Courageously telling our stories … my kind of resistance

 

By Mary Kay Roth

My daughter, Anna, earned her degree to become a nurse practitioner by carrying some graduate school debt, something she has been paying off diligently, save a few brief grace periods bestowed by President Biden.  The loan has been facilitated by the U.S. Department of Education.  

In January the website that displayed her monthly payments started freezing up and Anna couldn’t submit her bill. In April, the website suddenly indicated she owed the full amount of her loan by the end of the month.  She freaked out, worried she would wreck her credit score. When the government started threats of garnished wages, she went ahead and tried to make a payment – only to discover the site remained frozen ... a story that symbolizes, I think, our current government. 

Josh, my son, has his own story - as principal at a high-poverty school in Kansas City where the only way most students can afford college is qualifying for grants, loans and scholarships. Generally, you qualify by submitting something called the FAFSA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid), a document that determines eligibility for financial aid.

This year Josh’s administrative team noticed a dramatic decline in FAFSA applications and discovered many families were warned not to submit the form because they could be sharing potentially harmful data. Josh is angry, knowing FAFSA is often the only ticket to college for many of his students, yet understands the vigilance of his families.

Back when Trump was first re-elected, I remember making some embarrassingly naïve declarations, predicting middle class families would not likely feel much pain from this presidency – but that we would all need to practice empathy for those who did.

Don’t I feel incredibly foolish today, as I feel the shocks and blows of the past four months all around me, watching our president dismantle democracy and dismantle lives.

One of my own personal challenges has been a helpless, hopeless feeling.  Resist, write emails, make phone calls … for me, they’ve fallen short.

Then I remembered how much I believe in the power of stories, the lifeblood of connection.  So, I started asking people for their personal experiences, collecting tales from the past several months. 

My friends and acquaintances talked of losing jobs and losing faith in the American dream – of taking money out of beleaguered investment savings despite warnings to the contrary, due to fear that Social Security will evaporate and savings will fall further – of worrying about who might be accessing emails, text conversations, social media accounts. 

Those who work at local non-profits talk about bleeding budgets and concerns of shutting down. People who have never fired a gun, are considering buying one.  One woman said she was thinking about purchasing drywall and carrying it into the house in the dead of night to build a secret hiding room for undocumented friends. 

I’m weary of hearing Trump supporters who claim nobody “important” is getting hurt right now … when stories paint a very different landscape. 

* A Lincoln educator I know described an incident involving a recent intruder at one of our higher-poverty schools, an elementary with significant numbers of immigrants and refugees. Everyone ended up safe, but as a result of the intruder the school was blasted with sirens and emergency vehicles. Afterward, teachers discovered that many students were traumatized because they thought authorities were coming to take them away.

* A Lincoln mother talks about dramatic changes in her son who has worked for a large federal agency for over 20 years.

“My son was born smiling, an easy-going optimist with an upbeat, unflappable personality all his life. He is a veteran. Since Trump took office in January, he has experienced the intentional infliction of trauma aimed at him and his fellow federal workers. As a supervisor, he is struggling with the pain and fear he listens to daily when the stressed employees come to him asking if they still have jobs … He counsels them as always – with humor and unrattled reassurance, advising them that all they can do is their job and try not to worry. The end of the workday on Fridays are the worst – that’s when demeaning ultimatum e-mails usually arrive from DOGE.  And I can hear his pain, the worry about his fellow employees, and questions about his job insecurity. And when I express concern or rant, he reassures me that he’ll be okay – but his voice is flatter. The upbeat optimism is gone. My heart breaks for him. I miss my easy going, unflappable optimist.”

* A retired minister addressed the dilemma of reaching congregations in this toxic atmosphere: “There is a congregation in our Presbytery made up mostly of immigrants who are now afraid to come to church, fearing churches are not safe from ICE. So, the pastor goes to them.  Other clergy wonder what to say… how to be prophetic witnesses … especially those in purple congregations.”

* A farmer from rural Nebraska – who, believe it or not, I met at a protest rally in Lincoln – said most of his friends had voted for Trump but were getting very nervous: “The times are long gone when we focused on local markets.  We’re about global markets and trade, and the current uncertainty is putting our livelihood and families at risk.” 

* My cousin faces a different horror story. She and her husband worked beyond retirement age to maximize their Social Security, now their major source of income. A year ago, their 45-year-old daughter – a recovering stroke victim – moved into their home.  As they work through the slogging bureaucracy of applying for Medicaid, they are panicked about losing their own benefits.

“At this point, we are slashing all spending we can. We've put in a garden. We drive a 10-year-old car, have 8-year-old cell phones, and watch every penny. If this madman can be stopped from raiding our only savings, we will be okay. There will be no travel, few gifts and no luxuries, but we should be alright. So, how have the last four months been? Absolutely terrifying. Our sleep, health and total well-being are on the edge, every single day. Our American Dream is now a nightmare.”

* Another local educator worries about the day-to-day climate inside our  schools: “So, right now, I worry. What am I really prepared to do? For starters, I outright refuse to call the Gulf of Mexico anything different. That may seem small, but in my role professionally, it is not a small stance. I emotionally eat. I worry because teachers across the country have been required to take down their inclusive posters in their rooms. I have an "All are Welcome Here" poster.  Will I be forced to take it down as a public school teacher? I will not. So, then what? A lawsuit, which I cannot afford? What is next?  What am I going to have to do? So, I worry.”

* A good friend in Lincoln works with an Afghan family that came to America to stay safe, a family that has worked hard to earn money and make their way.  

“I'm worried about this family being detained or deported by ICE, even though they have their green cards and are legally in the U.S. This family has relatives in the U.S. who have not yet been able to get green cards, even though they have waited months or years. The federal government could cancel their Temporary Protected Status and declare them here illegally anytime.”

* Several mothers I know are worried about the physical and emotional well-being of grown children receiving gender affirming medical care.  

“The current climate is making trans people feel as if they do not belong anywhere, increasing anxiety and depression, and reducing access to basic rights like using a bathroom and essential health care. The executive orders signed by Trump are an invitation to discriminate against this group, and state legislatures are following suit.”

Finally, there were all the folks who responded to me – describing anxious friends and family members who have lost jobs, many in the avalanche of government layoffs but also from secondary waves: Anyone involved in diversity, equity and inclusion. University staff caught in the crossfire of college cuts.  Retail and restaurant workers where owners anticipate higher prices for their goods and less profit. 

As for me, I’ve had strange yet serious conversations with both my kids: What happens if mom loses Social Security while her savings go bust?  Both my son and daughter are generously willing to take me in – but perhaps not my crazy dog, Pip.

Oh well, whatever happens, I pledge to continue telling my story.  And I ask that you join me. Stand up and courageously share yours. Ask the people around you to talk about how they are feeling. Have dinner with someone you disagree with – and swap tales.

Tell your story.

For in them lies the power to heal, inspire and transform, to reflect upon who we are and the possibility of who we can be.

*One footnote: I’m a firm believer in using people’s names because it lends legitimacy and accountability.  But I never imagined I would live in a country, worrying that publishing a name might put someone in danger. So today I share stories without names.  I trust you’ll understand.

Eggstra, Eggstra! Read All About It!

 Eggs.  So similar, yet with such potential to go in entirely different directions.  Here are our stories.

Easter Eggs
by Marilyn Moore

 The egg is a frequent symbol for Easter, signifying new life, new birth, life waiting inside a sealed shell.  As such, eggs are decorated in many countries and many cultures around the world.  Some are truly hard-boiled eggs, dipped in dye on the kitchen table, and then perhaps hidden for an Easter egg hunt on Easter morning.  One always hopes all the eggs are found, before their odor outweighs their beauty….

 Some are amazing works of art, with elaborate stencils and designs painted on the egg or created during the dyeing process.  A quick Wikipedia search led me down many paths, awestruck by the beauty of the traditional Easter eggs in Hungary and the Ukraine.  Some are not actual eggs, but egg shapes, of wood, or stone, or porcelain, meant to be displayed or given as gifts.  None of my kitchen table efforts would merit a place in their baskets….

 

Many years ago, in my “crafts and needlework” stage of life, I created eggs of the decorator style.  I did a lot of counted cross stitch work, and that’s what these eggs are.  It took an inordinate amount of time and patience…and a good pattern.  I’m not a designer, but I can implement a plan.  I’m particularly fond of the egg with pansies, because pansies are such a traditional early spring flower, and pansies are a smiling flower.  They have, as Xiaoqian says, happy faces.  And I especially like the egg with strawberries, because the color is bright and cheerful, and because Dave’s favorite fruit is strawberries.  

The symbolism of the egg for Easter, the spring colors, the sense of accomplishment of having made something that adds a little touch of beauty….all of that lives in this basket, and I rejoice in seeing it again every spring. 

***

Simply Perfect: Eggs and My Anna 
by Mary Kay Roth

I'm completely captivated by their beauty and simple perfection.

Untouched by any holiday dye, they are perfect ovals in shades of mint green and shy blue, copper rust and linen white. 

Inside they are even lovelier with rich, vibrant yolks that promise less cholesterol and saturated fats – more omega-3 fatty acids and vitamins.  

This is my moment to officially apologize to my daughter, Anna.   

When she first started talking about raising backyard chickens, I thought she was nuts.  

They are messy, I said. Smelly.  Labor-intensive. Subject to consumption by her crazy dog, Max. 

Today Anna generously shares the most delicious eggs I’ve ever eaten, whether scrambling them, smashing them into egg salad or whipping them into quiche.  

It all began almost a year ago when the chicks first arrived, strangely enough  by postal delivery.  My daughter and granddaughters gently raised them, bestowing names as wide-ranging as their colors. Snapdragon.  Progresso. Sky. Jigwin. Beach Boy. And a few more. 

We love them all, housed in a snug, well-built, fox-proofed coop – but also free to roam the backyard during recess time as Max valiantly attempts to herd the flock – with his obstinate wards meandering in and out and under his legs. 

Their lives follow the cycle of light.  Each day at sunrise, they are wide awake and lined up for breakfast. Each sunset they’re ready for bed. 

Yet each has their own unique personality. A few will let you hold and stroke them. One gal loves to hop into neighboring yards. Another pecks anyone who comes near her precious eggs. 

Nonetheless, my granddaughters, Scout and Everlyn, collect the eggs daily, cooing and assuring them all will be well. 

Someday Anna’s sweet flock will stop laying eggs.  At that point, many raisers of chickens determine to serve up their fowl for dinner. 

Rest assured, these chicks will never end up on any table platter. They are loved too dearly. 

So, on this glorious Easter day, I repent all my chicken-raising reservations and salute Anna’s backyard wonders. Long may they live and lay.

***

The Egg and Us
By JoAnne Young

We all start our journeys from the miraculous egg. 

Females begin life with more than a million of them buried inside, fighting for space and life and competing for their potential. Even so, the number declines each year until about 400,000 remain by a woman’s late teens, and 25,000 by age 37, dropping sharply after that. 

Those tiny containers of female genetic particulars have a slight chance of becoming a unique human, when combined with a male’s genetic matter swimming frantically at them in sperm. 

We as women are able, mostly, to protect those precious potential children as long as we are carrying them. Once a month, some process selects one to take its chances at joining with a male counterpart to form and bring another human into the world. Through chemistry and some sort of existential magic, an egg can be pretty choosy about who she lets in and who she turns away. She knows chemical compatibility when she sees it. 

All this is to say, those of us who get into this world have made it through some pretty foreboding barriers and difficult expeditions to emerge triumphant. We’re special. But the battle doesn’t end at birth. It rages on. Daily. 

Knowing this, it is especially maddening when our little eggs, those lives we as mothers and grandmothers have worked so hard to protect are threatened for no rational reason. Such was the case this Easter week, the season of the egg, when a young man brought guns to the Florida State University campus, killed two people and wounded six others. 

My grandson, Kylan, a student there, was not near the shots fired that day, but he easily could have been. The experience is chilling for him and for all of us who love him. It is without a doubt that he has lost a bit of the innocence a 20-year-old continues to hold onto. 

We can try to protect those tiny eggs, and the children and young adults who grow from them. That is the best we can do, but we all know there’s no guarantees. It is just a matter of luck that today I can say, “I love you, Ky,” and he can still hear me.

*** 

From Chicken Coop to Palatial Playhouse 

By Mary Reiman 

The closest building to our farm house was the chicken house (otherwise known as the chicken coop). But we never saw any chickens. The coop had been empty for several years by the time I was born. No feeders, waterers, nesting boxes, or bedding. Well, perhaps there was a little leftover straw!

In my eyes, it was a big welcoming open space with doors and windows. A perfect playhouse. My sister and I used crates to make cupboards and a stove, put up homemade curtains, and had the baby buggy for Tommy, the cat. Everything we needed for our vacation home!

As the story goes...

When mom and dad moved to the farm where dad grew up, mom inherited the chickens and
their home, the coop. Soon after that move, she informed dad that there would be no more chickens. The chickens needed to leave, or she would be leaving.

We never learned the history of her feelings about chickens. She never told us why she bore a grudge against them.

Here’s a photo of her as a child (probably 1925), amongst the chickens in the front yard of the house where she was born. I’m guessing there’s more to that story since there is no way she wanted to have anything to do with any chickens when she met them again, all those years later. 

Fortunately, my dad was smart enough to say, OK, and the chickens were never seen again. I’m guessing that’s one of the many reasons they had such a happy marriage. They both knew when to say yes, and when to say no. And all the eggs we ate throughout the years, and eggs mom lovingly hid around the house for us to find on Easter morning, came from the neighbors’ chickens, not ours. 

***

My Scramble To Understand Road Rage
By Penny Costello

My egg story has nothing to do with Easter.  This is a story of life lessons learned, and the acquired ability to laugh at our “not the best” moments.

In the early 1990’s, I lived in Minneapolis, as a festival, event, and production manager of conferences, outdoor festivals, and concerts. A dear friend of mine was the manager of two different historical re-enactment festivals each year, set in the French Fur Trade era of the late 1700s to early 1800s. It was a lot of fun to be a part of his crew, bringing history to life, educating 20^th century school kids. It was probably the closest thing to time travel that I’ll ever experience in my lifetime.

I had been camping in a tepee at the White Oak Rendezvous in Deer River, Minnesota for about a week, and when the festival ended, I packed up my Ford Ranger pick-up, which had a topper, and embarked on the journey back from the early 1800s to 1990s life in the Twin Cities. Accompanying me on this journey was a much beloved Labrador Retriever-Australian Shepherd mix named Darby who belonged to my friend Jane, with whom I had lived  for a time before life took us in different directions.

About an hour or so into the journey, I came upon two cars, both driven by young men, who were driving side by side down the highway, matching their speed, and not allowing for any cars to pass them. I followed them for awhile, and as I did, I began to get irritated, and eventually downright irate. I flashed my lights at the car in the left lane, then I honked my horn, in hopes they would make room for me to pass. Instead, they maintained their matched speed, looked at each other laughing, and egging each other on.

As my irritation reached a boiling point, my eyes landed on the bag of food I had packed from my camp kitchen, and right on the top of the bag  was a carton of eggs. At this point, I was able to get close enough to the car in the right lane, while the car in the left lane still blocked my ability to pass. So, I grabbed an egg out of the carton, rolled down the passenger side window, and lobbed the egg at the car.

Being as amped up as I was, the first egg hit the top of the passenger door frame and broke inside my truck. At this point, Darby decided it would be best to exit the scene, and she jumped through the rear slider window into the back of the truck. It was like she was letting me know, “You’re on your own on this one, Pal. ”

So, I grabbed a second egg, lobbed it out the window, and hit the left hind quarter panel of the guy’s car with a wonderful SPLAT! The look on his face was one of surprise, and some fear as he tried to figure out what the heck just happened. He slowed down enough for me to pull up beside him, and as he looked at me, I lobbed a second egg at his window and SPLAT! right where his face was. He slowed down even more, and I finally passed him and made my way down the road in smug jubilation.

As I continued down the road, Darby stayed in the back. I replayed the look on his face at that eggstatic moment of contact, and had a good chuckle about the whole thing, And then I passed a Sheriff’s vehicle on the right shoulder. And then I watched in the rearview mirror as he pulled out on the road behind me. And then I saw the red lights come on, and I pulled over. My smug self-satisfaction dissipated immediately.

As he approached my vehicle, I pulled out my license and registration and presented it when he asked for it.

“We got a report,” he said, “that someone in this vehicle was throwing eggs at another vehicle. I looked straight ahead and said nothing. He looked past me at the bag of groceries on the floor on the passenger side, with the egg carton right on top.

“Mind if I take a look at that egg carton?” he asked very politely.

With nothing left to lose at that point, I spilled my story.

“Officer, they were HARRASSING me!” I explained how the two cars had matched speed, not allowing anyone to pass, how they looked at each other, laughing and taunting me, and how, after a time, it was all just too much to take. And then I said, “I lost my temper. I’m sorry.” When all was said and done, he gave me a warning ticket for destruction of property and sent me on my way. I remain to this day grateful for his good humor and eggceptional understanding, as well as my own ill-gotten understanding of road rage, the ever-present possibility that it can happen to the best of us. A word to the wise: when bringing those groceries home, it may be better to put them in the trunk or the back seat. Safe travels!

***

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I just don't understand ...

By JoAnne Young

Not all that long ago, a year or two let’s say, I could find multiple ways to get to an answer, to suss out information on just about anything I didn’t understand.

Don't understand why people, especially Gen X and younger, hate voicemail? Just google it. (It’s cumbersome. You can read a text quickly. With voicemail you have to go through steps to listen to more words than necessary. If you have a lot to say, just text: Call me, please.) 

 

Don't get how checking a box that says I’m not a robot proves I’m not a robot? If you really care, it's right there in Google. (It has to do with CAPTCHA (Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart).

 

How about, why does time go faster as we get older? (Time speeds up with increasing age because we have fewer new experiences and our perception is less vivid, according to Psychology Today. We can stop time speeding up by bringing new experiences into our lives and by living mindfully.) 

 

These days, however, I have more and more questions about things I don’t understand. And there seems to be no good answers. There is no science. There is no rationale or reasoned response. There is only speculation. And it’s unsatisfactory.

 

* Why do our elected representatives introduce bills that would make it harder for some people – who have all the rights and privileges of any American – to vote? Why would there be even a hint that these officials want to make it harder for women to vote? And yet, the House just passed the SAVE Act, which doesn’t save anything. Since at least 1964, more women have voted in presidential elections than men. Are people worried they will vote to elect a woman as president? Clearly that hasn’t happened. Only 13 out of 50 states and two U.S. Territories have female governors. Less than one-third of members of the U.S. House of Representatives and Senate are females. 

 

* Why do politicians say they support free speech, then punish Americans and others in this country for speaking out, for taking America at its word that the First Amendment protects our speech, including what we wear, read, say, paint, perform, believe, protest, or even silently resist? Why do they freak out when someone simply takes a knee? 

 

* Why do our senators in the state Legislature vote yes on bills that would limit a young person’s ability to use social media for the sake of protecting their mental health and for suicide prevention, and also vote yes on bills that would place restrictions and exclusions on LBGTQ+ kids, who are at higher risk of mental health issues and suicide? 

 

I don’t understand why this floor speech by Omaha Sen. Megan Hunt doesn’t make sense or sway state senators: “If we’re going to stand here and talk about suicide prevention, if we’re going to invoke the lives of children in crisis, then I expect you to bring that same energy, the same urgency, the same passion to support transgender and queer youth who are statistically much more at risk. We have lost lives in Nebraska since the passage of Sen. Kathleen Kauth’s bill (LB574) two years ago. Kids killed themselves. ... If you’re here talking about preventing suicide, then show me that same commitment to the kids who are actually dying because they’re told by lawmakers, by schools, by policies that they don’t matter, they can’t be themselves. That even their name is too controversial to be spoken out loud.” 

 

* Why do 43% to 54% of Americans in recent polls approve of Donald Trump’s performance in office when so many federal workers have been fired without cause, when Social Security and Medicare are being compromised, when people here legally are being deported without due process, when his administration is targeting and threatening Americans and American businesses by name – in executive orders – because they do not support him? I don’t understand. Maybe those who do can explain it to me. 

 

* Why do some parents want to control what other parents’ children have access to in their schools and public libraries? If the talking animals in Charlotte’s Web disturb them, they can simply keep it away from their own kids. If you want to shield your children from the world, do so. But this is a diverse country. Parents have differing opinions about raising their kids. Keep your bans to yourself. 

 

* I’ll end with something I can understand if I google it. Why do tiny ants want to live in my mailbox every summer? Aren’t there plenty of places to live outside? It seems I have to kill them to get them out. I don’t like that. 

 

I hope our world and the people in it get easier to understand soon. If you can offer any help, if you can add to the understanding in the world, I'd love you for it. Please do. 

 

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Recipes for Calm Amidst the Mayhem

By Mary Reiman

I feel the need to write about goodness and kindness this week. I’ve not forgotten the angst. I’m well aware of the mayhem. I write letters, make phone calls and attended the rally. Trying to make sense of all the angles of every piece of news. But in the midst of all the chaos, I sometimes need to sit back and simply focus on the good, especially in my own sphere. To me, that comes in the form of thinking about my family.

I was 19 when she arrived. My sister’s first child. My first opportunity to be Aunt Mary. She would later be joined by a sister and a brother.  Worry not, I’ll write about them later. This is the first of a three-part series! 

Within a few years, Angela’s bright red, curly hair drew the attention of every clerk in every store. As did her effervescent personality. Her smile was infectious. It was then. It is now. 

That darling little girl became a beautiful woman, both inside and out. If one believes in the birth order theory, as the first-born child she came into this world with a sense of responsibility, conscientiousness and reliability. I believe she carries all of those characteristics. 

I don’t see her often enough. But I always know that if I needed her, she would be here. Quickly. She would get in her car, drive much too fast, and be here with her warm and loving arms wrapped around me.

Last month, I texted her, asking her to name a woman in history who has most inspired her. Within seconds I had a reply. Ina Garten.

I went directly to the library and found Be Ready When the Luck Happens, Ina Garten’s memoir published in 2024. It was available in audio, with the author telling her own story. I loved her voice describing her journey, moments of joy contentment and moments of stress and sorrow. How she became the great success she is today, told with humor and realism and charm. Offering some of her very favorite recipes along the way. 

I didn’t know very much of Ina Garten’s life, other than the fact she is the Barefoot Contessa. I now understand that she is indeed a cultural icon.

Angela has most, if not all, of the Barefoot Contessa's cookbooks...and follows them exactly when preparing family dinners. She says that’s the key. 

Angela also inherited so many of my mom’s culinary skills. She definitely channels her grandma. However, for many recipes, Grandma June never measured anything. A pinch or a bit was described as a measurement in many of the handwritten recipes we inherited. 

One of Ina Garten’s remarkable talents is to make everything look easy. Angela does that also. Every dish/plate/menu created with class and grace. Meal planning and preparation, cooking, baking and presentation is an art form. 

Angela loves being in the kitchen, or maybe I just think that because she looks so comfortable putting together a meal. A dinner is an event, especially when she sends the menu to her guests ahead of time. From outrageous brownies to an elegant charcuterie board, the plating is an artistic creation. 

Lucky is the family or friend group with whom she shares her skills. I’ve never lived close enough to gain access to a seat at her table on a regular basis. I wish I did. Some of the family favorites are Ina’s biscuits and gravy, lasagna, mac & cheese, and of course, the desserts.  Oh, the desserts. German chocolate two-layer cake, white two-layer cake with lemon filling, cheesecake, and dark chocolate cupcakes. Hungry? Doesn’t it make you want to drive to her house, knock on the door and see what’s on the table?

And speaking of their home. It is calm. Not calm because their children have grown and moved on to their brilliant lives. Calm because it is tastefully designed with the beauty and simplicity that creates an aura of peace and tranquility. And...it emanates love and happiness.

As Angela says, “The impact of my cooking & homemaking grounds me.”

Angela, if you are reading this, know that you could be related to Ina Garten. You share so many characteristics and qualities. However, I’m the lucky one. The goodness and kindness you bring to this world is a 5-star recipe for success. I love being your aunt!

Do what you love because if you love it, you’ll be really good at it; 

swing for the fence; and always be ready when the luck happens.

                                             -Ina Garten