Remember Apartheid? I marched against it with hundreds of other college students back in the 1980s. I grew up fiercely opposed to “apart-hood”, nurtured by my mother to dream about other lands and far off people, to read about them in books, and to travel in my imagination until I could travel with a passport. My childhood drawings are of happy, playful children of various skin tones, my ‘someday’ friends. I grew up knowing I would join the Peace Corps, especially after learning it was ‘born’ in 1961, just like me!
As an undergrad, I also marched against oppression of the Palestinian people in 1988, during the long months between submitting my Peace Corps application and learning of my assignment as a Volunteer. When the media showed up I spoke out in front of the cameras, and when the footage aired I was warned by a friend that I’d probably ‘killed’ any future I may have had as a Peace Corps Volunteer. That same year, a group of women  in Israel/Palestine began ‘Women in Black’, responding to what they considered serious violations of human rights by Israeli soldiers in the Occupied Territories. The women held a vigil every Friday in central Jerusalem, wearing black clothing in mourning for all victims of the conflict; a movement that quickly spread to other conflict areas throughout the world.
My public comments aside, I was assigned to serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer a few months later. Peace Corps changed my life. That phrase is surely voiced by nearly every RPCV out there, but that’s not what I’m writing about today. In the past weeks news of war and violence in various places around our shared globe fill every moment of media broadcasts. Apartheid may have been abolished in South Africa, but “apart-hood” lives on in Israel and Palestine. I can’t begin to claim full knowledge of the region, but I travelled to Ramallah in 2012 and experienced the delay and intimidation of officials at border crossings between Palestine and Israel. What I do know is that Israel continues to build illegal settlements within the Palestinian borders, and that Israel’s occupation of the Gaza strip has been condemned by the United Nations as a violation of international law.
What can we do? What I do is make an effort to join the ‘Women in Black’ on Fridays in downtown Portland. On the days I can attend, we total four, standing in silent vigil for peace and justice. Judy is the eldest. In her 80s, she is the petit woman who eagerly hands out printed information to any passerby who slows or stops to read our simple sign. Before or after our 30 minutes of silence she shares with us bits of inspiring poetry or moving literature. Ann, the tallest among us, is in her 70s. She was a nuclear migrant to Australia in the early 60s, in anticipation and reaction to the Cuban missile crisis. Marly, in her 60s, is the energetic contact person. She brings the simple poster for display, and sometimes a folding chair for Judy. When one of these women cannot attend, they notify Marli so as to avoid concern. I, in my 50s the youngest of this foursome, make it a priority to attend at least twice a month, and am treated to the warmest set of smiles as a dear welcome whenever I arrive.
Those who walk past during our silent vigil vary from hurried office workers, vacationing tourists, art museum visitors, and downtown residents of varying social class. Some rush past, clearly avoiding eye contact. In my unscientific survey, it seems women are less likely to slow down and glance in our direction, while men will generally give our sign a quick glance. None should fear, as they will not hear a lecture or passioned argument pass our lips. Including those few who mock us for our effort, or comment negatively about the peoples involved in the violence. Children who make puzzled queries are sometimes swept away by their parents, while others receive a simplified explanation by a parent who stops to read the printed information offered by Judy. Each week, and perhaps more than usual this week, many who cross our path smile and give us a ‘thumbs up’ or a verbal ‘thank you’.
I sometimes feel guilty I can’t do more toward peace at this time in my life. But 30 minutes I can do. You can too. It happens every Friday, all around the world.
Join us and wear black! The Portland (Oregon) groups stands from 12:15 to 12:45 pm every Friday at SW 10th & Madison by the Portland art museum. (A recent short video was posted here: 
WOMEN IN BLACK (WIB) is an international network of women standing in silent vigils calling for peace, justice, and non-violent solutions to conflict throughout the world. We stand in silence, because words alone cannot express the tragedy that wars and hatred bring. We stand in black, mourning for lives broken or lost through violence in the United States, Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine/Israel, and in all wars. We stand in witness to the suffering of victims of violence all over the world. We stand in solidarity with people all over the world who struggle for justice and peace. We stand convinced that the world’s citizens can learn the difference between justice and vengeance, and can call world leaders into accountability to employ nonviolent means for conflict resolution.

Unloading the dishwasher, again. Dishes in, dishes out. Her body made the same familiar, mindless motions every evening. On this evening children played in the backyard, their laughter audible through the open kitchen window as the ran through the grass long in need of mowing.

The screen door opened, screeched in its track, then closed with a bang. Her oldest stood before her with a toothy grin, but for the empty space, front and center, thrusting a handful of dandelions to her mother with love. Accepting the gift, she bent to the cupboard to release the childproof latch and noticed, beyond them, her middle child heading down the hall to the bathroom, quite capable of toileting on her own for well over a year now. The latch gave way, and she reached past the silver candy dish, past the crystal bud vase, in search of the short squat vase, perfect for very short-stemmed blooms. As she filled the vase with water she heard another door open and close– the door to the garage?

She plopped the sunny yellow weeds into the vase and called out, “Simogne, what were you doing in the garage?”

There was no answer as she rushed down the hall. She found her daughter squatting in the bathroom, wedged between the toilet and the countertop, her chubby little face intent on the job at hand. She held a screwdriver (not from the toy tool set she and her sister cherished, but a real screwdriver) in her hand.

“It was loose so I fixed it, mommy.” Indeed she had. The toilet paper dispenser no longer wobbled against the cabinet, as it had for some time. No boasting, all business, my serious cherub marched back out to the garage to return the screwdriver to my toolbox, then skipped back out to the overgrown lawn in search of remaining dandelions.

It’s dark as I roll to the edge of the bed, rise to standing, and pause a second to maintain my balance before I make my way down the hall to the bathroom. In a few moments I’m back in bed, all too aware of the empty space alongside me.

Our marriage bed is more frequently all my own. Even on those nights he doesn’t go out, he stays up until the wee hours, sometimes dawn, enraptured with the screen of his computer. He’s here almost every night to read bedtime stories to the children, to tuck them, sharing a riddle or word play, ending with a kiss goodnight. He leaves bedroom doors ajar and pads softly down the hallway. Soon after, I hear the side door close, the engine start, and the car backing out of the driveway, and I wonder how I can be the wife he wants. I wonder, what is the wife he wants? A wife who won’t complain when he leaves, or when he returns.

As I doze off to sleep, I hear the garage door opener hum as it lifts the heavy door, and the sound of his Volvo accelerating up the driveway and into the garage. More humming as the door closes at a steady pace, without urgency or hesitation, emotionless.

Months later he has gone for good. The Volvo, packed with his clothes and little else, backed out of the garage for the last time. Years later the divorce is final and I am standing in the dark when I hear the garage door hum. As the door rises in its tracks my body jolts with a familiar, sick fear.

How do you tell a teenager that life isn’t over just because she didn’t get into the college she’d had her heart set on? How do you convince her that the future is still full of mystery and opportunity, that just because she is certain she knows what lies ahead, it isn’t necessarily–or even likely–the case?

About thirty years ago, a girl her age come to the decision that life was just too grey for hope. She thought that bringing a child into this world would be a cruel thing to do, what with crime, pollution, overpopulation, war, and hate so prevalent at the time. That girl’s mother sighed heavily at her daughter’s distress. She thought a long minute before responding, aware that too long of a pause might indicate to the girl her mother’s confirmation. Then she took a deep breath and told her daughter that hope was always there, and that to live without optimism was no way to live.

The mentor who has made the biggest impact in my life is Shawn Smallman, Vice Provost for Instruction and Dean of Undergraduate Studies at Portland State University (PSU). Earlier in my life, I’d had other good mentors, but none more memorable than Shawn. Although I am a few years older than he, I look up to Shawn—one of Ontario’s finest—with admiration and respect. We first met at a 2003 job interview in the International Studies program at PSU in my hometown of Portland, Oregon. I was looking to return to the workforce after staying home for eight years to raise children, newly single at the time and worried about finding my place in the professional world. I had been searching for employment for several months when Shawn called me the day after our interview to offer me the job as his program assistant. He was willing to take a chance on me and I was determined to ensure he not regret it. He had faith in my abilities and charged me with important and meaningful tasks, sometimes more confident in me than I was in myself. He had completed much more schooling than I, yet always engaged me in conversation as his intellectual equal. After a few months I confided in Shawn that I was going through a very difficult divorce, and I couldn’t have asked for a more supportive supervisor. Shawn and his wife had two young daughters and he had always made it clear that family was a priority. He immediately offered me a flexible work schedule which allowed for any necessary juggling of court dates and parental obligations. Most importantly, Shawn suggested I enroll in a graduate program. It had been 14 years since I’d graduated from college and I didn’t think I had it in me to manage the class schedule and hours of studying, but with his gentle nudging and ongoing encouragement, I enrolled in one single class. Eventually I hoped to qualify for a better job, but just being in a graduate program also did wonders for my self esteem. It took nearly four years to finish the program, one class at a time, with a perfect 4.0 GPA. When I walked across the platform at commencement in 2008, I made a beeline for Shawn—a member of PSU’s platform party donning his Yale PhD. regalia—to give him a hug of joyous gratitude. His kind mentoring means more to me than he will ever know.


She Ain’t Heavy…

When my friends and coworkers learned that I planned to give a kidney to my youngest sister, they naturally were interested in the story behind my decision. It’s not a short story to tell, but I believe that telling it might help others consider giving the gift of life, either as a living donor or at the end of their own life.

I was seven years old that Easter Sunday in 1969 when my parents announced that a new baby was on the way. There were four of us kids already; my two sisters were ages six and ten, my brother was nine. My Catholic parents chose Easter—the day Christ was reborn—as an appropriate day to announce the impending birth. The fact that the pregnancy was unplanned was never mentioned; being good practicing Catholics, they simply accepted God’s plan.

I'm the one with the big white collar; Bobbi's in the white dress

I'm the one with the big white collar; Bobbi's in the white dress

A few months later we woke on an August morning to find Mary, our grandmotherly neighbor, preparing our breakfast. We had a new sister, named Roberta after my father. The four of us older children doted and fussed over our baby sister, encouraging her to talk and sing, to count and clap; and as the months passed each of us claimed credit for her precociousness.

Bobbi talked early, she walked early, she impressed everyone she met with her extensive vocabulary and advanced reading and writing skills. We were all proud of her and loved her so much. But by the time she started kindergarten, we were all in middle or high school. As we older kids became more involved with extra-curricular activities, after-school jobs, and adolescent romances, Bobbi was developing her own circle of friends—swinging on the playground and skinning knees while we prepared for college, careers, travel, marriage, and parenthood. Not to be left out, Bobbi could toggle easily between childish games and mature conversations, holding her own on most topics.

Her maturity was most evident to me the summer Bobbi was diagnosed with Juvenile (Type I) Diabetes at age 12, and it scared me a lot more than it seemed to scare her. She was so very brave, learning to inject herself with insulin by practicing on the firm flesh of an orange. Watching her I felt certain that I could not have dealt with it had it been me. For a few years she managed well, until Bobbi entered the difficult teen phase and began struggling with the usual issues of parental authority and peer pressure. An increasingly rebellious teen, Bobbi’s self-care became casual and careless and on at least one occasion she required hospitalization. My parents couldn’t agree on a consistent approach and alternated between ‘tough love’ and coddling; it nearly destroyed their marriage. We were all so very relieved a few years later as she matured and resumed routine monitoring of her blood sugar and insulin injections.

Eight years apart in age, Bobbi and I grew emotionally closer as adults. Unfortunately, we shared an unhealthy attraction to dysfunctional relationships. On the bright side, we were always there for each other at the darkest hours of those tumultuous romances—trusting, knowing and understanding without blame. She was there for me when I announced my first pregnancy to our parents. Nearly 30 years old, I none-the-less sought her support, knowing our father wouldn’t approve of my biracial baby. Dad came around quickly, and was thrilled when I gave birth to his first granddaughter. Diagnosed with cancer when Patience was only a few months old, he pampered her and fussed over her and put on a brave face, then died within weeks. Bobbi wears his class ring and laments not having enough time with the man who didn’t know how to relate to his own children until they were adults; a regret we all share.

Bobbi is Godmother to my daughter, Patience. The two of them share a special bond even today, eighteen years later. Bobbi is equally loving and supportive of my other two children, and has functioned in many ways as my co-parent to all three—their own father having abandoned his parental responsibilities amidst his bi-polar struggles.

Jan, Bill, Patrice, Pamela, and Bobbi in 1998

Siblings: Jan, Bill, Patrice, Pamela, and Bobbi in 1998

In 2000, we learned that diabetes had wreaked havoc on Bobbi’s kidneys. She was nearing kidney failure and would require dialysis within a year. She fretted about qualifying for a kidney transplant, as she was too ill to work and couldn’t afford the dental work and other medical procedures requiring resolution prior to an organ transplant. We older sisters established a fund in her name and began recruiting donations and labor for a holiday craft bazaar, a garage sale, a pancake breakfast, and a country dance. We raised more than $20,000, enabling Bobbi to undergo all required procedures. She began dialysis and was placed on the national waiting list not only for a kidney but also for pancreas—an organ which could only come from a deceased donor.

In the summer of 2002, Bobbi received the long-awaited phone call: a match was found, from an anonymous donor in the Midwest. Within hours Bobbi was on a plane to the University of Chicago where she underwent a successful double-organ transplant on August 1, 2002. When she awoke from surgery, both organs were functioning well and for the first time in twenty years Bobbi was no longer dependant on insulin injections thanks to the new pancreas. After three months of medical monitoring, Bobbi was allowed to return to Portland where a crowd of 50 friends and relatives welcomed her at the airport with large banners, balloons, and cheers heard up and down the concourse.

Unfortunately, the transplanted pancreas failed that December and Bobbi was once again dependent on insulin injections, a condition which taxed her newly transplanted kidney. Fortunately, she was the recipient of a second donated pancreas in April 2004, a good match that is still functioning well today. In 2005, however, the kidney that Bobbi received in 2002 began showing signs of failure. Well before she needed to resume dialysis, a friend donated her kidney to Bobbi. We were in awe of Marilyn Fink’s generosity. If her husband, siblings, and grown children didn’t fully support her decision, they never expressed an ounce of resentment toward our family despite the fears they surely must have harbored.

I can’t speak for my siblings, but I was nearly overcome with guilty relief. Marilyn spared me the anguish of making—or not making—the same offer. I had three school-aged children and was only beginning to get back on my feet, with the help of family, friends, and community after a turbulent divorce. I was at a new job, struggling to pay off some bills and avoid foreclosure on my house.

As we all feasted on Thanksgiving Day 2005, Marilyn’s meal was limited to jello and clear liquids. She drank the prescribed phosphasoda in preparation for the next day’s transplant and downplayed her benevolence to local news reporters as they filmed her family dining on traditional turkey with all the trimmings. On November 25, 2005, the surgeon emerged optimistic from the completed transplant. Our family was so grateful to Marilyn for her selfless gift of life and we all looked forward to a healthy, happy Christmas season that year and for the years ahead.

Alas, our Christmas celebration was not what we’d planned. Only twenty-five days after transplant, on December 20, 2005, Bobbi was rushed to the hospital with a high fever. Until that day nobody knew that she had contracted a MRSA infection, apparently during the November transplant. The deadly serious methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus very nearly took her life. After an emergency nephrectomy I telephoned Marilyn to break the news that her donated kidney had been damaged beyond repair. Always the giver, Marilyn’s first concern was Bobbi, then for me and my family. She never expressed any regret, then or later, for her altruism.

To say it was a horrible week is a gross understatement. We settled into the waiting room, each of us afraid to go home for even a brief period. Our brother and his family drove through the night from Sacramento. We took turns tiptoeing into her room, offering Bobbi verbal reassurances we hoped to be true, never knowing how much she heard or understood. Even after she regained consciousness, the tube down her throat prevented her from speaking. On Christmas Eve we persuaded the ICU nurses to waive the visitor limit. All fourteen of us—Bobbi’s nieces, nephews, mother and siblings with their spouses—crowded around her hospital bed and sang Silent Night. Keeping rhythm with Joseph Mohr’s renowned hymn were the beeping monitors and blinking lights of the hospital machinery, the same equipment which had offered weak assurance over the past few days that Bobbi was alive. Her eyes were open while we sang, and were by no means the only pair in the ICU filled with tears before the final chorus.

Doctors told us that she would need to begin dialysis, probably immediately, as the newly donated kidney had been removed and her system had taken a beating. To everyone’s surprise, the kidney she’d originally received in Chicago rose to the occasion and when Bobbi was discharged from the hospital it was functioning well enough to delay dialysis. Weeks turned into months and the kidney kept working. Two years later it was still functioning, although at a steadily decreasing rate. Early this year, the dutiful kidney that had served Bobbi beyond our expectations began to falter.

It was time for Bobbi to get back on the waiting list, and to prepare for dialysis. The options were few and none were ideal. In her complicated situation, it would be best to avoid dialysis altogether, but the wait for an anonymous cadaver donor could take months, even years. I couldn’t stand by and watch my baby sister suffer any longer. Most people experience a streak of bad luck sometime in their life, but Bobbi had been dealt more than her fair share. How could I raise my children to love one another, to be passionate and giving, while I stood by and watched my sister suffer? How could I defend a decision not to give a kidney to improve the quality of their aunt’s life? And how would I live with the guilt every time I reached for the phone to share a laugh or discuss a problem with my baby sister before I remembered that she had died?

Our surgeries were completed on July 29, 2008. We both thank you all for your prayers, meditations, or simply your kind thoughts.


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