On Preparedness

Why do I prepare?

I prepare because I like myself as I know myself

But I have only known myself outside of a state of desperation

I have never truly wanted for the necessities of life – and that makes me lucky

I prepare because I do not want to find out who I may become should my basic needs be unmet

I have never been a thief, a pilferer, a manipulator, a prostitute, or destitute

If these circumstances are in the cards, possibilities of the future, and I have resources to spare now, and the foresight into scarcity, what else would I do?

That I am not plagued by only fear and anxiety, but an understanding of my needs, my comforts, my thresholds—then how much clearer could the options be?

I do not want to cower in the face of the first defeat – and indeed, we have already experienced it

Think of our descent down this side of the bell curve as a long and winding staircase

Despite the pervasive wish of a swift end when things get chaotic (which omits the fact that we are cherished,) we shall not be so lucky

We will have to watch

Because the many lines of demarcation between “I am ok” and “this is unbearable” are blurred by adaptation

Would we be alive now had we not adapted?

I shan’t even say that we learned to adapt, because learning implies some cognition into the fact

No, we adapt because, were our instincts, shot as they are, not primed for survival, then any one of our stumbles would have been the end

And we would not be here to imagine this story, to imagine this devolution of our human race

We prepare because adaptation will not be a choice, and should the slog of what’s coming be a slow and torturous descent into social chaos, and it will be

Better to have some items on hand as an offramp, and the protections in place to keep them in our hands

Spare yourself the cliff

Drown out the noise of “maybe it will be ok”

And pack away some damn food and arms

Moored by Chance

We are living in a time of the great wave

Taken by it

Watching it batter and break what has been in our vicinity

And yet, so much else remains moored, unmoving

Not by choice, but circumstance

It seems so wrong, so unfair

Like the day after a dead body – someone’s brother, someone’s son, someone’s crush

Lies splayed on the sidewalk

A woman walks her dog there

Picks up its shit there

Because for her, it’s allowed to be any other day

“But not my undocumented friend”

A perspective on MAGA logic

Mr. Dick: “Oh, Esmeralda has been cleaning my house for 15 years. She’s the hardest working woman I know. Her son just got into Penn State! She raised that boy right. I’ve been paying her cash all this time. We give her a key to check up on the place when we go on vacation. Esmeralda isn’t technically legal but she’s a wonderful person – not like those murderers and rapist and drug cartels Trump actually wants to deport. No, I’m sure Esmeralda will be fine. Trump is focusing on getting rid of the real criminals.”

Jan 21, 2025: ICE raids begin. Esmeralda is deported to El Salvador and her son, Ricky, comes home to an empty house. He finds his mother’s phone broken on the kitchen floor and he pictures the scene; mama sitting at the table sipping on a cup of scalding hot, overly sweetened coffee during a brief break between jobs. She startles at the heavy bangs on the door, and drops her phone as she rushes to touch the photo of the Virgin Mary hanging above the stove. The neighbors tell him what happened; his mother was dragged out of the house pleading with agents to let her speak to her son. They have video footage but he isn’t ready to watch it.

Ricky’s phone rings. It’s the old man whose house his mother has been cleaning for years, Mr. Dick. He heard about what happened and wants to “do something about it.” Ricky tries to remain calm, but he saw the MAGA bumper sticker on the man’s car the last time he dropped off his mother for a shift. He tries to look past this discrepancy, where the man who voted for deportations is now horrified that someone he has befriended is a victim of them. His mom could look past such discrepancies, and Ricky was trying to, but his whole life just changed. This was a before and after moment. Nothing would ever be the same. Ricky’s mind begins to race. Will my own citizenship matter against my brown skin? Has it ever mattered in this country? Should I go to El Salvador? Will I even be able to pay for Penn State now? Where is she exactly? How can I get a hold of her? What am I going to do? How will I pay for this house? How much longer will I have to watch my neighbors and friends disappear before I become one of them? Where is my passport? I need to find my passport.

The old man continues rambling on, not noticing that Ricky has checked out, lost in worry. Then Ricky hears Mr. Dick say, “I’m going to call the senator. I went to school with his late father. We’ll get her back, son, don’t you worry. She’s got a life here! It’s got to be some kind of mistake. You and I both know she’s no criminal.”

“Yes sir,” Ricky said, as he was taught to reply from a young age when talking to white men.

“Just keep me updated, son, and let me know if you need anything. I’m around and so is Mrs. Carol. She’s worried sick about your mother, too. I know you’re a good kid. You’ll get through this, sport,” Mr. Dick continues. The empty paternal language is beginning to grate on Ricky, and he is glad the conversation is coming to an end. He hangs up the phone, puts his face in his hands, and screams before sobbing.

After a while, Ricky washes his face and stares into the living room, breathing heavily. He is so grateful the house still smells of her, though there is a distinct tension in the air – the lingering aura of an atrocity, and he knows he will sleep in her bed that night.

A Reintroduction

I have not posted on this blog in a long time, and it is time I put my writing out there again. Thank you for your patience as I navigate this journey of self acceptance, fear of criticism about not quite knowing enough, and ego. A lot has happened in the last 5 years: I returned to the U.S. from living in South Korea, experienced the COVID-19 pandemic in Florida, moved to Washington D.C. to attend graduate school, and lost one of my favorite people in the world – my beloved sister, Alaina (note my somewhat angry grief post.)

I have considered writing here again countless times, started stories, gone through old journals to research how I want to cover an experience, but the writing, editing, and posting part hasn’t happened. However, now, as I take stock of this moment in history, and of my place in it—working next to the White House as my country is taken over by fascists aiming to make the United States, a beacon of diversity, into a place only welcome to white nationalists, it is time to reintroduce myself and my perspective. I’ll warn you, it may be clunky at first, but I’m going to let myself post what I post without judgement because to get more comfortable with anything, you have to do it, even if it’s not perfect for a while.

This blog will be an amalgamation of content—old and new, heavy and light, short and long, opinions on the real world and ideas about fictional ones. There’s a lot to say, and even more to think about. I’m glad you’re here to join me for the ride!

A Guide to Being Supportive During Grief

I have lost loved ones – too many at close range, and the experiences have shown me who my true friends are. Grief is a time when “fair weather” friends disappear, and your ride-or-dies come through. The first time, when my parents tragically passed, I was surprised by who turned up and who was conspicuously absent. I learned that grief is a time when it’s hard to meet your own basic needs. When grieving, everything feels like work. People are tone deaf, if well-intentioned. Here’s what I have found that I prefer of friends and loved ones trying to support me through grief.

Check in via text or phone call
- Check in by asking things like “How’s today?” or “Have you eaten?” “What did you do today?” etc. After some time, it may be ok to ask, “How are you feeling today?” Do not expect responses but continue periodically nudging to remind them that you’re there and willing to listen and support.
Take food
- Often times, it is hard for someone grieving to remember to eat. They may be too depressed to find the energy to cook or decide what to order in.
- Instead of saying “Let me know if you want food,” say “I’d like to bring a meal this week. What day works for you? Is there anything you’re craving?” Create conditions where fewer decisions must be made (decisions are mental work) by the person experiencing grief.
Make a house call
- Offer to spend time, listening or in silence. When you do this, check on the state of the dwelling. Has the house been cleaned even moderately? Is the kitchen usable or have dishes piled up? Has laundry been done? Have the sheets on the bed been changed? Be ready to assist with such tasks. Ask gently whether you may help. Make it clear that such assistance is not a burden and that you would like to support them.
Understand that grief is a long process and that even after you may have moved on, the grieving person may not have.
Offer to inform people of that the grieving person lost someone so that they do not need to do the work of informing colleagues or friends. Ask if they would like to be contacted and if so how, or after what period of time. (This is sensitive and may depend on how long you have known the person grieving or the person who passed.)

Don’t

Don’t assume you have a right to know the circumstances surrounding the person’s passing. This is especially the case if you’re not that close with the person grieving or never met the person who passed.
Don’t text “let me know if you need anything” and then be surprised when they don’t reach out if that’s all you ever offered. If you haven’t followed up consistently, why would they share intimate moments of grief with you? By not reaching out, it may seem like you don’t care. A grieving person may want space, but a text is a noninvasive way to show you care even if they don’t respond.
Don’t immediately start talking about commitments the grieving person had before their loved one passed. To you, it may be a way to change the subject and get their mind off things, but depending on the timing, it may seem callous.
Don’t take it personally if they don’t respond to texts or calls or don’t feel comfortable talking to you about something.

People often say, “I don’t know what to say.” There isn’t much to say. Offer condolences. Offer to listen. Offer assistance with tasks. Follow up. Remember that grief is a long process. The “I thought you’d reach out if you needed something” is tone deaf. Even in grief, people don’t want to be a burden. Offer specific things. You may be surprised what you are called upon to do, and how much access you get during an intimate part of the grieving person’s life if you truly show up. The bonds created in grief can be lifelong markers of trust. Those who let their ignorance of how to respond (Google it! Seriously.) keep them from reaching out may be considered fair-weather friends and subsequently cut out of the grieving person’s life.

What the Youth Climate Movement Needs

The youth climate movement is impressive, but I cannot help but feel that it is falling on deaf ears. Pre-coronavirus, young people all over the world were skipping school and taking to the streets to demand “climate action.” But, what does that mean? In the eyes of world leaders, they’ve already done so much – drafting the Paris Climate Agreement, bringing climate change into every conversation, putting on convention after convention – and now these young people want even more? Do they know how the world really works, and what it takes to actually divest – what it will mean for the economy? Sure, to the youth, perhaps the economy doesn’t mean as much as their futures, but what if their parents can’t buy as much food because the economic turmoil spiked prices at the supermarket? What if gas costs too much to transport them to these climate marches?

The youth climate movement is a global force, but those staging protests need to set out clear demands. I suggest 3 demands per country, each in a different economic sector – agriculture, energy, and manufacturing. Each country heavily subsidizes various industries. The leaders of the climate movement in each country/region/city should expose their government’s spending habits that benefit industries that do harm to the environment. They should then demand a change to their subsidizing practices; and encourage the public to boycott these businesses until they move toward better environmental practices.

Right now, the youth climate movement is loud and the young people are passionate, but the governments to whom they are shouting are exhausted, and perhaps even out of ideas. Most leaders’ idea of ‘acting on climate’ is signing a paper that says that they’ll ‘somehow’ reach carbon neutrality one day. Clearly, they need some direction. The young people demanding that their government officials use their positions of power to make concrete change should be working with economists, engineers, lawyers, etc. to offer concrete steps of change, and showing what these steps will cost to become a reality. Their protest signs should express the dollar amount that their government spends on fossil fuel subsidies each year, as well as the number of votes their legislators have cast that helped exacerbate climate change. Then, constituents should hold their votes hostage until the clear demands that they have laid out are met. They should also prime well-informed young people who share their commitment to addressing climate change, to run for office.

It’s not enough to yell from the street, “Act on Climate!” We have to organize a platform, get on the level of the powerful, and infiltrate the system from within in order to change it. Localize the movement to focus on the specific sectors in your region that are making climate change worse. Don’t just yell, “Change!” Show these so-called “brilliant” leaders what the change has to look like, and present the information in its starkest form. Each government official should be able to call on any protester and get a clear, specific answer when they ask, “What are your demands?”

Barefoot in India

Traveling through India has made me consider the value of wearing shoes. I spent a month backpacking through cities in the south of the country – my second trip to the subcontinent – and I couldn’t help but notice that Indian people simply do not like wearing shoes.

95% of people wear sandals or flip flops, and at any moment they have the chance, they remove them from their feet – as though they are restrictive, a burden. Many stores and temples require shoe removal before entry, and lots of people go about their days barefoot by choice. It’s not necessarily a sign of poverty to be barefoot in such a place. In Pondicherry, I saw a woman holding her newborn baby on the back of a scooter behind her husband – she donned a beautiful pink and gold sari and silver anklets. She was barefoot. In a restaurant I stopped at somewhere between Hampi and Mumbai, I looked around at the patrons eating – almost all of them had removed their sandals and set their feet atop them.

There is no sign anywhere in India stating, “No shirt, no shoes, no service” as in Florida where I come from. In India, women especially, are dressed to the nines – saris, anklets, toe rings, bangles – but shoes? Maybe, maybe not. I went to dozens of temples on my trip, and in many of them, shoe removal is required before entry. I wouldn’t say it’s a cleanliness thing – it’s more of a way to connect to the place – the ground, the earth, the stone that makes up the place of worship. It’s better to be connected to the place through your feet, than to create a barrier with those annoying shoes. It’s been shown that being barefoot can be beneficial to balance and body awareness.

Meenakshi Amman Temple, Madurai, Tamil Nadu – October 2019

In Madurai, there’s a massive, famous temple complex with a gate at each of the cardinal directions. The security to get into the place is no joke – I had to go back to my locker multiple times before I was granted entry by the security guards. My shoes, obviously, were not allowed. After exploring the temple and coming out, I didn’t even want to put my shoes back on. My feet were already dirty and there were people with bare feet everywhere. It would be easy to assume that there’s broken glass and trash everywhere in India, but there isn’t. Sure, there’s a lot of litter around, but not on the main walkways. I was confident that my feet would be fine, and I considered the value of dirtying my sandals versus staying barefoot, which is generally more comfortable. But eventually my Westernness got the better of me – I went to a waterspout, cleaned my feet and put the sandals back on.

I often thought, in all my American privilege, that lots of Indians would do well to get a pedicure – to take care of their feet – perhaps cover them up once in a while. If you look around at people’s feet, you see callouses, dryness, brown toenails, endless dust and dirt plaguing them. But I kept coming back to something my best friend said, “Whenever I see Indian women, they stand like they are rooted to the ground. Their legs look like tree trunks.” I observed the women I saw and yes, they all looked stable, connected, hardy. They’re used to holding babies on their hips while cooking and cleaning. They’re used to being pushed and prodded in the bustling market among the billion of their fellow citizens. It’s a crowded place – a place full of poverty and music and conflicting smells. Of all the things the typical Indian has to worry about, shoes are not on the top of the list. I’d be surprised if they even broke the top 10.

I’m Confrontational – Here’s Why You Should Be Too

Miscommunication is rampant in relationships.

‘Confrontational’ is seen as a dirty word – one that few people want to be described as. I, personally, prefer to confront than to assume. I am confrontational. I get to the bottom of what’s bothering me with people. It shows that I care enough about the relationship to understand what’s going on – including what I may have done wrong. I think people avoid confronting others about problems because they’re afraid of what they’ll be left with – of the conversation they’ll have to have with themselves after the one with the other person is over. It’s fear – fear of having to face yourself, rather than to live comfortably with the delusion of your victimhood. Maybe in some respects you were the oppressor. Maybe you’ll even feel implored to apologize.

Apology is one of the most powerful things in this world when it comes to human connections. Asking for forgiveness; moving the balloon of your ego out of the way to see straight – to see the path you’re meant to be on – helping the person you wounded remove the burden of their pain. The victim can do it alone, perhaps with a lot of tears and therapy and introspection; but if you just put your ego aside, and say the simple words, “I’m sorry,” it can have a profound effect on the sufferer’s state. For some people, stating their apology is too much to ask for, no matter what their crime. For others, apology is so overused it has basically lost all meaning, and can only be of significance depending on their tone and the setting of the situation.

One’s ability to trust, their sense of shame, the longevity of their guilt and wonderment about their own actions can all be curtailed by the utterance of two simple words: “I’m sorry.”

Still, so many people reside comfortably in the delusion that their actions don’t matter. Instead, they diminish the significance of the relationship in their life – deem it not worthy of saving. That’s how hard those words can be for some people to say. That does not mean you shouldn’t expect them if you’ve been wronged. For some, admitting that they did wrong is enough. It shouldn’t be. That’s just before the threshold of apology, and admitting you did something wrong without apologizing just makes you seem like more of an asshole than anything else.

Say it. Feel the significance of the other person. Evading vulnerability is a delusion in its own right. People are afraid to care these days; there’s always an alternative, something better. Some believe it’s hard to see when a relationship – friendship or otherwise – is significant. Let it be. Feel what you feel. Care enough to talk it out. Learn how to. Know what you’re worth. Demand respect, and reciprocate it.

I felt wronged by someone I care about. This person was less than apologetic. He wanted to downplay the significance of his words and actions. I didn’t bother trying to convince myself that our relationship didn’t matter. It did. It does. We had multiple confrontations, initiated by both sides – because we were beyond the delusion of the friendship not mattering. It took time and tears and introspection and brutal honesty, but we got over the hump – and closer as a result of choosing fierce friendship over shallow, fleeting companionship. The uncomfortable conversations were worth it.

Be willing to tell someone that you care about them. Show them that they are significant to you, so they can see it for themselves. When we show that our heart is open, with full awareness that there’s a possibility of bruising, we can open up others’. Then you can both accept the fact that evading vulnerability is impossible anyway, so you might as well decide to just enjoy the ride.

2.0.1.9

Compromise is the true pillar of democracy. The more polarized we get – censoring one another’s language, engaging in more shouting matches than listening sessions, the further away we get from anyone’s semblance of an ideal. We fight and push and go to bed with clear consciences; meanwhile the suffering are those without the means to fight, whose plight is used as a pawn in argument, but nevertheless overlooked when policy is finally made. Get off your imaginary high horse. We’re all festering in the mud together, delusional about our grand intentions.

To The Stutterers of the World

I grew up with speech impediments – a lisp, the inability to pronounce the ‘r’ sound far past the cute toddler stage, and the worst — a stutter. Throughout my elementary school years, I attended speech therapy, leaving class twice a week to the curiosity of my classmates and entering into the small, dimly lit room with the other speech impeded children. For years, with gritted teeth of frustration, I attended these classes, and slowly, I fixed the ’s’ and eventually, the ‘r’ too. No longer was my name ‘Schewa Schakeena Mawschall’. However, the stutter persisted. At the age of ten, a few years after my parents’ divorce, my mother, four siblings, and I moved to a nearby suburb, and I reluctantly switched elementary schools for 5th grade. The change was not welcome, however, my new speech therapist took a completely different approach to dealing with my stutter than that of my previous school. Instead of sitting alone in a cubicle recording myself speaking using some obsolete device that required a magnetic card, I was told to simply tell stories to the other students in the speech class. Sure, it was nerve-racking at first, but being surrounded by students who all suffered from various speech related issues slightly softened my nerves. The best part was, they actually enjoyed my stories. I made more progress in that single year than I ever had, and I vowed not to take speech therapy in middle school. I couldn’t bear it. Still, my mother spoke to the speech therapist at the middle school and received some books from him; books that took me years to even open. Throughout my middle school years, the stutter was still a problem; some days were worse than others for speaking. At times, my nerves got the best of me for weeks at a time and every word took 5 or 6 tries, with the constant, “stop and take a breath” from mother, which, though well-intentioned, infuriated me. I had things to say, and I didn’t NEED to pause. No one else needed to – why should I?

In high school, with various family issues and a step father I was less than fond of, my stutter got worse. ’S’ words were the worst, and unfortunately, my name starts with ’s’. The thing I dreaded more than anything was someone asking me my name. It was a familiar scenario, “Hi, my name is ______.” “Hello, I’m S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s” “Um, did you forget your own name?” with a chuckle. I never got used to the mortification, but after a while, interrupted with, “No, I have a stutter,” flatly. I didn’t say it to make the other person feel like a jerk. I said it to clear the air so that there wouldn’t be the awkward wonderment of why everything I said took so long. That in itself actually made things slightly easier. The stutter could be expected. Then the person would know there wasn’t something mentally wrong with me. We could move on, continue with the conversation. Yes, the ‘Oh, I have a stutter sometimes, too” or “You must have loved that movie The King’s Speech” got old, but I tried to remember that people were generally well intentioned, and just trying to relate.

I used to think (in all my privilege,) that the only thing holding me back in life was my stutter. I hated it. I hated how it was perceived. I hated the way it sounded. I hated the way I felt, and the way I dreaded speaking at all. Then, one day, in high school, I found those books from the middle school speech therapist in my closet, and I read one. To my surprise, there was no mention of a magic cure, or some device to fix my problem. The book had stories (and videos) of young people who stuttered. And the answer – just talk anyway. I was amazed. I had spent years refraining from raising my hand in class, pleading ignorance in hopes of not having to speak aloud to spare myself the embarrassment of laughter from my classmates; years changing my word choice to avoid the ones that routinely made me falter. And all it told me to do was to talk, even with the knowledge of each and every word that would come out in a stammer. Just decide that what you have to say is more important than the embarrassment. The simplicity was profound.

And I tried it. Along the way, I also decided that at a certain age, laughing at someone for their speech impediment made a person less than enviable; in fact, I assumed that their parents must never have taught them better values, and felt sorry for how they would turn out as a result. Really, in a high school honors class, you’re laughing at the girl for her stammer? Please grow up before college, lest you represent the generation I share in with you.

Using this method, I made a lot of progress, and met people who, years later, told me that they never knew I had a stutter. I stopped fearing introducing myself, and instead, anticipated it, gave myself a rhythm, went over it in my head, and chose to calm down instead of tense up at the thought. Of course, the stutter came out here and there, and I didn’t exactly enjoy speaking aloud in front of a crowd, but I was willing to do it. I was willing to drown out the laughter and remind myself of the duty I had to speak, whether it be for a school presentation or because my thoughts were actually important.

Then, in college, I had an eye-opening experience. I was in a junior level international relations course. The class had about 120 students in it, most of them ‘taking notes’ on their laptops. As we spoke about taxation and the arguments about entrepreneurial incentives, the professor referenced a recently published article by Warren Buffett, and asked the class to see if they could find it. I happened to be the first to do so, and raised my hand. To my surprise, the professor asked me to read it on the spot. I did, knowing I’d stammer, but unwilling to back out – I was simply too old for that. So I read, and I stammered, and the point Warren Buffett was trying to make was made. I brushed off the stress and continued to take notes. When class ended, a boy approached me. He was young, slender, wore black clothes, and held himself with little apparent confidence. He told me that he couldn’t believe that I had read despite my stutter. He also had a stutter that was very obvious. I could see that he was still in the phase I had been in in elementary and middle school. He still didn’t raise his hand in class. He still avoided conversations and encounters where he would be prompted to speak. I introduced myself and told him to walk with me. I explained that we were technically adults now, and that even though having a stutter sucks, that it can’t be an excuse to not do this and not do that forever. We all have things to say, and as we grow up we enter into an exceedingly competitive world. If we don’t speak up, no one will wait for us. No one will hold our hand and tell us to take a pause. It was time to decide to speak anyway, stuttering the whole time if need be. Just get the words out. Hear yourself. Let others hear you. It’s never going to sound perfect, but you’re going to make a sound, and that’s what’s important.

We walked for about a half hour before parting ways. He seemed inspired, and I genuinely hoped he would heed my advice and decide to speak up more. I was left in a state of confusion, surprise, angst. How could I have assumed that everyone who had speech problems received speech therapy, had supportive parents, and that someone in the equation felt strongly enough to encourage them? How ignorant I had been in my privilege, that others would not be able to bear their own silence for so long.

I have never forgotten that young man. He opened my eyes to how far fear can take us down an undesirable path. I’m grateful that he approached me, and that we talked – that he was willing to talk – that he felt comfortable knowing that I shared his affliction.

Of course, when it comes to any kind of therapy, different methods work for different people, but I am a firm believer in being heard. The U.S. is a country that was founded on free speech. Why let the time it takes to get our words out stop us from saying them?