That was probably unnecessary though, because the little toy poodle was producing its most ferocious yips from behind the door. The frog was new, but the poodle was not. Lucy the poodle did not realize that an elderly, blind, six-pound dog was incapable of intimidating most people. Eric always greeted Lucy kindly, for the sake of his aunt, but he was internally annoyed that the dog still treated him like a threat although he stopped by once a week. Maybe old age comes with memory problems for both humans and dogs. Or maybe Lucy was just a toy poodle. The smallest dogs always seemed to be the most distrusting. And yippy.

His own dog, a cane corso weighing over 100 pounds, intimidated people visually but wouldn’t make half of the noise that Lucy, the toy poodle, made at almost 16 years old.

Linda heard the knock (and the yips) and took a minute to fluff her couch pillows and turn on her candle melts. A woman from her church had started selling candle wax melts in hopes that she could supplement her family’s income. Linda was skeptical that this candle wax melt business would pay off for this young mom (having purchased lotions, cosmetics, and essential oils in similar ways in the past), but she purchased a whole box of them anyway. It was important to her that her house smell nice, and why not help someone out in the process.

She opened the door for her nephew… well, her great-nephew, but they usually didn’t bother with the “great” part. They were closer than that. If they ever mentioned the “great” qualifier, they subverted it to point out that the other person was, in fact, very great.

Eric beamed at his aunt, “Aunt Linda, you look lovely, I’m here to work.” He held up a pair of outdoor gloves.

“Oh good, that is what I like to hear. My friend Eliza talked my ear off the other day about how the younger generations don’t like to work. Her grandson apparently plays video games all day. She tells him to pause to help out around the house and he says that’s impossible. He calls it ‘League of Legends’ or something like that. She says his character looks like an ugly frog, but he always rolls his eyes and tells her it is actually a catfish. I guess a catfish could look like an ugly frog. Oh, did you see my new patriotic frog? Anyways, I told her that she hasn’t met you because you are always here ready to work.”

“I did see your frog, Aunt Linda. It immediately stood out. I thought the American flag bowtie may have had something to do with the purchase.” It amused him that the twists and turns of his aunt’s conversations could never be predicted. League of Legends wasn’t on his bingo card today.

Linda considered that. “Well, the American flag helped, but I mainly wanted to support this new local home decor store. I saw the grand opening sign the other day and walked in and met this lovely woman who was selling all sorts of outdoor decor. Maybe one day you’ll make enough money to help your own wife open a book store, decor store, or bakery. You definitely have the brains for it and the work ethic. That’s what I told Eliza.”

His face fell. “Well, maybe she’ll make her own money.”

“Oh, I suppose she could. Don’t take anything I say too personally, other than the fact that you are brilliant. Let me go grab that lasagna book.”

Given the task set for today, Eric was very confused until she brought the book back. It was called Lasagna Gardening. By the looks of it, she had tabbed it over 50 times.

She held the book up on display. “You know I’ve really needed to find a hobby ever since your uncle passed last year. I always told him I wanted to garden and he laughed at me and told me we would have to move. I told him that we didn’t and that I could do it here. I never proved him wrong, but I think I will now.”

Linda opened the back door wide and Lucy the poodle ran out between her legs. As they stepped out, Eric saw a mess of materials alongside an almost uncountable amount of cinder blocks. It was a little different than he imagined.

“You see,” Linda continued, “your uncle was right that you can’t just use this desert dirt—I won’t even call it soil. We have to create our own conditions. We’ll stack these cinder blocks to create beds, we’ll lay this cardboard on the ground, then we’ll start rotating brown with green. I have dried leaves, straw, grass clippings, vegetable scraps, coffee grounds, and some other odds and ends. We’ll then add this soil I got on the top. And oh, the mulch.” She opened the book to show him a diagram that outlined the strategy.

Eric looked at some of the cinder blocks that were already stacked and at the mess of materials at their feet. He should not be surprised that she went all in on making this work. In Las Vegas. This was the type of challenge that gave Linda purpose, and it was the first time he had seen this side of her since the death of her husband.

“Well, I may have underestimated this project a little bit, but I’m ready to follow your lead. Except, I’ll get the rest of the cinder blocks. It looks like you’ve stacked enough of them already.”

“Oh, and I plan to stack more,” Linda challenged.

Eric released a reluctant breath. “Can I remind you that you are 74?”

“If I don’t lift these at 74, I won’t be able to lift them at 75. Do you think I could handle being frail?”

“Fine, but let me do most of it.” They spent the rest of the morning bickering, chit-chatting, stacking cinder blocks, and rotating brown and green layers to make a Las Vegas-proof lasagna garden. At the end of it all, Linda insisted Eric stay for lunch. She ordered delivery.

They sat down to eat. They were tired and could no longer bicker or crack jokes. Linda, being Linda, still had to talk about something.

“So you are 22 now, you worked hard for a few years to help pay for your school, and now you are about halfway into your degree. I’m sure you know what you want to do now. You are so good with people, you practically raised your sisters and you come visit me every week. My guess is you want to be a doctor. We need more doctors that are easy to talk to. The one I see is a very smart man, but I always get the feeling that he gets annoyed by all my questions. You are way more patient than that.”

Eric stared at his ceramic bowl—Linda insisted on putting the takeout on real plates—and began swirling his pasta with his fork.

“Well, Aunt Linda, I do think I am a patient man, and I do want to help my community. I don’t really want to be a doctor, though. I don’t think I would like that.”

She noticed the drop in his mood and laughed. “Well, that’s okay. Don’t worry, I’m not one of those old ladies who assume everyone has to be a doctor or a lawyer. I was just taking a shot in the dark. What do you want to be?”

“Well,” he looked her in the eye. “You are partially right. I do think I am patient and I do want to help people, but perhaps not old crones like you,” he joked to postpone the reveal.

She guffawed. “If we did not have such a ‘great’ relationship, I would hit you over the head with yesterday’s newspaper. Okay, so you don’t want to help old ‘crones’ like me. That’s fine. Spit it out.”

“I start my education classes next semester to be a kindergarten teacher.”

Linda’s face went blank. “A kindergarten teacher,” she repeated.

“Well, yes,” Eric steeled himself to continue. “I was nervous to tell you. Last week, you went on and on about how your next-door neighbor is a wonderful teacher. I almost told you then, but then you said that you thought children benefited from exceptionally talented professional women like her. You see, you said ‘women.’”

“A kindergarten teacher,” Linda repeated.

“A kindergarten teacher,” Eric replied.

“Are men kindergarten teachers now?” Linda asked.

Eric’s face fell. “Well, I suppose most aren’t. I want to be, though. I’m good with kids.”

“Oh, I know that. You’ve always been good with kids, dogs, and I guess old people,” she stated.

“I thought I was, at least,” Eric replied, startled by the shift in Linda.

“Well,” Linda started, “I want to be careful here because I love you and you know that. Do you think people trust men who want to spend their days with little children? I don’t know if I would—if I didn’t know you.”

“You know I want to do nothing but help kids.”

“Oh, I know that. But I know you. If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t know that.”

No one said anything for a moment. Eric stood up.

“Thank you for lunch, Aunt Linda. I think I’m not hungry anymore.” Eric kissed Linda on the cheek, pet the poodle, and left via the front door, passing the frog with the black square-framed glasses and the American bowtie. It looked less welcoming on the way out.

On his drive home, Eric reminded himself that Linda was old and only getting older. She was his “great” aunt, but he was still hurt. He wasn’t going to call her on it, though. His friends always said that people went too easy on old people and that old people should be called out and even cut off. He wasn’t so sure that was true. He would give it a couple of weeks.

When he got home, he emptied his mind, lounged around, and even thought it could be fun to play League of Legends—but not the catfish character that looked like an ugly frog. He did that and ate some chicken nuggets because he didn’t actually eat enough at lunch. Chicken nuggets were a comfort food. His dog may have been given a chicken nugget too.

Two days later, as he was reading a stack of children’s books from the library, his roommate knocked. He put the books in his desk drawer and opened the door. He was handed a letter. It was stamped “expedited.” He opened it:

Dear Eric,

I would like to tell you how you became my “great” nephew. Other than being born to my actual nephew.

I never worked, but I never agreed with that sentiment because I did work. I cared for all of you. My son used to drop all of his kids off at my house for care during the day. I loved him and wanted him to get ahead and couldn’t say no. Then they decided to drop you off with your little sisters as well. The idea was that I was already caring for kids all day, so why not care for more?

I was sixty years old at the time and already tired of chasing children. I loved you all and couldn’t say no to providing that needed care, but at times I wanted to say no. Many times. I was ready to start my garden, read books, and do my jigsaw puzzles without the intervention and destruction of toddlers and children.

When you started coming with your sisters, I assumed everything would get harder. It didn’t. You calmed my grandsons when they started fighting and rocked your sister to sleep when she started crying. You even took it upon yourself to make lunch more than half of the time—even if it was just those sloppy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. You were a “great” help and were so good at taking care of children—even when you were a child yourself. I started thinking of you as my “greatest” nephew.

I still don’t really understand the idea of a man being a kindergarten teacher. If a man could do it, it would be you. I do worry that people will misjudge you for your choice of career. Maybe it will only be old crones like me if they do. And anyway, I’ve been lifting cinder blocks all day, so I can still come to your defense if they do.

Love,

Your “Great” Aunt Linda (if I still have that title)

Eric put the letter down. His aunt had expedited this—proof that this was important to her. He grabbed his phone to call her.

“This is Linda.”

“Hi, Aunt Linda, I got your letter. You didn’t have to send it. I wasn’t mad at you.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. I was mad at me. I’m glad it came. Anyway, I’m going to St. George to go to the Tuacahn Theater next week with my friend Eliza to see The Little Mermaid. They do these great outdoor plays, and I get to see so much young talent. There is also this wonderful frozen custard shop nearby that I have to go to, as well as a farmer’s market that sells these plants that grow on logs. You just soak the log for a couple of hours in the bathtub each week—isn’t that something? Anyway, I found this dog-friendly hotel, but I’m afraid Lucy will bark all day and be scared. I don’t think I’ll be at the hotel much. I was thinking about our conversation and thinking about how I wouldn’t trust anyone, with a small elderly dog or with…a child, more than you. Can I pay you to come and watch Lucy for the weekend? She has her medicine, her prescription food, and her long list of needs. I’ll be generous with the cash. If you’re going to be a kindergarten teacher, you’ll need it.”

Eric smiled at the return of his normal aunt and groaned internally at taking care of Lucy, who didn’t like him, and who he saw as closer to a rat than a dog. He also considered how he would have to divide his time between the toy poodle and the cane corso. To protect the cane corso.

“Of course, Aunt Linda. She’s safe with me—go ahead and write up the instructions and I’ll get them done.”

Linda smiled.

Read more Linda:

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Fiction: Sharp as a Tack

Olivia could not find her milk frother and her morning was ruined. She poured hot water over her spiced tea blend, with hidden adaptogens to help her manage her stress, and instead stirred it with a spoon…

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3 days ago · 4 likes · 4 comments · Alison Writes Essays

This blend that she drank every morning was almost prohibitively expensive for someone earning her wage but she had a lot on her plate and at the very least—she benefitted from the placebo effect. She imagined the adaptogens taking seat in her brain and powering her through work and school. The problem was, the texture was grainy and could only be managed by mixing it excessively with a milk frother. She couldn’t spare five minutes to find it.

She took her grainy tea with her out the door and groaned when she remembered she lost her key fob. She had an older car, and without the fob it could only be opened by physically putting the key into the lock. Her friends had cars that unlocked as they reached the vicinity of the car with some fancy new technology, Olivia on the other hand could barely afford her adaptogen filled spiced tea. She was stuck with this car for a while.

She placed her tea and her bag on the roof of the car, reached in her pocket, took out the key, and physically put it in the lock. She thought about how replacing her key fob was $500—which was even more prohibitively expensive to her than her morning tea.

She grabbed her tea and her bag off the roof of the car, settled in, and once again physically put the key in the lock to turn on the car. Her bluetooth wasn’t connected and she realized that she didn’t have time to troubleshoot. She would have to drive in silence. She took a sip of her tea, which was still too hot, and the grainy texture made the powder stick to her teeth.

As she went to drive she realized that a thin layer of ice turned the front windshield of her car into a funhouse mirror. She reached behind her for an ice scraper only to remember that she lent it to her roommate who didn’t have one. Her roommate, coming from warmer weather, didn’t even know what an ice scraper was.

She reached into her bag to find her wallet, pulled out a credit card, and braced for the cold as she went to scrape the ice off her windshield. The card was small and the process was slow. Her hands turned red. She reentered her car, cupped and blew on her hands, and started racing to work. Except, she couldn’t actually race to work because there was ice on the roads just as there was ice on her windshield.

She arrived late. Her team lead, who always arrived ten minutes early, gave her a sideways glance. She marked Olivia’s tardiness in the team log book. Olivia sighed and took a sip of her tea which gave her the willpower to put on her headset.

It was slow and no one was in queue. She readied the tabs on her computer and sat back in her chair to enjoy this unique moment of silence that could be interrupted at any moment.

The phone rang:

“Thanks for calling Mike’s Pest Control. You are speaking with Olivia. How can I serve you today?”

“I need to cancel my service,” the customer said in a gruff masculine tone.

Olivia pulled up her notes that included the major bullet points she could say to save the customer from cancelling and locked in.

“I am very sorry to hear that. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you thinking of canceling today?” her voice went up an octave. A coworker told her that people responded better to higher pitched and peppier female voices.

“I’m not thinking about it—I am canceling. Cancel the service now.” She hovered over the button that would cancel the service but was silently reprimanded by her team lead’s glare—who was listening in on the conversation to grade Olivia on her customer retention strategy. Olivia gulped and steeled herself. It was barely after 7 in the morning.

“I understand sir. Here at Mike’s Pest Control we pride ourselves on our service and always prioritize feedback to make it better. If you are leaving, we would love to know why so that we can improve what we do not only for you but for others.” Her team lead gave her a lukewarm thumbs up and motioned for her to keep going.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to come across that way. The problem isn’t with you or your service. However, I just looked at my bank statement and I saw that you guys have been taking out automatic payments all winter long. We are going into February and I don’t have any bugs right now—everything is frozen. Perhaps, I’ll reinstate my service when I have an issue again,” the man said.

This was by far the most common cancelation reason in the winter and Olivia did actually have talking points she was instructed to use. She glanced at her team lead, who was still listening in on the call, and went for it.

“I understand that it can be difficult to understand the need for pest control in the winter. However, the product we use is most effective with constant reapplication. It is also true that many of the pests you are concerned with all year round still exist in the winter. Some of them are cold outside just like you are and many will seek the warmth of your home. I recommend we keep this service going in the winter to reduce your chances of getting a pest problem either now or later in the year.”

Olivia believed some of that was probably true but suspected that some of it was oversimplified or perhaps even misleading. It didn’t matter though because she couldn’t be accused of not trying to resolve the concern. Her team lead seemed to be typing a lot, which was concerning.

“Will you cancel this or not? I don’t have time to sit on the phone. I don’t see the need for anyone to come out in February and I better not see anything come out of my bank next week. Please cancel.”

“Yes sir, I will. Thank you for calling in and have a nice day,” upon hearing this he immediately hung up. Olivia processed the cancelation and watched as the pie chart that tracked her performance grew more red. She failed to retain a customer and she was held responsible. She stressed, knowing that if the graph turned more red, she might not be able to afford her tea or replace the frother that made it palatable.

After that call, her team lead pulled her off the phones for a performance review with detailed feedback about how she could have retained that customer. There were long comments, charts, and numbers out of ten. Olivia didn’t remember the last time her team lead was on the phones but still smiled and nodded and promised she would do better. When she sat back down and put her headset back on, her tea was already cold.

The phone rang:

“Thanks for calling Mike’s Pest Control. You are speaking with Olivia. How can I serve you today?”

“Hello. My name is Linda Johnston and I called you because I am worried about my carrots. Do you like gardening, Olivia?”

Olivia pulled up Linda’s account by her phone number.

Linda Johnston

8931 Marigold Patch Ave

Region: Las Vegas

Last Service: January 23

Note: Mrs. Johnston was one of Mike’s first clients in Las Vegas and has her picture on the website. She often calls just as an excuse to talk. Treat her well but firmly tell her when time is limited. She does not take hints. —Colton H.

“I suppose I like gardening but everything would die here in the winter. Why are you worried about your carrots?” Olivia responded.

“Well the other day, was it Wednesday, I saw this young man spraying the edges of my property. You know how they always come and spray around my house. I thought to myself, that must be one of Mike’s boys. How is Mike actually? I remember when he came and sprayed my house himself. Anyways, this morning I was out draping frost cloth over my carrots and I remembered that the young man just sprayed around my house and yard and how it is possible he also sprayed around my garden beds where my carrots are. My next door neighbor, Kelsey, loves those carrots and I wouldn’t want them to die before I could give her her portion. Kelsey is a sweet girl, a 4th grade teacher actually, and ever since I was a little girl I did everything I could possibly do to not upset teachers. Anyway, are my carrots okay and how is Mike?”

Olivia, who partially tuned out as soon as she categorized this call as a monologue of a senior citizen, looked around and noticed her coworkers were largely handling cancelation calls. Their graphs were turning red and the overall team’s numbers, displayed on a TV over their heads, were tanking. It occurred to her that Linda’s call could actually be a little bit of a gift.

“Your carrots will be fine, Mrs. Johnston, our product will not be applied directly to your garden and will do no harm being applied around your backyard. In fact, fewer bugs will likely help your garden. As to Mike, I think he is doing well.”

It would be a lie to say that Olivia had not seen Mike recently. He occasionally dropped into the call center to show off his Rolex watch and perfect hair. He shook Olivia’s hand and called her the wrong name.

“Oh good, he was such a good hard-working boy when he started here. I remember the time I had a scorpion in my house and I called in a panic. I wasn’t worried for me but I was so worried for Lucy. Bless her soul. He came within the hour and took the buggard away and reapplied spray to the whole house. Lucy ended up being okay.”

Olivia decided to encourage Mrs. Johnston a little longer to delay the next call.

“Who is Lucy?”

“Oh Lucy, she was my toy poodle—such a sweet dog. She only weighed 6 pounds though. I know what you are thinking, no I did not buy her special for her breed, all types of dogs end up in the shelter. I quickly learned that everything is dire with a six pound dog. I once had a heart attack when my grandson dropped a chocolate chip on the ground. Oh, I should probably clear up the fact that I didn’t actually have a heart attack—I realize that you have to speak a little bit more literally as you get older. Anyway, Lucy loved my carrots too. I actually had Mike take away that mouse trap box with those small blue cubes when I had Lucy. We don’t get a lot of mice here, just scorpions, and that box was more likely to harm Lucy than to solve a pest problem. I got lucky though, Lucy lived for 17 years. I still mourn that little dog. I figured it wouldn’t be responsible of me to get another Lucy at my age.”

Olivia wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I’m sorry to hear about Lucy, I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”

“Oh darling, you don’t have to be sorry. She lived a long life. I think there comes a point where anyone—human or dog—has had enough. Lucy was as blind as a bat and had to eat soft food that she never liked. She was done and she said her goodbyes. Anyway, I hope I didn’t take up too much of your time. I told Colton to write a note to tell me to shut my trap when you are busy. Colton went to law school I think. What a bright young kid, did you read that note? Anyways, as long as my carrots are okay and I can give some to my sweet neighbor then I think I am all set for today. Did you say your name was Olivia?”

“Yes, my name is Olivia and I assure you that your carrots should be fine.”

“Thank you kindly, dear. I’ll remember to ask for you next time I’m worried about something, Olivia, you have been such a sweetheart.”

They said their goodbyes, Olivia closed out the call with her retention graph turning slightly more blue and slightly less red, and finished her tea. It was almost 9am.

Olivia spent days taking the same phone calls, studying late into the night to complete the degree she couldn’t afford, and brewed a lot of tea. Her graph shifted red and then shifted blue. Her status at work changed daily and each score she received from school made or broke her day. All of her free time was spent meal prepping the same five dishes, designed for nutrition and affordability, and dreaming of a future that wasn’t this. For the time being, she did replace her milk frother after discovering her roommate broke it. When the Amazon package arrived overnight, she enjoyed tea that was considerably less grainy and did not stick to her teeth. Her roommate, at the very least, eventually purchased her own window scraper. Olivia got hers back a little bit worse for wear.

And then, one day in the following week Olivia was transferred a call first thing in the morning while her tea was still hot.

“Hey Olivia, I have a call for you, I don’t think it’s a cancelation. It sounds like an old lady actually. She specifically asked for you, I hope you don’t mind. I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

Without realizing it, Olivia perked up a little.

“No, it’s fine. I can take it. Transfer it over.” The call was transferred.

“Thanks for calling Mike’s Pest Control. You are speaking with Olivia. How can I serve you today?”

“Oh Olivia, I am so happy you are working this morning. This is Linda Johnston. We talked last week about my carrots how are you?”

“I’m doing well, Mrs. Johnston, how can I help you today?”

“I love that you are so polite and call me Mrs. Johnston, but you can call me Linda. I know I think you are a child but the more I think of it—I’m the one who has gotten a little old. Can you believe it? Me—old? Well, I don’t always believe it myself but here we are. Anyway, this morning I was making a strawberry rhubarb pie to bring to Joe—his wife just passed away. They were married for over fifty years and I can’t imagine he outlives her by much. Men never seem to be able to handle the loss of their wives. I do see it as very romantic in a way but some of them also tend to be a little bit dependent. Well, maybe not so much the younger ones. Colton—the boy who wrote the note on my account and is becoming a lawyer—he told me that he does half of the child care for his young daughter—can you believe it? Well it does seem like some things stay the same and some change but Joe was born in 1938 and all—he’s not like that. His wife passing will probably end his life but at least I can make her strawberry rhubarb pie. My own husband passed away ten years ago, shortly before Lucy did, and I was devastated but between you and me women in some ways are made from tougher stuff. I still got some life in me yet.”

“That’s great Linda and I assume that Joe will love the pie. I had a great uncle who used to grow rhubarb in his garden. Forgive me though, why did you call me this morning?”

“Oh dear, I think I am sharp as a fiddle—or I guess sharp as a tack but I never did quite get there did I? Well, while I was baking this pie for Joe, I saw some ants. I was wondering if you could have Mike send out one of his boys to spray my kitchen. I have never been a great fan of ants. Or I guess you can come spray them if you want—I guess it doesn’t have to be a boy. I actually did make an extra strawberry rhubarb pie and I can’t eat it all by myself.”

“I would have loved to come Linda, but I don’t spray for ants. I only talk on the phone and I’m in Salt Lake City. I can definitely find someone to send out though.” Olivia right clicked on an appointment slot and assigned a technician to go to Linda’s house as Linda continued the conversation, as she was bound to do.

“Well that is wonderful, Mike has expanded and here I thought you were calling from his local office in Henderson. I guess I called you but you picked up the phone—or rather a girl named Rachel did but it got to you somehow. It also makes sense that he would put you on the phone. You are so good at it, very charismatic, just like Colton was. That must be why he decided to go to law school. Are you in school, Olivia, or perhaps you have a beau? I got married young—which was normal in my day—and it did work for me but I understand many girls want to do other things now. Did I tell you that my next door neighbor is an award-winning teacher?”

“I am in school, Linda. I want to be a veterinarian. Will you be home this afternoon for a technician to stop by?” She hovered over the appointment she set waiting to confirm the it.

“Oh yes, of course I will if you have someone coming out. I can open the door for him and show him the ants. A veterinarian—what a wonderful occupation for a charismatic, caring, young woman. I always thought that a woman would care for small animals much better than a man—or should I not say that. I hurt my nephew’s feelings once when I mentioned that our young neighbor would make a wonderful teacher because many children benefit from a caring professional woman in their lives—I didn’t know he wanted to teach kindergarten though. Which is fine and all but I would have loved a sweet vet like you if I still had my Lucy.”

“I have that all set up and your appointment confirmed. My plan is to help with horses actually. I am from a ranch area and a lot of families need support with horses.” Olivia started questioning why she was derailing the conversation herself rather than neatly ending it—it was still winter though and the queue was almost empty.

“Oh that is fascinating and you must be more than just caring but also brave. Working with horses is hard work physically. I knew a young man who did that and it was back-breaking work. I’m sure you will have people to help you though. Wow, a future lawyer and a future horse veterinarian. I am so pleased to hear that Mike is giving such exceptional young people opportunities. I am sure he is paying you well, I know he knows the value of hard work—at one point he was the one spraying my ants!”

Olivia, remembering that calls are recorded, figured it was time to end this call before she had to pretend to personally know Mike—her only salient memory being that of his Rolex.

“Thank you, Linda. I have someone coming at 3pm. I have a couple calls in my queue and do need to let you go.”

“Of course, that is why I had Colton put that note in there. I’ll be waiting for the boy at 3pm with a slice of this pie.”

Linda reliably called Olivia every week for the rest of winter. She shared details about her late husband, about the six pound toy poodle Lucy, and about all of the hopes and dreams she had for the future of the people she encountered daily. She apparently sent a lot of notes and made a lot of pies. She was tuned into her community and knew everyone by name. Olivia got used to the calls and started to enjoy them.

She smiled when Linda began repeating, “Olivia is such a beautiful classic name fitting for a brave young woman who wants to care for horses.”

Spring came and the call center picked up. Summer followed. The dormant winter months had passed and the queue became long and never ended. Every day, Olivia’s tea went cold before she could finish it. Mike made a few more appearances to show off his new designer suits and to forget some more names. He had a plastic smile and he thanked his employees, which to be fair he didn’t thank with money, with a blank stare that looked right past them.

Olivia was busy; she took a hundred calls a day from people who were always in a hurry and were often impatient. She studied all night until eventually, she got to the point in her studies that she would begin doing practical work with horses. It was time to quit and time to live.

When Olivia thought of the horses she was about to care for, she remembered Linda—who had not called in months.

On her last day of work, she looked at Linda Johnston’s account and noticed it went from green to red. She had been sent to collections. While most accounts were on auto-pay with a card on file—Linda had been grandfathered in. She wrote a check and sent it to the office in Henderson, NV every month. She hadn’t done that since March. Multiple calls to collect were made from billing and she did not pick up.

Olivia never knew what happened to Linda. She couldn’t find an obituary. Maybe she moved in with a kid, maybe she was in a nursing home, maybe she joined her husband (whose name Olivia couldn’t remember) and Lucy the poodle (whose name she couldn’t forget).

Regardless, Olivia remembered Linda fondly. As she packed up to get some hands-on experience and visit some of the horses from her old town—she baked some pies and noted down some names. She was about to start her own career and eventually start her own business. She didn’t want to turn into Mike. She wanted to be who Linda thought Mike was. But in the country and serving horses.

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I decided to call him Percy, short for Percival. I thought it was funny to give a dog an outdated gentleman’s name and thought it would make him distinguished. Over time, I realized he was a prissy dog so I often referred to him as Prince Percy.

On Percy’s first day with me I put a blanket down on my bed and handed him a chipmunk toy. I spent a few hours talking to him and tried to make him feel comfortable. I was new to speaking dog and was unsure how to communicate to him that he was safe and that I would give him a dignified life. I spent a few months rotating toys and treats to figure out what he would actually like.

He liked the chipmunk okay but I later figured out that he loved nothing more than a toy duck. I imagined it had something to do with the shape of the toy or the fake fur. He would lose his mind over a new duck toy but would act indifferent to most other stuffed toy options. I cut my losses at one point and started buying only duck toys. If he wasn’t going to tire of them, I would keep buying them.

It soon became clear to my family and my friends that this dog had a strong and borderline irrational love of ducks.

I grew tired of making sure the duck was in the room at all times. Percy refused to be in a room I wasn’t in if I was home but he also always wanted his duck. If he ended up in a room without me, he whined. If he ended up in a room without his duck, he also whined. It became a thing that Percy and the duck had to be in whatever room I was in when I was home or no one would have any peace.

So I taught him the word ‘duck’. I trained him to ‘bring the duck’. If I was leaving my bedroom to go to the kitchen I would look at Percy and say ‘bring the duck’. He would then get the duck from wherever it was in the room and trail behind me, duck in mouth, to the kitchen.

In this way we both got what we needed. It was successful communication. I did not have to personally track down a duck toy at all times of the day and Percy could always be in a room with me and the duck.

One night, we had a friend over for board games. I opened the door for my friend and then looked up the stairs at Percy and said ‘bring the duck.’

Percy turned back, grabbed the duck, and came running downstairs to lay on his dog bed next to the board game table.

My friend looked at Percy and then at the duck and said, “Alison, that is not a duck. That is a pheasant.”

This interaction between Percy and me was so commonplace that for a second I didn’t know what he was talking about. I looked down at Percy and the duck and said:

“You’re right. That is not a duck, that is a pheasant. Percy doesn’t know what a pheasant is though. To him, it is a duck.”

I later thought about that interaction. The duck toy I used to buy was clearly a mallard duck. I had recently switched brands and the most recent brand had a toy with the same shape and texture that indeed was a pheasant. Not actually a duck.

I did not teach Percy the word ‘pheasant’ though. That did not seem to be worth my time. Between the two of us, the pheasant was a duck.

Later on it became even more complicated. I had enjoyed my time with Percy so much that I decided to get a second dog. When Percy was three years old, we adopted Winnie—which was short for Winnifred because she was a lady.

Winnie needed no time getting adjusted to home. She was on the streets, then in the shelter, and she knew right away that whatever the arrangement with me was—it was going to be better. She was 2 years old to Percy’s 3 years and she was going to keep him busy. They got along pretty quickly.

The only thing was, I didn’t want to assume that she was a duck dog. Maybe she would like something else entirely. I also feared the possessiveness Percy might have regarding his ducks. So I started buying other toys.

Somehow this evolved into using ‘bring the duck’, which Winnie quickly picked up on with no formal training, to refer to any stuffed toy in existence.

I would say ‘bring the duck’ and Percy would bring the duck and Winnie would bring the frog, which was now also a duck.

There are other more accurate words that exist to refer to all the different stuffed animals we have talked about since we got Winnie last October. Those words might be more true but they are beyond the scope of our shared vocabulary so we use the word ‘duck’ to refer to many different things—many of them not even close to a true duck.

I don’t want you to think that the reason I typed this out was to talk about my dogs. I tend to think what I just outlined through this experience happens all the time. Although, most of us in society know the difference between a frog and a duck—we still have a very limited shared vocabulary. People use language imprecisely every day but yet we all still manage to communicate.

One thing that has caught my interest as far as shared language goes has been the terminology we use to describe neurodivergence.

I have never strictly considered myself neurodivergent before, although in the strictest sense I most likely could claim that term. The way I think doesn’t often match the way most people think around me but as it has never caused serious issues for me, I don’t bother trying to define myself.

It might not surprise my readers that in my life I have attracted many people who consider themselves neurodivergent as friends. I have also attracted many people who consider themselves specifically autistic, some who have been diagnosed and some who believe that they have evaded diagnosis through masking. I love to hear the stories of their lives and have had the opportunity to hear many significantly different versions of a somewhat similar thing.

The experiences they share are meaningfully different in some important ways but many of these people use the same terminology. They themselves realize that many things exist on a spectrum which is how it is possible to use the same term and be referring to experiences that are still meaningfully different.

As someone who is primed to see the differences as well as the similarities, I wonder if the experiences we lump together are more meaningfully different than many people seeking community claim. One person is describing a duck, another a frog, and a third a chimpanzee—but they are using the same shared term to categorize what they are saying.

Now, I don’t want you to be fooled into thinking this is an essay about neurodivergence either. At its root, this is about shared language. Imprecision in our language allows us to communicate but it still might be worth noting that we are relying on that imprecision. On some level, that might matter.

However, it hasn’t mattered between my dogs and me, so maybe it doesn’t matter between humans either. Functional terminology will always be better for day to day life but in the artistic moments of our lives, where we try to find meaning, perhaps there is a place for precision too.

What a strange little object that had meant so much to me at one point. It was a discarded hobby that didn’t fit the tough season I had been in. It represented an earlier time in my life.

A time when I was trying to be a content creator.

My first ever video was one filmed on a very low quality camera and without a microphone. I came up with an idea, grabbed a book, and just started talking. I wasn’t fully in the frame (in fact you can see up my nose), I didn’t know how to edit the video once it was over, and I had no concept of what a thumbnail was. In fact, I didn’t even make one.

I quickly realized I wasn’t BookTubing right and that no one was going to click on a young girl holding up a random book without an understandable title or a thumbnail.

So I quickly became even more awkward and in an attempt to conform to an idea I didn’t even understand, I took a very unflattering still shot from a TBR video I made and pasted a random daisy that made no sense over the frame.

A girl making a TBR video with a daisy was easier to understand. That made me inviting, right?

Just looking at this thumbnail shows you that I had no idea what I was doing and also gives the impression that I didn’t find whatever activity this was particularly enjoyable.

I got better at it though. Over time I realized that you are actually supposed to smile or make an intentional facial expression. I even grabbed a coffee cup to show off because that’s what the successful girls did, right?

I learned how to make jump cuts, put in b-roll, film myself doing weird one-off stunts, and committed to the bit with costumes and hairstyles.

Hidden amongst these videos were topics that I wanted to cover. Another side of me was emerging slowly. I wrote a video about how fantasy books could depict nomadic cultures better and published it. I wrote another video about what leisure meant and what it truly meant to read for leisure. These musings were drowned out by concepts that I picked in hopes of going viral in a way that conformed with the niche.

I then did go viral. After making content about books for a year, I got a video with over 200,000 views. Unfortunately, it was the first video I made that wasn’t about books.

It was a video about my favorite board games that I thought my online friends might find interesting. I guess they did and I gained a lot of online ‘friends’ overnight. So I took my editing, my costumes, and my dedication to being a content creator and tried to review board games. Actually I tried a lot of things.

Like the time I dressed up like this in order to review manga. This thumbnail is embarrassing for different reasons but at least at this point I understand the concept of a thumbnail.

I had no identity other than being a nerdy girl who would put on a song and dance in hopes of reaching a goal. I wanted to have an audience. I have no idea why I wanted an audience or what I thought that would do for me. I just wanted to prove that I could somehow take myself from the girl who posted a daisy sticker on a random screenshot of a poorly thought out TBR video to someone who could actually do the thing.

I guess the thing was content creation.

In that year I spent so much time editing, stressing, shouting, and crying. I was young, naive, optimistic, and emotional. In the end, I gave up the thing and put that tripod in the closet.

I then moved and put the tripod in my new closet. I moved again and so did the tripod which once again, ended up in the closet.

I grew up quickly. I experienced some tough years and did some hard things. I then got divorced, exhaled, closed my eyes, and opened my eyes to see that tripod.

What if I could make my younger self’s dream come true? The skills I gained didn’t disappear and I was probably smarter now. I could easily make some sort of brand and I could go back to BookTube—on a new channel that wasn’t filled with board games and weird emo-cosplay.

Those of you who know my new channel might be surprised to learn that the thing I thought was most important to start my new BookTube channel was to source a blood bag to fill with cranberry juice to look like fake blood.

I started with thematic reading vlogs. When I left my last channel, I didn’t have a clear voice or idea of who I was and I still didn’t. I did a horror vlog, a romance vlog, and a vampire vlog (hence the blood bag). I tried to edit them to match the others in the space that had shots of making coffee and playing with dogs. I kept taking too long to talk about the books though and often thought that the amount of analysis I was putting into it was killing the vibes that vibe-based content was supposed to have.

I made them, watched them a couple times, and realized I wasn’t all that good at this type of BookTube.

So I tried commentary.

‘Overconsuming Books Isn’t the Problem — This Is’ got 500 views. I had practically gone viral. Perhaps I wasn’t that bad at looking at cultural issues, reframing them, and starting a discussion. So I figured I would be the meta channel. The BookTube channel about BookTube.

I chugged away with videos like ‘This Is Why Your TBR is Stressing You Out’, ‘Why I Quit Goodreads’, and ‘Why Some Women Are Done Reading Men — And Some Men Never Started’.

I then cracked the code and learned what people actually responded to.

Books Are Getting Worse (And It’s Our Fault) went more viral than any BookTube video I ever made. I had made it. If I reframed this ten times, I could plausibly make bank. Perhaps quit the day job.

The only problem was I hated it. Specifically, I hated what I had manufactured. The girl in this picture is someone that I would legitimately run the other way from. That isn’t me. The title is inflammatory and so are the comments.

In all fairness to myself, the video itself isn’t all that bad. It’s actually a good video (for the most part). If I were to make it today (which I wouldn’t), I would make a couple changes but that’s okay.

Over the next year, I continually organized my YouTube videos by ‘most views’ and stared at this gross thumbnail. Over time, I realized that there was something off and something wrong. Now that I had cracked the code, I wasn’t sure the code was worth cracking in the first place.

I had done this for my younger self to prove I was capable of it and that there could be a version of myself that other people would relate to and like. I had never considered that the version of myself that other people would actually like was not the one that I could like.

To be fair, that version of myself is real and does occasionally come to the surface and will likely again. She showed up to talk about Book of the Month and to complain about publishing problems. She exists. The problem is, that is not the version of myself that I can summon weekly.

I also don’t think it is the version of myself that has the most to offer. It isn’t even the version of myself that I want to encourage. That is how I came to the realization that I have no actual desire to be a content creator. I don’t want to go viral. I don’t want to pick ideas to put out into the world based on how likely a random person that I don’t know is to click it.

This is a realization that I already came to a while ago. I made a video about it actually, and then I started making some content that was less clickable and less manufactured. My favorite stuff predictably flopped and I had to live with that fact. The YouTube dashboard spent some time showing me some downward arrows and recommending I become a BookTube drama channel.

At that time, I didn’t really have a replacement. I just had a platform and a habit of posting videos. I was without a goal and without a purpose which I saw as a big improvement over manufacturing viral hits. It probably was.

I think I might have an alternative though. I think of the first video I ever made. The one where I wasn’t in the frame and all I had was a book and an idea to share. Everything else seemed irrelevant. That was the original vision that immediately went down the toilet the second I thought I had to plaster an awkward daisy sticker on a screenshot of a TBR video that I didn’t want to make.

I spent all of this time thinking that to make a dream come true for my younger self I had to come back to her with a big number on a silver platter to show her that she mattered.

She already knew that though. Before she picked up the camera, she was never confused about that. She was even willing to let people see up her nose because what was important to her was always the idea. Everything else didn’t even register.

She didn’t really want to be a content creator—she wanted to be a public thinker. It just took a long time to realize that those were different things.

Now, to some extent I just named a lot of what I have already been doing. I’ve loosely started down that path but I never named it. I’ll still post to YouTube and I’ll still post to Substack (which never had that content creator issue to begin with) but the framing has changed. I’m going back to the original idea that I had before I had any understanding of the internet.

I mean I won’t start filming up my nose and cutting myself out of the frame. That likely was unnecessary, and now I know how to use that tripod.

It was during the morning rush hour—the time of day that immediately follows the sudden violence of waking up when daily commuters grab a coffee to go and count every red light. There is a loose understanding that a difference of five minutes is vital. If each commuter is on time they will arrive to a pleasant ‘good morning’ and if they arrive late they will arrive to side-eyed glances that unfortunately can add up over time.

So this woman was walking on a crosswalk at a busy intersection. She probably stepped onto it right as it was about to change. The little white walking guy was no longer on display but the orange hand with the countdown was approaching zero. She didn’t quite make it in time and the light turned green. The man in the car next to her took his foot off the brake and immediately smashed it back down the moment he realized the woman was in front of him.

Pedestrians do seem to be too easy to ignore. The system was designed for cars and the person walking on the crosswalk is always seen as the anomaly.

To be clear, this man did not hit the woman on the crosswalk. He very nearly did. It all came down to his reaction time. I personally believe he was in a morning daze that comes over the general population during rush hour. He wasn’t completely there and that could have ended poorly. That doesn’t excuse his negligence and when I look back at this event when it isn’t that unpleasant hour in the morning—she had every right to be upset.

She was pissed and proceeded to hold up traffic to yell at him. She waved her arms in the air and shouted about how he could have made her disabled. I cracked my window to listen but more than anything I just wanted her to cut her losses and move on. I did not want to wait for the light to turn red and then green again.

I already had to count this intersection as one red light on the way to my final destination. Now it could count as two.

The people around me started opening their windows to ask her to get out of the way. She probably only took 20 seconds to express her frustration but to us on our morning commute it felt like 10 minutes.

It probably didn’t help her that she appeared to be on a leisurely stroll, she wore an oversized sweatshirt with a graffiti print, she had her light-brown hair up in a messy bun that was framed with oversized sunglasses, and she was a little overweight.

She didn’t fit that rush hour moment of the morning and she was taking up space.

She did eventually get over the fact that she was almost hit and she moved on. She was not violent but she was not quiet. She wanted the driver and everyone around to know that it wasn’t acceptable to almost get hit by a car on the crosswalk.

I imagine almost everyone would agree with her, yet the drivers in this moment and in this context seemed to take the side of the negligent driver. I was silently amongst them reflexively holding the same view.

I am now sitting with this for a moment and wondering why she annoyed me so much while I made excuses for him. He was tired. He probably didn’t want to be going to work. There is almost never a pedestrian there and she was cutting it close. He didn’t actually hit her. I have also been almost hit before and the most anyone ever got out of me was a quick glare. Pedestrians are kind of invisible and I know that.

That doesn’t mean it is easy to be one of those invisible pedestrians. A pedestrian is someone who often has to present perfectly to be seen as a full human by those who are driving to work. A pedestrian can’t be a couple seconds off their timing, wear graffiti print, or have their hair up in a messy bun. People make assumptions about people walking that go away once they enter a car. Employed working people are driving to work and who knows what those street dwellers are up to.

I say this in order to name something that appears to be real—not to agree with it.

I spend time as a pedestrian myself because I enjoy walking. Some streets are noisy and at times I feel like an afterthought.

Why did the sidewalk just end and where am I supposed to go?

At 3pm on a Saturday, I don’t feel like it was such a big deal that she let out some frustration. I don’t even think I was late to work that day. However, I know if this same scene were to repeat at that same time of day I would still be counting the red lights.

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A couple of vans awaited us outside, the girls in front of me signaled which one I should get in. I was anxious and confused but I grasped my accidentally racist water bottle and followed their lead.

We were dropped off at a church and immediately put into administrative lines. An older white American lady pulled me out of mine and told me she would take care of me. She took my passport and put it in a manila envelope for safekeeping. I was only 19 and she did not believe I should be responsible for my ticket back home. It would be a nightmare if I lost it. Apparently.

I could, however, walk the street at all hours of the day meeting strangers from a foreign country. In the area of the country that had just seen the end of the reign of El Chapo, no less.

My mother was mortified by that fact.

The President lined us up in front of a crowd of missionaries sitting in metal folding chairs. Everyone arriving was a native Spanish speaker other than myself and the girl next to me, who had recently spent six weeks with me in a language-learning course in Mexico City.

She was holding the same water bottle.

The missionaries seated in front of us would be our companions. All of us anxiously waited to find out who was here for whom. We would have to spend all day, every day, with whoever the President chose for us — for a minimum of six weeks but possibly up to six months. It felt important.

There were multiple sister missionaries sitting in the front row with warm smiles. Some of them attempted small talk with me.

“Hi, how are you,” one would say, in a way that indicated she was probably not prepared to say much more than that. I couldn’t get much further than that in Spanish myself.

There was one missionary at this event who was American and spoke English. I crossed her off my mental checklist of possibilities because Americans didn’t usually train Americans. She was speaking in Spanish and had a group of girls surrounding her, laughing at a joke. She was obviously well-adjusted and comfortable where she was. She didn’t have a water bottle like mine, which stood out to me.

Another sister missionary sat in the last row. Her hair was tied back, she had utilitarian metal-framed glasses, and a notebook in her hand. She was noting down anything that was being said by any speaker who came up — no matter how casual their speeches seemed. I didn’t know if the information was important; I struggled to keep up with the language, but notably, no one else was writing down every word.

Her feet dangled off the floor, she wore shades of grey with patterns often favored by women much older than she was, and her face was relatively expressionless.

Actually, on second thought, she looked stressed. Extremely so. Unnaturally so.

When it was announced that she would be my companion, my “mom” (a term used for one’s first companion), she put her notebook, sticky notes, and pens away and stood up with purpose. I am 5’3” and she came up to my shoulder. Her demeanor was so serious as she introduced herself to me that I was immediately terrified. Compared to the girls telling jokes in the front row, she appeared exacting. As someone new to the language, I was already worried about failing to meet expectations, and as I gazed down at her tabbed notebook and practical shoes, I was even more worried.

As we left the building to start our life together, the first thing she did was apologize for not learning any English. I understood that part and was more frustrated that I did not already speak fluent Spanish.

The second thing she said appeared to be “peanut.”

She kept saying “cacahuate.” A word I actually learned in high school before going to Mexico City for the language program. I distinctly remembered it because it was fun to say and was in every way superior to the word “peanut” in English.

I envisioned myself at 15, in class, immaturely repeating “cacahuate” five times in a row just to play with the word as it left my mouth.

She definitely could not be talking about peanuts, though. There was no way the first conversation this very serious-looking young woman wanted to have was about peanuts. It was surely going to be about, like, how we clean the house or something.

She saw my confusion and then said another phrase that I understood.

“Don’t worry, I’ll show you.”

She then started walking with purpose down the street, and I was meant to follow her. I took a sip from my water bottle — it was hot outside — and tried to keep up.

She was 4’11” and solidly built, but she could move.

The brisk, purposeful walk ended at what appeared to be a grocery store. That made sense — if we were meant to live together, we would need food. We entered the store and notably did not grab a cart or a basket. We passed the produce, the meats and cheeses, and the bread, and kept going. I was starting to think that this whole time, she really had been trying to talk about peanuts.

Did she want a snack? The urgency behind the situation, and the emotional weight she was applying to it, felt like a lot more than that. I didn’t understand everything she said, but that doesn’t mean the body language didn’t mostly transfer from culture to culture.

She came to a sudden halt, lit up with satisfaction, and pointed for me to see.

She was pointing at peanut butter. She looked at me with what appeared to be an expectation of a response. I immediately tried to decipher what she wanted from me.

She took a jar and put it in my hands and said “yours.” It became apparent that she wanted to buy — no, she wanted me to buy — a jar of peanut butter and nothing else. Nothing had prepared me for the likelihood of this interaction, and I could not decipher the point or the emotional weight behind this set of events. She was obviously a meticulous person with a plan, if her notebook told me anything, and her first activity in mind was buying peanut butter. Only peanut butter.

I smiled and took the jar. She smiled even wider. She had appeared so serious at first, and now she appeared relaxed and happy. Because of peanut butter.

I took it up to the checkout, and she stopped me from paying and gave the cashier enough pesos to cover the cost of the jar.

When we got home, she showed me my bed, my desk, and my closet. She then took out bread, grabbed the peanut butter, and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She gave it to me. She did not make one for herself.

I nibbled slowly on this sandwich as she started writing notes and plans in her day planner. I felt like a five-year-old. To be fair, for the next several weeks, I felt like a five-year-old.

Once I picked up the language enough to have somewhat complex conversations, I asked her why we had bought peanut butter on our first day together.

She told me that the sister missionary who trained her was American and loved peanut butter. That sister had a hard time finding comforts in Mexico and would often buy peanut butter to remind her of home. My companion wanted to show me that we could find things to make my transition easier. She wanted me to be comfortable. She was so stressed because she didn’t know any English and couldn’t get that sentiment across. She hoped the peanut butter would help.

Now, not all Americans like peanut butter. I’m sort of indifferent to it myself. She had only ever closely interacted with one other American before, and she was hoping she could lean on that experience to become good friends with me. It might not have worked entirely in the moment, although it could be argued that I picked up on her positive intentions — but it definitely worked after the fact. I recognized that the thought she put into everything was a genuine effort to connect with other people. Her way wasn’t as easy to understand as the smiles and jokes on display in the front row, but it was no less sincere. There is an argument to be made that it was more sincere than some first impressions that come easy.

She also told me that the water we drank was already filtered and delivered by truck every week. I didn’t need to wait for it to drip-filter again through the water bottle the church had given me before I arrived. Only the new Americans used those tedious bottles, and they weren’t worth the effort. When she pointed that out, I realized a couple of these water bottles had been abandoned in the cupboards by previous American missionaries.

So: not all Americans love peanut butter, and most Mexicans drink clean, filtered water. How else could we have learned that but through experience?

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He was living and teaching in Utah and he appeared to be white and American. That could not be right—he had to be Spanish, or Mexican, or Colombian. He did kind of have a tan but the features did not match. I suppose it really didn’t matter—but in this context it kind of did.

Based on the actual content of his words, I started to believe he was white and American. In a way, that was the worst and best scenario. It was confusing and for a minute I struggled to focus on the words he was saying. I could only focus on how he was saying them. I was not only very impressed but I knew I was in for it. I didn’t want to be in for it.

I was in for it.

He revealed his background, his credentials, and outlined his skills. He was a white American and I couldn’t even tell for sure. Spanish was his second language. This was going to be a long semester.

He immediately began talking about phonetics and phonology. The same concepts could be used in English and in Spanish. In fact, we would have to analyze both this semester if we planned to make any progress. When I spoke to him in English he could tell that I was from Nevada—not Utah and not California. His knowledge was precise and my accent gave me away. When I spoke in Spanish, I still sounded like I was from Nevada and that was what he wanted me to spend the semester fixing.

I was supposed to become my own version of an enigma. I loved the concept and began to daydream. Imagine I could open my mouth and confuse everyone around. I mean, speaking Spanish as a second language without any family ties to the language is unique enough in the United States, but imagine being able to do it without any hint of an accent. I imagined a version of myself that matched my professor.

It would be so cool. I would be so cool.

In the beginning of the course we began to learn phonemes. We were given assignments that required us to sit at home and listen to audio files of different sentences. Some were in English but most were in Spanish. We had to label the phonemes being used. The idea was if we could recognize them, we could learn to speak the right ones. We would drop the extra ones that did not fit in the Spanish language.

The most common word uttered that semester was ‘schwa’. The schwa is the most common spoken vowel in the English language but is not present in Spanish. We had to drop the schwa.

We outlined English sentences in class: the schwa was everywhere.

When we spoke in Spanish, the professor stopped us mid-sentence and would ask us why. Even if we didn’t catch it ourselves, we knew the answer.

“He used a schwa,” we would say. He would nod in approval and ask the student to make the statement or ask the question again. Sometimes it took multiple times. The professor was patient and the student was usually struggling not to feel humiliated. There were only like 15 people in the class—this happened to all of us (multiple times). He gave up on me once as I sat there embarrassed and beet red.

Isn’t the bar always raised? Looking back, I’m just impressed I was even in that class—at the time I could only see (and hear) the schwas. If I was to become an enigma, I didn’t think it would happen anytime soon.

At times we sat there chanting, ‘schwa, schwa, schwa’. The sound and symbol was everywhere. It was impossible to escape.

After a couple attempts of noting the phonemes down on paper, I picked it up. It was a very precise structure and it was very easy to mess up the notation. The first couple times we all received our work back covered from top to bottom in more red ink than black. Eventually that reversed. I could hear it and I understood exactly how the sounds in English and Spanish worked. Most importantly, I realized how they were different.

Intellectually and by ear. That was the problem. I still struggled to make the sounds I could now hear come out of my mouth.

Let me say now that in school, I was never the dunce. In fact, I was always far from being the dunce. At the time, I was on a full-ride academic scholarship. If my GPA ever dropped below 3.96, I was going to have to pay. That was a big deal for me and nothing seemed worse than losing the advantage I had studied constantly to maintain. I couldn’t even envision how I was going to make that money to pay for school, now or in the future.

When I received back the score from my first oral examination, the symbol of the schwa shifted from an eccentric thing we always seemed to be chanting in class to the sign of my own personal financial doom.

All of that just means I got a C.

I ran to a calculator to see what would happen if I got a C on all of my oral examinations. It wasn’t pretty. Even if I continued performing well on hearing and transcribing, I would still end the class with a B. Ending the class with a B would drop my GPA a little bit below the 3.96 threshold.

Learning to drop the schwa (and other pesky vowels that I won’t outline here) became my full-time job. Even though this class was all for a minor that I did not strictly have to complete, it became a top priority. It was too late to withdraw and it was either learn to drop the schwa or pay tens of thousands of dollars now or later.

The daydream became a nightmare. I no longer considered how cool it would be to become the enigma my professor was. I was young and I was being run by fear. At times, I couldn’t even open my mouth in the confines of my own bedroom to practice. What if I was practicing wrong? Bad practice at times can be worse than no practice at all. I recorded myself to hear myself back. I tried to be impartial and judge myself as if it wasn’t me.

It was me though and another schwa just flew by taking my scholarship with it.

I began to wonder why I had even taken this class. I wasn’t even a Spanish major—I was just being blindly ambitious. Pushing and stretching myself in the past always worked out and was worth it. Maybe in a system like this it wasn’t; maybe I should have been more careful.

Another few schwas and another few Cs. This wasn’t going well and this wasn’t fun anymore. In my youthful shame, I didn’t go to my professor. I was embarrassed and hadn’t been in this position before. Looking back, I probably should have gone to office hours. At the time, I had the mindset that I could not achieve anything physical. The problem was that every other subject I had ever taken lived in the realm of intellect and ideas. This class also lived in the realm of physical performance. I convinced myself that it couldn’t be overcome. I was outside of my wheelhouse and began to accept my fate.

For the record, I am aware that this is dramatic. I was very dramatic and very hard on myself. In my early 20s, I always sweat the small stuff. I didn’t know how not to sweat the small stuff.

At times people just get lucky though. I had imagined a future of overcoming this obstacle and growing as a person or failing the task and realizing that I couldn’t overcome everything always.

The thing is, the year was 2020 and the COVID pandemic hit. My university realized that this was an unusual incident and sent out an email to all students. All students could choose to take the grades given by professors or just for this semester they could take a P or F—pass or fail. Taking a pass would give you credit for the class and have no effect on your GPA. I took all my As and the B I was awarded for Spanish Phonetics and Phonology became a P.

After the fact, I spent several sessions of practice trying to drop the schwa. The dark looming presence was gone and I could focus on my studies. As someone who is intrinsically motivated to try a lot of things, the pressure had corrupted me. The schwa was just a schwa not a symbol of failure. It was a lot easier to see that after my scholarship was secure.

I never became the enigma my professor was. After living years with very limited practice of the Spanish language, I would probably struggle to get the C I started with.

One thing that this experience made me grapple with is luck. I did not meet the requirements to keep my scholarship but I kept it anyway. I lucked out. For a while, that made me feel guilty. The obstacle before me was never overcome but was just moved. Someone saw me in distress running down the track and simply got rid of it. Poof…it was gone.

Years later, I have a lot of compassion for those few months of schwa-filled turmoil. If I could, I would tell that version of myself not to worry if she couldn’t figure it out. I could have figured out how to pay for that last year of college eventually. It was not as much of a make it or break it moment as she envisioned. We would have been just fine.

Ironically enough, I don’t know if I give the same amount of grace to my current self. Every catastrophe is amplified in the moment. Every worry and concern feels so strong and so dire.

It probably isn’t. Usually. I suppose sometimes it is.

It’s a good reminder not to sweat the small stuff. Try your best and sometimes things just come down to luck anyways. That is not the only time I have been lucky or unlucky. It plays more of a role than we sometimes acknowledge.

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It’s still true though. Throughout her life she has been very passionate, very organized, and very persuasive. She is also quite popular BUT she would try to deny that.

When I ran errands with her in my teenage years, there was not a place in the city where we could go where she wouldn’t be recognized. The recognition was always positive.

She changed lives, inspired, brought people out of dark places. Yada yada yada.

This influence she had in the lives of others came with great effort. She had to jump through many hoops to realize her visions. She spent hours stressed, frowning, sweating the small stuff, and practicing presentations to humans or teddy bears for feedback. Looking back on it, many of those hoops and the stress they caused were likely unnecessary.

During my teenage years she was a Stake Relief Society President. We were Mormon.

She still is.

A Stake Relief Society President is a position that a woman can hold in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. For context, a congregation in the Mormon Church is called a ‘ward’ and a ‘stake’ is a group of multiple wards. A ward has 150 to 500 members and a stake usually includes 5-12 wards.

Her position was the highest local position a woman could have in the church. She got to envision what the adult women of the stake would need. She visited them, talked to them, and pondered how to help them out. She came up with programs, classes, initiatives, and just talked to people who needed a friend.

Except she didn’t actually have the authority to do any of that. She had to get all of her ideas approved by the Stake President, who was always a man.

Now the Stake President that was in power when I was a teenager was actually a really good man. He saw the intelligence and vision my grandmother had and approved most of her ideas. He usually got out of her way.

That had not always been the case in her experience, and she did NOT take his help and support for granted.

In fact, she would buy poster boards, cricut machines, sharpie markers, and different software products to make the best presentations imaginable. She would pour hours into a concept that he would listen to for at most ten minutes. Sometimes her carefully crafted presentation had to be turned into an elevator pitch last minute—a possibility she was also always prepared for. He usually told her that she did a good job, but sometimes he sent her back to the drawing board to start the process again.

This was an unpaid position, by the way. She spent hours on an idea to help women that would only materialize if a man could give it ten minutes and a thumbs up. She wasn't just being reviewed—she was translating. Something she understood instantly had to be carefully repackaged so a man who hadn't done any of the thinking could understand it too.

Her ideas were often good and often implemented. Those in her close circle knew she was exceptional. The men in charge of approving her ideas knew she was an asset. That being said, once approved by the Stake President, many of her ideas became Stake initiatives, and sometimes those initiatives did not trace the source. Only priesthood holders (always male) had the authority to receive revelation for other people and organizations. She would come up with the project, and the Stake President would receive the revelation that it was a good idea. Her part was from herself and his part was from God. So sometimes we could say that he got a disproportionate amount of the credit.

It’s the kind of arrangement that’s easy to miss from the inside. Recently I read A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf. In this essay she says,

“Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.”

In this case that remained true. The woman with the vision was great and all, but the man with the rubber stamp was in charge.

So in that context I grew up with the idea that a woman could be talented and exceptional. I also grew up with the idea that a man ultimately had to decide if that was true or not.

I didn’t think I had carried that idea with me until it showed up somewhere much smaller than a church hierarchy. Fast forward years later and I’ve had to do some soul searching. Do my ideas carry weight on their own, or do they have to be presented to a man with a rubber stamp?

A year ago I was talking to my boyfriend about some cultural topic. It was something silly that I don’t really care about. He took one side and I took another. We disagreed. I thought it out and presented my idea with detail, and we still disagreed. I felt defeated.

In that moment I realized that I was putting a rubber stamp in his hand. I could not imagine a world where we agreed to disagree and I got to keep my opinion as unchanged as his was. I somehow believed that my opinion could only hold equal weight if I got a stamp of approval from the man in the room…or at least a concession.

I had to soul search and figure out where that came from. Why did I care about which opinion he held more than which one I held myself? Why was I deferring to him? Why did I assume that he had the gavel and was the ultimate judge of some silly cultural issue that had nothing to do with us?

That was the day I started to care about what I thought independently of anyone else. I recognized the tendency I had to cave under pressure, even internally, and immediately rectified the situation.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t immediate. Maybe I needed a little practice to give my own opinions the weight they deserved. This stuff doesn’t always happen overnight.

Woolf has a name for what I was reaching for. When Virginia Woolf talks about a woman having ‘a room of her own,’ she is talking about a space to write uninterrupted, a life with leisure, and enough money to not have to worry about necessities. She identified that great female writers and thinkers would inevitably spring up from comfortable positions. At least they would be given a chance.

When I think of creating a room of my own, I think of a room without a rubber stamp. I think of a room that can grow to hold my thoughts, ideas, and dreams. A room that does not require me to self-censor or to conform.

It turns out the stamp doesn’t only come from men. Interestingly enough, I have to actively work not to give random men in my life rubber stamps, but I also have to at times yank the pesky little things out of the clutches of other women.

At times it feels like everyone is at war to conquer my mind and make it conform to one group or other. I don’t think this is true about my mind specifically—I think there’s a war for all of our minds. The culture war.

What a scary war it is. It’s a war without logic and a war without empathy. It’s a war about conformity.

On the other end of the spectrum, there is a lot of terminology developed with good intentions that can feel just as stifling. Many women my age and younger will do all they can to not be considered a ‘pick me’ girl but instead would like to be called a ‘girl’s girl.’ Sometimes these terms are used in jest, and sometimes they are used to identify a woman who has fallen out of line with the group. A woman who has another opinion. Many are also very quick to point out if someone has internalized misogyny.

Which is a real thing but is not a term that can be used at any semblance of disagreement.

At times it feels like we really are insistent that someone have the rubber stamp. If we are taking it from the men, then we surely have to give it to someone, don’t we?

Not in my room. In my room no one holds the stamp. No one has to approve my opinions or complete an audit on the interior rooms of my mind. Trust me, I audit them enough myself and don’t need anyone else digging around in there.

At times, this issue makes me think it stems from a lack of creativity. A system was set up and it had a rubber stamp. Someone has to hold the rubber stamp. We can’t just create a room without it. We have to keep the system and just change or shift who has the power.

This brings me back to Virginia Woolf’s essay. She envisions a future where women change the structure of writing to fit themselves.

“No doubt we shall find her knocking that into shape for herself when she has the free use of her limbs; and providing some new vehicle, not necessarily in verse, for the poetry in her.”

Now, my discussion here is about ideas and the right one has to develop them independently. It’s a little different from the discussion Woolf is having.

Except it isn’t.

We need to free ourselves from the surveillance of others. We can live, think, and build our own room—even if we have to knock some walls down to make everything fit.

That knocking-down is its own kind of labor, and Elizabeth Gilbert, in 2023, made the argument that many people, often women, have to build their ego, their confidence, and cement their place in the world. When someone is raised to be selfless and defer to others, their path to self-improvement is breaking down walls to make the space they inhabit larger. This goes against conventional advice in the self-help and spiritual space. Most advice is made for people who take up too much space and need to start recognizing others. If you are in the practice of handing out rubber stamps to everyone you meet, that might not be you.

In her essay, Virginia Woolf hopes that women will figure out how to make their own space by saying:

“By hook or by crook, I hope you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle, to contemplate the future or the past of the world, to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream.”

I agree, and I hope that the room you build is one that allows you to truly be who you are and think what you think. Give yourself the rubber stamp if you must have one.

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Years later, it is the only thing I still own that was purchased that day. I love it.

The other day, after a long day at work and a day of excruciating Las Vegas heat—I finally had some time to relax. I grabbed a hot drink, found a short story collection to read from, and gathered my small dogs so that I could melt into my chair and finally relax.

As I walked out with tea in one hand and my book in the other, I realized that my chair was covered in shit. My plan was foiled. My day was ruined.

Except, it wasn’t. I put everything down, let out an exasperated sigh, and found the best cleaning supplies for the job. The bird pooped everywhere. It could have been multiple birds. It took a few minutes of elbow grease and patience with the process. I watched a YouTube video to see how to handle the stains.

I’m not sure they even sell my favorite chair anymore. This was an important task.

Ultimately, I ended up reading the short story collection with a cup of warm (not hot) tea. I had to turn on the backdoor light because the sun was descending. I still got a version of what I wanted even if it looked a little different.

A few days after that, I finished playing board games with friends and noticed an ominous tickle in my throat. The type of feeling that tells you that you are about to get sick and there is likely nothing you can do about it. Being sick sucks, but the moment you realize it is coming also sucks. You have to cancel all of your plans and are forced to do nothing for days.

Now, I still optimistically take vitamin C and try to eat especially healthy while gulping down massive amounts of water. I do what I can but it basically never works. The tickle is almost always final.

I was moody and annoyed. I hate deviating from my plans. It’s easy to get sick and then take a long time to get back to habits and projects even after you recover. Sometimes getting sick makes me spend time reevaluating life in general. As I recovered, it took a few days to pull myself out of that existential gloom and just start doing what was important to me again. Sometimes action comes first and the emotion and passion you want follows the action.

I’ll add a small caveat here: mental health concerns are real, and I’m speaking only for myself, not for you.

These examples are both very recent, but they are both really trivial. They could easily be classified as “first-world problems,” and perhaps rightfully so. I think they are still useful because I think they demonstrate micro-examples of the resilience I have nurtured over time. I have, of course, had harder experiences than the ones above.

That husband I bought the camping gear with—we used it a couple times and then never again. That is why I only have the chair. I have written about how difficult it is for your life to intersect with the culture war in a previous essay. Please understand that when I tell you that a couple years after buying the chair, my husband transitioned to be a woman. It was something I never expected and something those around me were surprised by as well. I understood I was not entitled to anyone and that no one was entitled to me. It led to a divorce—an amicable one, but a divorce nonetheless.

Right at that moment I was also teaching full-time while getting a second degree in the evening. I was a good teacher and not checked out, I was getting a second degree in a technical field, and my husband was unexpectedly becoming my wife. It was a moment, and it was a moment I got through. With resilience and a vision for a future I would enjoy more than the present.

While that is easily understood by most people as a difficult time, to me personally, it ranks as number 2. Years before that, while attending a Mormon university, I lost my faith. My faith was entrenched in my psyche and gave me my blueprint for life. Losing it wasn’t like losing a relationship, where you’re still yourself on the other side of it. I lost the very thing I used to understand who I was and where I was going. I had to deconstruct that blueprint and build my own from scratch, with no ready-made version of myself to stand on while I did it. I feel for anyone who has ever had to do anything similar.

Yet years later, I’ve done it, and my biggest concerns at the moment are birds pooping on my favorite chair when I want to read. That is not to say something might not happen in the future, but times do change, and you keep the skills you develop through life.

I don’t say any of this to trauma dump. I actually still think I’ve had a lot of lucky breaks, and I recognize that what I’ve been through (not all of which is outlined here) isn’t as bad as what some of you may have gone through.

All I hope to do by sharing my experiences and my resilience is to provide some amount of hope that sometimes life is better on the other side. Sometimes you can let out an exasperated sigh, get the cleaning supplies to clean up the shit, and move on to greener pastures.

Of course, sometimes it takes a long time, and sometimes the stain never goes away. And sometimes you need some help. Eventually, with some resilience and some patience, you might be able to finally sit down to read.

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Although, even on my good weeks I didn’t personally eat much steak. I was more likely to splurge on avocados (not to fit the millennial stereotype).

For some, the key indicators worked as a clear goal. Others mentally clocked out because what the numbers measured did not accurately reflect the strengths of the employee. Those employees quickly fell in the ranks and were looked down upon by management who had to decide if they were cut out for the job.

There was a large debate regarding the true effectiveness of what the numbers actually measured. If they were going to drive all decisions, it was important that they accurately measured what made a good employee.

Now, many people liked to point out that the numbers did work and those who couldn’t figure out the system were whining because the system successfully pointed out that they were inferior. Of course anyone will be upset when they are put in the ‘below average’ bucket.

I will be honest, my numbers were not so bad. They were as good as I could make them without completely selling my soul. I worked in customer retention and was judged based on my ability to retain an upset customer by hopefully resolving whatever was making them consider cancellation of service. The numbers worked for me for awhile.

Then they tanked in a way that most people would consider unjust.

I spoke Spanish and my manager asked me to take on the Spanish retention calls for an extra dollar an hour.

That responsibility was given as a compliment but resulted in a significant pay cut. The Spanish-speaking customers often did not understand the service they had signed up for, or were taken advantage of and directly misled by a door-to-door salesman trying to make a quick buck. Long story short, my retention numbers tanked. I was systematically given accounts that were much harder to retain, with good reason.

In my personal case, I showed up, complained, and eventually got a promotion. Over time I noticed that many people with the absolute best numbers were postponing or transferring cancellation calls so that they didn’t have to take them—causing more pro-social and ‘nice’ employees to pick them up and tank their own numbers.

Needless to say, the numbers didn’t actually measure what they meant to measure. The system was exploitable and many people exploited it.

As a whole, Americans are obsessed with numbers and data. Data-driven decisions on average lead to better outcomes—I think I generally agree with that. But even when numbers are measured thoughtfully and accurately, they tend to misrepresent someone with creativity and vision.

I recently read a personal essay written by Chris Feliciano Arnold. He is Brazilian, but because of political and familial turmoil he ended up in the United States. One of his biggest regrets in life is that he never got involved in soccer—a sport that is central to his culture. He had the opportunity to get his son involved from a young age, partially in an attempt to keep those cultural roots alive.

He took his son to the COPA Soccer Training Center in Walnut Creek, California. He explains what this place is in his essay:

“COPA stands for Comprehensive Objective Performance Assessment, and true to its name, there are few spaces in this building where an athlete’s performance is not being comprehensively assessed. On the thirty-yard synthetic SpeedTrack, a barrage of lasers analyzes their speed and gait. In the COPA skills.lab—the only one of its kind in North America—athletes step into a 360-degree array of screens, ball launchers, and motion sensors that can replicate almost any in-game scenario. In the COPA Cube, players enter a turn box surrounded by a grid of targets that light up at random so athletes can hone their passing skills with video game-like intensity. Data from each station is fed into proprietary technologies that calculate an athlete’s COPA Score…”

I had no idea a place like this exists—not being much of a soccer fan myself—and its existence fascinates me. It is, in a way, the logical endpoint of what I encountered in the call center: a system so committed to measurement that the measurement becomes the point.

He talks about how the COPA score is used for recruiting. I did wonder how foolproof this score really could be for picking the next potential candidate for a team. Are there any shortcomings? Of course, I am too distant from that conversation to know any specifics. I did wonder if it could keep some candidates out who would be assets in other ways. Perhaps a kid could be near a cutoff with the skill metrics but be particularly pro-social, leading to better team dynamics. Perhaps an athlete could also be a strategic genius, particularly good at creative thinking, and create new solutions for common problems.

There is probably truth to the idea that data might work to make decisions about most people but fail at identifying outliers—especially in things that aren’t directly measured.

Beyond the effectiveness of a program like this, Feliciano Arnold contemplated how it changed the soul of the game. He viewed this system as commercialized and even Americanized. In his essay, he says that he plans to take his son out of this program before he is measured—they don’t do measurement until around age ten. He imagines what it would have been like if his son had lived in Brazil and got to venture off and play in the streets on non-regulation-sized courts with kids from the local neighborhood. He imagines that experience would have been a better one than the options he had available for his son in California.

Data has followed me my whole life, and not just in call centers. The data collected during my years teaching was particularly bad—the architects of those systems either were not all that qualified or did not want them to work—but beyond its quality, it also took center stage. It pushed goals like community building and individual development to the side, which seemed like a mismanagement of priorities when it came to working with teenagers.

As a YouTuber, the data that YouTube tracks emphasizes the goals of YouTube, not mine. It isn’t designed to measure what I’m actually trying to do, which makes it somewhat useless—though still, I admit, interesting to look at.

I guess where I am landing is that the numbers don’t always measure what they claim to, and there is more to life than numbers anyway. What Feliciano Arnold was really grieving wasn’t inefficiency—it was the disappearance of something that couldn’t be scored. Kids on a street court, playing for nothing but the game.

I think in this moment we need more human excellence and less optimization. The people creating the optimization tools don’t always understand what we are trying to do anyway.

You can read Chris Feliciano Arnold’s essay in the Winter 2025 issue of the Believer:

https://www.thebeliever.net/product/winter-2025/

I’ll admit, I’ve always found this pastime a strange one. I’ve asked several people why they do this when it’s a dream that will surely never be realized.

They tell me they are just having fun. I have to respect that.

The thing is, it isn’t fun for me because I find it sad.

This type of thinking is not new. Michallì da Ruoda, referred to in English as Michael of Rhodes, had similar unrealistic dreams.

It is very unusual to have a historical record that shows the life of someone who was not wealthy. Most books and notebooks that have been passed down belonged to the societal elite. Michael of Rhodes started his career in the 15th century as an oarsman—the lowest position aboard a ship.

This profession was a tough one. It was not a position that could be counted on and it was hard to climb the career ladder. After every expedition, all employees were laid off and would have to seek employment again to be rehired.

Michael’s notebook is eclectic. It shows many sides of a fascinating man. He dedicated hundreds of pages to mathematical puzzles, problems, and mysteries. He sectioned off another part of his notebook to function as a resume, something that would help him get rehired each time he had to seek another job. Historians find this mix of personal passions with professional paperwork fascinating. Probably because it is.

Rather than focus on his career ambitions or his personal passion for math (something many of us won’t understand), I would like to talk about one of his famous drawings.

He made himself a coat of arms with a design befitting a commoner.

The author Roland Allen describes it this way:

“Quite out of context, Michael devises his own coat of arms — the coat of arms that he could never, as a commoner, sport. It takes a conventional form — shield surmounted by helm — but instead of a noble heraldic beast like the lion that supports the Loredan crest, he represents himself with a rat, clutching the bleeding corpse of a cat. Instead of genteel lilies, or roses that appear on the Loredan shield, a pair of turnips flank the crest. Rarely has class resentment been so elegantly expressed.”

So perhaps unlike those that cyberstalk Zillow mansions, Michael may have been a little bit pessimistic about class boundaries.

Although I imagine he also had fun crafting the dream.

Michael was apparently a very hard-working man. Against all odds, he was able to not only get rehired consistently but also climb the ranks. Notably, in 1436 he won an election that appointed him as armiraio in the Flanders merchant fleet. That was the highest position a commoner could attain. He was given a comfortable sinecure in his old age — a pension for his years at sea.

He did everything he could possibly have done right. He worked hard and proved himself capable. He did not let his humble origins stop him from living a comfortable and respected life. He became a leader and his life was a success.

But he never got to sport a coat of arms.

The thing is, I don’t think he ever expected to. Not in the way that some modern dreamers imagine they can get lucky and get rich. Our modern upward mobility myth softens the divide between classes and makes many believe that they could one day become a billionaire.

In reality our chances of buying the nicest house in our area are very low. At the very least, we must be born owning an emerald mine (or many shares of one).

Understanding that can lead to a nice life. We can find comfort in what we have and the opportunities that do exist. We can make the best of whatever hand we were dealt—just like Michael.

Michael might be interested to know that his notebook has sold many times for a lot of money to people much wealthier than he could ever be.

Apparently he was worth remembering.

Instead on these long summer days they have chew toys and I have books. We make do. It becomes stifling and we all get restless. Our environment is hostile and on days like this it feels like we are not supposed to be here.

One of the last times I took them out of the house was so that they could be groomed. The car never fully cooled down and they were panting loudly. As we parked, I realized that I would need to carry them inside (they refuse to wear booties). I slung my cross-body bag over my shoulder and took 25 pounds of canine in both arms to lug them inside. A man saw my predicament and opened the door for me.

And in that moment I dropped my phone on the ground. It ended up being fine. I seem to do that a lot.

A few days later, the air conditioner partially gave out. That is a Las Vegas summer emergency. It was 85 degrees and climbing inside the house. We were lucky that is was still partially working during those days.

I went to Walmart to buy a fan. A young mom was there with three little boys. Unlike mine, their air conditioner completely gave out. I imagined their home could easily be above 100 degrees inside—it was a hot day. She was on the phone with her husband. They were calculating the quantity and quality of fans they could afford to get through the weekend. They wondered if their boys would be okay with the cheap box fans or if they needed to spring for something better. She looked stressed, this was clearly an unexpected expense.

I considered helping and then wondered if that would be overstepping. We do not have a strong community culture in Las Vegas. We exist as islands.

I got back home and turned on the fan and the dogs immediately jumped in front of it to hog the cold air.

They probably needed it more than I did.

A few weeks later, I am writing this with a light sweater on. The air conditioner is working and we are paying high electricity bills to create a microclimate in the house that is extremely livable. We are comfortable as long as we are inside. However, we are trapped and cannot reasonably leave.

During these months, I feel disconnected from the world around me. The sweater does not match the environment and everything feels artificial. I live in a snow globe and I cannot break the glass.

Most days it doesn’t even seem worth it to leave the house unless I have no other option. The book store isn’t getting its fair share of my money because I don’t want to endure the five minutes of pain to get there. Sometimes I’ll leave the house at 7 pm when it cools down to a tolerable 90 degrees.

I might start chewing the blinds soon.

I start to wonder if I could be experiencing reverse seasonal affective disorder. This version of seasonal affective disorder is common in hotter climates. While most people experience it in the winter, it is possible in extreme cases to experience it in the summer (hence the use of “reverse”).

I decide I don’t have reverse SAD. I’m just a little tired. Most of the time I feel just fine. It’s just a different experience from the other 9 months of the year.

Those months are in every way superior.

It’s also a small problem. A first-world problem. Something I constantly notice because it lowers my quality of life.

My quality of life is still high.

I remember my life as a missionary in northern Mexico. That life feels like a dream. It was almost just as hot and I spent most of my time outside. We carried around towels to wipe the sweat off of our necks, faces, and bodies. I developed a rash on the back of my neck that eventually turned into cellulitis. Only missionaries and stray dogs were on the streets.

Those dogs did not have booties.

The houses had cracked concrete floors. They also had air conditioners—it was too hot not to. They weren’t as effective as mine. They could not create a snow globe microclimate and wear a sweater.

I met a woman who had been left by her husband. She had small children and could not afford her electric bill. They lived in the heat and in the dark. Their situation wasn’t all that rare and the church didn’t particularly care. I went to the nearby abarrotes and paid the bill. I don’t remember why she paid her bills at the abarrotes. It was the equivalent of $20 US dollars. The year was 2016.

They probably would have enjoyed my snow globe.

That doesn’t diminish the emptiness and disconnection that creeps up as I endure the summer months. What I feel is still real. My dogs still get bored enough to salivate when they see the blinds.

I guess all that it means is that we have a few tough months ahead of us.

It could be worse.

We were often arranged in a circle, perhaps sitting criss-cross applesauce, with a large clear jar in the center filled with prompts written or printed on colorful paper.

They were scenarios that we needed to respond to:

“Billy is a popular kid and often makes fun of Timmy who is not. Everyone around you thinks Billy is really funny but you notice that Timmy is holding back tears. Later you come across Timmy and he is crying in the bathroom–what do you do?”

I will say the quality of the conversation that followed depended entirely on the adult in charge. Some adults had one clear and accepted answer and everything else you could come up with as a seven-year-old child would fall short.

They were those ridiculous adults that were like, “Close but not quite…try again!”

The best discussions were led by adults that were teaching nuance and allowing multiple perspectives.

Should you have confronted Billy at that moment? There are some things to consider: Is he mentally stable? Is he likely to throw a punch? Would you be putting yourself in danger?

Should you tell an adult? Yes, probably. However, many kids would ask if they actually should if the adult continually didn’t listen to them. What if Ms. Morris (or whoever) really likes Billy and doesn’t believe anyone when they say he is a bully. That could be a conversation worth having.

Should you comfort Timmy and become his friend, helping him to become more resilient when encountering people who don’t like him? This could be a good choice for sure. However, what if you don’t have much in common with Timmy and it becomes hard for you to keep up that friendship. A friendship cannot be formed on pity alone.

Like I said, in my opinion, the best adults would let us talk it out even if they ultimately guided us to the answers that were likely better for the average child (who does still need guidance).

This system was far from perfect. As we became teenage girls, this same setup was used to teach purity culture and victim blaming. What could happen to the boys at church if you choose to wear a dress that is above the knees? Why should you choose modesty?

Those lessons always had ‘correct’ answers.

I won’t lie, certain experiences that were little more than didactic brainwashing turned me off the whole idea of ‘discussing morality’ for a while. I don’t like to be told what to do, how to think, and I most certainly don’t want someone overanalyzing if my dress is above or below the knee.

I think many people resist discussions of modern-day morality for similar reasons. Who are you to know what is ‘right’ and ‘wrong’? There are multiple perspectives and no real conclusive answers. You also might not actually be able to fix a situation even if you care about it.

As we grow up, the world gets bigger and more complicated. Morality was so easy when it only applied to the baby world at recess. As an adult, you are plugged into bigger systems and eventually you find out that you can’t independently change them.

So we get pithy phrases like: “There is no ethical consumption under capitalism.”

Adults don’t sit criss-cross applesauce in a circle to debate the ethics and morality of the modern world. We find a group of people who agree with us and enter an echo chamber. Most people accept things as they are and check out of the conversation completely.

Recently, I’ve been thinking of the online landscape. To be fair, there is some limited discussion about what some are calling the ‘adpocalypse’. Our online spaces are paid for and monetized by large companies that want your money. That isn’t news. When this is discussed, it’s usually by someone who has taken a stance.

That person ends up being kind of like the adult who gave every creative kid the, “Close but not quite…” answer. They’ll write a video essay about why sponsors and ads are good and necessary or why they spell out the downfall of society as we know it.

As someone who has a growing YouTube channel, I’ve watched this debate. I think about it and it makes me uncomfortable. I have turned down sponsors because of this.

I’d like to take an opportunity to contemplate it in writing. It’s been awhile since I’ve sat down and read out the words on a neon green sheet of paper to my peers. I believe I would like to bring the practice back now. For a moment.

“Sarah creates lifestyle content for the internet. She has put in long hours to make content that other people enjoy for free. Despite getting a lot of views, she is not paid much for her work that thousands of people enjoy daily. She is offered a large sum of money to do an ad read in the first two minutes of her upcoming video for [insert sketchy YouTube sponsorship here]. She doesn’t know much about the company but they don’t appear to be harmful on the surface. She has seen many other creators talk about the same company in their videos. She has never used the product but is considering promoting it to be able to be fairly paid for her work. What should she do?”

Surely if she does make the video, most people will say nothing, some people will say ‘get that bag!’, and others will call her a sellout and timestamp the ad calling her out for publicizing a company that not everyone likes or trusts.

She shouldn’t just decide what to do based on the public reaction to it though. It’s best for her to have her own set of morals and boundaries. I think so at least.

Why do so many companies pay influencers to do an ad read in the video directly? YouTube and other platforms already interrupt videos (constantly) to insert an ad. In fact, advertisers on average pay significantly more per view if the influencer reads it in their video.

The obvious answer is parasociality. Viewers trust creators that they regularly watch. This can be healthy or unhealthy but it is still true. A popular online personality promoting a product is as close as companies can get to word-of-mouth advertising which tends to outperform an ad that pops up on a YouTube video or I guess…a cable network.

Does anyone still have cable?

So when Sarah chooses to accept the sponsor, it’s best that she realizes that she is being paid so much for a reason. She likely will convince a portion of her audience to buy whatever product she pitches. If it ends up being a bad product, she is taking advantage of trust for money.

At the same time, she does legitimately put in a lot of work that many people enjoy for free. She knows that most people would not pay for what she does — and many of those who watch her for hours and get mad at her for taking a sponsor would balk at paying even a dollar to access it. Some people feel entitled to free entertainment and are unwilling to fund what they enjoy. Others simply can’t. They are paying bills, clothing and feeding children (and perhaps dogs). There is nothing left over for Sarah.

In fact when Sarah gets that sponsorship some of them say ‘get that bag!’ because they are happy that someone decided to fund her. They appreciate her.

This all can come back to what we owe each other. No one should expect Sarah to continually do what she does for free. She absolutely can choose to do it for free, but that is Sarah’s choice. At the same time, it is okay to question the ethics and morality involved if she promotes something to people who trust her without being absolutely sure that she is causing no harm.

With all that in mind, Sarah still has a choice and her choice still matters. It still says something about Sarah.

I tend to think the amount of ads we see on a daily basis is a little dystopian. The conversation surrounding how we use people who trust us is one worth having. At the same time, it is worth considering how much we expect to get for free from those who entertain and educate us.

In my personal situation, I have chosen to reject all sponsors so far. There are a few I would consider accepting. At my size the offers have only been in the hundreds per ad read. I imagine it is tough to reject an ad read in the thousands. Ultimately, I’d rather accept a sponsor I trust for less money (or no sponsor at all) than become a salesperson for something I’m not convinced by.

Which is why I have chosen the hobby route to content creation. I do not want to be plugged into a system that is too big for me to influence. I can feel for the creators that are so plugged in that they are no longer able to make a stand unless they uproot their lives. The algorithm determines their video topics, their online persona, and to some extent…their morality.

Even if there are few viable alternatives, I still think they are to blame if something they are peddling turns south.

Ethics, morality, and community trust still matter. Even under capitalism.