The 26
CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0,
via Wikimedia Commons
This story is inspired by Jerzy Kalina’s Przejście (Passage) sculpture. These living sculptures can be seen on the streets of Wrocław, Poland. You can find it on many lists for most fascinating/interesting sculptures. There’s a lot of theories about what the sculptures represent; folks often ascribe the sculptures to World War II due to its location as it was originally installed in Warsaw in 1977. The artist has said it represents martial law in Communist Poland.
I didn’t know much about the sculptures before deciding what I was going to write. Sometimes when given imagery as a prompt, I try to see where my mind wanders before I get into the real details of a painting, sculpture, line. I like to give my brain a chance to concoct something on its own, see what details it picks up on. Then I’ll add in the research. To me, I was initially haunted by the imagery of these people, in the middle of a bustling city, who couldn’t observe or interact with those around them. Who seemed to be living on their own plane of existence. I also glommed onto the movement in the piece; it reminds me a lot of disappearing into an underground subway station. Apart from city life, yet still a communal experience.
I took some of these feelings and emotions, then melded it with my own experience in Poland. Add in a sprinkle of my own Babcia (бабуся/Baba/grandmother), who used a mix of Ukrainian, Polish, and Russian sayings when she was alive. This is the story that came flowing out.
Lost souls congregated on the outdoor tracks waiting for the 26 Tram at Orzeszkowej in Kazimierz in Krakow. It was early morning, the light still unable to crest the surroundings buildings. Snow lightly blanketed the hats and coats of commuters, casting a gentle warmth to the otherwise gray skies.
Late yesterday evening, before the lights would peter out across the city, a one-way ticket from Kraków to the “North” appeared. Instructions simply stated to board the 26 and exit at “Nowy Dom.” A new home, with little time to fret.
I arrived well before the appointed time, a vestige from my years of commuting. Arriving passengers seemed to ignore me and seven others on the platform, each of us tightly gripping a printed ticket. One, a mother, repetitively pushed her infant back and forth in a pram, eyes boring a hole through the ticket. A man chose to carry a spare tire, ostensibly for the trek ahead. The government official clutched their briefcase close to the chest, no doubt hoping their status would stave off what comes next. And then a little old Babcia in her floral babushka covering her curly greys, a wooden cane in one hand and a purse that could fit the world in the other. Creature comforts for the journey.
As the 26 arrived, I wondered why I ever thought I could miss it; its screeching tires signaling its arrival a block before the platform. Our strange group stared in anticipation then contorted confusion as we realized the tram was just like any other, as if we were traveling to a child’s football game or racing to a date.
Last night my mind concocted scenes of a skeleton tickettaker or a conductor in a white sheet steering the tram. Instead, out stepped an absolutely mundane looking man named Paweł with a dark bushy mustache, a blue pressed uniform and accompanying cap. As if this was any other day.
“Dzień dobry,” the conductor said in greeting, checking my ticket.
“Dziękuję,” I replied out of habit, deeply unsure if I should be thankful for this morning.
The tram car was plastered with ads hawking psychic past life readings and therapy sessions in ten stops or less. I took a seat on the orange plastic molded chairs, peppered with pen carved initials reminding people that “Anastazja was here” and HY + VD. The seven other passengers settled in the same car, the Babcia gingerly lowering herself into the seat closest to me.
The lights flickered overhead as we picked up speed out of the station, occasionally drowning us in complete darkness, sending my pulse rising as it always did on the morning commute. Even in life, I could never get over the feeling shuttling along in this liminal space with an anonymous group of travelers. A group of passerbys, brought together by circumstances and this metal tube, barreling through these tunnels to a common, unknown destination.
Even here there was a solidarity in taking this rusty old track underneath the bustling city. City transportation, the great equalizer. The same fare, same uncomfortably cramped seats, the same questionable puddles in the corner, the same destination. As it is above, temporarily doesn’t matter below.
The passage between destinations always brought out the best in my existentialist crises, the opportunity to view the world from a different angle. In life, it is so much easier to consider all the wrongs of the past than to look towards the endless futures we might create. It is all too easy to get caught in tying together cut endings to craft all the lives we could’ve possibly chosen. But now all I had were possibilities. This sheet metal transporting us to an uncertain exit.
I tucked my chin over my knuckles, intent on memorizing every inch of my former home outside the windows. While I got the sense that these stations weren’t quite the locations I used to frequent, I still felt my jealousy bubble at those departing in Old Town. While most locals hated the hordes of tourists scavenging for deals, moseying unawares, I couldn’t help but love the noise and vibrancy that filled the square at every hour. I loved strolling through Cloth Hall to see the artisans and sneaking into the underground bars for Italian food and cheering “na zdrowie” with every drink. I’d sit on the graded pedestal below Adam Mickiewicz, praying the Bard would imbue his spirit into my poetry.
I’d miss these places. Terribly. But they meant nothing without the people who filled them.
“Next stop, Nowy Dom,” the garbled voice yelled on the speakers. Apparently effective public transportation was a struggle in the next life too. What a strange comfort.
I glance at the Babcia next to me, an anticipatory smile painting her lips, bony knees jittering up and down like a sewing machine. “Is this your stop?” I inquire, hoping my desperation doesn’t leak through.
“Nie,” her soft eyes crinkle in sympathy. “Nowe życie.” New Life. It would’ve been a small mercy to know this woman — who reminds me so much of my own grandmother — would accompany me to the beyond. Perhaps lead me even directly to my own Babcia in her green floral apron and her bountiful kitchen table, yelling at me to “jeść, jeść” before the pierogi becomes cold. Serving seconds and thirds of the Makowiec poppyseed roll.
The bell clangs, signaling the approach into the station. I look back only once to the Babcia, where her smile encourages me to mind the gap. “Do widzenia,” I wish her, adding a silent prayer of good luck her way.
I look to the Nowy Dom station, strangers blurring past the windows. As the brakes screech and my body jolts, I finally look beyond the opening doors.
The standing strap bears the brunt of my weight as I do my best not to collapse to the linoleum floor. In all my wildest anxieties of what came next, I never anticipated that everyone would be here, waiting to accompany me through the passage. Joy etched in the crow’s feet of the relatives I once loved. Those I’ve only known in family tale’s, clapping at my approach. A homecoming.
How many times did I pray for one last embrace? One more conversation. I never imagined the afterlife could be this merciful.
The station was bustling and I knew that time pushed us closer to the passage ahead. We made our way to the expectant staircase, the outdoor sun shining through the grime like a spotlight. A hand grasped mine and then someone else clutched the other. Someone squeezed my shoulder, another hand on the back of my head, a benediction.
Together then.
Check the Pulse
I started this WordPress page ten years ago as a way to document my adventures with the St. Joseph Worker program in Los Angeles. Since its inception, the blog has had its’ starts and stops. My initial reaction is to cringe at some of my previous musings but it’s an homage to who I was and where I am. I couldn’t replicate those early sentiment if I tried and it is a beautiful thing to have this documentation available to me. So much has happened since August 2013: a career switch, a move across the country, a reporting internship, another move across the country, another career switch, venturing into advocacy and organizing — and even a career that taught me how to actually run a WordPress website! All of this within a decade.
In the last year, I made the huge personal leap of taking fiction writing classes. Writing has always been in my blood but I never saw myself venturing beyond reporting or personal essays (despite many, many, many notebooks of fictional characters and their potential adventures). Somehow, those other mediums felt more comfortable than venturing into the world of fiction. Luckily, I had a great friend who sent me this opportunity and took the leap with me; we are now on our third class. Since then, I’ve written 17 different flash fiction stories, which in this case, are stories under 1200 words. Some are character studies, some are mysterious, some are adventures, a lot are deeply emotional, and one piece feels ripped straight from my marrow.
Last month, my first ever fiction piece was published in Whatever Happened to Hansel and Gretel?, an anthology from my first class. Each of us were tasked with creating a ten-year epilogue to the Hansel and Gretel fairytale. It’s been surreal holding my words in my hands. Bound together with other writers. I’m incredibly proud of the work I’ve done in this book and beyond. So, I’m resurrecting this blog to post some of my flash fiction pieces. Some will be posted as they were submitted for class, others I want to edit before they are seen (I have a habit of needing to cut out large parts to make the class’ word limit). All of the stories are responses to specific prompts that I will try to contextualize beforehand.
It feels apt to start with my published piece, Check the Pulse, that also feels like a fitting description for this blog. Check the Pulse explores the tales we tell and who gets to tell their stories. A lot of the details come from the original Grimm’s fairytale. While this isn’t necessarily the story I would’ve chosen to have published, I am incredibly proud to be part of this anthology.
Thank you to everyone who has expressed your support throughout the many, many years of my reporting and writing. Without you, the reader, my words are scribbles in a diary. These words are only fully realized, fully alive when others apply meaning to them.
Check the Pulse
“There are nights where I wake up drenched in sweat, as if I can still feel the heat licking my face. The fire consumes the oven, flames scorching my fingertips. I struggle to leave but she’s holding my face to the blaze. I can’t escape the smell of roasting flesh. And then the screaming starts, reverberating in my head. On a loop over and over and over.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
How does … that … make me feel? I want to shout at him. How should my repeated nightmares from the cottage make me feel? Should I now feel hospitable to strangers? Adventurous? Grateful to be alive?
These last ten years have been a marathon to outmaneuver a past that always seems to know my next move. I fled those woods, never to look back, settling in a village where no one would know our names. I thought I could outrun it all but everything and nothing triggers a cascade of memories: locks on doors, smoke from a distant chimney, broken crumbs on the table.
A year ago, chatter about a new village psychotherapist made its way through the depths of the forest to my new cottage. With few shreds of my sanity left, I took the dive into therapy thinking assistance would come in the form of meds—like cocaine—the “miracle drug” everyone raves about. Instead, I got fainting couches and open-ended questions doubting my feminine sensibilities. Somehow this cigar-obsessed therapist interpreted my trauma as a fantastical imagination from repressed childhood feelings.
Despite his ineptitude, I found catharsis in talking about those long-suppressed emotions, even if I couldn’t safely share the whole truth of my tale. It was an opportunity to speak the version that will never make it into storybooks. The one that would never be whispered in warning to kids at bedtime. No, I somehow find myself on the side of Carthage versus Rome, General Cornwallis in Yorktown, and Napoleon in Russia. On the side of the losers, the defeated and conquered. As history has repeatedly shown, the past is only kind to the victors.
I was in my late thirties when I found two emaciated children nibbling on a wooden shutter of my cottage as if it was candy. As I tried to take in the strange scene before me, the boy — without a shred of pretense — blurted out “what an ugly, very, very old witch.” As an unmarried woman without children, I was used to witchcraft accusations by villagers. I also knew my advanced arthritis and the milky lens from cataracts didn’t help quell the rumors. And yet those words still struck their mark.
Despite the crude assessment, I couldn’t leave these malnourished, hallucinating children on their own. I welcomed them, fed them, and clothed them. In return, the children concocted a story that I was a witch, hellbent on kidnapping and devouring them.
Why would I want to lure more mouths to feed in a famine? I failed to understand how the children’s history of neglect bred a toxic desire to prove their worthiness. Those children would do anything to earn their father’s acceptance, even at my expense. Even kick a blind woman face first into a scalding oven. Fortunately for me, their desire to be the hero in their own story made them hasty. They forgot the cardinal rule of vanquishing any foe: check the pulse. One must be unequivocally
certain that when you say someone is dead, they are positively dead.
I felt powerless long before those children ransacked my cottage. I am a physically disabled, single, middle-aged, non-conventionally attractive blind woman. I knew what it was to be abandoned to the periphery, whispers of disgust trailing my every move. But now I was left disfigured from scalp to breast, pushing me into social pariah status. And those wandering, discarded, starving children? Robbed me of every bauble and heirloom. Living off my wealth while I sit here miserable, in therapy, pondering how to let go of a past that was never finished with me.
“Hexia.” The therapist’s voice drew me from my thoughts.
“You’ve been here for a year and we’ve made no progress. What do you seek from your sessions? Closure? Forgiveness?”
“Closure?” I laughed sardonically. There is no such thing as closure when your scars speak on your behalf, when every stranger is a threat, and every act of kindness is a ploy. How does one move on from a marred life?
“You ought to find resilience, let go of the hysteria,” he continued. “Take those new villagers in town, the brother and sister. You must’ve heard the terrible ordeal they went through as children. They’re settling in so nicely, writing books. They share their tale of torture, while overcoming it to save the townsfolks. What a resilient pair.”
I can excuse their hunger for food, stability, and family. But profiting off their deceit while I live in squalor? I expect panic or fear to course through my veins at the mention of their names. Instead, an icy calmness descends. A clear vision of reparations. Perhaps fate does intervene, I think to myself.
At home after the session, I look at myself in the mirror for the first time in years: my face resembling the side of a melted candle. Droopy, worn, and bubbled. Why is it that heroes never have to atone for their wrongdoings? Why would they when they’re convinced of their own convictions But now, as a plan starts brewing from within, I am filled with hope, purpose, and meaning.
Surely, destiny interceded to devise this fortuitous encounter between us all. After all this time, fate’s little breadcrumbs bringing back our diverged paths.
I know I will forever be the villain in this story. It is impossible to undo what has already been fabricated. Society will always find a way to recast women as witches. But like Heavens’ avenging angels, I might as well find out if vengeance can beget forgiveness.
Kristen is proud to finally call herself a fiction writer. Kristen works as the assistant director of a national nonprofit and previously worked as an award-winning journalist and a case manager. In addition to her work, she is a disability advocate, fighting to make #insulin4all a reality. In
her free time, she loves reading, embroidering, outdoor movie nights, and being an auntie.
A Eulogy for an Unforgettable Man
Best friends from the start
I read the below eulogy exactly two weeks ago to a room filled with family and friends. It is truly a celebration of the most influential man in my life; a man who loved his family with such reckless abandon. John “Jack” Whitney – or Pops as me and my cousins referred to him – lived a simple life devoted entirely to his family. He had an amazing sense of adventure, a deep appreciation for music, and was his grandchildren’s biggest cheerleaders.
These last few weeks have been strange (to say the least) and I’ve been forced to grieve in the privacy and confines of my own house. It’s not how I imagined grieving this great loss but it’s given me an opportunity to pause and sit with the grief as it transforms (and transforms me). There isn’t a single day that goes by that I don’t miss him. Some days, it’s a lovely memory that reminds me his love is never too far. Other days, it’s the deep ache of loss that burrows deep within my heart.
To the very end.
During the last week of his life I spent every single evening with him. I rubbed his head and neck, held his hand in comfort, played music, and recounted some of our favorite memories. He made me laugh, he made me cry. We talked about my testimony at the state capitol and he worried about how I was going to afford my insulin (one of the last things he said to me). He made me promise to keep giving those legislators hell. On his very last day, he still requested kisses; ones I didn’t know needed to last forever.
Each of those moments I’ll carry with me forever.
This eulogy was written for my family and the close-knit group of friends he kept. There are a lot of inside jokes below that speak to his constant ability to make us laugh. If anything doesn’t make sense- ask me. I’ll take any chance I can to talk more about this unforgettable man. Any chance to keep his memory alive:
I first want to thank everyone on behalf of my family for being here.
We are so thankful to have so many people celebrating the life of my beloved Pops. Writing this eulogy is the best way I can think of honoring him today, so thank you for joining me as I remember him the best I can.
I think it would be inappropriate to start this off any other way than with a joke:
What time do you go to the dentist? Tooth-hurty.
That was one of Pops’ greatest hits. I like to think of him as the originator of “Papa joke,” the jokes that always elicited a light groan but nevertheless left you smiling and hoping for another.
After everything that happened to get here, I think he was more excited than me for this graduation.
Jack, Papa or Pops was the patriarch of our family and the start of the never-ending “John” trend. So many members of our family have the great honor of being named after this amazing man. And if that wasn’t good enough for our family, well, then the women went out and found their own Johns. Since naming me John was out of the question, I decided on the next best thing – adding Whitney to my last name.
In so many ways, I chose to add that name to honor the man who’s been my best friend since day one. The man who stepped in as a father figure during my teens and the man who was never shy with his “I love yous.” For so long I wanted to honor the man who had been with me every single step of my journey and I couldn’t think of a better way to carry him and my family with me forever.
There are a lot of things I could say about Pops. He was an incredibly hard worker, working at Carpenter Steel for over 30 years to provide for his family. I could also talk about his love of music, bowling or playing pinochle. But the one thing that ties all of this together is his undying and unending love for his family.
See? My biggest cheerleader.
No one loved their family as much as Pops. He was never afraid to tell us how much he loved us. He was our biggest cheerleader– he showed up at every game, 10-hour dance recital, first communion or play that his grandchildren were in. Some of you may know that when I announced I was going to California to do a year of service; Pops was absolutely furious with me. He was worried about my health, he was worried about my safety, he was worried about a million different things. Throughout my time in California, I started blogging about my experience. Both Nana and Pops would periodically tell me that they read it. However, it wasn’t until I posted a speech I gave about how much the experience had meant to me that Pops told me how he really felt. He told me just how proud he was and how happy he was that I went to California. Fast forward to a few weeks ago and as we were sorting through some of his belongings, we uncovered a file that him and Nana kept of every piece of writing I had ever written. Everything from my dinky little blog to my more recent published works. I will so sorely miss him cheerleading me from the sidelines of my life, my biggest fan.
I think everyone from the family will forever remember Pops’ “slippery pants.” These shiny blue track pants allowed each and every grandchild to slide down his leg with glee for hours at a time and probably at the expense of his knees. This tradition started with his first grandchild Karen and continued for 37 years with the birth of his great grandchild Billy, who he absolutely adored. He always loved warming up hugs and kisses for each of us.
In California.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the love he had for his wife of 62 years, Pat, or more fondly known as “Pergus.” I am not exaggerating when I say that she is the love of his life. Nana was Pops first and only girlfriend. Impressed by Nana’s ice skates artfully swung over her shoulder, Pops decided that she was the woman he was going to marry. Unbeknownst to him, she had no idea how to skate and had borrowed these skates from one of her friends for the sole purpose of nabbing Pops because, as she put it, she hated the cold but knew she wanted him.
This story provided plenty of laughs and much comfort during Pops last week of life. Even on his final day on this Earth, when words failed him, he pointed to his cheek to get the kisses he so cherished from his sweetie.
I am so honored to have accompanied my grandfather these last two years since he moved to Connecticut and most especially the last few weeks of his life. Alzheimer’s can be a tough and trying disease but through it all, this man wanted to ensure each of us knew how much we were loved and worked double-time to make us laugh.
As I was going through his old yearbook, I found a quote that sums up his humorous disposition:
“One of the boys… he’ll fire a joke when your defenses are down and the world starts looking better”
My favorite dance partner
I can’t think of a better way to sum up what his laughter meant to me, meant to all of us. Through every difficult and challenging moment he fought to bring a genuine smile to our faces. And 9 out of 10 times he succeeded- mostly because his own laugh was so contagious. He taught me to laugh at myself, not take the world so seriously, and the importance of laughing at our own jokes.
During his last week, all I could think about was how I wasn’t ready to lose his laugh, his caring spirit, his unending love. I don’t think any of us are, nor will be. He will be missed so damn much. But I can’t help but think how lucky we are to have a person we are not only here to grieve but someone who we deserve to celebrate. He’s an amazing man that has the chance to live on in each of us — in our name, in how we choose to love our family, in how we show up for one another and how we find the humor in every situation. Personally, I choose to carry his spirit in my fight for insulin — something he was worried about even up until the end. But just like you told me Pops, I promise to keep givin’ em hell.
As we continue on with Pops forever in our hearts and in our spirits, I know through time we’ll all be s’alright (s’ok) if we make this journey together.
And Pops, since you got there first, I’ll let you make the mark. And when I get there, I promise to erase it.
Relics of Valentines Past
Music is the way I filter the world. I narrate my day using music. My life — seen through my brain — often looks a lot like a movie montage, cued to the perfect music. I have Spotify playlists for every occasion. Seriously, I love orchestrating the perfect mix.
Love is no different for me. Punk songs will immediately have me strolling back to shared seats on yellow buses huddling closer to my cd player with first loves. Softer, folksy tunes remind me of new beginnings in salt-tinged winds. Pop synth beat drops talking about love fearing millennials takes me back to his long, wavy brunette hair that I loved to envy. Summer anthems never let me forget the thrum of possibility that courses through my veins as temperatures warm.
Each relationship — whether it fizzled out or went down in flames — elicits an immediate musical response. ‘Fools Gold’ by Fitz and the Tantrums belongs to a mediocre first date. Unrequited love? There’s a song (actually ten) for that. Even the fabric of some of my longest friendships are deeply based in melodies. Even when the feelings fade, music is the last bastion for these memories.
This playlist started at about 100 songs. Now, I’ve narrowed it down to not-quite-the-number-I-was-aiming for. What started out as an inspiration playlist for an upcoming post (stay tuned!), turned into a sensory-filled ramble through the haunts of loves past. There’s a song for plenty of milestones and moments in my life: first love; unrequited love; relationships that never made it to the l-word; the aftermaths; the anthem for when I love myself and want to wear all the eyeliner; when I want to celebrate my singledom; when I loathe my singledom; how I feel about love right now; and for the deep, unyielding love I have for my friends.
This list was painful to narrow down — I had to leave off plenty of songs that I adore and make me swoon. But it’s three days before Valentine’s Day, I’m single and it’s 2018 — you’re gonna get a weird mix. Without further ado, here is my carefully curated list of songs in no particular order for 2018’s Valentine’s Day. Let me know in the comments what songs make your own Valentine’s Day list!
https://open.spotify.com/embed/user/122420366/playlist/5qisBi9kP9ywyrfcu0BXmz
A Diaversary.
All of us have days we celebrate — card companies thrive on it. But for most people, there are also dates that we silently choose to acknowledge. Dates that represent a before and after; a past and present; a life that you can never go back to. For me, that date came 12 years ago today.
When I was first diagnosed with diabetes, my whole world flipped upside down. Doctors were suddenly throwing around foreign terms like “boluses” and “basals.” I had to learn how to count carbohydrates, measure up a hypodermic needle with insulin, and pray that my math was accurate. Food suddenly became a life-or-death algebra problem. And I will be the first to admit, algebra was never my style.
I spent one very intense week at Yale’s 7-4 unit — filled with doctor’s trying to erase 15 years of habits and introduce a lifetime’s worth of new ones. At that time, I could only think about what my life was like an hour ago, twenty-four hours ago, a week ago. My mind was so immeshed in what I had lost that all I could do was dwell on what my life was before.
Now, 12 years later, that “before” seems like such a small blip in my life. I find it hard to remember life without this incessant companion. I can’t recall the taste of a sip of regular soda. I’ve lost the impulse to have orange juice with every breakfast. Carrying around extra pump supplies is second nature. The bionic technology trying to replicate my pancreas no longers feels like an intrusion.
12 years of perspective.
That is almost a year’s worth of sleep lost. Ain’t no rest for the wicked.
As I sit here and write this I realize I have an adolescent-aged disease. Next year, my disease will be a teenager (a grumpy, petulant teenager seems like an accurate description). I hoped after 12 years with this disease I’d have a better grip on it. And yet I sit here, still hoping someone will revoke my diabetes card.
Diabetes has never and will never be an easy road. The amount of hours of sleep I’ve lost from highs, lows, and the fear of both is innumerable. As both my disease and I have aged, I now worry about things like adequate insurance, and the rising costs of insulin. I often find my mind wondering what ill-effects my blood sugar or a1c will mean in the future.
Perspective doesn’t make the difficult times disappear. I still wish I never had diabetes. It definitely crosses my mind when I’ve been woken up for the sixth time in one night by my continuous glucose monitor’s alarm. It surely pops up on those days when I’ve done everything right and I still can’t keep my numbers in-range. And always during the winter, when I’m usually nursing away my third infection of the season.
But perspective has been an incredible educator. No one is immune to hardships and tragedy in this life. But through mine, I’ve cultivated a strong sense of empathy. I now celebrate small victories like when my a1c decreases by a point. I’ve learned what my breaking point is after a few years of trying to handle this disease on my own. I own that it truly takes a village: endocrinologists, nurse practitioners, a therapist, understanding friends, and caring family. It’s given me a unique sense of humor that’s accompanied me through life’s many peaks and valleys.
You know you’ve got a good crew when they steal signs for your group photo. (2012)
I love my Diaversary; maybe even more than my own birthday. My birthday is arbitrary, I had no choice in the date. But I choose to celebrate and acknowledge my Diaversary. The day represents a re-birth. A start of a new life, a new journey. Stuck in 7-4, I couldn’t even begin to imagine having this disease for a year. Then it was five years and later a decade. Now 12 years have gone by.
Diabetes was a reckoning in my life. And as my diabetes ages — going from adolescence to puberty — I hope that I never stop learning from it. I hope to keep lowering my a1c, giving myself the best chance for the future. I hope to one day not live in fear of the night. And deep down, some part of me still holds onto that hope for a cure. But for now, I am lucky enough that I get to live, survive, and thrive.
Cheers to many, many more.
Road Trip of America, Part I
In August 2016, my mom and I embarked on the first part of our road trip across America (year long pit stop included). Initially I was stoked to take this trip. It has always been my dream to live in an RV and travel the United States. Yes, my idea of a life goal is to live in an RV. Which to anyone who works in social services knows this would classify me as homeless. No, the irony is not lost on me.
Of course there were nerves leading up to the big move but I saw this trip as the start to a brilliant new adventure. Every great new chapter starts with the vast open roads, a mixtape and junk food. Not to mention I would travel to several states I had never been to before.
In typical “me” fashion, two days before I was to leave, I started experiencing severe issues with my back. My doctors all suggested surgery, which would have forced me to postpone my journalism internship by at least a month. For the first time in my life I faced two options where neither seemed like the right answer. In one scenario I’d be given more time in my beloved California — more time in the city I was suddenly struggling to leave. However, I feared that if I didn’t leave now, I’d talk myself out of this new pursuit. It would be so simple to let my fears win.
In the end I decided to move forward, albeit a few days delayed. In pain and completely unsure if I had made the correct decision, I set out in the early hours to watch the sunrise over the San Bernadino National Forest. The trip took us through California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Kansas and finally to my new home in Missouri. This is a (very) brief look at the astounding beauty that cajoled me over the hills and mountains to the Midwest prairies.
Somewhere between Los Angeles and Vegas. Everyone from LA will recognize this route by it’s utter desolation.
No one should see what Vegas looks like during the day.
This is the point of the trip where the sprawling desert and tumbleweeds turned into unique rock formations. This is the west I had been waiting for.
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Salt Wash View Area, Utah
Salt Wash View Area is a rest area in an uninhabited area of Utah on route 70 that makes you question how strong your cell phone service is. The mountains and formations were truly breathtaking. If I remember correctly, they found quite a bit of dinosaur fossils in this area.
On the road, you can find inspiration anywhere. Especially on roadside pitstops.
This was our dinner reservation for the evening.
We made it from California to Utah to arrive at our first overnight stop in Green River, UT. It was the only city for miles and we wanted to settle down for the evening. What we didn’t realize was that we settled into a ghost town. Our first go at dinner didn’t go that well (see: above). However, according to Wikipedia, it was the setting to the only movie I watched when I was sick as a kid, An American Tail: Fievel Goes West.
Vail
Day 2 found us getting much higher… in altitude. Our pit stop of the day featured Vail, Colorado. It’s a picturesque ski town nestled between two mountain ranges that makes it feel as if live moves differently here from the rest of civilization. I just remember the colors being so much more vivid in Vail; the range of greenery in the mountains, the type of blue sky that gave Crayola the name, cotton for clouds and wildflowers in every color. It was a refreshing pitstop that left me craving for more.
The grave of William Cody, aka “Buffalo Bill”
Luckily I didn’t have to wait long till our next pit stop. Although we didn’t go into the museum, we did walk around and see the grave site of Buffalo Bill in Golden, CO.
Cornfields for days
We decided to get into Kansas so our third driving day would be relatively short. It was a bit jarring to go from the winding mountains to the flats of East Denver and Kansas. It seemed as if the border crossing instantly transported us to the stereotypical Midwest images I grew up with. Now, I find so much beauty in these methodical fields that feed us. But back then, the dearth of humans and buildings over three stories tall made me question what I was really getting myself into.
Niegazowana
Group L still smiling in the pouring rain.
I’ve posted a lot about Poland. I’ve covered Auschwitz, Old Town, Americans in Poland, and World Youth Day. In fact, I have a photojournalism spread in the National Catholic Reporter of my travels during World Youth Day. I feel like I summed it up pretty well in that spread:
Part of the allure of going to World Youth Day is immersing oneself into the host country’s culture. It is estimated that 3 million pilgrims converged in Kraków, Poland this summer for the chance to see and hear Pope Francis in person. These photos reflect Poland through the eyes of a pilgrim and not merely a tourist. They document the rise and fall of a nation and a country that continues to march on.
Some of my favorite moments include getting to experience Poland with my brother and his girlfriend, Krissy. There’s something special about getting to experience the land of your ancestors with your family. (Thanks Jessi for this wonderful photo!)
I’ve been fortunate enough to write quite a bit about WYD and Poland, so much so that there’s not much more to be written. But I do want to show some of the behind the scenes photos that weren’t able to be published but still mean the world to me.
The monuments and memorials were so powerful and will stay with me forever. But behind the monuments was a life-changing experience with some of my closest friends. We learned the wonders of “niegazowana,” that frites are the best way to end the day, underneath Old Town is some of the best Italian food and that experiencing another country is best with friends (old and new).
Cheers and love to my Group “L.”
Casey and I in Warsaw. My first time out in Europe and couldn’t get enough of the cobblestone.
Andrew hanging a rosary at Our Lady of Częstochowa in Jasna Gora. The walls of the shrine are filled with ex-votos, offerings for miracles.
Violinist in front of Zamek Królewski (the Royal Castle).
Julia and I sporting the same sunglasses at our Warsaw hotel. The hotel was a bit far from everything, but there was a park across the street with a light up fountain that was perfect for running through.
Mike Tyson, the unofficial sponsor of the normally empty field of Błonia Park
First night in Kraków, Elizabeth and I got caught up in a flash mob in front of St. Mary’s. Every night thereafter they had to close down the square because of the amount of pilgrims. This was the calm before the storm.
Laura and I hanging with the Pope. Well, sort of. Here we are attempting to translate the Pope’s speech in Italian into English.
Getting in trouble for eating the floral arrangements. Who can blame me when there were over 200 pilgrims to feed?
On our final day in Kraków I snuck out and did some sightseeing. I wish I had more time to explore Wawel Castle, as it’s an incredible piece of history and architecture. St. Leonard’s Crypt was particularly neat, with tombs dating back hundreds and hundreds of years.
They’re pretty adorable, aren’t they?
Group L keeping in classy in Jasna Gora. (And a big thanks to Jessi and her act of heroism of carrying that huge camera around so we can actually have nice photos).
“I’m ready to leave, I’m ready to live”
It’s been one hell of a year. I’ve visited 21 U.S. states since setting out for Kansas City a little over a year ago — with ten of them being completely new to me. During that time, I’ve called four different states home. I’ve seen absurdly large balls of twine and shuttlecocks; ghost towns and metropolitans; majestic mountains and endless cornfields.
The more I travel the U.S., the more I am captivated by it’s beauty. I embrace the differences and celebrate our similarities. Each new place represents a chance to learn, listen and experience. There is something enthralling about being in a place you know nothing of. By interrupting our mundane, we give ourselves a chance to learn about ourselves. How do we react when we’re lost? How can one embrace another’s life, another’s culture? Each place I’ve visited, no matter how briefly, has revealed a part of myself.
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime. —Mark Twain
I’m still processing all that’s happened in this whirlwind of a year. So I hope you’ll bear with me as I sort through photos, stories and mementos of these travels. It seems like a waste to have all of these stored deep in my computer and brain. I’m excited to share some sweet spots from places both local and far.
An ode to the one I was never supposed to fall in love with
None of this went accordingly.
One year ago you barreled into my life on a dare. At first your presence reminded me of all the things I desperately missed in LA: the family that I rediscovered and loved me through some intense periods of growth; friends that accompanied me through the trenches — a group I traded battle stories with at a Main Street bar, trying to make sense of the unthinkable things we witnessed the previous week; my spiritual gurus who taught me the equal power of prayer and action. And, of course, the breezy, salt tinged nights that helped quiet my soul and convinced me I was home. Everything LA was, you were not.
To the say we had a rocky beginning would be an understatement — your sheer proximity filled me with trepidation and second-guessing. I wanted stability, you made me waver. I needed roots, you kept me wandering. I craved familiarity but instead you offered only beginnings. All the signs that lead me to you felt like one gigantic, cosmic joke.
I can’t pinpoint when things changed, when trepidation turned to acquaintance and eventually to enjoyment, which paved the way for an earnest love. What I do know is that gradually you revealed your quirks and oddities to me, drawing me in further until I was in too deep. For your peculiarities and idiosyncrasies complemented mine. The irony of loving you is that by depleting myself, I found what was missing. All along I was meant to meet you and find a missing puzzle piece I never knew was gone. You loved me even when I didn’t love you, when I couldn’t love you. But you persisted. To most people you are over-looked, glanced at from a far. I am so happy I took the time to discover, to look beyond the surface.
You have given me so much. You’re the reason for a whole new group of friends, full of fiery passion and drive, friends that continue to inspire me with their determination for a better tomorrow. You’ve given me a job, career and hobby all rolled into one. But most of all- you’ve forced me to grow in ways I never expected. I have a confidence in my writing that I’ve never knew possible. I have a renewed sense of passion for nuances and justice — learning to dive headfirst into the gray and in-between. Your love has strengthened my independence and interdependence; realizing that my tenacity comes from a community of support. And I’ve learned to love this breathtaking part of the country: the symmetrical intricacies of a cornfield, muddy rivers that once transported people to their dreams and the cotton candy saturated sunsets that hold fast to the corners of the sky till the last possible second.
I never counted on you. You’ve given me so much in this one year, yet I offer so little in return. Instead I vow to carry your lessons, your diversity and your resilience with me wherever I go.
So, so long for now, my dear Kansas City. I never planned on loving my foster city this much. But I’m sure as hell glad I did. You’ve left an indelible mark that will stay with me as I move forward to new paths and journeys. I am so proud to say I lived here, in this little city with too big of a heart to be contained in just one state.
Uncertainty, fear and the ACA
This was originally posted on Beyond Type 1, a website and community exclusively for type one diabetics, and those who love them.
The original story can be found here.
Fear can be a powerful tool, if you only let it.
Fear is the only word I can use to describe the feelings that engulfed me in the early hours of November 9, 2016. Daylight was still hours away from being able to chase away the fears that came with the election results. So there I was, left alone to ponder what my future would look like. Left to wonder what would my future as a diabetic with other autoimmune disorders would resemble. Left to wonder what would happen to the Affordable Care Act (ACA), a lifeline for so many.
For you see, only nine days earlier, in honor of my 26th birthday, I lost my health insurance. For the first time I was left with no security, no assurance, no guarantees. When I allowed my mind to wander to those thoughts of the future, it appeared — and unfortunately continues to appear — grim for those of us who require assistance from the ACA.
Diabetics are a unique breed. We do not get a free day when it comes to our diabetes. Denying its existence is a recipe for disaster. As people with diabetes, we become hyper aware that each moment counts. We know one hour our sugars can be in perfect range, the next we’re spilling ketones. We are always conscious that yesterday’s cold can be tomorrow’s pneumonia. We are never allowed to forget that each and every reading on a glucose meter requires immediate attention.
To be diabetic and uninsured for one month, one day, even one minute is walking a dangerous tightrope.
At the age of 25.5, on that dangerous precipice of being uninsured, I was offered a second chance to pursue my childhood dream of writing. When the first opportunity to write presented itself, I hesitated, letting my fear steer me so far away that I never thought of it as a career again.
Life doesn’t grant many second chances and this time, I was ready. Now I would no longer let fear dictate my direction — not with my dream so close, so tangible, so irresistibly within reach. I took the internship knowing that the ACA (and the pre-existing condition coverage) would be there, a safety net created especially for millennials like me. A security for those still trying to make their mark in this world, yet unwilling to compromise their paths, plans, and dreams.
Despite my sincere appreciation for the ACAs existence, I have had a contentious relationship with it from the moment I picked up the phone to enroll. Yet, one can simultaneously express gratitude but demand change. I know that for the ACA to be truly effective, it requires reform.
So far, I have spent over five hours on the phone with the ACA employees — two hours and ten minutes of that time just on hold. It has required patience, patience I never thought I possessed, especially when their mistake left me ineligible for insurance for two months. My mind has been questioning how I will afford my healthcare until I meet my deductible.
It took me only five days into my ACA coverage to put it to the test. I rang in the New Year with an infection that suddenly took hold of my sinuses and chest. It didn’t take long for it to become clear I needed a doctor’s attention. Now I am left working off my deductible, a task that seems like using a toothpick to chip away at a block of ice. Yet, I get back up and hope the next couple months are some of my better months.
But if they’re unpredictably not, then I know my out-of-pocket expenses won’t be astronomical. It’ll require a serious dip into my savings, a luxury that not many have, but it will be doable. I won’t be confounded by never ending doctor’s bills, so buried under insurmountable debt that I’ve seen drown so many others.
My advice to the many diabetics who are navigating the unsteady waters of the ACA for the first time: For now, forget the news and the headlines and get signed up as soon as possible. I encourage you to do your research about plans, deductibles, out-of-pocket expenses and co-pays. Ensure that your plan covers your essentials. The ins and outs to the ACA are never ending, and you can never know too much. And if does get to be too much, do not be afraid to ask for help. Know there are people whose sole job is to sign people up for the ACA. Locate clinics near you that serve the underinsured. Research the financial assistance for diabetics and for certain medications.
As I write this, I do not know how long my advice for navigating the ACA will be valid. However, what I do know is that insurance is not a luxury for me and so many others with type one diabetes. Access to health insurance is not nearly enough — all people should be guaranteed adequate coverage. Our health is not for sale, a partisan game to be played. I should never have to ration my lifeblood, my insulin. I should never be faced with the decision of which medication to forgo for another. I shouldn’t be forced to stop seeing the specialists that help me carry this considerable burden.
The fear I felt the day after the election is still here, but I won’t let it cripple me. My fear reminds me that never again should people be robbed of their right to health insurance because of the genetic hand they’ve been dealt. My fear prompts me to use that info to inform others. Fear can be an agent of change. Combined with the inimitable strength that our journey with diabetes provides us, we can help change the system. 20 million are counting on it.
Kristen Whitney Daniels 