Let Go and Let God

Let go and let god car sticker.

I used to see that phrase on a bumper sticker most days. It was on a truck parked on a street on my old run route. It’s Christian hakuna matata: don’t worry about it. Curious young minds in my CCD classes asked over and over again how we know god is real, how we can know god’s plan for us, how we can know the Bible is true, how can we believe without knowing. We spent our days in school learning about scientific experiments, facts, history, math, reality, and how to uncover the truth. Twice a week we’re expected to forget all that and just believe for no other reason than a book says to believe the impossible. The adults always told us that our puny human brains couldn’t possibly understand god’s plan and to just trust that he knows what he’s doing even when it seems like things couldn’t get worse. God is a mystery. Just believe.*

(*You can’t just slap a “believe” poster on a wall and manifest your way to victory. It worked on Ted Lasso because they tried. They thought that maybe victory was possible, and knew that if it was, it only was with teamwork and a shit ton of effort. You do need to believe that change is possible to work towards it (the influencers call this *manifesting*. If you think nothing can ever change no matter how hard you try or what you do, you’re less likely to try in the first place. There are powerful and well-coordinated people in government trying to make sure we don’t believe that change is possible so we’ll stop trying.)

I understand the appeal. When you believe that a higher power has everything all planned out since before you were born, knows exactly what’s going on at all times, and that everything that happens really does happen for a pre-determined reason and exactly as it’s supposed to, even if you don’t understand it, you don’t need to try. Trying is hard. You might try and fail and failure is bad. Instead, simply trust that this is the way it’s supposed to be!

On a small scale, it’s probably fine. Not everyone is a great thinker. Lots of otherwise decent people need a religious crutch to get through their days. It’s when you pair the “let go and let god” mentality with structural inequity that it becomes a massive problem. Because if things are they way they are for a divine and unknowable reason, then the way things are is the way things should be and we shouldn’t try to change them.

Gender pay gap? Women have children and spend fewer years in the workforce. Why shouldn’t the men get paid more to support their families?

Racial pay gap? Non-white people attend college at lower rates than white people. Why shouldn’t people with college degrees get paid more?

These extremely simple arguments allow people to stop thinking any harder about it. On the surface it makes sense and these are such big problems to solve, so maybe they aren’t problems at all.

Does god favor the United States? Does god favor white skin? Does god favor traditional gender roles? Yes, yes and yes, according to Christians, and not just historically. They will tell you that these aren’t racist or sexist beliefs, it’s just the way things are, the way things are intended to be. Which, funnily enough, sounds a lot to me like understanding god’s mysterious plan.

The root of this probably isn’t overt malice, at least not on an individual scale (though it one hundred percent is on the governmental scale). There’s probably loads of plain apathy mixed with selfishness and a lot of ignorance. If white, straight Christians have it pretty good, they aren’t exactly motivated to make things worse for themselves. And since we have a tendency to believe that making something better for one group means that it will be worse for another, if we’re the beneficiaries we’d like to stay that way. And if someone tells you that being the beneficiary is god’s plan? Well, who am I to refute that.

However, this falls apart when you read the Bible. Most Christians haven’t read it, at least not in its entirety. Or even all of the New Testament. (I was shocked to learn a few years ago that my most devoutly Christian friend hadn’t even read it all. I’ve done it twice, it’s not even that long a book.) If you just read the words Jesus said you’d have a hard time pairing modern Christianity with this person. But most don’t do this, they only listen to priests or pastors or influencers interpret the message. As if priests and pastors and influencers don’t pick and choose which parts of the Bible to preach, or don’t want to change the status quo, or don’t see racism and sexism in the world.

“It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on his not understanding it.” - Upton Sinclair

This more or less explains why white Christians are so reluctant to do the radical work that Jesus preached. Things are good for them. They don’t want to rock the boat lest they end up like the other racial groups who experience the structural inequality that white people “oh no” about but don’t dismantle. Loads of white Christians follow the prosperity gospel. Look at these riches — god must have smiled upon them! It is the way it is because it’s the way it’s supposed to be. Forget about the camel and the eye of the needle.

Women who believe in traditional values, even at their own expense and the expense of their daughters, kind of make sense in a way. Many of these women are raised with these values so it’s not a leap to adopt them in adulthood. Existing in this world and providing for yourself is hard enough as it is, letting a man do all that hard stuff and contribute by having sex and having kids is simple. And if this is the way it’s supposed to be anyway, especially if you want kids anyway, it’s a lot easier than doing all things. Except that religious folk love to talk about the gift that motherhood is while making it harder and harder to be one.

I have a harder time understanding non-white Christians. God is apparently not smiling upon them, yet their devotion is arguably stronger. Christians used to believe that dark skin was the mark of the devil, which justified slavery. People were torn from their homes and sold into slavery and then adopted the religion of their captors. Generations later, they strongly and genuinely believe. They also don’t want to rock the boat but for different reasons. Many still think that being polite and friendly and submissive and unthreatening will be good enough to spare their lives or earn them the same rights their white counterparts enjoy. Except that it’s been a century and that still hasn’t happened.

Anyone can use religion to justify anything. Because god’s plan is so unknowable. Influential people can claim god is on their side and millions will believe it. The most glaring recent example is JD Vance telling the fucking Pope to stay in his lane. Which is being the leader of all Catholicism, of nearly 1.3 billion Catholic souls (almost half of all Christians), and an international spiritual leader. The Pope, as you’d expect, is not a fan of the administration claiming religion in the war on Iran and said so. He called for peace. He said that plans to wipe out an entire civilization were abhorrent. Vance (who calls himself Catholic) said sftu, this doesn’t concern you. And honestly, that he and his team didn’t respond with more bite showed impressive restraint (or, just as likely, that they’re playing political games).

Regular people aren’t immune to this. The real work that Jesus did, and preached, is fucking hard. Our whole society looks down on this work so much that the prosperity gospel is thriving. Rich people are good! They must be. Billionaires donate money! And we’d all rather have riches than live in poverty so much that most Americans are more likely to believe they’re closer to making it than the reality, which is one medical emergency or lost job away from the streets. So Christians divorce themselves from the reality of who Jesus was and the political time he existed in by listening to their favorite interpreter and not reading the Good Book themselves, refusing to see parallels, and choosing to believe in a white destiny and that the US is a chosen land and people, as long as you’re white and Christian. Jesus was radical. He was threatening to the status quo. He was killed by political leaders following the law, and would certainly be killed again if he were in the US today.

People I Used to Know

The quote starts that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Sometimes hindsight makes it crystal clear which one it is. I’ve always been fascinated by the people who disappear from our lives. People we were so close to at one time and now we don’t speak, don’t follow each other on social media, maybe don’t even think about at all. A 40-year life means a lot of people who come in and out for one reason or another. I was recently thinking about three.

Me doing something I'm not supposed to at the best job I had and the backdrop for two stories.

I was volunteering at a friend’s event and one of the guests he was interviewing came up to say hi. He knew my name. It took me a second to place him: we’d lived in the same building for a year and hooked up shortly after we both moved out. My friend used his name a few times during the interview, and I’d only known one person to use that variation of the name. But I was still surprised when he approached me. At the event, he was promoting his mead company (I was helping distribute samples). But when we lived in the same building, I thought he was in software or accounting or something way less interesting than mead. I mean, he was on the older side and had a one-bedroom, so he must have had a real job. Twenty-four year-old me thought he was sophisticated, especially compared to the other residents who made the building feel like a 20s and 30s dorm. But he also had a corner bar in his apartment and a keg, which was the height of coolness in 2009. (He was also easily the most attractive guy in the building, helping cement my fondness for glasses.) One day I came home with a headache from a particularly bad day at work to a party in the courtyard, including a DJ directly outside my window blasting obnoxious music. I thought I had the best place in the building because I could easily see when friends were hanging out and go join them. But that day I was in no mood, so I shut the window and closed the blinds. Except my apartment absolutely reeked of yeast. I looked for the source of the smell and discovered a brown sludge running down the insides of my cupboard. Turns out the keg in cute-upstairs-neighbor’s apartment leaked. I soured on him for a couple weeks, until the smell dissipated. Looking back, maybe he was home brewing, and that led him to mead making. Our hookup was months after we both moved away from the building (the only time I ever cried leaving a place, I loved the weirdness of my studio and the freedom it gave me). I didn’t enjoy it and we didn’t see each other again until my friend’s event. Part of me felt good that he recognized me without any context or introduction, because it meant I must not have visibly changed much in 16 years. But would I have recognized him? Since he was older than me back then, he’s probably close to 50 now and looking more like it. I’m also terrible at recognizing people out of context: I’d had no idea he was a brewer so even after hearing his name a few times I still didn’t make the connection other than it was a reminder that this person existed.

Some of my neighbors in the courtyard at the infamous Halloween party in 2009.

There was another time someone approached me completely out of context after not seeing each other for a very long time. Right around that same time in my life, when I was living in my studio, I got close to someone from work. He was a giant mess and basically homeless, but nice to me so I let him crash on my itty bitty couch for a while. This was a person who was obviously in my life for a very specific reason: I’d broken up with my long-term boyfriend while working at this job, but the break wasn’t clean. My ex came to a Halloween party I helped throw in my building courtyard dressed as Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. But not like a jackass in a suit, wearing a poncho and wielding an ax. I found out the next day that it was a real fucking ax. That he brought to a Halloween party. The break got very clean after that, but not before the party moved to a hotel bar a few blocks away, where my ex got in my face and said some awful things. When my friend came to my defense, my ex got in his face. Well, my friend was not the type to let that happen and he slugged my ex in the face, knocking him down. Truth be told, my ex needed to get punched. He was pompous and thought he was above reproach, better than anyone else and no one would dare. He learned he was wrong that night and I guarantee it changed how he acted in certain situations. We scattered from the bar, my friend discarding his costume and jumping in a cab and my other incredible friends talking my ex down from calling the cops. I was surprised when our friendship started to fizzle a few months after that, until I realized that I could no longer provide him the support he needed and he was moving on to others who could. He was still a giant mess, and still basically homeless, and had his own ex problems that were getting far worse than mine ever were. When I left that job I didn’t see him for seven years, until he came up to me in a brewery. I was there with husband (boyfriend, then), celebrating our dog’s 10th birthday. We had a dog cake for the dogs and cookies for the people. In the middle of talking and laughing with friends, he suddenly appeared inches from my face. I was taken aback by the invasion of my space more than anything, then I recognized him. He offered me the booth that he and his friends were about to leave. A couple years after that I saw his name on one of the beers at that brewery. Guess he knew the owners. A couple years after that, the brewery was named of the beer #metoo movement. Honestly, I wasn’t that surprised. He had a lot of strong words but I never knew where his true morals or loyalties would lie. Like most men, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear if he defended a man against sexual harassment hearsay. Most don’t believe women.

Argo with his birthday cake on his 10th birthday.

Perhaps most jarring was the first boy I ever loved. Many years after it ended, I wondered whether I’d recognize him if I saw him, or even if I’d ever see him. We didn’t have social media so I had no idea if he still live in our hometown or what he did for work. Our relationship, probably like most high school relationships, was intense. We were convinced, just like everyone else, that we’d last forever. The time I felt that most powerfully was when my mom forbid us from seeing each other because we went stargazing at the park literally across the street from my house and she thought… who even knows. I was determined to show her that our love was even stronger (do parents know anything? you never forbid love). But I had plenty of doubts. He’d started getting into drinking (not that unusual) and some harder drugs (a little unusual). I didn’t like it and told him. He wanted to stop but wanted me to be his anchor and motivation. Even at 17 I knew he needed to do it for himself. But he was also hinting at getting engaged soon. I didn’t have a lot figured out then but I knew two things for sure: I did not want to be married young and I did not want to be anyone’s sole purpose for existing or having a good life. For a while after we broke up his mom (and probably lots of other people, he was popular) blamed me for his turn into darker and riskier behaviors. I felt bad about how I handled the breakup but I was naive and inexperienced. Then a year ago my sister called to tell me she and some friends were telling high school stories and he came up. They looked him up on Facebook and found out he died a few years earlier from a drug overdose after being clean for a while. I hadn’t spoken to him in 19 years, so all I felt was weird. This person was so close to me at one time, and when they died I didn’t even know. I wonder how often that’s happened with other people I used to know. I knew how unlikely it was that I’d ever run into him, even when I visited my hometown, but now I know it’s impossible. And that’s still weird.

There have been a lot of other people who have exited my life, including parents, people I might have called best friends, relatives, work friends, and relationships that burned bright for a short time. It will always fascinate and sometimes sadden me when this happens.

Rage

I think the rage is starting. Last week I got unreasonably mad at a shelf I was trying to install in the laundry closet. I had to work around the laundry machine and the lip of the door frame, giving me only a few inches. The drill barely fit. I had to undo it and redo it twice. In between those times I slammed the drill down on the rug in frustration, probably surprising the downstairs neighbors. Installing that shelf wasn't even necessary, the detergent fits on top of the dryer, and it took me well over an hour when it should have taken ten minutes. Then I had to clean my mess, then I reorganized the tool bag because husband tosses whatever he uses back in without looking.

Today I scooted into work, a 35-45 minute drive in the mornings depending on construction and how lucky I get with lights. Today was a 45 minute day because I hit a lot of yellow lights. It would have taken me 20 minutes if I could go on the freeway. I'm looking for a car but used cars are still so expensive. And if I want something that hasn't been in an accident, has fewer than 150,000 miles, and is under ten years old, it's at least another grand for each of those qualifications. I'll probably end up spending at least $15,000 for a nine or ten year old car with at least 100,000 miles and it probably won't be in a color I want because I'm being picky about all the other things. And that will make me a little sad every time I drive it. I'm currently holding out for a stick because I really miss it. But that's further limiting the options.

It's not a rush. I have my scooter, I can get almost anywhere I need to go and do almost anything I need to do. But I'm starting to kind of hate scooting now that I have to do it three times a week for such a long commute. I hate getting gas because the pump automatically shuts off halfway through and I have to pump two-tenths of a gallon at a time (luckily I only have a gallon tank). I hate how most lights don't recognize my size or weight, so I have to wait until a car pulls up behind me or take a risky or illegal turn (which I do because one particular intersection doesn't get a lot of other cars). I hate that other drivers can't be bothered to watch the road while they're driving their multi-ton cars and trucks and that I have close calls because they're more interested in watching videos on their phone. I can't even listen to an audio book because I can't risk being even a tiny bit distracted on two wheels.

I wouldn't even be thinking of buying a car if I didn't have this job that requires me to commute to an office three times a week (for the "culture" of a soul-less building in the middle of nowhere, no public transportation options, no view, no amenities, for in-person meetings but only about work and not about fun topics, and deal with pantry moths and larvae in the candy bucket which is never cleaned and an HVAC system that's repaired every other month). When I took the job the in-person requirement was twice a week. That was doable. It was worth it. It was a good balance for my role that does benefit from in-person communication and interaction. But then they changed it to three days and that third day is having a much bigger impact on my time and mood. And finances, if I end up buying a car. I just bought a house and already have double the expenses I used to have. I have some savings still but we need to fix the leaks in the entry and office, and I don't know if insurance will cover either of them. And even if insurance covered everything, my savings isn't enough to buy anything worthwhile outright, so I'll have to finance some of it. And rates still suck, even with my stellar credit (why even have good credit??).

I don't even want this job, so it feels silly to be considering such a big purchase to make it easier to get to this job. What am I even doing with my life? I can see the impact my role has on the team but I've never experienced a team that's this resistant not only to stepping in when needed but even doing the basics of their own jobs. And it's seemingly OK — supervisors know and are either supportive or minimizing. But that's not even the part I hate most. I don't feel like I have any meaning in the thing I'm doing for 8 hours every day. For a while I could tell myself that helping patients find quality healthcare was noble, but I'm so removed from seeing my connection to patients. And I don't really care. I miss having a mission. I'm nervous about joining another nonprofit because of how toxic the last one was but I feel like I'm just getting through the days. I enjoy the tasks I do and take pride in getting through the most unreachable people on the team, and I hear how valued I am all the time now which almost makes me cry because of how little I heard that my entire career (like, so much negative self talk and imposter syndrome over the last 16 years). But I don't have something else to provide the meaning I'm looking for and I'm not sure what to do about it other than find a more meaningful job.

There's also AI that's making getting a job feel nearly impossible. And even if I do, how long would it last before AI takes it? Or would I have to settle for a 20% pay cut to have a more meaningful job because if AI can probably do it, it must not be worth paying a living wage to a human? I was rejected for a 20% pay cut job at a nonprofit for a role that was part project management and part writing, literally my resume (except that most of my titles have SEO, which can be hard to overlook even though that wasn't *exactly* what I was doing). So what even am I qualified for? Writing jobs are probably gone, except for freelancers fixing AI mistakes, PM jobs need certifications I don't want, and I can't get back into SEO now even if it wouldn't throw me into a total depression. I don't know what I want to do. If I didn't have to work I'd write. Which I can do now. But to what end? Can I publish a book? Can I somehow get paid for writing when so many extremely talented professionals are making better pitches? I know it's possible to start over at 40 but it takes a lot of work. And it would mean asking husband to go back to the life we had when I was in school, which he already did for a few years. Which makes me feel guilty, then ashamed for feeling guilty.

Husband and I have been enjoying the process of doing things for our house. We discuss and agree on fixtures and additions, sometimes deferring completely to the other person if they care more. We spent Valentine's Day painting accent walls in our living room and bedroom. We chose photos (even a couple I took!) to print and frames to put them in. We bought bath sheets (so large and luxurious) in fun colors. We both admire the abundant natural light in our own ways. But lately it's felt like that's the only thing we have in common. The awake time we spend together is either cooking or watching TV and movies. Probably the thing we share most is a walk to get coffee on the weekend. But it started as my thing because husband is one of those mutants who isn't affected by caffeine and we'd gotten into a few fights over my need for it. So I always pay when we go. Which used to be fine because we used to get a beer once or twice a month and he'd always pay for it. But we don't do that anymore. Not just because of celiac, it would have fallen off naturally. He likes being home. Drinking at home is comfier and cheaper and I can't even drink more than a glass of wine anymore without getting a stomach ache. And he can watch something. Most of the time I'm OK doing that, too, but occasionally it starts to feel like that's all we do. I've been good about prioritizing reading lately, but I have to do it on my own time. I can share in the movies he likes but he can't share in the books I like. Even when I recommend a book I think he'd enjoy he almost never reads it. Part of that is because I've recommended books that turn into movies and he won't read it if he watches the movie. If we do have non-TV time he'll play a game while I read. Which is fine, I like that we can do independent things together. But maybe we're too independent. We exist totally fine separately. We share friends but if we broke up there would be a very clear line. He'd let me take the rabbits. He might be lonelier for a while but sometimes I think he'd be happier. He has a lot of single friends, he has work that he loves and that regularly fills his evenings. The last card he gave me said he admired that I call him on his bullshit. Which I do. No one else does, so I think he resents it a little. Why can't I admire him the way everyone else does? Shouldn't I admire him more than strangers do? Is that my best quality?

He insists that rest time is essential to being productive and creative. I agree wholeheartedly. But can't seem to have that for myself, so I end up exhausted. I took yesterday off because I was genuinely tired, had a tummy ache, and had a lot to do. I didn't rest other than reading as I ate lunch. So today I'm exhausted. And I got up at 5:30 with the intention of getting into work by 7. I left a little late because husband woke up and told me about a lunar eclipse last night, saying that he didn't want to wake me for it because I get grumpy. I don't think there's ever been a time he woke me up for some lunar event or storm or anything and I was grumpy, but there was probably at least one time. So then I felt bad about myself. And for the hundredth time I asked if he could tell me when I'm being grumpy so I can recognize it. And I'll probably ask another hundred times because he doesn't want to say anything. Except that he does, just weeks or months or years later. By then I can't do anything other than apologize for something I didn't know I did and wonder what else I do that he doesn't like. All I do is call him on his bullshit and he won't do the same to me either because he feels he can't or he just doesn't want to. So when we get into an argument he tells me these things. And I don't really know what to do with it. I obviously don't recognize this behavior when I'm doing it, so all I can do is feel bad that it happened when I didn't notice. And then feel bad that I missed out on something because he didn't think it was worth the risk to share it with me. And that's another thing we don't get to experience together.

It's times like these I wonder what I bring to the relationship. Other than paying half the mortgage and taking care of the bunnies and being a backup for household duties. He has a lot of limitations because of me. He knew I didn't eat a lot of meat when we started dating so I don't feel bad about that, but now I also can't have wheat and that's been pretty annoying. I treat it like an allergy, so while he can eat what he wants when we eat separately, I pay attention to whether he eats a burrito on my napkin, whether he washes or at least wipes his hands before touching things (wipe yes, wash no, so I disinfect the remote pretty regularly and wipe down handles), whether he rinses out his mouth before kissing me. Between this and the level of cleanliness I adopted since Covid, I'm always asking whether something has been cleaned. I hate saying it and I can imagine how much he hates hearing it. We once got into a massive fight because I asked him to wash his hands before we had sex. Being clean before being intimate is a turn on, so why was it so insulting? Now I try my best to either trust or hope. But I can't even imagine the fallout if I get an infection.

I'm reading a book right now that's sort of about perimenopause. I'm positive I'm in it even though I'm only 40. That's why I think the rage is starting. I never got so mad that I had to hit something. Or mad enough that I'd cry over basically nothing (sad enough, yes, but so mad I turned sad? No). This is when divorce happens and the more I read about perimenopause the more I get it. At least we don't have kids to argue about. And this is also why men who get divorced in their 40s and 50s end up dating and marrying much younger women, who have years before perimenopause. They miss what their first wives used to be, when they were more energetic and less defeated by the world. It's too much to deal with the onslaught of hormones through all that, and something has to go. It often ends up being the marriage. It's not like anyone understands this, so the men believe their wives just up and decided they didn't want to be married anymore.

I tell husband that some creative kind gorgeous woman would scoop him up. ("He'd follow anything with a casserole," from Modern Family, which is only partly a joke.) They'd have a lot of the same problems but maybe there would be more benefits. He could eat what he wanted without worrying about cross contamination. They could go to a brewery. They could get the good cookies from the good bakery. They'd have another few years probably before perimenopause hit her, so it'd be like it was new again. They'd have a dog instead of rabbits or rats. She'd understand his work and not pester him about why they don't travel even though they can't afford to or don't want to leave old pets. She'd know about movies and could have intelligent conversations about film and technique. Maybe they'd make one together. One that they'd keep, not delete immediately after watching once.

What would I do? Exile myself to rage and wallow and mourn. Perhaps I can still do that on occasion, since I don't actually want to be single. I don't want to rage, but I also don't want to have a period anymore, so I guess this is the price to pay. Meanwhile, I get to figure out how I want to spend the next 40 years in a world that is actively crumbling down around me and led by people who do not believe that breathable air is a human right or even remotely valuable, who will spend enormous sums on pointless war and deny any spending on healthcare, education, or housing, and argue that this is what makes us great. Most days I don't know whether we even have 40 more years, so maybe all this worrying and raging is for nothing.

Good Wife

 “I used to think the worst fate was to be a wife.” — Jo’s letter to Laurie in Little Women (the new movie, don’t remember this being in the book but it’s been a while)

I was afraid of getting married. No one I knew had a good marriage. Some people seemed to actively dislike their spouses. There was too much expectation, endless disappointment, and staying together for the wrong reasons. Plus, I’d always said I’d change my name if I got married because I hated how my last name tied me to a person and a family I had no connection with anymore.

When husband asked, I panicked. In an instant I had to reckon with all the feelings I’d had about getting married, changing my name, being a wife, and tying myself to this person (who I did love very much and had no interest in separating from, even in that terrifying moment). It took me until morning to realize I did want to say yes. But even then, we kept it secret from almost everyone for another few months while I worked out some feelings. I was the proud new owner of a master’s degree and had a job using it (sort of), I didn’t want to only be acknowledged as the proud new owner of a ring. I had stuff to do. A planet to save.

I'm pretty sure no one else has such a smirky wedding photo.

Even right up until we got our license I was still leaning towards changing my name. But then my sister texted a photo of her new social security card with her (not so) new name. She had a completely new identity. Her old name didn’t exist anymore. If she got divorced and changed it back, she wouldn’t resurrect an old identity, she would create a new one all over again. And I had this shiny new degree, a slightly dusty old degree, and a signature I loved for its laziness. Would I really create a new identity just because I got married?

I didn’t. If it wasn’t an expensive and time consuming hassle I may have inched closer to doing it. If my birth name is my father’s and my married name is my husband’s, then I have no name no matter what choice I make. Husband liked his name and didn’t want to create a new one for us both to share, so I decided that my name is my own. It’s on my documents. It’s in my email addresses. It’s been mine for my whole life. Even if I didn’t get to choose it at birth, I chose it when I got married. And now I love that I made that choice. I love that everyone who knows me knows I made that choice. I even love that the people I’ve met in the last six years have no idea I made that choice and that they could one day find out and have an entirely new opinion of me. And, probably, of my husband.

My name is only an outward sign of our relationship, just like my wedding band. I usually only wear my engagement ring on special occasions, mostly because it feels too thick stacked, but also because I feel like it’ll get damaged (I’m not a careful person). Even if that wasn’t the case, I’d probably still only wear my wedding band because I like what it telegraphs. I know who I am. I know who we are. I don’t need or want more than this simple symbol, just like he has, to indicate our relationship. A flashier ring doesn’t make us any more married. In fact, another childfree married couple we know skipped the rings entirely because they just aren’t jewelry people. I think that makes them even more secure. It’s certainly better than the people who see their wedding rings as a shackle.

Smoochie kiss.

But it wasn’t just the last name question I grappled with. It was also the title. Wife had a deeply negative connotation. It seemed like such a silly girl thing to aspire to be: I probably could have said yes when I was 18 and at least once more in my 20s, and those would have been disastrous decisions. Getting a man who has been conditioned to believe he needs a wife is hardly an accomplishment. I hated how it would imply that I was second, that I belonged to someone else, that there was some level of subservience. I also hated “husband” and all that it implied (commander, controlling, absent, decision-maker).

But, six years in, I actually do belong to someone. And he belongs to me. It’s not about ownership, and not even just because “owner” is an extraordinarily loaded word for both of us. It’s about making a choice. After we got engaged we did a few pre-marital counseling sessions because I believed that having big conversations guided by a professional would do nothing but help us in the long run. One of the questions this professional asked us was, paraphrasing, “what is love?” He practically gave husband a gold star for his answer: it’s a choice to make every day. I thought he was hokey at the time but turns out he’s right: we choose each other above all else. We have been for a long time, well before our ceremony. Choosing each other looks different every day. Some days it’s choosing to stay in on a weekend and sit in near silence on the couch, watching something together or doing separate activities and touching toes. Others it’s choosing to be their support at a professional event or visiting their family. It can be doing an activity they’re really interested in that you kind of aren’t, or doing something that takes a lot of work because they’ll really appreciate it. It can be doing all the chores because they had a long week or even just washing the smoothie blender because they hate washing it. It’s talking about plans before making them and it’s making plans knowing they’ll be on board. It’s choosing to show affection in public, and choosing to show affection at home. It’s choosing what to ask for, knowing they’ll want to say yes simply because you asked. It’s choosing to say no to other people and demands (and sometimes even to opportunities). It’s choosing to listen and to have really hard conversations. It’s choosing to be vulnerable time and time again. And it’s always, until death do us part, choosing what to have for dinner.

Showing off our new bling the next day

We are both fiercely independent people who choose to be together every day because we want to, not because we need to. We are partners in every way (and about half the time I refer to husband as my partner). At our wedding, our officiant told the story of the choice that we make to commit to each other, that we’ve been making that choice for years and that day decided to make that choice with witnesses. Every wedding anniversary we choose to have another one and this year is no different. I choose another year.

Witnessing a Suspicious Death While Grabbing a Jacket

In May 2022, on a rare non-working Saturday for husband, we went with a friend to get lunch at a vegan restaurant within a cidery. We normally don't eat at vegan places and normally don't drink cider (and certainly don't travel outside our neighborhood for either of these things), but this vegan food was worth the drive. The cider was good, too, though now both those places are closed.

While there I ran into a friend from grad school, who was friends with the cidery owner. She and her husband chased around their kid who was just getting good at running and was very interested in my friend's giant dog. We had amazing food, lingered over ciders, then decided to go get a beer closer to home.

View of the water tower.

The brewery around the corner, one of the places we heavily supported when Covid was real bad, is extremely dog friendly. We got a pig ear and beer-can plush for the dog and took our pints to the street seating area. It was chilly and we joked about asking them to turn on the fire pit even though it was still the middle of the day. But eventually I got too chilly and decided to run home real quick to grab a hoodie. I would have been gone 10 minutes tops.

Half a block ahead of my alley I saw what looked like a trans woman approach a man with some urgency, then they both went down the alley. I think I only noticed them because she was wearing a neon pink top, but thought nothing of it otherwise. I turned down my alley to find them standing near a garage, and she turned to look at me, kind of worried. Then I saw bare feet on the ground, sticking out and up wicked witch style.

Gorgeous and well crafted kitchen.

The garage was partially obscured by a fence, hiding the scene from the alley entrance. In seconds I had full view of a second man lying on his back in front of the garage, face towards the sky, eyes and mouth open. The woman stood a few feet away while the first man talked to 911. A fourth man was performing CPR and mouth to mouth, which I remember being surprised by.

"I found him," the woman said as I passed. "He's starting to turn blue." I muttered something like oh no, paused for a second, but then decided there wasn't much I could do and, not wanting to be a looky-loo, continued on towards my apartment. The cops and paramedics would be there soon, someone was already doing CPR, and I didn't have anything that could help. They seemed to have things under control.

Nice enough bedroom.

A few steps later it occurred to me that leaving a trans woman, who was also Black, with two white dudes and a possibly dying guy to the inevitable cops might not be best. Plus, maybe I had something at home? I didn't know, but felt I should offer. So I turned back.

"Is there something I can grab?" I asked the woman. "I live here, I don't know what I have or what would be helpful."

She wasn't sure. So I stood with her. She was shivering, possibly because of the chill but more likely because of what she witnessed. The first man was still on the phone and she leaned her body towards him a bit. "I have narcan, tell them," she said, then paused. "Ask them if I should give him the narcan." The man focused on the phone call.

Spacious bathroom.

While I mentally ran through my household items, I took a closer look at the three men in front of me. The man on the phone was probably around my age, had the posture of someone who had clearly been summoned away from something else and was doing the only thing he could think to do. The man doing CPR faced away from me and all I could see was he was chubby and wore a backwards hat. I wondered if he knew the man on the ground or if he was being a really good Good Samaritan. In these Covid times, would I do mouth to mouth on a stranger? Based on my initial surprise, not likely.

The man on the ground, definitely turning blue, was a scary sight for a quiet residential alley. But he would have looked out of place even if he had been upright and his normal skin color. For one, he wore hospital clothes. For another, he had no shoes. His hospital top was open, revealing multiple EKG electrodes attached to his chest. He looked older, maybe early 60s, with thinning whitish gray hair. The nearest hospital was only two miles away but surely he didn't walk out of it? The way he was angled next to the garage, top of his head pointing at the garage door and feet stretched towards the alley, didn't look like a natural fall. He had to have been placed on the ground that way.

Rooftop patio.

The paramedics finally arrived. Five or six EMTs jumped out and took charge. One relieved the guy doing CPR. The others opened equipment in plastic packaging and tossed what they didn't need aside, attending to the man on the ground and grabbing more equipment from the ambulance. A minute later the cops arrived. They prioritized the bystanders, talking first to the man who called them. I didn't hear his conversation but he shrugged, shook his head, pointed towards the woman standing next to me, and talked for a while longer. I noticed another woman, probably the first man's wife or girlfriend, lingering at the alley entrance, watching. I wondered what they'd been doing when he was summoned.

The woman next to me was fidgety and still shivering. She couldn't find her phone in her overnight bag (it was in there, she assured me, just buried deep). I offered to call it so she could get it more quickly, and she gave me her number. Got the phone.

Combo living room and dining room.

We mumbled a bit about how crazy this was. I asked her how she got involved. And that's where this takes the situation from highly suspicious to probably a murder.

She was taking a walk headed west down the same street I took going back to my apartment. She'd later talk to me about how she enjoys going for long walks to clear her head, an activity and purpose we share. At the alley she saw a black Mercedes with a couple of men standing next to it. 

She asked me, did I know the car? I didn't think so—there was a nicer car usually parked there but I couldn't be sure it was a Mercedes, or even a black sedan. I'd never seen the owner.

Long, narrow garage.

The men were dragging something from the car. Her spidey senses raised, she paused at the alley to watch. People with nice cars don't usually dump shit in alleys. She didn't see the man directly. But when the Mercedes drove away quickly after, she wandered in to see what they'd left. That's when she saw the older man in his hospital clothes lying on his back on the cement. She hailed the first person she saw and asked him to call the cops. All this was happening as I decided I needed a jacket and left the brewery, but I'd never have noticed a black Mercedes, even if it was leaving my alley. A minute or two later and I was standing next to her.

I don't know how much time passed, it felt like a long time just standing there. The paramedics slowed, the one doing chest compressions got up. They gathered up some of the equipment. The man had died. I couldn't see his face and was too far away to really know if his chest was moving, but his open chest looked gray. And the paramedic activity said everything else. 

Built in cabinets.

Then one of the cops finally approached us. I only said a few words to him, as I wasn't involved, but I jotted down his badge number. He spoke to the woman next to me for a few minutes, she reiterating everything she'd already told me. Leaving most of their trash behind in the alley, the paramedics loaded up, bringing the man on a stretcher into the back, sheet over his body.

They drove off, cops following. The woman and I had nothing left to do, so we turned in the other direction. I walked her to the end of the alley and we hugged. She would continue on her walk, or head back home, and I'd go inside for my jacket and return to the brewery. I'd been gone for a long time by then. Naturally, husband and friend had made guesses as to why I'd been gone so long and were shocked to hear the truth.

Since I had her number, I texted the woman I stood with later on to check in. She'd had a shock but it wasn't her first time. Being in her community, she unfortunately has experienced those she knew and loved lose or take their lives. She wanted to do what she could to prevent it in others, get through each day, and take time to appreciate beauty.

Rooftop solar panels.

When I think about that day, I wonder how she's doing. If I've passed her in a store or walking through the neighborhood, if she's still in San Diego, if she and her friends are scared. If she ever found out anything about what had happened that day, or if she didn't want to look. I looked for a couple of weeks, checking the news, doing google searches, checking the city website, not knowing where this strange death might have been reported. If it would have been reported. If there'd been any evidence of foul play other than the woman's story. If the cops even checked or if the cause of death was something basic like a heart attack, the EKG monitors and hospital clothes barely registering on the cops' list of weird things they've seen. 

A year later, the house and garage were demolished. Not because of that, it's just what's been happening in that neighborhood. A single family home is removed and a multi-family something goes in its place, always luxury, about half the time it's ugly. Now the lot is home to four luxury townhouses. One sold before the building was even finished, just shy of two years after the man died in the alley, for $1.4 million. Two others sold for slightly less shortly after it was finished, almost on the anniversary. The last lingered for a year, finally selling for a little under $1.2 million.

What five million dollars in townhouses looks like.

Before the fourth one sold, husband and I stopped by during an open house. We'd talked about buying before, and even started the process, but having over a million dollar townhouses on the same block we lived in an apartment that was infested with crickets, where a man died suspiciously in the alley, made it seem impossible. (Happily, it ended up being possible.) I wanted to see where this ghost was likely haunting and what you could get for a million-plus townhouse these days.

The townhouse did have some nice features. Three floors not counting the rooftop patio, a thoughtful layout, massive great room on floor two, decent views, garage, and touches like soft close doors and convenient storage. But was it worth a million dollars? The only outside space was the rooftop patio, the room you'd want to use for a guest or office room was pretty small, and there wasn't even a balcony. It felt so inside. It was nice, but not for me.