Dear Kind Members of my Personal and Professional Network,

Please stop encouraging me to apply for jobs. I recognize that your ideas of success and personal goals for retirement combined with your belief in my abilities and concern for my welfare drive your actions and these good intentions are too powerful for me to resist. When you tell me to apply for a job, my heart swells in the face of your faith and no matter how tired or despondent I am in with this process, I will never stop striving to write the best cover letter of my life just to show you that your support is not misplaced. 

I have applied and applied and applied and for the few jobs I have actually gotten in my tumultuous 13 years post undergrad, I have to be honest- I have not been successful. Something is missing in my brain or heart that numerous estranged friends and boyfriends can attest to. At 35 years old, I am way past the age where my shortcomings can be excused for inexperience and I am at the financial and spiritual place in my life where I cannot keep banging on the door of this house that will not let me in.  My resume is overcome with red flags like a garden with lady bugs and it doesn’t matter how much I tailor it to match the job description or ham up my Excel experience, they know I am “more trouble than I am worth,” -actual words of an employer right before they fired me. If mainstream society, i.e. typical sources of employment, were going to accept me, they would have done it while I looked my best and before my fertility peaked.

So I need your help to accept that normalcy is not the path for me and though I may not live up to your expectations I can still be successful in non-traditional ways most often invisible to you or the outside world. If this is distressing to you, and you find yourself wanting to continue to push me to “do great things with my life,” you can find comfort in knowing that statistically I have contributed to the outliers of my demographics and have far surpassed the accomplishments of any of my blood relations. I am not a meth addict subjecting her children to abuse, I am not a sad drunk who was never a father or foster parents who use my children for home improvement projects. I take my leave in comfort knowing that I am now and may always be a single woman who obsesses over the health of her two cats and who is trying to manage her IBS. That has got to be enough. 

Do not worry about me. We live in America, where the systems that inform our culture like trickle down economics and alcoholism make working in the restaurant industry a completely viable career. For someone like me who loves to entertain and honors the impermanence of life itself and a good time, its a good fit. And if I break my ankle off the job, that is what our excellent public safety net is for. I’ll figure it out. And I promise you, that while I may be giving up on this conventional path, which for so long I thought I wanted and needed and which you supported me in, I am not giving up on trying to make the world a better place or be a little better as a human. I have nothing but whole hearted gratitude for any and all support you have shown and I welcome any love you send my way in whatever form from here on out. But for the love of art and my spirit, when it comes to my profession, from now on, I respectfully ask that you to please, leave me alone. 

Sincerely, 

Beth 

Thoughts on Giddings

Bangs and half ponies, Representative Priscilla Giddings of District 7A in the Idaho State Legislature has her priorities in order- diminish the social justice movement by deamonizing words like critical, race and equity while highjacking the appropriations process and withholding funds to public institutions until such anti-ideology is adopted and the standard for morality in all of Idaho is set by her. She ensures her own moral dignity is not questioned by dressing like a nativity scene character and supporting accused rapists. Some of her claims to fame include a __ minute debate on federal early childhood education funding because, “there was no where in the curriculum that it was explicitly stated that these kindergarteners would learn the pledge of allegiance,” and that time she almost succeeded in defunding public television based on the argument that Blues Clues is a partisan show.

Anti-racism work, works and its worth it

I looked in the mirror late last night and for the first time in my life, instead of seeing my new short hair cut or the blemishes and lines on my face that signal aging, or the body I possess with its curves and marks, I saw white. I looked at myself and instead of seeing me first, I saw a racial construct- privilege, opportunity, safety, acceptance, unearned power and the status quo, staring back at me. I have, up until this point, lived with no real sense of what it means to be living in a society defined, built on, carved up, divided and compromised by race, while the friends I cherish, the community members I depend on, and the artists whose work I consume daily for inspiration and education, have and continue to live with their own racal construct. And that for them the construct has been consistent throughout their lives, a perverse saturation of daily existence and at that, one of degradation, exploitation, subjugation, fear, disenfranchisement, grief, and much more I am sure I still have no concept of.

Up until this point my awareness of racism has been abstract, something that exists outside of myself, one-dimensional. I have been unable to grapple with my place in it, to realize the gravity of its influence on my life or reckon with my complicity in it. Weeks of listening to the stories of black people, yelled through megaphones at protests as seen on the news, patiently deconstructed in interviews and podcasts, social media posts and reposts, have all contributed to permeating that protective placenta in which I have lived like a true parasitic fetus. All those things helped, (I am going continue on with this grotesque metaphor) to break the water but what has been most impactful, and has really born me into a visceral understanding is sitting on the concrete with 5,000 other people listing the names of black people killed by police for 35 minutes, sitting in the rain at the Anne Frank Memorial to hear stories from people of color in my community and their experience with racism and the experiences my friends have shared with me, which I hold, humbled.

I have been pulled over twice by police, both times I was in the wrong, both times I got off easier than I could have. I got a ticket for crossing a double yellow line while speeding, but got one ticket instead of two and the police officer let me choose. I was stopped in Boise coming home from a show a few years ago. I had had 3 or 4 beers that evening, I refused to take a breathalyzer, was given a sobriety test, “passed” and was allowed to continue home without incident. I was not scared, I was making jokes and laughing. Oh yeah and I wasn’t even carrying a driver license with me. I am easily accepted by other white people and as such I am afforded the kinds of connections that lead to things like involvement with organizations, jobs and accreditation. My masters degree is being funded by someone who has benefited greatly by the meritocracy and would probably not be in my life were I of a difference race. (Later I found out he really liked Asian women.) I have no criminal record, despite the fact that I have in fact broken the law. Gasp!

When the pandemic first started I went to Walmart, I know, gross. On the way out, I saw some cops questioning a family of middle eastern decent. It was alarming; I caught the eyes of one in the group, a young teenage boy and he looked terrified. I looked away. I started walking past them, toward the door and caught the eye of a very large cop just standing with his hands in front of him in a full on gas mask. He was terrifying. I almost bumped into a brown couple in front of me who had been stopped by a different cop. I froze. I wanted to ask, “Why did you stop them and not me?” but it was obvious what they were doing. I walked around and out the door, acutely aware of the safety my skin.

I waited by my car to see the couple come out, but I said nothing. I have thought about that moment a lot these past few weeks. I knew what I saw was wrong and I knew that doing nothing was also wrong. In that moment I put self-preservation ahead of right action. I was complicit and I perpetuated violence by staying silent. I choose the side of the oppressor and it doesn’t matter how scary it was, thats not an excuse. That family being questioned and that couple infront of me weren’t able to escape that scary situation. They did not have the luxury to walk around it. I put this out there to make a record of it and to be accountable for my actions, so that I may commit to the courage to take action when I see injustice next. The reckoning with oneself is necessary part of the process.

This work is not momentary, singular or isolated to the here and now. In order for things change, I finally understand that it is going to take consistent, sustained effort in the interest of systemic change. This isn’t about owning up to the past and moving on with our lives as we know them. This is about creating a practice of accountability within ourselves and within our systems so that we may see racial justice. This I see as work that will not be completed in my lifetime but necessary to do for the rest of my life. Also I think a lot of racist old people just need to kick the can already.

Policing in this country is ineffective and unjust. We know this. We know the history and we have the data. I am not going to say “hopefully, one day it will be different,” because it is in our nature as Americans to do better, and we will go that way eventually. Right now, it seems radical to the majority to defund and reimagine policing. But I am fully confident that in the future we will look back, like we do now with slavery, and the Japanese internment, and every other major betrayal, and say, “how could we have done that? How could could we have let that happen?” Why didn’t this end sooner? Those who resist it now, are on the wrong side of history. It’s going to take a lot of work, internally as individuals and collectively in action. Its hard an uncomfortable but worth it. We will all be better, kinder, more just, more understanding, more open, more connected. We will all be better off when everyone in this society is treated equally. That, I believe is the real American dream.

On white America’s involvement in this movement, author, James McBride said, “Racism has… been the cancer that has just been killing us and now we want to address the problem. You can’t address the cancer until you know you have it… Now not all of them are going to become surgeons, but a lot of them will, enough that the conversation will change.” -Its been a minute, Sam Sanders.

It’s the same but different.

Rumors of a recess move quickly through the slick marble corridors of Idaho’s Capitol building. The secretarial communication channels move the information efficiently as they process legislation and coordinate cookie swaps. It feels the same as last year, when this weekend everything was shutting down and we were all preparing to go home. I hurriedly throw away the dirty plastic wear and mostly empty peanut butter jar in my desk, pack up my books and clear my search history. It felt like a year ago, when everything was shutting down- that same breathless excitement that comes from the unexpended freedom of knowing you have no idea what comes next. It felt like last year but it wasn’t.

We knew we would come back into session in two weeks, after everyone had a chance to go take the COVID they got at the Capitol Building back to their rural communities. A year ago when I left the newly opened Karaoke bar I did not know when we would be going back and I never did; it closed within the year. When I left Liquid Laughs, the comedy club, after closing out the last Saturday night late show, I wasn’t sure when I would tell jokes from the stage again and a year later, I haven’t. The comedy club is now a pool hall and I hear its doing well. I didn’t know where my income would be coming from- unemployment ended up panning out well thanks to the CARES ACT but it was never a sure thing and at one point I even had to go to court (on the phone) to defend my claim. This time, we were told we would be paid administrative leave, that if we got another job that was fine- just let them know, otherwise we would be brought back in two weeks. It felt like last year but only the unexpected excitement of time and space to rest and write.

I wrote nearly everyday from mid-March through mid-May and even a little into June. Daily writing turned into the publication of an opinion article in May and a Story Story in June. It was practice and commitment that lead to two things of value with community encouragement. Now I sit here- I am writing, I am! But its different. I don’t have the same delusions. I guess, that everything is gonna be like this or that. I know that if I am lucky I can find a job that pays my bills and gives me time to write and adventure and that all this is in service to softening and loving a little more. Just write everyday, stay on the path. Make your bills, love who is around you, have fun, be responsible with your money- let life take you. Its all gonna be ok. Its not like last year. The world is not collapsing all over again.

Free the Flag

I have this stitched American flag sweater tank which has survived years of closet purges and even a move across the country, though I can’t remember ever wearing it. Why has it remained in my wardrobe? Maybe I like the idea of it… it's funny! A sweater tank top? That is not a garment suited for any type of weather. But I don’t wear it because I don't like the idea of it. I am surprised to find upon reflection that the symbol of the American flag is not something I relate to. How is it, that as someone who loves hiking, a true pioneer past time, and who recognizes the freedoms she enjoys are unique to this country, that I reject its most primary symbol?

Symbols are powerful, and here in Idaho I see people regularly adorning their bodies and their vehicle with the flag who are also acting like jerks. I see them intimidating people out of exercising their First Amendment Rights to freedom of speech and assembly and I breathe in their exhaust as they drive in circles around downtown Boise in large trucks with terrible gas mileage just to, I don’t know, prove a point? They make the flag look bad and their actions seem to say, this is what America looks like and it’s ours, not yours.

It’s deeper than that though, I have had this tank top for a long time. I’d probably have worn it by now if I associated the symbol of the flag with my freedom but I don’t because I don’t see our country as having ever been truly egalitarian and free for all people and I believe no one is free, until we are all free. Some flag-flyers believe that America is free, that they are free and they hail the flag, and lets not forget the poor eagle, as symbols of that. 

Armed with the self-knowledge of my own departure from national pride, I decided to take stock of the things I do love and am grateful for and for which the America flag represents for me. This is where I live and where I am raising my two cats. I have an education and am free to tell my stories. I get to choose who I marry, if I marry, and whether I have children or not. I get to know people who look and think different from me and be enriched by their influence. And I live in Idaho, where the hiking is phenomenal. So in an effort to Free the Flag from the tyranny of the times, and to represent my own interpretation of America’s most basic symbol of freedom, I’ll wear the sweater tank (when the weather is just right, of coarse.)