I had this client a couple of weeks ago and I had tried so hard to help her and to make things better. She had a mental health diagnosis that came about two years too late to keep her from getting into trouble. I really wanted to help her; maybe because she reminded me of my sister, maybe because mental health problems seem very ‘but for the grace of god’ to me, maybe because she has twin infants at home, maybe because she and her mom were trying so hard to make the best of her situation. Anyway, I tried really hard and we got a result that wasn’t perfect and will require her to do some substantial jail time… but was a lot better than what she was facing. And we made quite an impression on each other, she hugged me after she was sentenced and said thank you. And I knew she was going into jail the other day and so I checked for her on the jail list, just to make sure everything was going as planned. And then I got this card in the mail today. I’ve been told and warned a lot that people will never appreciate me in my job. And to a large extent it’s true, it’s somewhat… thankless. I can’t make the impossible happen and so I get blamed from most sides, despite usually being the only one in the situation who had nothing to do with causing it at all. But it’s not completely thankless and really I’ve been thanked quite a bit. And it's nice every so often to be told people can tell you really care... when you're using a lot of energy really caring.
Someone from law school recently had a facebook status about hating being a lawyer… but I have to think, and feel a little bad for her that it's probably because she’ll never get a card like this.
Over Christmas we watched "It's a Wonderful Life." I didn't realize Charlie had never seen it. It's one of my favorite movies. I always forget and remember how much story comes before the seeing-life-if-George-Bailey-had-never-been-born part. My very favorite part, though, is of course the end when all of the "riff raff" pour into the Baileys' house and give what little bits they can to help George come up with the missing $8,000.
My dad said it and I agree for my own different reasons, 2010 was his "It's a Wonderful Life." It was mine, too. On one hand, I learned a valuable lesson and appreciate so much more than I think I did before. I saw I have a lot of friends and I have very good ones. And, I mean, dudes, I was on BBC! I was in the NY Times, like, MANY times. And Foreign Policy! And I passed two bar exams while working full-time, can we revisit that accomplishment?? I also celebrated the beginnings of five new marriages of people I love. (and watched/helped another I love end hers... sad but probably also in the "good" column since "good" is being happy and healthy and whole.) But a good portion of the year was terrible and I was so incredibly scared and unhappy and still feel so frayed and damaged about it I start crying. Less so now but by the fall I felt so tired, deep, deep down.
But. Holy shit. How bizarre. It's almost like a "be careful what you wish for" thing. Oh, you think being on BBC would be rad? Ok, well, we're going to put you through so much that six months later when the Associated Press calls you about something completely unrelated, you will have negative desire to call them back. (Yep. That happened. Last week.) My co-worker said, "it's kind of fun to see your name in the paper." Nope, not really anymore. But enough bemoaning and verification I need to process all of this with a professional, eh? My "Wonderful Life" illustrated all of the good for me, too. (these are not in order) I love my job. See: previous post. I love my man/boyfriend/joint tenant with right of survivorship/whatever- I don't need to gush over him on the internet, but he is a great person who makes me laugh, supports me in the ways I need and keeps me honest. I have awesome dogs. See: FACT. I have a warm house which always needs more TLC but is totally mine. Well, half mine. But, you know. Even when this happens (welcome home!): I have so many friends. When in crisis or joy, I feel they're family I created for myself. Which brings me back to "Wonderful Life." George learns his friends, the riff raff, are there when he needs them. I learned my own riff raff, a coalition of people I've collected over the years, care about me. This is maybe stupid and oversharing, but for a kid who read Little Women on the playground when she was friendless in 1st grade and whose mother freshman year told her her college friends didn't really know her because if they did, they wouldn't like her (crazy shit, right?)... it's incredibly significant. It's significant and gratifying that I've picked amazingly high quality people to befriend and they've picked me back. I am both lucky and reenforced that I must be pretty darn ok if these awesome people all showed up at the house with whatever donation they could make. And then we sang Auld Lang Syne. No, wait, that was the movie. Anyway. I can't trade experience. Do I wish lots of 2010 never happened? Yes. Do I see the value in the struggle? Yes, that too. Did a learn lots about myself and other people? Um... yeah, ok, fine. Am I pleased as fuck 2010 is over? Yes, ma'am.
On these first days of the new beginning, here's hoping for us all 2011 is a year of health and happiness and lessons learned as least painfully as possible.
"Our friend Maggie bought this wallet at a vintage store, and inside found a photo of the previous owner, up front, and then another, of him posing affectionately with another soldier, hidden in the back, behind a panel in the wallet.
Here's to our soldiers never having to hide who they love again."
It is. I almost want to make an "it gets better" video for early and mid-twenty-somethings. Because I feel like it does and no one tells you and I'm there and it's so much better than it was. But I was just looking at pictures of someone's trip to New York on facebook. And whenever I do that, I get a little sad. I get sad because I love New York. I do. And I think of the 2003-2006 period when I lived there and the friends and times and experiences that happened there and then. Now I love going there and being there and have a connection to it, maybe a little like I feel with New Orleans also, where it feels like the place/life I could have lived and therefore it will always be a little bit "home." But then there's the weird thing about adulthood... I feel like I've realized that while I love and respect New York... it's not the right place for me. I proved I could make it there, but then chose not to. And that's a "right for me" decision... the things I need from the life I want don't have to happen there. But they could. And that's the crazy thing. I don't think it's particularly interesting or admirable, but I've moved around a lot in the past ten years. East Coast to midwest to southwest. And here's the thing... there's a lot of places I could be and could be happy. Changing homes so often means both I carry my home with me, but also that lots of places are a little bit "home." I remember talking to high school seniors applying to Wesleyan--both in Madison and here in Flagstaff, and I'd remind them that something like 96% of people love college (of course this was meant as encouragement if they didn't get into their top choices.) Yes, that's not everyone, but of those 96% people... do they love it because somehow they selected the right college for them? No. College is awesome. They loved it because it's awesome. Of course, if everyone went to Wesleyan, it would be 100%, but that would destroys the specialwes. Anyway. My point is the weirdness of life and how there are so many different paths and directions but how so many of them to lead good and great things. The other week, Erin remarked something like that it's so weird that I'm a public defender and I lived in Flagstaff, Arizona. And it is... but for a Minneapolis kid, is it really that much weirder than being an assistant in Manhattan? Not really. A different kind of weird. And is life in general like college? Well, literally, no. Tragically it is too little like college. But metaphorically, can things be great if you land in variety of different places? Yeah, I think. Of course this does beg the question... if we can do awesome anywhere, why didn't we pick a place closer to people we love? It's the adventure. Or that's what we say. There this on Jezebel last week, about what a dad should teach a daughter... and I like it. Partly because most of things I did learn from my very excellent dad-of-a-daughter but one is probably missing-- landing on your feet. It's a skill. It not a skill learned like changing a tire, but that's part of it. Being self-sufficient and flexible is what I'd like my kids to be... and if it means they successfully build a life in a place none of us anticipated... I think I'd be proud. It's a good sign. Then again, it doesn't matter where it is, I'd be proud and I am proud of a successfully built life anywhere.
Uncle Bill was one of those uncles who wasn't actually related to us. He was a friend of the family to my dad's mom's parents. He never had kids and by the time I was born, was already pretty old and had moved to Florida. Apparently back in the day it was rather scandalous that the swedes were BFF with this Jewish guy... little did they know about the subsequent miscegenation to befall the secretly already-muddied family tree. (this is the subject of another explanation, the hilariously awkward interactions with the swedish family members about rumors of horse-traders staying at the family farm and how our branch of the family tree ended up rather swarthy as compared to the other branches...) But Bill was always a presence, we stayed with him when we visited Disney World circa 1989 or so and he'd visit my grandparents regularly. I remember at some point coming down my grandparents' stairs and smelling cigarette smoke, being so confused and shocked that Bill was smoking in their living room. He explained that he'd never been a smoker, but once he turned 90, he started smoking one cigarette a day because, why not? Uncle Bill died at the end of high school for me, before anyone I really knew had died. His estate was designated for my grandma, my uncle, my dad and me, in diminishing shares. I finally got my share sometime during my senior year in college. It seemed like a tremendous amount of money at the time. And it was. It paid for the last semester of college when my parents wouldn't. It financed quitting my miserable job to travel to Peru for a month. It went toward almost two months in Africa before law school. And the final chunk made the down payment on our house. There's no "lesson" here, just a belated "thank you" to Uncle Bill. You've made many important and good things happen in my life over the past few years. Thanks for helping me finish college, for some amazing travel experiences that helped make me, me. And thanks for our house! Thanks.
Wedding #4 of the summer was Fletcher and Lauren's in Luray, Va, in the Shenandoah valley. I skipped town Thursday morning and made it to Baltimore Thursday night where I had mediocre Mexican food with decidedly non-mediocre company. We high-tailed it (well, after having breakfast with the groom from wedding #3 and taking our time) out to Virginia Friday and spent the afternoon tasting Virginia wines and drinking shandys by the pool of the Days Inn. It was approximately 97-102 degrees all weekend, just for context. Anyway, the wedding and all affiliated festivities were excellent. It was great to spend time with old friends and even meet some new friends (how is that for a novel concept, huh, Sarah?) The wedding itself was gorgeous and there was a lot of crying involved, wedding #4 takes the prize for most tears jerked. And then after some delicious dinner, quickly and appropriately devolved into a hot, sweaty, drunken dance-party mess. I mean "mess" in the good way.
May I present a pictorial representation of the transition from beautiful and classy to aforementioned mess:
I loved it. And somehow Lauren managed to still look awesome at the end of the night, good work!
This is a small story about this ring. My dad's dad (who died when my dad was 23, long before I was born) gave it to my grandma when they were dating. Then my dad gave it to my mom as an engagement ring. Then my mom gave it to me, a number of years ago. I wore it regularly and then one day- pop- hit it against a wall or something while it was on my hand and took a chunk out of the moonstone. And then it sat in my mom's jewelery box for probably 10 years. When I was home weekend before last, I took it back and brought it into a jeweler here. The size of the stone was slightly irregular and so on, but I picked it up today. It looks lovely, it's back on my finger, all polished and looks better than I've ever seen it since it came to me after 60+ years of... love . The jeweler was confused that it was an engagement ring, "well, I've never seen a moonstone for an engagement before" but admired it's art deco style. I love it. I'm so glad to have it back and to have a little piece of grandma (and my parents) on my finger.
I am pretty sure there is no one who reads this who wouldn't already know, but my dad was arrested in Rwanda yesterday morning. He was there, as an attorney, representing the opposition presidential candidate in her own criminal case. There are some stories about it here and here and here and here.
It's been truly exhausting, so far two days of near-constant phone calls, emails and calling/faxing the government when not otherwise occupied. If you want to know what you can do, that's really it. Call the State Department, call your Congressional Delegation and call the White House, ask for them to demand he be released immediately. This is a list of phone numbers, This is a press release a group I am working with generated today and This is the Hotel Rwanda Rusesabagina Foundation Press Release.
Anyway, I wrote my dad a letter today, trying to work on some of the feelings that I haven't really been feeling because I've been running constantly. I'll put it here because this remains my space, for doing things like writing weepy letters. I'll give it to him when he comes home. Right after a great big hug and possibly a proverbial punch in the nose (possibly also literal punch in the nose.)
Dear Dad,
It’s late afternoon on Saturday here in Arizona.I’ve spent the last two days emailing, faxing, calling and answering calls from what feels like everyone in the world.I’ve talked to your colleagues from all kinds of work you’ve done. Work in Africa, Minnesota, Amsterdam… really everywhere.We had two conference calls yesterday and it was so heartwarming to hear the voices of these friends you’ve made all over the place.This has become the hardest part for me, personally, so much of this action and organizing, you would love to see. I keep wanting to tell you about something that happened, some amazing connection people have made and demonstration of the power of all of these people working together.You would love to see it.
There has been an unbelievable outpouring—people from all parts of both of our lives have come out of the woodwork and showed their support.All of the parts of our family, the National Lawyers Guild, the Law School, long-lost friends and colleagues.When your brother spoke to the State Department yesterday, the woman said, “It seems like you all were ready for this to happen.”He said he just laughed and said, “No, we’re all just really motivated and stubborn as hell.”You would be so proud.
I’ve realized some things over the past two days.One is that we have taken far too few pictures together recently.I saw that when I had to send one to a Minneapolis TV station.We need to fix that when you get back. I’ve also realized how much your work means to the people who benefit from it. I’ve received dozens of facebook messages and emails from Rwandans thanking me for your work, for standing up for them and for now bringing light to their situation. They love you.I can’t tell them how I really feel in my heart of hearts, though, that selfishly I hope when you get out, you’ll open up a solo practice doing Wills or something. That when I stop moving, as I only have a couple of times since we got news of your arrest yesterday morning, I am so, so paralyzingly and blindingly scared and my heart is so heavy.I know that theirs are too and that you have been someone to lighten theirs… but I want you to be here to make me feel better. Because you’re my dad and that’s what you’ve always done.I stop and I am so angry at you for putting yourself in this situation, I want you to come back so I can scream and yell at you about how angry and scared you’ve made me.
Someone else told me to remember a righteous wind is at our backs.And I know this.From all the messages and all the support, I have been reminded of how proud I am of you and your work.All joking aside about the fact that I’ve become an attorney, too, so much of the person and lawyer I have become is due to the person and kind of lawyer you are.I’ve learned to work like hell from you and I’ve learned that all people deserve respect from you.I’ve thought about some of the things you’ve told me over (and over and over!) all my life—to figure out who you want to benefit from you work and the rest comes easily.That a society is best judged by how they treat their weakest members.Not to believe everything you read.That history is written by the victors.I would like to remind you now about the MLK quote, the arc of the universe is long, but it bends toward justice.I miss you terribly, I love you so much and I look forward to writing this history with you, as victors, on the side of justice.
An artist and neighbor of my grandparents made these prints for our family. My grandpa died in 2002 and my grandma this last fall- our family owned their house in Lakeside for over 55 years, they lived there full-time for as long as I can remember. They were pretty much institutions in the town. Anyway, my aunt recently sent me my copy of the print and it's hanging in the hall now. It's really very nice, both a thing to say about them and to look at.
It hardly needs to be said, but this weekend in Dallas was phenomenal and epic and necessary and wonderful. It was truly excessive in every way, except perhaps fun-- because there is never too much of that. I don't know when we're too old to sleep 6 to a room... but I kind of hope it never happens. The wedding was so lovely, so nice, so them. The newly-married friends got together our junior year and have been engaged for 5 years, so to say there has been some, um, anticipation is something of an understatement. And it was well-deserved. The days leading up to the wedding were packed with fun and packed with friends, it was just completely... wonderful. With a couple of exceptions of friends going through hard times, it's great to see people I love doing so well. To quote Erin, "risping." For the most part (and even the hard stuff not withstanding) friends are pursuing interesting careers and have found partners who make them happy. It's great to see. It's hard not to be nostalgic for an earlier time (say 2003-2005 or so) when most of us were closer together geographically (or, like 1999-2003 when we were in the same place.) But there was a lot more struggle, by and large, the struggle of the early and mid twenties trying to find our places. And we've come a long way toward those places. It's nice to see. And really something that these doctors and lawyers and scholars and grant-writers and editors and conservators and planning and policy wonks-in-training can still get together, laugh our heads off, drink like we got into someone's parents' liquor cabinet and stay up all night like we're still 18.
And also something to actually be close to 30 and need days to get sleep and stomach back in line with regular life. Still, so worth it.
"Charlie, it's our three year manniversary this weekend!"
"I know!"
"Three years... So would you say this is your most serious relationship?"
"Ha! Um, two dogs and a house??"
"Uh-huh. Well?"
And then a look of amusement with my silly mood that I hope means he'll stick around for another 3.
We began celebrating by spending about 60 hours straight in the house together... which is relationship test all its own. The worst that happened was this morning we got in a small argument about the busted shower... which was good timing, since today the interstate was open! So we went into town, got some groceries and some hiking boots. And a meal that a) we didn't have to cook and b) wasn't based on ingredients from our local gas station. Nachos, anyone? Frozen pizza? It was a nice change of pace.
This picture is from just before we were together. If you look in his eyes, you can see how much Charlie wishes he was my boyfriend. See?
Anyway, thanks for laughing at my jokes, for the adventures and for paying half the mortgage!!!
He's wonderful. A 7 month-old golden retriever with some pit in him, maybe boxer, too? We saw him a few times at the humane society and lucky for us, he was still there once we were ready to bring him home. The first night in our new house, in a freezing cold bedroom with a puppy jumping off the walls... I will admit I had a little buyer's remorse... for a moment for both the dog and the house. But that passed. Gus has really settled down and just seems so happy to be in a home. It's really sweet. We're still working on keeping him off the bed and hopefully eventually he'll stop following me room-to-room like, well, a puppy. But he's been a great addition to the family.
I am thinking a lot about my grandma this season, since this is the first Christmas we've celebrated without her... ever. Probably because of all the Swedish and traditional stuff, but I have especially strong associations with her and Christmas. Making Pepperkaker, the smorgasbord on Christmas eve, even the long-standing family love-hate with lutefisk. She had a sign in her house that said, "All hearts go home for Christmas, for love is always there." So maybe the association comes from her strong feelings about the holiday. She loved having everyone there, playing games, retelling stories-- classics now include the year my uncle misheard the swedish deli guy and boiled the lutefish for 45 instead of "4 to 5" minutes. Very typical family Christmas stuff, but if you haven't had to adjust your traditions yet... enjoy them while they last. Finally, as I mentioned before, my grandma loved music and dancing. So I leave you, on this Christmas Eve, with a song everyone in the family loves singing at this time of the year. Merry Christmas!
Although spending less right now is the smart thing, sometimes one finds something that one wants so much that one sends her boyfriend an email with a link saying, "you might as well get this for me as a gift because our money is going to be used to buy it eventually." And then a few weeks later, you get this sweet piece:
You how they've been telling us "it's starting"* for, like, 6 years but it hasn't really been? I know four couples who have gotten engaged in the past week. I am sincerely happy for all of them- well, three of them. The other one I'm more ambivalent about (you don't know them, I promise. And if you do, you're also ambivalent.) But anyway. Holy crap. At this rate the whole world should be married by 2012. Maybe I should rethink my absolute rejection of the possibility of being a divorce lawyer.
Just kidding, engaged friends. Well, I'm not, I could make a lot of money... But I'm talking about those other people, not you, don't worry.
In the meantime, special congrats to my bloggity friends Fletcher and Lauren. I'm just going to tell people that instead of Wesleyan Spring Fling 2002, you guys got together through my blog, ok?
Jane L. Biehl, Jane L. Erlinder, Jane L. Nesius 1915-2009
My grandma died this morning. She lived enough life for two people. She spoke Swedish, although she wouldn't admit it. She was a career woman before that was what women did. She loved to travel and sewed her grandchildren halloween costumes, I've been looking for the picture of me as Rainbow Brite at 4 to show you how awesome it was. She went from southside Chicago to Lakeside, Michigan, one of the most special places on earth. She could cut a mean rug, polka or otherwise, and loved to dance. She loved me so much, and those I loved. Even if towards the end she would ask, "whose dog is that?" But then would follow it up with, "he's such a nice dog." For the past few years, she inquired regularly about my "friend" Charlie. She made the best swedish meatballs. She was a lady in the purest sense, my mom tells how in all their painting of the Lakeside house when it was still a fixer-upper summer house, Grandma Jane could paint an entire room without getting a speck of paint on her. She had an undeniable sense of humor.
Surprise 90th birthday.
She's the one on the left, with friends from work in her Montgomery Ward accounting days.
Thankfully, the past 3 years in Madison meant I got to see her pretty often. And her death was relatively pain-free. But darn it, I already miss this woman a whole lot.
My friend Josie has a wonderful post about this, we're entering the 4th anniversary of Katrina. Like she says, it's funny (um, not ha-ha funny, come on now...) how much my life has changed because of Katrina, in these four years and for the better.
Four years ago I had been reading all I could read and watching all I could watch about what was happening while at work. I met Jota and David for Happy Hour, we spent every Tuesday that summer at some weird and mostly lame bar in Tribeca that had outdoor seating and strong$2 margaritas on Tuesdays (and neither of those things are weird or lame at all.) That was when information was minimal, I remember David saying 10,000 people were dead. Of course it ended up being both more and less severe than this. I remember so clearly trying to comprehend that through a couple of strong $2 margaritas.
Since then we've all three become lawyers. I spent 2.5 of those years working for and with students and people of the Gulf Coast. I found a passion, my passion, and I found out how hard I could work. I found new skills. I did good work. I met great people. As one of the SHN friends said, "my closest friends in law school don't go to my school." That friend, he is down there. So many of those people are working in the region, continuing the work we did together. The anniversary has made me think about how I am not. Earlier this summer, before Flagstaff was 100% for sure and when there was possibility I would be in New Orleans, another wonderful friends I know through this work sent me a text message, reassuring me, "you will do good and important work wherever you are." And so I am not disappointed, or even wrestling with it, although on this anniversary is feels strange to have gotten so close and come so far from that place. To have become part of a community and then gone somewhere else to start over.
And on the other hand. I am still in the place I am because, in some sense, of Katrina and that work. However one wants to portray it- I like: It took the spirit of New Orleans to open Charlie's eyes to how much he loved me. He probably prefers... no, this is my blog, we're going with my version. Everyone would agree, however, that our first trip to New Orleans changed our lives, we spent it interviewing workers on street corners together and having our minds blown. We got "together" a week later. So it is not at all disconnected from Katrina that we a) are a team now and b) came to Arizona so that one (and eventually both) of us can continue working for social justice-- working for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of the teeming shore. Continuing the work, in a way, in another place that America has broken its promise.
I guess "the teacher becomes the student" is a little more apt. But whatever. I wrote this last week, then got distracted by a camping trip in the Porkies. More on that later.
Two Fridays ago, I got a call from my dad. He was in San Francisco and tells me he is in the hospital, needs an emergency appendectomy but refuses to go under the knife without a will or an advanced directive. After the initial shock of "I'm in the hospital," I was totally annoyed and outraged. I more or less contained it through the day's successful surgery, his couple more days hospitalized with a nagging fever and even through the delicious beet & chevre salad and mussels I had for lunch with him yesterday. I was about to get in the car to head back to Madison, when I kind of let him have it.
It's really dumb for him not to have a will. And he knows that. I was almost more irritated about the advanced directive because while not planning for the division of his stuff will create a headache for us, not expressing his desires for his health care is more troubling to me. And I threw in little things like that I give him the benefit of the doubt and don't think his not doing these things are a result of not caring about his health or his loved ones... but it can look like that. He hasn't thankfully had anything that turned out to be major, but he does have a tumor inside his skull, had a melanoma removed from his back and may need a heart valve replaced. So, like, we're all going to die, but there have been a couple reminders recently that he may sooner than... well.... enough reminders that it's dumb not to plan for the inevitable.
Anyway, I was also a little mad at myself because I had kind of assumed he made these plans and hadn't. So, now I know to nag him until he does (or the will in his chart at whatever SF hospital will remain in effect...) and I suggest you do the same with your delinquent parents in denial.
First things first, Sophy is a mysterious badass/heartthrob.
But second, I did the funnest thing today, you guys. Well, yesterday I had Thanksgiving... which was very fun (and I didn't even shut down and sleep through half of it like I did last year...) But TODAY, Charlie and I visited a nearby Cub Foods grocery store that is going out of business. All regular groceries there are 40% off (including the cherry Pucker schnapps and alcohol-free wine) and some things, like greeting cards and medicine were 60-85% off. It was amazing. We got all this weird food from the completely picked-over store-- and for so cheap! One good find was an industrial-sized can of black beans-- 23 servings for $5. Also lots of marinades, salad dressings and pickled things, some cheese and mini-marshmallows. The whole thing made me feel very rich and it was one of my favorite things I have done recently. Which is weird and maybe a little sad.
I can tell how jealous you are, internet. There is a lot, a lot of Cream of Mushroom soup left-- so get over there!
