Diversity is beautiful

I love diversity.

It is not something that instills fear or anxiety in me. In fact, monotony does that.

When everyone looks the same, acts the same, believes in the same things, I am filled with a sense of uneasiness. Group think has never really been my thing.

I live now in a place where most people look very much alike. And I miss and long for the diversity that I found comfort in from my communities in the US. In many ways, I feel like I took that diversity for granted when I lived in the US. Whenever we leave Finland now, it’s always shocking to realise just how homogeneous becomes normal. But, in the US, those communities and all those in them were beautiful to me. From the people, to the accents, to the landscapes, to the foods, I’ve found beauty in those differences.

As a nation comprised of immigrants and their descendants, the country’s canvas is a vast tapestry of stories and histories rich and varied. Those histories are not always happy nor pleasant, particularly when we add in the horrific histories of indigenous people and slaves those of us who claim European ancestry abused, exploited or decimated. I’d like to think we can learn from our past mistakes and try to atone for and correct them. But, that’s a longer post, and beyond the scope of today’s protest postcard.

To me, the people of the US in all of our diversity are what make us who we are and provide us with a uniquely rich collection of beliefs, traditions and ideas.

That’s worth celebrating and protecting. It’d be bloody boring if we all looked and acted the same, no?

Protest postcard #7 of 50

Intersectionality

Does the intersectionality of race, gender and sexuality really need further explanation?

Spend five minutes on social media and it’s clear that it does.

Perhaps it’s the anthropologist in me, or just a matter of my personality. I’ve long been interested in the interconnection between things, particularly the social constructs we humans use to inform our realities and world views. Specifically, how we decide who represents us versus who we view as them fascinates — and, at times, horrifies — me. But, those intersections and interconnections between categories, which place each us in various positions of privilege or groups to which discrimination and stigma are directed, are also used to divide us by the powers that be.

If we’re fighting one another, we cannot fight them. Hell, we might just miss what exactly they are doing to begin with.

My feminism is one which examines those intersections and attempts to empower those with the least power. It gives voice to the voiceless. Makes visible the invisible. Accepts the unacceptable.

I cannot divorce my ethnicity from my class from my gender from my sexuality. In my world, no one should need to. But, I can and try as much as possible to recognise where I fall along the intersectionality continuum. And, I attempt to work towards minimising the distance between categories along that scale for those less advantaged whilst aiming for the creation of an equitable, just and empowering society for all.

Pro-choice is pro-life

Today’s postcard is perhaps one of the issues that I feel most strongly about since for me it’s connected to just about every other aspect of my life and belief system.

One of the first national-level protests I took part in was the Women’s Rights March in Washington, DC in ’91 or ’92. The reason I took part was because I felt then and still believe today that no one has a right to decide what happens in my uterus or to my body besides me. My physician is naturally involved when medically necessary. And, my husband, of course, is apart of those conversations and discussions. But, the ultimate decisions and consequences are mine and mine alone to make and to bare.

Simply put: this is my body and this is my choice.

And, yet, here we are in 2020 continuing to wage war over women’s rights to do with their bodies what they want.

Women seeking refuge in the US from violence and war in their homelands have had their uteruses literally ripped out of them, forcibly and unknowingly and without their consent. Why? Because they are poor, vulnerable and other. Because they are considered unworthy.

That’s not pro-life — that’s limiting their reproductive freedom, and its tantamount to genocide. Persecuting Muslims because of the actions of some, murdering black and LGBTQI individuals because of racist and sexist and cisgender stereotypes are also not pro-life attitudes.

I am not pro-abortion; I’m pro-choice, because it allows girls and women the ability to make choices which have lasting impacts on their lives. I support allowing women to decide when and how they reproduce as well as how they prevent unwanted and unplanned pregnancies from occurring in the first place. And to me that’s always been a pro-life perspective,since it keeps abortion safe and ultimately protects women and their children from unnecessary harm. But it also allows for the means to prevent unwanted and unplanned pregnancies, thereby diminishing the need for abortion. Isn’t that the point? Minimising the need?

Against abortion? No one is forcing you to have one. Similarly, no one should force me or any woman to have a child she does not want nor feel she can care for. No one should be forced to continue a pregnancy and carry it to term if they do not want to. Women are not (yet) handmaids. I’ll fight like hell to make sure they never become them.

If you consider yourself pro-life, then do you also support and work to protect Muslim women and babies? Immigrants whether documented or not? Refugees? Black lives? And LGBTQI lives?

If the answer to any of those questions was anything other than an unqualified ‘yes’, then you are not pro-life. You are pro-foetus. But, what of that foetus once it is out of the womb? Do you still fight to protect it? Is that life still sacred?

It makes me incredibly angry that we still need to fight for this specific freedom. But I’ll continue fighting, not just for women in the US. But, for women everywhere.

Abortion should be legal. It must remain safe. And, it should be rare. But, that requires freedom for women to make decisions regarding their own reproductive lives.

The real #MarchforLife — Protest Postcard #5 of 50

This is what democracy looks like

‘Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

The First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America

Free speech and the freedom to assemble are so incredibly precious. And a free press allows us to remain informed as voters as well as citizens and residents. But, they are also crucial to the functioning and survival of the ideals of democracy, if not democracy itself.

To me, free speech is a fundamental component of a healthy exchange of ideas. It means being able to voice your beliefs and notions of what society should look like along with the shape of its institutions. It also means listening to the ideas and beliefs of others without them fearing retribution or retaliation. Not deciding that one group is the only voice that matters. Not declaring one belief system superior to all others. Not demonising individuals or groups who think differently. But, forging a path towards understanding and allowing room for discussions and consensus to flourish.

I may disagree with someone; but I will defend their right to speak up and be heard so long as they do so peaceably and respectfully. I only ask that they do the same for me.

This right — freedom of speech — is delicate. And in too many places in the world, it is not guaranteed. The line between critic and dissenter is so blurred that any voice of concern becomes threatened. In some places, voices of opposition are beaten by authorities, jailed and tortured. In others, those expressing their opposition are disappeared.

I genuinely fear that soon enough that first and most precious right — endowed to us all in the United States through the First Amendment because it is so crucial to every other right — will be shattered. That voices of dissent will be silenced and opposition ostracised if not persecuted. It looks as though it’s already happening given the events of 2020.

To me, protests are truly American. Indeed, our country began as a protest against a king. And these posts are my way of showing solidarity with all those who continue to let their voices be heard, especially when it is difficult and the outcome uncertain.

Protest Postcard #4 of 50

Health care is a human right

Today’s image from the 50 protest postcards resonates with me for various reasons: some personal, others professional. And, all based on evidence.

I’ve long worked in public health. But, I’ve been an advocate and activist for universal healthcare for all for even longer.

One of the first issues which informed and guided my own political compass was health care. It astounded me then (late ’80s and early ’90s) that the United States was the only developed, high-income country in the world to not have a national healthcare system. It astounds me even more that we continue to occupy that bit of exceptionalism and that the discussions still rage on today in 2020.

I’ve also benefited from living in a country with a well-functioning, high-quality national healthcare system. It’s inconceivable to the average Finn that a resident or citizen wouldn’t be cared for from cradle to grave or that millions face financial ruin or death because they can’t afford the care they need. Or that individuals would need to subsidise and fundraise to afford care when faced with an emergency or life-threatening illness. This reality has become more stark to many in the face of Covid 19.

In the richest country on the planet, in 2020, we spend more on health care per capita than any other country by far, and yet perform worse far poorer countries on just about every single health metric. In fact, the only metric we outperform other countries on is spending.

What good is fantastic care if no one or very few can access it?

I support Medicare 4 All. That said, I’d be happy with a hybrid system, one which features both public and private options because I understand complete change may take time, and be somewhat scary for my fellow Americans.

To me, it makes sense and represents a more humane approach to offer everyone basic, universal healthcare coverage from birth through the end of life. And, if individuals wish to, they may also purchase private insurance and coverage. Choosing between a meal and insulin, a roof or cancer treatment, a tooth extraction or an electric bill should not be a viable or acceptable system. Not for the proclaimed richest nation.

No one should be granted care only because they are privileged enough to afford it. No one should be barred care because they are too poor.

People — all people — will be healthier if they are all able to access the care they need when they need it. And that’s good for all of us.

Postcard #3 of 50.

‘This land was made for you and me’

Today’s image from 50 protest postcards reminded me of the power of music and the simple messages they bring, along with some rather treasured childhood memories.

Amongst all the patriotic songs I learned as a child, this was my favourite.

This land is your land, and this land is my land
From the California to the New York Island,
From the Redwood Forest, to the Gulf stream waters;
This land was mad for you and me.

As I went walking that ribbon of highway
I saw above me that endless skyway;
Saw below me the golden valley;
This land was made for you and me.

I roamed and rambled and I’ve followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts;
All around me a voice was sounding;
This land was made for you and me.

When the sun come shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was changing:
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking I saw a sign there,
And on the sign it said, ‘No Trespassing’
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing.
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.

Woody Guthrie


My grandparents in their retirement afforded me an incredible gift: in addition to their time and love, each summer they took me on journeys across the US to see it all. We’d pick a region and go explore it. Along the way in their ginormous motor home, which was bigger than some flats I’ve lived in as an adult, we’d learn factoids and history about each state we visited, stop in at the visitor’s centres as we crossed state lines to gather key info, and ‘camp’ (or glamp in today’s vernacular) in various national parks.

I didn’t just learn history; that history was situated in a context that included physical places and actual people who take shape in the individuals who populated those places during those summers.

I credit those summers as some of my most treasured family moments (even when I was a total shit). But, also, those journeys instilled in me a deep sense of pride in the rich diversity of the United States, both its geography and its people. Those summers also created a love of the road and adventure, and an understanding that the view from the ground even in parts unknown isn’t so scary. Before moving abroad, I spent a lot of time in national parks camping and exploring as well as simply relaxing and marvelling at how beautiful the US is and how incredibly varied its landscape and people are. And, if I’m completely honest, I miss being there and hitting the road to find some off-the-beaten path dinner with food that taste like nothing I will have had before or since.

Nefarious interests have divided us, far more than I suspect we really are. Those interests have pitted us against one another rather than against those who continue to pilfer and profit from us and from the land upon which we live.

But, I believe still there is room for and a place for us all in our country. And I believe it’s worth protecting and working towards making it more just and more perfect: not just for me or you, but for us all.

And, fundamentally, I believe it is still worth fighting to preserve — the land itself and the institutions designed to foster and establish that more perfect union promised to us all.

It’s up to us now

I was already struggling with election anxiety and news cycles of unending madness and chaos.

From the upheaval at USPS at at time when mail-in voting is potentially life-preserving, to AG Barr’s desire to charge protesters and dissenters with sedition, to forced sterilisation of immigrant women in detention centres, to the non-stop lies and fabrications, to raging fires in both North America and Brazil, on top of a global pandemic as we head into winter, it’s too much, y’all. It’s simply too much.

And, then, Saturday dawns and the news of RBG‘s death greeted me as I scrolled through Twitter (fuck you, Mitch McConnell) whilst waiting for my coffee to brew.

This morning feels incredibly dangerous, not just for women’s rights and reproductive freedom, but for democracy in general. The fragility of the rule of law, immigrant rights, voting rights, environmental and labour justice and the simple idea that laws should not hinge upon the mad ramblings of an individual who would like to be king and a party that allows him to do so all feel just that much closer to disintegration. And the nightmare that is 2020 continues.

Yet, this isn’t some distant land; it’s happening in the United States. It’s just unreal and yet far, far too real.

At some point over the past year or so, I received a packet of 50 protest postcards to benefit the ACLU in a book hookup subscription from Strand Bookstore in NYC. Since my copy of Notorious RBG is currently with a friend, I flipped through those protest postcards looking for hope I suppose or something to give me solace as the tears flowed. I kept returning to this image:

For the next 50 days, I’ll be posting one of these images, primarily to remind myself what I’m fighting for. But, also, to remind us all that we must continue to fight for as long as we can, in whatever way we can and for as long as it takes to create a more perfect union for us all.

RBG provided us with a to-do list. That list is rather simple:

– Work for what you believe in
– But pick your battles
– Don’t burn your bridges
– Don’t be afraid to take charge
– Think about what you want, then do the work
– But, then, enjoy what makes you happy
– Bring along your crew
– Have a sense of humour

from Notorious RBG

So, today, I’ll honour the gigantically iconic yet tiny in stature, courageous righteous, brilliant woman who dedicated her life to making ours better. Then, tomorrow, I’ll dry my eyes, suit up and fight like I’ve never fought before, for myself and everyone else who suffers injustice in whatever form it takes. And, for the country that I love even in these incredibly dark times.

I’m doing this for RBG. She fought for all of us her entire life. Now, it’s up to us to fight for the legacy she forged for us and our children.

On ‘The Chicken Chronicles’ by Alice Walker

The Chicken Chronicles by Alice Walker

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I found this book at a tiny little indie bookshop in the Cabanyal neighbourhood of Valencia when we were on holiday last December and January, which seems like a lifetime ago now. I bought this book because it was written by Alice Walker, one of my favourite writers, and because I’d never heard of the book before. It wasn’t until I started reading it that I realised it was a memoir. Despite the title, I didn’t really expect it to be about real-life chickens. Truthfully, I honestly love that she writes about her chickens, creatures I did not know she tended or owned.

This a a delightful little read. Given the weight of this very heavily burdened world, Walker offered me a brief and welcome respite from those burdens in her musings on chickens. Some of those musings are rather weird for me or somewhat silly. But, the simplicity of sitting with chickens and watching and meditating on their actions and movements is incredibly appealing to me at the moment. This book is like a very long letter or series of letters to her chickens, and that’s quite sweet in a world filled with too much sourness.

I envy her, and her chickens. And, now, I rather want my own chickens to tend and watch.

If like me, you need an escape from all that troubles you, this little book might just satisfy you. It did me.

View all my reviews

It costs me nothing

I love America more than any other country in the world and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticise her perpetually.’

― James Baldwin

On 28 August 1955, a 14-year-old black boy wrongfully accused of ‘offending’ a white woman was abducted and brutally murdered in Mississippi. ‘Offending’ in that instance merely meant ‘flirting’ or ‘whistling’ at a white woman, an offence later recanted by the would-be accuser. Unfortunately, that recantation came too late for Emmett Till.

Emmett Till was beaten and mutilated, shot in the head and then thrown in the river by those who brutalised him. An all-white jury found the white men who killed Emmett not guilty. Those men later admitted, rather proudly, that they had indeed killed Emmett Till.

Emmett Till was 14. He was lynched, for the ‘crime’ of daring to speak to a white woman.

In 2020, we can now add to the list of names of far, far too many black bodies killed or brutalised first with questions only following later. Their crimes may not involve simply speaking to a white woman in rural Jim Crow Mississippi, but they are largely no less shocking: walking with Skittles in a pocket through a gated (read: white) community. Playing with a toy gun. Driving while black. Running while black. Sleeping in your own bed. Paying for groceries with a counterfeit $20 bill. Selling single ciggies on a street corner. Breaking up a brawl between two women.

A black man who *may* have a knife is shot in the back seven times a fate deemed justifiable because he seemed *threatening*, whilst a white boy carrying an AR-15 through the streets can shoot three people, killing two, is given the benefit of the doubt and granted the justification of ‘self-defence’.

For black bodies, there is no due process. There is no justice. And, there is certainly no peace. But, what sort of self-defence exists for them? They can scream with what little breathe remains, ‘I can’t breathe!’, and still they are choked and prevented the most basic of needs: air to breathe.

What’s worse, those who perpetrate those murders and far too many contemporary brutalities are emboldened by badges and guns or the simple cloak of their whiteness despite being sworn into duty to serve and protect.

Who are they serving? Who are they protecting?

At times, it feels to me like we have progressed so very little from 1955, or that any progress we have made is cosmetic rather than lasting, enduring or systemic. Systemic racism and racial injustice and inequity appear to be more institutionalised rather than less, primarily because we refuse to open our eyes and see the realities lived by those who are not born white.

If we ever hope to be truly free or peaceful or just, these atrocities must be acknowledged and we must accept our collective responsibility for the continued and persistent systemic racism that is woven into the very fabric from which our flags are sewn.

Black lives matter. Emmett Till mattered. Medgar Evers matters. Martin Luther King Jr mattered. Rodney King mattered. Travyon Martin mattered. Sandra Bland mattered. Eric Garner mattered. George Floyd and Breonna Taylor mattered. All of these black lives ended too soon and for no justifiable reason. And, they matter still.

Jacob Blake matters.

That these lives matter does not negate my own. It simply means that I recognise that I am infinitely safer because I am white. That, in and of itself, is the problem.

Yesterday hit a nerve for me. From Emmett Till to Jacob Blake and all those lives in between. We have work to do, y’all. And, it costs me nothing to say so.

Photo taken by Emmett Till’s mother on Christmas Day 1954.

Nine is just fine

About a year or so after my husband—then, partner—and I moved to Helsinki from Moscow, my lovely mother-in-law Victoria spent several weeks living with us. We had previously met just after The Cuban and I met and decided we were meant to be together. And, I loved her immediately, which made her visit to our home in Helsinki infinitely less intimidating. Victoria is also perhaps the single sweetest, kindest and funniest human around, which made the days when my husband was at work easy to navigate despite our lack of a common language (she speaks Spanish, I still do not, shamefully). It also allowed me more insight into his roots and the woman who moulded him, and I loved him all the more because of it.

During that visit she remarked to my husband that he and I make a good team. He quipped back something along the lines that I was a team all unto myself, which was rather hilarious (and true?). I am nothing if not tenacious when I’m on a mission, and I’ve always be a bit more independent than is strictly necessary or good for me at times. I suspect that independence rendered it all the more shocking to those who have known me longest that I was going to marry some Cuban guy. No one, least of all myself, expected me to ever marry. But, marry I did.

But, Victoria, my lovely MIL, was and remains correct. The Cuban and I are a team. As time passes, we appear to be a single, interconnected unit, using the same phrase or reaction or even grunt of (dis)approval in certain situations and simultaneously.

And, today, as we celebrate 9 years married, I love us and what we are becoming. With each passing year, I love us, our life and this man who is my ultimate teammate even more.

The last year has been such a challenging time, not so much for our relationship, just simply as a year and a point in time. Naturally, we like all couples have had our moments of married non-bliss. But, we have endured those instances and recognised what brought us together far outweighs a single or even several unpleasant circumstances.

There are roller coasters we ride through life and there are also storms from which we all seek shelter. This past year, The Cuban and I have endured both the wildest, most terrifying and thoroughly wearisome rides and survived raging, damaging and turbulent storms, both figuratively and literally. And, we’ve done so together.

I go to bed each evening, even on those darkest of nights—perhaps more so on those when I feel most troubled—thanking my lucky stars that this man landed anywhere near my orbit. The odds were stacked so much against it ever being a possibility. And, it’s continually a source of awe to us that we landed where we did when we did. Timing was everything.

As we approached our ninth anniversary, and we both looked up precisely which anniversary it was for us, I found myself reflecting on what Team Cuba Sí, Yankee Tambíen means to me. Primarily, it just means that we bring out the very best in one another for one another. It’s not simply that we want to be better for one another, but that we genuinely are better because of the other. At least, I know he’s offered me the possibility of becoming a better person, by challenging me on my bullshit, encouraging me to grow and expand intellectually, and cheered me on as I both failed and succeeded throughout the past 15 years we’ve been together and 9 since we joined our lives legally.

I see the world differently with and through him, not because he asked me to; but, because I wanted to for him.

So, a year on, this is what I know to be true:

  • There’s no one with whom I’d rather be in quarantine and be forced to spend all of my time.
  • There’s no one who makes me laugh quite like he does, at times over absolutely nothing.
  • He is still my best friend, my moral compass, my sunshine on a cloudy day and my own personal hero and cheerleader.
  • And, when the storms rage and the night is darkest, I know that he’ll help me navigate to safety and provide a light to lead me home. Hell, he’d carry me and the umbrella if necessary. Because he hasn’t let me down yet when I’ve needed him most. I can only hope that I have not nor will ever fail him.

Since all bets are off on what the next year will bring, all I ask is that our little team flourishes and endures. This is home. It may not be particularly flashy or fiery (recent escapades next door aside) or exciting from where you sit, but it is just fine by me.

Here’s to nine, bebe.

We are family. And, we all wear tie-dyes.