Day 365- The last letter

Dear Mr. President,

After 365 letters I suppose I should be running out of things to say. Is a year enough distance to gain any perspective on all that has changed and all that still waits to? Tonight I hoped to make sense of it all; the personal and the political, the minutiae, the mundane, the profound, all of the things I've written about this year. As I look back through this year of letters, of one-sided conversations about issues and actions that defined 2010, I don't have any clue what it all means. I am still tired, still frustrated, still impatient with the progress we've made and the way you govern. But I'm still more like the girl I was in November 2008- stone sober and still too drunk off of election night euphoria- than I ever thought I could be. For all of the disappointments and frustration I have been so proud this year to call you my President. I don't imagine your job is easy, nor do I think I could do it better myself. I am often wrong. I am often too emotional. I use far too many commas.

For all of my shortcomings, I am still a voter and still a citizen and still, I believe, entitled to tell you what I think. Personally, I feel that the great tragedy of the disconnect between the people and our government in this country is not the disparity of money or even power but the way we converse. You do not speak or listen to people like me. When you do talk to me it is in form letters and speeches and talking points- language so polished as to be devoid of any real meaning. We do not have frank conversations. We do not hear one another. I listen to your Sunday addresses, your press conferences and your speeches and all I can say I know for sure is what you want me to think or feel, not what you actually think or feel. Perhaps the most important domestic issue is what you called the deficit of trust. This year has shown me, more clearly than I ever might have seen otherwise, how little trust our government has in the people or we have in it and how damaging this deficit is to all involved.

Deep down I still think that you are well-intentioned. If your caution and moderation do not always sit well with my hot head or bleeding heart, I can accept that you at least believe you are doing the right thing. That is what prompted me to vote for you, to phone bank for you, to write you 365 letters and to hope that I might cast my ballot in 2012 for you, again. Beyond your good intentions, I believe that you are capable of great things, that, should you overcome your fear and find the courage to make really the necessary, difficult decisions that will save this country from some of our worst tendencies, you will be re-elected and likely remembered well. I would not say that I'm a person with any tremendous amount of faith in anything, but I do have faith in you. 2010 didn't change that, and I hope to say the same about 2011.

Happy New Year, Mr. President. Good Luck.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey


To all of my awesome readers:

Thank you so much for all of your support this year. I will have a much more articulate and coherent reflective piece in the coming days, as well as some suggestions for reading, a bonus letter to President Obama from a guest blogger and information about the Espresso book I'll be making. I hope you all have a fun and safe New Year's Eve! See you in 2011!

Day 364- The things you miss from the motorcade

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight when I got on the bus to go home the driver saw the book in my hand and said "The two highest compliments I get from any one who rides my bus is falling asleep and reading." He said he'd try to drive smoothly so I'd have an easier time with it. I've never seen this bus driver before (or, maybe I have and, like so many bus riders let my eyes slide past him without committing anything to memory) so I don't know if he enjoys his job or hates it, if he's gay or straight, republican, democrat or anarchist. The only thing I know about him is that he is kind and approves of my two favorite activities (sleeping and reading) and seemed to approve of me, as well. This remark buoyed my work-weary and cold little spirit, a small kindness that made my whole night a little brighter.

Lately my friend's trip home for the holidays has made me the temporary owner of a car. The freedom that comes with this is incredible; I can drive where I want to go without concern for route or schedules or fare or transfers, I can play music and sing (badly) as loud as I like, I can transport really amazing amounts of groceries. But I usually wind up angry at the rest of the drivers on the road, drivers who go too slowly or break rules or don't use turn signals. While riding King County Metro doesn't always give me hope for humanity- smelly drunks, screaming children, twitchy addicts and the general impoliteness of high school kids in large numbers are just a few of mankind's shortcomings I've been known to complain about- I do at least have to keep my anger to myself, as we're not all insulated by our little glass and metal vehicular bubbles. Reluctantly, often grudgingly, I connect with people on the bus; from the young aspiring DJ asking for my number (and mistaking my right-hand ring for a wedding band when I said no) to the tiny girl playing peek-a-boo with pink plastic beads in her fuzzy braids, to the old man who wanted to discuss international humanitarian law after seeing my textbooks, I find myself having conversations, interactions or observations of strangers every time I ride the bus. I think that, even at its most tedious, riding the bus leaves me feeling a little more connected to my community.

While I will continue to take advantage of Eric's car as long as he lets me, I think I will forever be a bus rider rather than a car owner. This isn't just because I can't imagine attaining the financial security necessary for car ownership in a city, or even because of my environmental objections to frequent driving, but because I think relying upon the bus keeps me from isolating myself behind my ideas of other people and forces me to observe and interact with individuals of ages and backgrounds I might never otherwise encounter. I'm surely romanticizing the entire experience (and will laugh at this, the next time I'm crammed into a standing-room only commuter route through the tunnel with eight teenagers blaring music through their headphones or a crazy crackhead lighting up in the aisle) but for now I'm smiling to myself at the kind words of an old man who approves of me, even if he doesn't know a thing about me, not even my name, except that I read on busses.

Mr. President, I know this seems like a strange thing to tell you on the second to the last night of my year of letters to you, but I started this project for a number of reasons and among them was this; I wanted to share with you the only thing I can offer that no one else can, and that is the small experiences of my average existence. You will probably never ride a public bus again, especially not as a stranger, and so I like to imagine that you might find some value in the story of a girl, feet aching from work and caught in a surprise cold front without a coat, boarding a city bus and being thanked just for doing the thing she loves most. That you might understand why such an experience matters. Maybe it's just the optimistic holiday spirit sweeping me up, but tonight I think the world is not so bad. I hope you think so, too.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 359- Christmas in Beit Lahm

Dear Mr. President,

Your faith teaches that today's celebration is marking the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem. Christians from around the world will be making pilgrimages to the tiny church of the Nativity, lighting candles and saying prayers, passing through the apartheid wall that confines Palestinians in the West Bank. When I visited this church in the shimmering heat of high summer, we walked past walls still scarred by bullet holes from 2002 gun battles between Israeli troops and Palestinian fighters. Perhaps, not being Christian myself, I failed to experience the reverence I was meant to feel for the site of Jesus' birth, but I could not separate my horror at the grotesque oppression (and it's violent legacy) of the residents of Bethlehem from my respect for the teachings of Christianity's central figure.

For all of those American Christians who are today sitting in churches, saying their prayers or singing carols, I hope that the harsh restrictions on the freedoms and opportunities of those, like Jesus, guilty of the unforgivable crime of having been born in Bethlehem are not forgotten. It seems so unjust that Christ's disciples are happily celebrating his birth when the citizens of his birthplace, Muslim and Christian alike, live under occupation in fear and confinement. Christmas may be a time of celebration, but I would hope that remembering the reason for this holiday and the ongoing (and overlong) fight for basic human rights for Palestinians might not be so easily disentangled.

I hope that you have had a good and peaceful holiday, despite the burdens of your office. As an individual with rather more control over the fate of those living in Bethlehem, I hope you, at least, have not forgotten them today.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Two well-written pieces on this can be found at Ma'an news and at Al-Jazeera. I urge all of you to read them.

Day 358- Ancestry

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight my family had our Christmas celebration a bit early to accommodate our various work schedules. Around a non-traditional (and largely gluten-free, out of respect to my mother and sister's new dietary guidelines) assortment of gourmet foods we kept up the family tradition of being, to a man, loud and incredibly opinionated. Asher, my 2-year old nephew and the only child in our immediate family, seemed to sense that this day was mostly for his benefit, and ran around happily watching cartoons and playing with toys while the grown-ups mulled over boring assessments of roast chicken, maple-glazed squash, mushroom quinoa pilaf and scalloped corn. Gifts came after dinner (but long before the dishes) and we gushed over beautiful new sweaters, intriguing new books and appliances that had the adults even more excited even than Asher at the sight of his giant stuffed dragon.

Spoiled by generous siblings and our mother who never fails to make Christmas just as magical as it was when we were Asher's age, I got a poker chip heart;



Beautiful new scarves and shawls and sweaters:



The tools to marry my two great loves:



even my macbook got a little something:



but the most unexpected gift was a simple family tree from my older sister, and photos of ancestors I'd never even heard of before tonight.









The men and women in these photos are strangers to me. If there are traces of my own features in eyes or noses or cheeks I see no evidence of it. My ancestors came from Germany, Bohemia and England. They married and bore children and died in Minnesota, Pennsylvania and Michigan. Some settled the west, some owned slaves, some arrived with the Puritans in Massachusetts. My sisters and I kept remarking in surprise at how shockingly American the whole story is. To know that these formally-attired, stiffly-posed subjects of photographs are connected to us is strange for me, especially in my urban tribe of familial bonds forged by forces stronger than blood. What significance, if any, do these lives have on my own? Staring at so much small-scale history makes me feel dizzy with the implications, so much more personal than the characters from my textbooks.

I hope that Christmases to come will feel this way, bright and warm and full to bursting with affection for the people near me. In a few generations, when my sisters, brothers and mother and I are all just tiny branches on some one else's family tree, I know they won't understand nights like this one. They won't know about the way we teased and laughed and talked too loudly as we passed around plates of food. They won't know that three cats and two dogs tread happily around our feet, or sulked angrily under beds. They won't know that my mother's Christmas tree had one string of lights in off-white instead of snow-white and why, exactly, that would bother her. They might see photos of me in my strange clothes and find nothing to connect them to me besides the sharing of some significant amount of genes. I think this gift, more than any of the others, reminded me to pay attention, to take in the details before they were lost in whatever next century's black and white photos will be. To look around at my family and feel connected to them, for all of our differences and for all of our faults. My ancestors' Christmas celebrations looked and sounded very different than my own and certainly meant something very different than this night means to our family now, but I hope that they felt a similarly overwhelmed by the love of those around them.

I hope that you have a good Christmas, Mr. President, and that even your job allows you a few hours of beautifully mundane moments like this to remind you of the sustaining love for and from your family.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 345- Family, Finals, and Tolstoy

Dear Mr. President,

I've been thinking a lot about family dynamics today. My aunt is visiting, and, especially with the holidays approaching, I'm observing the complicated way that my family and the families of those around me interact. This afternoon, as I returned from my final (by the way, can you issue an executive order forbidding Saturday morning finals? More on this later.) I was discussing college with a coworker and mentioned that as a younger person I'd dreamed of attending NYU. I lamented that, had I gone, my life would be different, I wouldn't be struggling as a 24 year old to finish my undergraduate degree and subjected to the indignities of Saturday morning final exams. It wasn't ultimately grades or distance or even money that kept me out of NYU- it was my father. And, while the wisdom of the intervening 6 years may have taught me that I likely would have made plenty of my own mistakes, or encountered obstacles and tragedies no matter what he decided about my college possibilities, I still resent him as the reason my life is what it is. It is a resentment that is wholly unproductive, of course, and no excuse for my own faults, but his discouragement mattered so much more at that stage in my life because he was family. I think of him more around the holidays, inevitably, but this year, at least when I'm not having my entire day thrown off by inexplicably scheduled exams, I'm not as troubled as I usually am. I have the love of those people who have supported and encouraged me, and that is so much easier to hold on to and so much easier to think of as family.

No life is simple enough to blame all struggles and problems and Saturday finals on one person or once choice. Mine certainly isn't. Surely one of the essential things that we gain from these experiences are the skills necessary to interact with other humans once we're old enough to be more selective about who we spend our time with. I think the news story that brought all of this rambling about families on is probably pretty obviously the tragedy of Mark Madoff's suicide on the anniversary of his father's arrest, but I sort of lost the nerve to write about it. For one thing, I don't want to read any more, it feels like a private tragedy for a family, the kind that shouldn't be headline news. For another, I can't judge any one in this story. Families are complicated and messy and maybe the one thing that unites all of humanity. I'm sure fathers are screwing up their kids in Afghanistan and Portugal and Senegal and every other country on this planet, and the fierce love and protectiveness I feel for my own current family (blood and otherwise) is reflected in every human in every culture. We're all differently damaged by our families, of course, but I don't believe Tolstoy for a second that this is only true for the damage. Happy families are not all alike. Our happiness, the way we love one another, is surely as varied as our humanity. So I will not speak about the Madoff family, or any family, when it is only mine that I can begin to understand.

My family is simultaneously small and sprawling, the product of choice and circumstance and happy coincidence. They put up with me when I grumble too much about finals on Saturdays. I am grateful for them and for all of their quirks and complexity. And while I challenge myself to put aside my resentful feelings towards the people in my past, it is the people in my life presently that make me appreciative of where I have been and what I have experienced. Perhaps it has more to do with the inevitable reflection caused by the end of this year drawing closer, but I am certain that, however different you and I may be and however differently we may feel about the events that brought us to our current lives, we're both experiencing our own gratitude for the presence of those we love right now in a perfectly un-Tolstoy-like way. So I hope that in the coming weeks you, too, have time to enjoy (and, more than likely at times, suffer through) the presence of family without worrying about anything bigger than that.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

PS

Please think about that Executive Order.

Day 341- Christmas spirit

Dear Mr. President,

I've never read Truman Capote's A Christmas Memory. I'm not sure if this would earn me quite the same horrified look as referring to a picture of what was apparently the terminator as "some scary robot", but I'm sure it's some level of cultural failing. Tonight I went to listen as my very talented coworker read the story aloud at our bookstore. It was one of those perspective-changing experiences that reminds me how very not alone I am, no matter how often I'm convinced otherwise. Sitting in a small crowd that all laughed and cried at the same time, a group of people so different and yet so similarly moved, was exactly what I needed tonight. Maybe it's just the stress of finals week or the cold weather or the fact that every politician in the country (including you) seems to have gone Republican since November.

If you're not familiar with Capote's story, it describes the friendship between a young Capote and his much older relative, their adventures baking fruit cakes for beloved strangers and generally being misunderstood by the other members of their household. It's funny and sad and (having nothing else to compare it to, I can only assume) best when read by some one capable of doing all the character voices. Perhaps this, the Christmas tree on the Space Needle, and my roommate deciding to put the Christmas lights up in our apartment are nothing more than a happy confluence of holiday cheer, but the last few days have me actually looking forward to the holidays in a way I usually don't. The story made me remember my grandmother and appreciate both my strange family and my family of strangers. It made me miss my best friend more than ever. I think there's a reason why the joy of the holidays is so closely linked to lonely, nostalgic feelings. As we give ourselves time to feel the love we have for the people in our lives it's impossible not to also feel the loss of those loved ones who, for whatever reason, aren't with us.

I think this is why I don't want to talk about the tax cut deal you're making with Republicans. I know that not wanting to talk about it doesn't make it any less real (or any less of a terrible idea) but I just don't have the heart to criticize you for bad economics, bad politics and bad foreign policy every single day. As stressed out as I've been, I'm sure it's much worse for you. So I'm just going to enjoy my newfound (and likely short-lived) Christmas spirit, which is somehow both happily warm and terribly sad, and save criticizing you for tomorrow. Merry Christmas.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 330-Black Friday & health insurance

Dear Mr. President,

I've worked in retail for the last four years. Most of the time I hated it, but today is the day that usually made me love it. Especially in later years, as a manager, I'd rework my hours for the week and end up spending something ridiculous like 16 or 18 hours at work, setting up before the store opened, drinking way too much coffee, and generally racing around as though lives were at stake. I'm probably just a bit of an adrenaline junkie, but after Black Friday, the store got busier, the lines got longer, and everything just got more exciting as the urgency to build displays, refill displays, organize gift wrapping services, unpack merchandise for the floor and help customers once the doors opened increased. Working retail during the holidays was stressful and did not go well with having a "normal" holiday season, but it was the most fun I've ever had at any job. Today, while I still work in retail, I no longer have the same responsibility toward customers or toward merchandising. It was a little disappointing to roll in at 2 pm for a 6-hour shift catching shoplifters, especially knowing that my sister would be working 18 hours at the clothing store she manages. It's nice not to have lines of frantic bargain hunters surging through the doors at 6 am, but it lacks a certain glamor. (However, the sheer craziness of the shoplifter we caught today pretty much made up for any lack of excitement.)

That being said, in this economy, it was kind of nice to see all of the hilarious coverage of long lines, crazy crowds, and more than a few frantic shoppers who look like they train to find deals all year long. Yes, it still makes me a little sad, and yes, it still makes me wonder if our society has deep issues with priorities and materialism, but I like my job, I like that my friends have jobs, and I hope that many more jobs can be created this Holiday season.

I noticed today that you had to get stitches as a result of a basketball accident. My first reaction was something along the lines of "OH NO, POOR PRESIDENT OBAMA! I SHOULD ASK IF HE"S OK!" (which probably speaks to the near-complete delusion that we're somehow friends which I have developed as a result of all of this letter-writing.) And then I got to thinking about my hand. Yesterday, while cleaning up my thanksgiving dishes, I cut open my hand on a knife hidden in the soapy water. My near-hysterical reaction notwithstanding it really isn't that bad, I'm fine and I didn't bleed to death (or even come all that close) but it still hasn't closed up. Today I showed it to a friend who is also a doctor, and she noted that I should have gone in for stitches. To be perfectly fair, I'm terrified of doctors, hospitals, and generally anything related to blood, bleeding, or medical attention. I probably wouldn't have gone in even if I did have insurance. The fact that I'm uninsured, however, was a significant factor in my decision just to take care of it myself. I'm really glad that you are OK and that you have access to the best healthcare we can offer in this country. But, just for a moment, I couldn't help but step outside myself and realize that if it hadn't been me but my roommates or my sisters or my friends who needed stitches and chose not to get them because they couldn't afford it, I'd be pretty upset knowing that money stood between them and basic care. We've both demonstrated rather clearly that these kind of accidents can happen to any one at any time and that having the option of medical attention makes a big difference (or at least, I'd imagine our respective scars will look fairly different in a few months.)

Anyway, I am glad that you are OK and that your black friday was spent doing something leisurely (at least before elbows were thrown.)

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 328- On Turkeys

Dear Mr. President,

Today you pardoned Apple and Cider, two turkeys who will be spared the Thanksgiving slaughter. Unlike most of the turkeys Americans will eat on Thanksgiving, these two were raised on a ranch with plenty of space to run around, and they'll spend the rest of their days in a petting zoo. But their less-fortunate, factory farmed, destined for dinner brethren aside, there is another glaring irony here. In your time as President you have pardoned 4 turkeys and exactly 0 humans. My vegetarian sensibilities about the relative value of human and animal life aside, I think this is a pretty embarrassing statistic.

While I appreciate the spirit and the levity of the traditional turkey pardoning, I would hope that, in the other 364 days a year you get to issue pardons, that you consider some of the many, many worthy human candidates. They may not be heading off to dinner, but many languishing behind bars in the American prison system are subject to unfair sentencing minimums, deplorable, dangerous conditions and are prevented from turning their lives around into something positive. I think that today ought to remind you of them.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 327-Love actually

Dear Mr. President,

Classes were cancelled for me today, and all over the city, businesses, schools and bus routes were shut down in response to (generously) 2 inches of snow. I'll admit I love this about my city, our complete inability to function at the slitest freeze. It's a sad reality, but we don't often get weather like this, meaning that it is just more dangerous to be out. Drivers don't know what they're doing, the city doesn't have a particularly organized response, and the recognition of this danger by local officials and private employers is sort of refreshing. Instead of demanding that we brave the dangerous streets for class or work, they're just willing to put aside these interests for the sake of keeping more people safely at home. It's cute. And comforting.

My roommates and I are bundled up and trying to keep from turning the heat on as long as possible. (Being on the 5th floor helps this, but not much.) We've got both environmental and financial reasons for doing this, but, with temperatures heading to the teens overnight, I'm sure we'll have to give in before too long. We're watching Love Actually, a romantic comedy we've each seen dozens of times since it was released in theaters. (I'm still convinced this movie is the reason my mother suggested we spend Christmas 2006 in London, a trip I continue to be grateful for.) There isn't anything particularly special or profound about this movie; love conquering all is certainly not a new theme, and the cinematic wisdom of getting as many famous people as possible in one movie is questionable. But, no matter how many times we see it, no matter how many lines we quote at one another or how many songs Becca sings along with, we still love this movie. It brought us together, in a way, several years ago before we moved in together, when we gathered in their tiny studio to watch this movie and promise ourselves that particular Christmas would be good for all of us and our respective romantic interests. It was cold, the city teetering on the brink of what would later be called Snowpocalypse, a city-crippling storm that few Seattle natives had ever seen the equal of. But I remember that night and the intense, hopeful warmth that we shared as friends certain our lives could only get better if we believed hard enough.

The next day my life took a memorable turn for the worst, and snow began to fall. I can't help but associate my own downward spiral with the rapidly deteriorating weather. Even now, the very sight of snow and ice, the prospect of months of cold makes me fear another winter feeling alone and depressed. I have to choose to remember the good things- our store closing early and the staff having a snowball fight at Linda's bar. Trudging through snow to feed my mother's cats, only to have them cuddle with me by the fire in her freezing condo. Laughing with these girls before they were my roommates as we made light of the disastrous way things turned out. No matter how hopeless it seemed, it did get better. The snow melted. The city recovered. My heart mended. Getting through this winter may require that I remember this, and remember that no matter how bad things get, I still have my lovely friends.

With the country still suffering from economic depression and the prospect of the Holiday season too much for many families to handle, I hope that we all pull together and keep each other warm, keep each other sane and keep each other safe this winter. (With Republicans already set against extending unemployment benefits for those still struggling, this seems unrealistically optimistic, but whatever, Hugh Grant makes me think the world is not all selfish and terrible.) Putting others, especially those less fortunate than us, ahead of our own selfish concerns is really the kind of love that this holiday season is supposed to be about. I think that if we do that, we'll all make it through till spring in more or less one piece.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 315-Veteran's Day

Dear Mr. President,

Today we honor those who have fought and died for our country. I'm grateful for more than just the excuse to sleep in and miss class. I'm grateful for those who served in the armed forces, for the sacrifices they have made and the service they have done our country. I say all of this as an unapologetic critic of the wars we currently wage, the conduct of some of our troops therein, and of the military's anti-gay policies. I do not believe that my gratitude and my criticism are mutually exclusive.

On the contrary, I believe that the best way to support our troops is to never ask that they put themselves in harms way unless it is absolutely necessary. Unless our survival or our very humanity compels it. That we never put them at risk of torture by torturing our own enemy prisoners. That we never order them to kill in the name of an unjust war. I believe that we support our troops when we insist on allowing openly gay soldiers to serve. When we fully fund rehabilitation programs, health and especially mental health programs, education and employment opportunities for veterans. This is how we walk the walk of those yellow ribbons we wear.

I hope that today you reflect on the wars you inherited and the way they have been waged. On the kill lists, the interrogation methods, the civilian deaths that put our own troops at risk and destroy so many lives (and so many minds) on both sides. On the mistakes made, the mistakes perpetuated and the lies told to cover them up. I hope that you reflect on these things and conclude, as so many of us have, that our troops deserve better.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 304- Halloween

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight my neighborhood is alive with revelers. Halloween on Capitol Hill is more exciting than Christmas, and really any other celebration (except perhaps Block Party or Pride.) In a neighborhood where no one needs an excuse to wear costumes, All Hallow's Eve is on opportunity to pull out all the stops. And while some might disapprove of the troops of wildly dressed, raucous partiers, I think the festivity is uplifting. Even the increasingly skimpy costumes favored by the women of my generation, which I used to decry as anti-feminist and degrading, seem like harmless fun. After all, what better night could there be than this to celebrate the very thing that has terrified so many for all of human history, that plays villain in most major religions, the horror of a woman's unabashed sexuality? (And, to be fair, I know more than a few men giving sexy little dresses a try this year.)

While my roommate and I watch a marathon of creepy movies and I drink the first cup of coffee I've had all week in preparation for the inevitable all-night paper-writing session I have ahead, the shouts of a neighborhood somewhat drunkenly celebrating don't seem taunting or annoying, but rather festive. Our little black cat is curled up at my feet and our apartment is still covered in decorative cobwebs, carved pumpkins, and flickering candles. Small children are running around dressed as ghouls and tea party candidates gobbling all the waxy chocolate and high-fructose corn syrup they can stand. The busses are filled with Mad Hatters and Fantastic Foxes and every imaginable kind of zombie. No talking head is complaining about the lack of tradition or the over-commercialization of the day, warning us of a "war on Halloween." Halloween's great sacrement is to hold nothing sacred; to celebrate the depraved, the frivolous, the ugly.

It is cold but, for Seattle, an October day as dry and clear and full of bright fall leaves as this one is a rare treat. I spent more Halloweens soggily trick-or-treating under an umbrella than I care to remember, and I'm glad to know that this year local children will be spared our usual deluge. I should get to work on my midterm papers and stop musing about this lovely, spooky holiday I hope I'm never too old to appreciate. Happy Halloween.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 283- Columbus Day

Dear Mr. President,

I don't know if you've heard, but there's a culture war raging in America. A concerted effort by the socialist, America-hating liberals of our country to destroy a cherished American holiday. It's an outright war on Columbus Day. If there's one thing I learned, for sure, in my public school education, it's that distorting historical fact to disguise unsavory aspects of imperialism is our birthright as Americans. If the 4th of July is our annual opportunity to remind the British just how badly we beat them in the Revolutionary War, than surely Columbus Day's annual celebration of the (approximate) beginning of the Native American genocide is just as valid. (Because nothing says class like committing genocide and then celebrating it every year with department store sales.) Seriously, I can only imagine that, centuries from now, when the Germans are celebrating an annual day in commemoration of Hitler, some whiney liberals will be crying for political correctness and ruining every one's fun.

Ok, my Bill O'Reilly impression will only carry me so far. As a whiney liberal, I do find the celebration of our bloody, imperialist origins to be extremely offensive. Columbus and those that would follow him brought all of the hellish and most reprehensible practices of the imperial powers down on the indigenous people of this continent. I say this in full acknowledgement of my own European descent. I can't change what my ancestors did, and I probably can't even begin to make it right to the descendants of the survivors, but I don't have to participate in this stunningly insensitive display of pride in those crimes.

My long-standing distaste for this day is heightened this year by a class I'm taking on American Indians and US Law. It's only been a few weeks, and so our focus continues to be on the early legal decisions made by European colonists toward the Native people of the Americas. The paternalism, the absolute lack of regard for the very humanity of the Indigenous people turns my stomach with every new page and every new lecture. What really surprised me was how familiar it all seems. Twisting the law to justify unspeakable acts and align a violent imperial project with supposed Christian values, even in the language of the sixteenth century, reminds me strongly of the twisted justifications for war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and for the torture of prisoners during interrogations. The reason we still celebrate Columbus Day is same reason we still commit these acts of violence; we have not learned from the mistakes of our history. We can't ever make it right, but the real tragedy is that we seem doomed, instead, to keep making it worse. And so our newspapers read like our history books, stories of blood and death with unenumerated body counts for those with skin too dark or names too strange for their deaths as individuals to move a writer to include them. No culture war, no tradition is worth celebrating this many lives lost or forever ruined. The only redemption that can be found in crimes this ancient and this awful is the wisdom that ought to instruct those of us alive today to avoid, not to repeat and certainly not to celebrate, the brutality of our ancestors.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey