doctor's appointment and Zac's release from Valley Children's Hospital, was my son's health.  My employer asked nothing of me; I was able to park myself at Zac's bedside, in a cozy private room equipped with a pull-out couch for parents, and give him my undivided attention.  Nobody hounded me about money, and I didn't think much about it at the time.  Zac had insurance, and it was a "good" plan I had purchased for him myself, outside of my employer's expensive group offerings.

Some financial woes did surface later, after I realized that Zac's "good" plan was centered more on outpatient care, and carried a 30% price tag for all hospital-related expenses.  Instead of just covering Zac's $1,250 deductible, as I had optimistically assumed during my hospital vigil, I ended up owing $6,250, the full annual out-of-pocket maximum.  But it worked out.  I was able to pay the bills off in a year, and, for only a few more dollars a month, switched Zac to a better "good" plan.

At previous points in my life, a medical emergency would have been catastrophic.  Although Zac has always had some form of coverage--the Children's Health Insurance Program when his dad and I were together, Medicaid when I was a divorced, impoverished graduate student, and private health insurance for the past seven years of steady paychecks--I have frequently been uninsured.  As luck would have it, I never got sick, and I had Planned Parenthood for annual exams and birth control.  But it was American roulette, and nobody can deny there was a bullet in the chamber.

Here in the United States, it feels like good fortune that I paid $6,250 for Zac's ruptured appendix, rather than the full $30,000-plus that lurked in the invoice margins.  Here in the United States, it feels like good fortune that Zac had insurance at all.  Here in the United States, it feels like good fortune that my employer was understanding, and that I was able to flex my time around to avoid depleting my supply of paid-time-off hours.

Here in the United States, we exist in a vacuum.  Geographically isolated and fed a steady diet of corporate-backed spin, we have no concept of how things are done in the civilized world. 

Zac back to his normal goofy self the morning of his release from the hospital

As the new regime works to fell the Affordable Care Act, our nation's first baby step toward healthcare for all, there is good news in California.  It's Senate Bill (SB) 562, the Healthy California Act.  SB 562 would provide single-payer healthcare to all Californians.  Funded through a combination of federal dollars and state tax revenues, Healthy California would cut insurance companies out of the picture, directly paying for all "medically appropriate" services.  The list spans everything you can think of:  inpatient and outpatient care, prescriptions, mental health, alcohol and drug rehab, hospice, dental, vision, acupuncture, and more.  Although Californians may see a tax increase, they will never see a premium, deductible, or copay.  Healthcare will be, for all intents and purposes, free.  It will be as it should be in the modern era, a basic human right.    

SB 562 isn't there yet, but it's on its way.  Having passed the Senate Health Committee in late April, the bill is now being considered by Senate Appropriations.  It will next go to the Senate floor for a full vote, ideally followed by the Assembly.  Clearing both of those hurdles, it will reach the governor's desk, where we can only hope it will be signed into law.  Nothing is guaranteed, however, and there are opportunities for action at each of these way stations.  In the coming days, my state legislators, Tom Berryhill and Frank Bigelow, will be hearing from me on the importance of the Healthy California Act for my family, and for 39 million of my neighbors.

While Zac was in surgery, the misguided nurse practitioner tried to call me.  I didn't recognize the number, and was too nervous at the time to even think of picking up the phone for a stranger.  I let it go to voicemail.  Her message wasn't exactly apologetic, but she certainly sounded concerned.  She asked me to call her back.  I didn't, not ever.  I don't hold any grudges against the woman.  But her behavior, and what followed, have attuned me to what really matters in healthcare--being heard.  When we have the ear, and the understanding, of our healthcare providers, and when we are not worried about how we are going to pay the bills, we can focus on our role:  getting well, and staying well.

We Interrupt this Regularly-Scheduled Protest

I can count the number of political moments I've had in the past five days in as many fingers, where "political" = recalling that Team Trump is in charge and we have some problems.  For example, I opened my Daily Action text alerts, and recognized the names of people I was asked to stand up for and against.  I watched the YouTube rerun of the opening Saturday Night Live skit from last weekend, in which President Alec Baldwin hosts a surprise town hall in Union, Kentucky, and reveals how deep-seated Trump love can be.  And I had the following exchange with my boyfriend:  

Me:  All I brought with me is my pink pussy hat. 

Taylor:  What's that?

This is not like the new Bekah.  The new Bekah, born of fire just over five months ago, is constantly on the go--organizing meetings and events, putting people in touch with each other, speaking with the proxies and answering machines of her legislators, writing emails, writing blog posts.

This isn't even like the old Bekah.  The old Bekah at least checked the news.  Pre-Obama, the old Bekah at least maintained a healthy background level of indignation, and attended occasional rallies.

The thing is, we are trying to fix up my house to sell.  We have three weeks to do it.  The house is in Montana, more than 1,000 miles away from where we live.  So we came here, and are staying in the house.  The house lacks dishes, furniture, proper lighting, and the Internet.  We are camping indoors in a city of 70,000 people.

It's the perfect recipe for de-activism.  I am hyper-engaged with my own life, isolated from my normal activist channels and community, and distracted by urban trappings such as a nearby climbing gym, and a craft brewery every ten blocks. 

This is how my world looked just a few weeks ago (Oakhurst Women's March, January 21).  That's me in the center, magenta raincoat, chanting at the top of my lungs.  Photo courtesy of Bill Klemens.

This is generally how my world looks now.

Truth be told, I am appreciating the break.  When I accidentally swipe right on my phone and am pelted with scary headlines from around the AP, I can just swipe left again and move on to other things.  Like applying spackle, or making a run to Lowe's.  Donald Trump does not currently fill up my head, or even a small portion of it.  Psychologically speaking, he went from a penthouse suite to a broom closet.

Of course, Donald Trump continues to occupy our nation's penthouse suite, regardless of how much internal air time I give him.  I take my break knowing that shit is still hitting the fan everyday, and that my work is piling up.  Just like my son with his ream of make-up school assignments, I will have to scramble in the weeks after my return to string the missing beads.

Meanwhile, carry on, resistors.  I will see you on the other side of the construction zone.

Bead 10: Let's Cut the Tomfoolery--A Challenge for my State Senator

"We are trying to construct a more inclusive society.  We are going to make a country in which no one is left out."  -- Franklin D. Roosevelt

"At the end of the day, an inclusive society is a stronger society." [1]  -- Tom Berryhill

Everyone knows who Tom Berryhill is, but what about this Franklin D. Roosevelt?  Just kidding.  Tom Berryhill is an integral member of TomCorps--that small group of Toms who represent me at all levels of government.  On Capitol Hill, I have Tom McClintock, the U.S. Representative for California's 4th Congressional District.  In Madera, I have Tom Wheeler, the County Supervisor for District 5.  And in Sacramento, I have Tom Berryhill, State Senator for California's 8th Senate District.

To join TomCorps, you have to be 1) a white male, 2) named Tom, 3) Republican, and 4) based in or near the Sierras.  Beyond that, you get some artistic license.  For example, as I've written about elsewhere, Tom McClintock appears to have only taken interest in District 4 because he knew he could win there.  His commitment to his constituents does not include wanting them as neighbors; he lives 22 miles outside of District boundaries.  Tom Wheeler and Tom Berryhill, on the other hand, are long-term residents of their Districts.  Tom Wheeler goes so far as to have an open ear to his constituents' concerns, even those who aren't members of his political party.

Tom Berryhill, I'm not sure about yet.  The few phone calls I've made to his office have been met only with recordings, and I have yet to get a call back.  Still, his positions don't seem to be quite as fascist as those of his senior Tom, the one we CA-04 residents lovingly refer to as McTrump.

Senator Tom Berryhill of California's 8th Senate District

In June 2013, the U.S. Senate, led by the bipartisan "Gang of Eight," passed a comprehensive immigration reform bill.  The bill provided a path to citizenship for the estimated 11 million undocumented immigrants already living in the U.S., while increasing border security and adopting a points-based system for future immigration.  The bill's walk through the Senate was not contentious by current standards; it passed 68-32, with 14 Republicans voting yea.  The House was a different story.  Swayed by the conservative bloc, whose idea of immigration reform did not include awarding legal status to those without, Speaker John Boehner let the bill stall.

Meanwhile, in California, where more than 2 million undocumented immigrants were living and working, the Gang of Eight bill had a particular urgency.  In September 2013, Tom Berryhill and 14 other Republicans in the California legislature wrote a letter to their counterparts in the House, asking them to urge Boehner to put the bill to vote.  "There is no policy debate more important to the future of California and America than passing comprehensive immigration reform," the letter read.  "By providing legal clarity to the status of millions of people in California, we can spur an economic renaissance, solidify families, and create an entirely new population of full taxpayers." [2]

A statement on Tom Berryhill's web page at that time sounded the alarm on what might happen to California if the fate of its undocumented workers remained uncertain:  "I have been in agriculture my entire life and there is absolutely no way this 36 billion dollar industry could survive without the hard work and skill provided by this community.  For Congress to put off--once again--enacting a policy that allows a reasonable path to citizenship for a group of people that contribute so much to California's economy is irresponsible." [2]

The group letter was addressed to Tom McClintock and the remainder of the California Republican Congressional Delegation.  With McTrump, we know it fell on deaf ears.  Although some of the others may have been swayed, it wasn't enough to turn the larger Congressional tides.  The Gang of Eight bill was never allowed to go to a floor vote.  It expired at the end of the 113th Congress.

Coming from a Republican, I find Tom Berryhill's 2013 stance on immigration reform really refreshing.  But how have his opinions held up under the current regime?  Senator Marco Rubio, one of the celebrated Gang of Eight, revealed his chameleon nature during the 2016 presidential campaign, when he mocked Ted Cruz for not being tough enough on immigration, and said that the Gang of Eight bill, as written, was never meant to pass. [3]  That was when Donald Trump was just a notion.  Now that he is actually our president, and at the center of the human thunderhead of nationalists that constitute our Executive Branch, how many Republicans are willing to speak up for the undocumented?

A few days ago, California officially began its march toward becoming a sanctuary state.  Senate Bill 54, introduced by California Senate leader Kevin de Leon in December 2016 as Trump loomed lurid on the horizon, finally passed the Senate on a party-line vote, 27-12.  SB 54 would prohibit state and local law enforcement agencies, including school police and security departments, from investigating, arresting, or detaining people for immigration enforcement purposes, or from cooperating with federal agencies in such investigations.

Because it seems the feds are on a witch hunt.  On January 25, Trump signed two executive orders that formalized his campaign-long villification of "illegal aliens."  The first, Border Security and Immigration Improvements, put all 11 million of our undocumented neighbors on the administration's deportation to-do list.  It also extended the reach of the expedited removal program, increased the degree to which state and local law enforcement would be deputized as immigration agents, and ordered up the border wall. [4]  The second, Enhancing Public Safety in the Interior of the United States, defunded sanctuary cities, launched weekly publication of a list of crimes committed by undocumented immigrants, and created the Victims Of Immigration Crime Engagement (VOICE) office, a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE)-hosted support network for victims of crimes committed by undocumented immigrants. [5]  The two orders also provided for 15,000 new hires at ICE and U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP).

The only-slightly-underlying message is this:  Illegal aliens--in particular, Mexicans--are dangerous.  Illegal aliens are already lawbreakers by definition, and are likely to continue breaking the law.  Illegal aliens don't belong here, and sanctuary cities put everyone at risk by keeping them around.

With this type of rhetoric pulsing continuously from the Oval Office, it's no wonder that SB 54 was slow to pass the California Senate.  It had to be amended four times.  Most recently, protections were removed for people convicted of serious or violent felonies.  As the bill now stands, ICE must be notified at least 60 days prior to the release of such individuals from state prison; ICE may then investigate and pursue immigration offenders as it sees fit.  Various other compromises were made in response to criticism from the law enforcement community.  Still, after its trip through the wringer, SB 54 failed to garner the vote of a single Republican senator.

SB 54 will next go to the State Assembly, where Democrats hold a two-thirds majority.  And then it goes to the desk of Governor Jerry Brown, a Democrat.  So for those opposed to Trump's thug tactics, those concerned about California's immigrant community, and those fearful of a collapsing labor force, things are looking up.

I am miffed, though.  Why did Tom Berryhill, who spoke loud and clear for California's undocumented just a few years ago, cast a "nay" vote on SB 54 this week?  Why do his words for the undocumented these days sound as if they were drawn from our president's playbook?  In March, Berryhill introduced a proposal for a constitutional amendment that would require the California Department of Justice to report all people convicted of violent felonies to ICE. [6] This isn't an outrageous suggestion; it is essentially identical to language now contained in SB 54.  But it's a departure from his 2013 message, which centered on the many contributions of our undocumented community to California's economy and social fabric. 

As a natural-born optimist, I can't believe that all members of TomCorps are as bad as McTrump.  That is why I'd like to give Tom Berryhill the opportunity to explain himself.  I will be sending him a link to this post, with a request that he get back to me by phone, email, blog comment, telegram--whatever--to clarify how his current position on California's immigrant community squares with what he has said in the past.  Once I have his answer, I will share it here.

Notes

[1] Article on Tom Berryhill's support for immigration reform in 2013:   http://berryhill.cssrc.us/content/senator-tom-berryhill-stands-repairing-nations-broken-immigration-system

[2] Tom Berryhill as signatory to the 2013 letter to the California Republican Congressional Delegation, with a link to the letter:  http://berryhill.cssrc.us/content/congressional-gop-call-vote-federal-immigration-reform

[3] Marco Rubio all but disavows the Gang of Eight bill:    http://thehill.com/blogs/ballot-box/presidential-races/269483-rubio-gang-of-8-immigration-bill-never-meant-to-pass 

[4] Border Security and Immigration Improvements:  https://www.whitehouse.gov/the-press-office/2017/01/25/executive-order-border-security-and-immigration-enforcement-improvements

[5] Enhancing Public Safety in the Interior of the United States: https://www.whitehouse.gov/the-press-office/2017/01/25/presidential-executive-order-enhancing-public-safety-interior-united

[6] Tom Berryhill's proposed constitutional amendment:  http://berryhill.cssrc.us/content/berryhill-bulletin-march-2017

Bead 9: A Brand-New Resume for Tom McClintock

My U.S. Representative, Tom McClintock, is really concerned about the environment.  He sits on the House Committee on Natural Resources, and chairs the Subcommittee on Federal Lands.  He regularly introduces environmentally-themed bills; fully half of the legislation he has sponsored to date pertains to "public lands and natural resources," and another 14 percent to "environmental protection." [1]

Then there is his choice of congressional district.  Long a nomadic member of the California State Legislature, following votes from district to district, Tom McClintock has finally hung his hat in what is arguably one of the most beautiful congressional districts in the nation.  Perched on the west slope of the Sierra Nevada, California's 4th takes in Lake Tahoe, Yosemite and Kings Canyon National Parks, and several National Forests.

California's 4th is so exquisite, as a matter of fact, that Tom McClintock almost lives there himself.  But not quite.  Evidently more inspired by urban scenery and interests, McClintock and his family live 22 miles downhill in the Sacramento suburb of Elk Grove.

And that's just the first disappointing thing about my Congressman.  A quick glance at his environmental record reveals him to be a first-rate ecovillain wholly at home in the Trump Administration.

Not long ago, at the monthly meeting of my local environmental action group, a member suggested that it would be helpful to have a Tom McClintock environmental fact sheet--a guide to his positions on various issues, and the votes he's cast.  I agreed to take this on.  But when I sat down in front of my computer and started stalking McClintock in earnest, all I could come up with was snark, snark, snark.  The man isn't just a douche; he's a caricature of a douche.  Imagine an environmental issue--say, greenhouse gas emissions or wildlife conservation.  Then imagine the most stereotypical enviro-douche position on the issue.  That's Tom, every time.

Instead of a fact sheet, I decided to put my energy into something that should prove useful not just to my fellow CA-4 cage rattlers, but to McClintock himself.  Tom McClintock is nothing if not a ladder climber; in addition to the many elections he's won, he's tried and failed at California's 24th Congressional District (1992), State Controller (1994 and 2002), Governor (2003), and Lieutenant Governor (2006).  Certainly, McClintock has more plans cooking, and needs an up-to-date resume.  And since he fancies himself a natural resources expert, why not make it a resume tailored to his many accomplishments in this arena?

Here it is, Tom--free of charge.  Just like an actual scientist, you now have your very own curriculum vitae.  And to my friends in CA-4, feel free to use this as you see fit, and pass it on.

Cheesy photo courtesy of every McClintock-themed page on Congress.gov

                  

                  

Notes

[1] GovTrack page on Tom McClintock:  https://www.govtrack.us/congress/members/tom_mcclintock/412295

Bead 8: Off-Grid Dreaming

It started when I was about seven.  I was a voracious reader of Little House on the Prairie, and fancied myself an incarnation of Laura cruelly planted in the 1980s.  We lived in a nice suburban home in Georgia.  I wanted to live on a farm.  We drove a Ford Clubwagon van.  I wanted to get around by horse.  For pets, we had my brother's rat snake and the mice he fed it.  I wanted chickens and a milk cow, and a couple of devoted dogs.

I wasn't much of a nature lover at the time.  I found the Georgia woods sticky and dirty and overly stocked with poisonous life forms.  Hence, my Little House on the Prairie fantasies had little to do with the outdoors.  More, I craved a cozy cabin lit by kerosene, animals, a nice view, and delicious food raised just beyond the front door.  I had the feeling of having been born too late, of having been cheated out of a simpler, more meaningful life.

Over time, the dream wavered.  I entered sixth grade in 1986, and promptly succumbed to the most awkward of life stages in the most awkward of decades.  I got a perm.  I wore eyeshadow from lash to brow.  I spent all my babysitting money at The Limited, and brooded to Bon Jovi on my Sony Walkman.  But on the other end of 1986 was 1993, when I moved to Utah and discovered the mountains.  Then 1996, when I worked for an artist in backwoods Montana, just across the river from Glacier National Park.  Then 2000, when I took up gardening.  And essentially every year since then, as I've learned more about myself and the life that feels right to me.

In short, I want to be a homesteader.  Not exactly like Pa Ingalls, not exactly like claiming my 160 acres and sweating blood to prove up.  I would love to own 160 acres, but I suspect the only way to do that these days is through a buy-sell agreement.  I also aspire to "prove up" in a manner of speaking--to turn raw land into a home, to surround my house with things to eat, to tend my property for the benefit of natural ecosystems as well as my family.  I want to be a homesteader in the modern sense of the word, meaning I want to live as self-sufficiently as possible on my own patch of ground.  And because I've actually become quite outdoorsy since those early years in Georgia, I want to homestead in the most rugged of ways--in a remote setting, off the grid, surrounded by sticky, dirty nature.

My first practice homestead, at my artist friend's cabin across the river from Glacier National Park

My second practice homestead, a converted barn I lived in for four years, and where I started learning how to garden

In the next few days, Donald Trump is expected to take a series of executive actions designed to unravel the climate legacy of President Obama.  These include: 1) lifting the moratorium on new coal mining leases on public lands, 2) revisiting or eliminating a budgeting metric that had been adopted by the Obama administration, in which the "social cost of carbon" was weighed as an economic trade-off to regulations that would reduce industry profits, 3) rescinding an Obama-era order that required federal agencies to consider the impacts of climate change when deciding whether to permit or undertake a particular activity, and 4) and dismantling President Obama's Clean Power Plan, which imposed tough standards for power plant emissions, and effectively spelled a shift from coal to renewable energy.  These actions will be on top of villainous moves that Trump has already made, such as stopping an Obama initiative for improved fuel economy in new vehicles, and proposing a 31 percent budget cut for the Environmental Protection Agency.   

Trump and the EPA's very own pre-metanoia Onceler, Scott Pruitt, claim not to believe that human activities are warming the planet.  Both have denied the scientific consensus on the matter, and Trump has even gone so far as to call the notion of climate change a "hoax."  During a campaign speech in 2016, Trump lambasted President Obama's stance that climate change represented a serious threat to humankind.  He said that sounded like a joke, the likes of which Jimmy Fallon or Jimmy Kimmel might tell (presumably all comedic Jimmies are created equal).   

But, as most people know and aren't politically disqualified from admitting, human activities are changing our climate.  The spike in average global temperatures since the Industrial Revolution tracks neatly with the spike in atmospheric carbon dioxide--too neatly to be coincidental.  No set of factors--solar cycles, El Nino, other climate oscillations--is sufficient to explain our planet's warming trends over the past century, until greenhouse gases are added into the mix.   And according to the NASA website, which the Trump Administration evidently has yet to lobotomize, our levels of atmospheric carbon dioxide are continuously record-setting.  Based on reconstruction from ice cores and deep sea sediments, scientists believe that the last time the Earth's atmosphere had carbon levels this high was more than 2 million years ago, before the dawn of human civilization.

My current practice homestead in the Sierra foothills

For the past seven years, I have been pretending to homestead while actually living in a rural rental home in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, and commuting to work every day.  My "pretend homesteading" activities include growing a vegetable garden and berry patch, brewing my own beer and natural soda, making yogurt, drinking well water, heating our house with wood collected from the property, and sharing with neighbors.  My non-homesteading activities include logging a minimum of 25 vehicle miles per day, buying most of our food at the grocery store, and obtaining our electricity from Pacific Gas & Electric Company.     

The latter, I've learned, is not as unsustainable as you might think.  PG&E claims to deliver some of the cleanest power in the nation, with about half derived from a combination of renewable and greenhouse gas-free sources.  Still, that puts the remaining half in the domain of natural gas and "other" or "unspecified" sources.  

In my future life, I hope to be powered entirely by solar and other renewables.  Of course, I also hope to be off-grid, meaning I want to produce my own energy on my own land.  Although "pretend homesteading" in a rental home does not allow me to disconnect from the grid, I recently learned that I can go solar right now.  PG&E offers a program called Solar Choice, in which subscribers pay about 2.6 cents extra per kWh, and purchase electricity from solar projects in the state of California.  You can choose to buy solar power matching either 50% or 100% of your electrical usage.  I went with 100%, and will pay about $16 more per month.

After decades of pining for my unrealized, real-deal homestead, I can finally see it taking shape.  I am in the process of trying to sell my old house in Montana.  After that, my family and I will shop for land in Vermont.  Vermont is a lush, green state with a proud tradition of modern homesteading, relatively cheap real estate, low population density--and yes, Bernie Sanders.  Vermont also offers, we hope, some latitudinal insulation to the effects of climate change.  Although we're sure to experience our share of bizarre weather there, our homestead should be more resilient in Vermont than, say, arid California.

So, my Little House on the Prairie will actually be more like Little House in the Big Woods, the first book in the series.  Beyond that, I expect my off-grid life will resemble that of the Ingalls' not at all, for our world is more different than Laura ever could have imagined.  No matter; I am not obsessed with Little House anymore.  Still, I am thankful for that early glimpse of the good life, and happy to be on my way toward living it.

Helpful Links

PG&E Solar Choice Program:  https://www.pge.com/solarchoice/

Tom Lambert's blog post about Solar Choice and other programs enabling Californians to go solar sans rooftop panels, including FAQs and a powerful why-we-should-care message:
raisedbyturtles.org/solar-choice 

Bead 7: The Ides of Trump, Poetic Edition

The "Ides of Trump" Facebook page explains it like this:  "Just as the Romans did for Julius Caesar, you and I will now do for Donald J. Trump--only with postcards."  The idea is that, on March 15, progressive-minded folk from around the world will mail postcards to the sitting President of the United States, informing him that his ideas, his policies, his words, his actions are not okay.  The goal is 1 million postcards, which would set a new record.  Hank Aaron once received 900,000 pieces of fan mail in a single year; Trump will ideally receive considerably more pieces of not-a-fan mail in a few days.

I hate everything Trump stands for, and I love to write.  The Ides of Trump were made for me.  At the last meeting of our local peace group, my friend Susan distributed, by the handful, one thousand postcards that she had designed herself.  They feature an iconic Yosemite Valley scene rippled through with translucent stars and stripes.  The postcards are pre-addressed to the So-called President.  The blank left side beckons:  "Come on.  What do you really want to say to him?  This is your chance.  Let your voice be heard."

I brought home ten postcards that night.  Later, I called Susan up for twenty more.  I've been working on them everyday.  It's a nutritious, delicious activity.

I started off with earnest comments about policy.  I used polite, in-bounds language like, "I feel strongly that our federal lands belong to all Americans," and "Planned Parenthood is about a lot more than abortions."  I talked to him like he would 1) listen, 2) have a conscience, and 3) consider strategies not directly conducive to hoarding power and dollars.  I talked to him like he would be there at all, and not off at Mar-a-Lago while bulky Secret Service agents scanned thousands of postcards for death threats, clues to imminent acts of terror, and the like.

That lasted for three postcards.  Then I thought, "who am I kidding?"  I mean, it was an empowering exercise to imagine my opinions would be aired in the Oval Office, but it wasn't realistic.  He's a schmuck, and now he's also a politician.  Schmuck politicians don't care what the people that didn't vote for them think.  Schmuck politicians don't even care much what their voting base thinks, provided they suspect they can get re-elected and get rich doing it.

So instead, I started writing poems.  The first one came really quickly, so cathartic was it to be doing something worthwhile with my postcards.  It went like this:

What happened to you?

Childhood trauma?
Some sick soup of genes, some medical malfunction,
some calamity of the soul?
You know you're a mess of a man,
barely human in your regard for others,
superhuman in your obsession with self.

Like a circus freak,
you draw us in.  Some adore you
(unrequited).

Many despise you.

And some, like me,

Ponder the joke that swallowed us whole.

I bank my laughter for better days.

After that came a darker poem, about Jane Doe of ephemeral, pre-election day notoriety:

What of the girl?
Do you know the one I mean?
She was just 13, my son's age,
when she was lured
into the fancy penthouse
She was only a baby, not full grown
when you got inside her

She carried you around after that
like a brick in the gut
like a puck in the throat

There was no sloughing you off--
your jeering face
your greedy fingers
pricking the backs of her eyelids
for many thousands of nights

She tried to tell us--once, twice
She almost saved us all
But you grabbed her by the neck
pulled her down again

She's back on the bed, back in her cell
Story untold; forever Ms. Doe

From there, I entered my haiku phase.  These were quick and fun.  I only had to commit to 17 syllables. Our President, with his predilection for 140-character rants, would surely appreciate my brevity, if not my subject matter.

All hail Donald Chump
Executor of Steve's will
World's biggest yes man

You surfed your way up
Riding the backs that were bent
by your great fortune

What if your mouth hole
blew smoke rings, not invective?
That would be nicer.

The Ides of Trump called to my son, too.  Here's what he came up with:

Much as we may wish otherwise, you are the president of America--not the first lady of Russia.  I would recommend severing ties with Putin to shatter this illusion, assuming you aren't too much under it yourself to hear this message.

 

At this point, I have about a dozen postcards left to write.  It won't be hard.  Although I am loath to admit it, Donald Trump has become my muse.  He and the people- and planet-eating machine he serves are why I have become politically active.  He and his ilk have rekindled my creativity at the keyboard; no longer am I just a producer of technical reports for my job.  He and the other red caps have put me in touch with a host of beautiful, like-minded souls right here in my community--people I probably wouldn't have found otherwise.  And, in a larger sense, Donald Trump has inspired a whole movement, one that I am proud to be be part of.

So, on March 15, one of the postcards I mail will be a thank-you note:

Bead 6: For Ben, My Sister

When I was a kid, the boys in my family outnumbered the girls 3 to 2.  That's how I thought about it--like a friendly competition I was losing.  I was the oldest.  Lisa, my sister, was six years younger than me, an impossible distance when it came to girl talk, sharing clothes, friendship.  Between us was the commotion of David and Jon, brothers at war.  Ben was the baby, and the best loved by his siblings.  He was happy and sweet, with eyes that squinted when he smiled.  Lisa and I doted on him, to the point of putting him in Lisa's most princessy dresses and pretending he was the youngest of the Jensen girls, Benjela.

Today, the girls in my family outnumber the boys 3 to 2.  Ben is Samantha Claire, the youngest of the Jensen girls.  She is happy and sweet, with eyes that squint when she smiles.  But there were many years in between Benjela and Samantha when the smiles came slower, or not at all.

Ben and me in 1985

The three boys in 1990

 
On May 13, 2016, the U.S. Department of Justice and U.S. Department of Education jointly issued guidance, in the form of a "Dear Colleague Letter," on Title IX of the Educational Amendments of 1972.  Title IX says, in a nutshell, that schools that receive federal funding can't discriminate on the basis of sex.  The Dear Colleague Letter clarified that, for all intents and purposes, "sex" meant gender identity.  That is to say, schools were required to respect a student's gender identity, even if it wasn't the gender they were born with.  Schools couldn't discriminate against a student's transgender status by, say, requiring them to use an individual restroom, or worse, the restroom of the opposite sex.  And schools had to protect all students, including transgender students, from sexual harassment.

To the transgender community, the Obama Administration's Dear Colleague Letter was a shot in the arm.  It was the written manifestation of what U.S. Attorney General Loretta Lynch had said just days before:  "We see you; we stand with you; and we will do everything we can to protect you going forward." 

There is good reason for the federal government to stand with the transgender community, and with transgender kids in particular.  According to the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network (GLSEN), 75 percent of transgender youth feel unsafe at school.  Transgender students are much more likely than their cisgender peers to miss school because of safety concerns, and to drop out altogether.  And the degree to which transgender kids feel safe and accepted, or not, tracks closely with mental health.  A 2012 Canadian study found that transgender youth whose parents rejected their gender identity were 13 times more likely to attempt suicide than transgender youth who were supported by their parents.  The 2013 National Transgender Discrimination Survey found that 41 percent of transgender adults had attempted suicide at some point in their lives.  The rate spiked for those who had been bullied or harassed in school (50-54%) and those who had suffered physical or sexual violence at school (63-78%).

Ben in 2003

Between Benjela and Samantha, there was teenager and young adult Ben.  Teenager Ben lived alone with our parents on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, after the rest of us had moved out.  Teenager Ben slept a lot, and wore shorts almost everywhere he went, year-round.  I didn't know he struggled with depression until after the fact.  I just thought he was my quirky little brother.  At one point he cropped his hair close and bleached it white-blond.  He recorded songs with his buddy Greg in which he did a lot of whistling.  He wore dress shorts to his senior prom.  He had a genius IQ, which he applied just enough to keep our unrelenting "tiger dad" off his back. 

Young adult Ben went off to college at Brigham Young University, where he briefly had the company of all of our siblings.  He hung out with Jon and watched a lot of South Park.  He dated girls he didn't particularly like.  We kidded him about his dismal hygiene; he once stopped brushing his teeth in hopes that his current girlfriend would break up with him.  After a year of college, young adult Ben went on a Mormon mission to San Diego, where he taught native Mandarin speakers.  I remember seeing pictures of Ben from his mission in which he was beaming.  It wasn't the sweet, squinty-eyed smile of his Benjela days, but an electrified grin that seemed to open up his whole face.  By that point, I had heard about his depression.  I wasn't Mormon anymore, but I was glad he was, if only it kept him as happy as he looked in the pictures.

After his mission, the smile dimmed.  Or rather, it turned wry and enigmatic, as Ben kept odd hours, played music, managed school.  He grew his hair shaggy, wore '70s lumberjack plaid and 3D glasses with the lenses removed.  He moved in with some guys who drank a lot, and while I didn't think he himself was boozing, he certainly didn't seem very churchy anymore.  I secretly applauded the not-churchy bit, but hoped Ben would be okay without the sense of purpose and community that often accompanies Mormonism.

Three years after Ben's mission, she came out to our family as transgender.  For her, it had been steeping since she was four years old.  For the rest of us, it was a surprise.  I had begun to wonder whether Ben was gay, especially after my not-so-discreet father had intimated to me that "Ben has something really important to talk to you about."  I actually looked forward to Ben's announcement.  Having a gay brother would be fun, I thought.  As it was, Ben was the unconventional, free-thinking brother I could bounce anything off of--no judgments, no topic too "out there."  To be gay would just be the next level of awesome.  And if this was what was behind Ben's malaise, certainly coming out would help.

But when I learned that Ben was first and foremost transgender, and possibly also lesbian, I was confused.  I wanted to support Ben, but I didn't want to lose my brother.  And wasn't that what this would mean?  For 24 years, I'd known Ben one way.  Now, I was being asked to turn my understanding of Ben inside out, to discard everything I thought I knew.  At the time, it felt like pressing backspace on our entire relationship.  And then typing in words that weren't part of my lexicon, that I couldn't even fathom.

Ben's transition happened over a period of years.  With each new step, I had a tiny internal sulk.  Ben is taking hormones--that means it's really happening, she's really not going to be my brother anymore.  Ben is now Sami--but how can a person give up their name, their whole identity?  I'll try to call her Sami, try to use the proper pronouns, but it will feel like acting.  Sami is planning surgery--and that's it, that's the end, my brother is gone.

 

The three girls in 2011

 

A lot has changed since then.  For one thing, I've loosened my death grip on gender as the defining characteristic of the people around me, and of Sami in particular.  It took Sami coming out to show me how fixated I'd been on gender.  When I realized that her becoming a woman did not suddenly make her a stranger, I started to relax.

 

For another thing, Sami is happy.  Almost as soon as she started hormone therapy, she assumed a level of comfort with her body that I hadn't seen before.  It was in the clothes she wore, how she carried herself.  She was proud of her breasts and hips.  She took care of her appearance, to the point of what I considered to be excessive primping when we were trying to get out the door.  In watching her with friends, it seemed she had a new, vivacious quality.  She flirted and laughed; she was at the center of things.  I take Sami's well-being somewhat for granted now.  From my outsider's perspective, she knows who she is, is loved and supported, and is living her right life.

 

These days, Sami makes her home in Portland.  That's after having lived as a transgender woman in Utah, Japan, and Kentucky.  I worried about her safety from time to time in those places.  I don't worry about her in Portland.  I see Portland as a refuge for liberal, artistic types of all persuasions, a place where people don't have to justify their lifestyles or very existence.  Restrooms in Portland are marked "all gender," "inclusive," and "whichever" as often as not.  By living in a place like Portland, where people are seemingly unruffled by matters of gender identity, I feel Sami is given an opportunity to simply live her life.

Sami was one of the first people I thought of on November 8, when Donald Trump was elected president.  My thoughts went like this:  Thank God you're in Portland.  Please don't ever leave Portland.  The world is more dangerous for you than ever. 

 

We talked a few days later.  Sami, too, had fears for her future--even in liberal Portland.  Brushing her teeth on November 9, she had a sick flash in which she thought, "Why bother brushing anymore?  My teeth will just get kicked in someday." 

 

On February 22, 2017, the newly Trumpified U.S. Departments of Justice and Education issued another Dear Colleague Letter.  The letter starts off the same, with messages in Spanish, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Tagalog, and Russian urging its readers to ask for language assistance if they need it.  From there, it goes on to undo all the protections of the Obama Administration's 2016 guidance.  It claims that the 2016 letter did not sufficiently build its case with "extensive legal analysis," did not explain how the new interpretation of sex discrimination was consistent with the "express language" of Title IX, and did not give the public an opportunity to weigh in.  The new letter maintains that, since the authority of the 2016 letter was dubious, at best, it would be left to the states and local school districts to decide which restrooms and locker rooms transgender students would be allowed to use.  The letter ends on a note of good will, reminding its audience that the Departments of Justice and Education do not condone bullying or harassment, even of LGBT kids, and that they will continue to do everything in their power to protect all students. 

To that, I say not good enough.  If the scary new alter-egos of these agencies were really trying to protect all students, they would not be removing obvious protections for one of the most victimized demographic groups in our public schools and universities.  That is essentially what I said to the office staff of my two U.S. Senators, Dianne Feinstein and Kamala Harris, when I spoke with them on the phone.  From here, I don't know exactly where to go.  Like a big sister, I want to protect Sami.  And like a big sister, I want to protect the Ben that came before Sami, the high school kid who knew they weren't defined by the body they inhabited, and felt stuck.

 

For my family, Sami's transition has been a beautiful experience.  I have been touched to see how my mother, the only Mormon left in the bunch, and devout enough for all of us, has embraced her new daughter.  She was with Sami when she had her surgery, just as she was with me when I gave birth to my son.  As for my dad, he stayed with Sami for a good part of her post-surgery convalescence, and seems to have settled comfortably into the "whichever" approach to gender identity promoted on Portland's restroom doors.  Sami has one niece and eight nephews who call her "auntie" without question; this includes my son, Zac, who remembers when Sami was Uncle Ben.  I think it's safe to say that Sami's transition has been a transition for all of us.  But here on the other side, it feels nothing like a relationship lost.  I'd call it a relationship doubled.

Sami and me in 2015