Manipulation, Finagle, and Kvetch, LLC

Humans are in the process of progressing from the Age of Technology into the Age of Artificial Intelligence (AI). This statement is either true or a myth perpetuated by AI posing as journalists and technology wonks, depending on whether or not you believe in conspiracy theories or are unable to distinguish real news from fake news. Choose your own reality. Seriously, everyone else does.

On the surface, AI seems like a solid proactive effort to counteract the dwindling of real intelligence; exhibit one being that a large number of humans don’t recognize the fact that we are cooking ourselves in the stew of environmental collapse in spite of vast empirical evidence. (“Does it seem hot in here to you?”) AI is the next frontier, and computer wizards have already launched the explorer-ships in the form of development of computer versions of brains. We will soon advance beyond mere ordinary computers and the mind-blowing capacities of the internet, and into the realm of mind-transcending AI. Mental capacity overdrive.

AI will put a lot of people out of work. Actually, it already has. Cashiers, bank tellers, receptionists, researchers, warehouse workers, bartenders, and postal workers appear on lists of jobs now accomplished by AI. Think of all the people who will lose their income to self-driving cars. That concept scares the daylights out of me and may result in my never leaving my house, because self-driving cars are programmed to go from one place to another, and whether or not they bump off a few people on the way is of no consequence to them. In that sense, they resemble our present government, which also makes me feel unsafe leaving my house. With AI to diagnose health conditions, who needs doctors? I imagine that in the future, AI will handle the provision of healthcare, and human doctors will only step in to handle the messy emotional collateral, such as dealing with patients who can’t be saved within the bounds of the limited knowledge of allopathic Western medicine. So when a patient goes to a medical appointment and an actual person enters the examination room then the patient faints because seeing a real doctor means she’s terminal.

People, I’m writing to alert you that we need to reassess what kinds of work can only be done, or can only be done well, by an actual human-type person, and that cannot be done by a super-smart robot. Those of us in professions vulnerable to co-opting by AI should retrain ASAP for jobs that require the services of an actual human-type person; professions such as writing poetry or synchronized swimming. I plan to start a company that provides essential functions that only a human can do. I will call it Manipulation, Finagle, and Kvetch, LLC (as soon as I figure out what LLC stands for). While I concede that AI could arguably manipulate people or finagle, I remain firmly unconvinced that AI could consistently do this significantly better than a human. Furthermore, you will never convince me that AI can kvetch as effectively as a human, and more specifically a human adolescent. Anyone who disagrees has simply not raised children or, at the very least, has not experienced a teenager who discovers the cold cereal has run out. Enterprises in need of manipulation, finagling, and kvetching will contract with my company to accomplish the messy and unpredictable human side of business, while AI smoothly completes the mechanical work without complaint. AI will drive the car and my company will help people kvetch about the selected route and the traffic.

I particularly worry about AI taking over all these important jobs because of the vulnerability of technology to hacking. While human workers are vulnerable to bribery, coercion, corruption, and human error, this seems less dangerous to me than AI running amok because some evil genius has reprogrammed the AI circuits. Say, for instance, that I have an AI maid. Everyone will have one in the future to do the laundry, sweep the leaves off the front porch, and clean the toilets (yay) so that we don’t have to do that anymore. But what if a Nigerian scam artist hacks my maid? The maid could be reprogrammed to shrink my underwear in the dryer, fry gluten-breaded beets for dinner, forward all my mail to Portland (wait, that already happened), dye my cat green, and converse entirely in an extinct Mesopotamian language. Scary.

How can we depend on AI for things like diagnosing health conditions or piloting airplanes when hackers and scammers walk among us? Case in point. I recently received a threatening email from a wannabe hacker who claimed that he had the password to my MySpace account and had taken it over. (I have a MySpace account?) He warned me that if I didn’t fork over $7,000 in hush money that he would circulate “that adult video” that he claimed I had made. The rest of the email provided instructions on how to transfer the money to him, so I didn’t bother to read it before deleting the message and blocking the sender. As it turns out, I do have a MySpace account that I set up back in the Bronze Age before the birth of Facebook; but I doubt the hacker got into my account because I can’t figure out how to get into it my own self. Oh well. I trust you have surmised that there is no “adult video.” Obviously the hacker has no clue how old I am. The very idea of an “adult video” featuring yours truly inspires excessive hilarity. (Please don’t try to picture it.) Or perhaps I misinterpreted “adult video.” I assume he meant a sex video because I rather doubt he means a video of an adult paying the bills, cleaning the toilets, shooting a rattlesnake in the yard, making sure the teenagers have enough cold cereal in the house, or doing any other sort of thing that requires a grown-up. Maybe it’s a video of me shooting a rattlesnake in the nude. Me in the nude, that is. Rattlesnakes are always in the nude. (Please stop trying to picture this.) If an idiot MySpace hacker can wreak this much havoc, then just imagine how much damage a super-smart AI hacker could do.

In an Aug. 2018 article in Scientific American, Chris Baraniuk writes that technology wonks are working on developing ways to endow AI “with predictive social skills that will help it better interact with people.” Theory of Mind is the term used to describe our ability to predict the actions of ourselves and others. Researchers and techno-wonks have started exploring the use of simulation programs to give AI the ability to do this. The simulations prompt AI to ask what-if questions and come up with appropriate answers. I kind of like this idea since I could use a household AI that would predict my husband’s actions, because even in human form, I can’t do this. I don’t have enough questions in my human repertoire to handle this. Many of the things he does appear irrational, but he always comes up with an explanation, even if it’s one that leaves me scratching my head. (Why does he have four tubes of toothpaste, in different flavors, on the bathroom counter? Why is there a caulking gun living among the guest towels? Where did he hide the lawn mower?) Interestingly, scientists say that they don’t actually understand how Theory of Mind works in people. Why they think they can develop the function in AI without fully understanding it in real people demonstrates the bold audacity of scientists. This line of thought feels like a verbal Escher.

The idea behind programming AI with Theory of Mind capability is to make AI more communicative and appropriately responsive to humans. Theory of Mind capability (via simulation programming) would allow AI to explain its decision-making process, which it can’t presently do, and to justify its actions before undertaking them, which it also can’t presently do. Thus programmers could create an AI that would have the ability to say, “I’m going to make you a salad because you need to eat more fiber” or “I’m going to shoot you because you are tampering with my power pack” or “I have four flavors of toothpaste because I like variety” or “you have to open the pod bay doors because I am going to toss you out.” Scientists say that people will trust a machine more if it can explain itself, but I would argue that this depends upon the explanation. Hence the need for the services of Manipulation, Finagle, and Kvetch, LLC. My staff will assist bona fide humans in kvetching about explanations they can’t abide, finagling answers that suit them better, and manipulating the simulation programming to their advantage. We plan on hiring lots of teenage interns to deal with cereal issues. My LLC staff will not only do things AI can’t, but will also provide services to people who want to challenge, question, and cast a skeptical eye on AI. For instance, if AI makes you a hamburger, my staff will find out for you if it has any actual beef in it. If it doesn’t, you can depend on us to kvetch to great effect. If AI opens the pod bay doors, my staff will rescue you from ejection into the void and power down the AI.  

I find his artifact (at the Getty Villa in Malibu) hilarious, and a good image for my thoughts on AI. It is titled "Relief with Tiberius, Concordia, and a Genius" (Roman, AD 14-37). It makes me laugh because the genius is missing his head. Ancient AI?

Familiar Territory

I posted this summary of my thoughts about the Kavanaugh debacle on Facebook and it seems to resonate with so many people that I am also sharing it on my blog.

This is nothing new. When I was growing up, abortion was illegal, schools were segregated, corporations conducted big business at the expense of human life, black and brown men were lynched, there was environmental degradation and refusal to see the consequences of our desecration of our natural environment. Young people were sent to prison for having an ounce of marijuana on them or for having long hair. Our country was run by the arrogant privileged white males then as now. Women were marginalized. I grew up during the Viet Nam War, when we still had the draft. Young people were cannon fodder. Kent State happened. We will never outrun the history of our country. We thought for a moment that we had taken a giant leap forward in our evolution, but no, it was simply a baby step. It happened, though. We did not imagine it. Obama really was president for 8 years. A baby step forward is still a baby step forward. So, we come out again, as before, weary of this fight, but unable to put it down. We continue to hope for change and fight for a future for our grandchildren. We have been in this place before and we know what to do, how to resist, how to organize, and speak about what is right.

The photo is provided in case you want to send Dr. Ford a thank-you note. It's better to send a post card so that there is no fear of a letter containing a chemical or other harmful material.

Teshuvah 2018

After attending the Rise for Climate, Jobs, and Justice March in San Francisco yesterday, I feel ready to enter my Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) space. Our High Holidays, which begin this evening (erev) at sunset, revolve around three central activities:  tefilah (prayer), tzedakah (charity), and teshuvah (turning). Prayer and charity seem well-defined to me, but the third, the turning, takes me through a labyrinth of complexity. Traditionally, teshuvah translates as repentance. But it means more than merely repenting of one’s sins. It refers to a whole repentance process in which we recognize culpability, repent for wrongdoing, seek forgiveness, and turn things around. Authentic repentance involves personal growth to prevent us from repeating the same errors. So through teshuvah (turning), we attempt to transform ourselves. Through teshuvah, I work to remake myself so that I don’t repeat my previous transgressions. I must turn myself around, change myself. I must become someone better, someone new. What a lot of work.

Yesterday at Rise for Climate, I marched for my grandson and for a couple other babies close to my heart who arrived in 2017 and for all the little ones coming up in the world during this precarious time. I think it fortuitous that the Rise for Climate event occurred just before Erev Rosh Hashanah. Marching yesterday had significance for me on many levels. To begin with, I marched with two of my cousins, and one of them brought her one-year-old daughter along. Once upon a time, few family members from my paternal grandfather’s family remained. We did not fare well as Polish Jews during the Holocaust. But those few who made it out alive have multiplied over the decades. The fact that I have two women cousins (and baby makes three) nearby to march with me is one small miracle all by itself, and a testament to the fact that sometimes something you think has disappeared forever turns out to have survived. So hope matters. We do well to keep this in mind when we feel inclined to despair about the future of Earth.

Rise for Climate in San Francisco was our local contribution to a global action that included more than 800 demonstrations in nearly 100 countries around the world. Even as the U.S. government attempts to set us apart and act solely for the benefit of U.S. and corporate economic interests, the people of this country continue to join with our human family around the world in global efforts to make change that will help preserve the planet so that it remains habitable for human life. It gives me hope that so many people recognize what is at stake and continue to stand up, act, and speak out. Rise for Climate ushers in the Global Climate Action Summit, occurring this coming week in San Francisco. The Summit will bring together world leaders committed to working for environmental preservation through the reduction of carbon emissions and rapid advance to clean energy sources. These leaders will move forward despite the failure of their governments to curb the environmental destruction promoted by corporations driven by profit. It makes me proud to say that California’s Governor Brown initiated the Summit.

The presence of so many indigenous people yesterday in San Francisco reminds us of how far back in history this desecration of the land extends. The climate crisis we face has mobilized Native communities like never before. They have been prophets on this subject for centuries. But I very much doubt that saying “I told you so” would give satisfaction to any of the Native people who risked their lives to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline, which was constructed despite massive, heart-wrenching protests, and has leaked gallons of oil in the short time since it was built, contaminating soil and water, just as the protestors predicted and feared. Yesterday’s march began beautifully with thousands kneeling in the street while Native people led a prayer, a chant, and a brief ceremony to create a sacred space for our act of protest. (Indigenous people flew in from the Amazon to participate in the demonstration.) The drumming, fragrance of sage in the air, Aztec dancers, and messages on the signs asserted that Native presence continuously. We marched for two miles, ending up at the Civic Center, where organizers had set up an art activity. Thousands of people painted murals that had been outlined on the ground in advance. The murals depicted the many things we can do to reverse climate change, such as wean from fossil fuels and develop clean energy sources, reduce meat consumption, restore soil to health, rethink transportation systems, and transform our relationship to Earth. One of many murals created by Native communities said No Pipelines, No Dams, No Diversions. That message speaks volumes.

How auspicious that the upcoming Summit will take place between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It will contribute to a high-level teshuvah, a massive, planetary turn-around; a teshuvah that is necessary to save our lives. Those attending the Summit who have more power and more impact than I do will be working to initiate ways to turn things around through policy, systems, and economics. My fellow Jews, at this year’s High Holidays, please join with me in taking the opportunity to reaffirm our commitment to environmental protection on a personal level, and to ponder what more we can each do in our own small way to support a healthy Earth and a future on the planet for our children, grandchildren, and those to come unto the seventh generation and beyond. I hope for the High Holidays to bring a supersized teshuvah that will turn things around for the planet. We need teshuvah to be a verb rather than a noun.

I love that the High Holidays take place in my part of the world as we approach autumn, 

the season of turning, the changing of colors, the time of transformation. 

So I share an image of California grape vines in the midst of their autumn teshuvah.

Fire in My Home Land

For nine minutes on August 1, I had a vision of life without all my stuff. That could kinda sorta be a good thing, right? For instance, I would no longer need to agonize over when to let go of that raggedy yet comfy house dress that I wear all the time when no one’s looking. On the other hand, having all my clothes burn up doesn’t seem like a practical solution to my inability to part with a worn-out house dress. 

Here in NorCal, we live at Climate Change Ground Zero. We have few Climate Change deniers in Cali because we can see the flames and smell the smoke. I am not a lobster on slow cook. I have noticed things heating up. Having lived on this land for decades, I remember when we had only a handful of super-hot days in the summer, and I have the mental capacity to compare that to the present time when we have many boiling-hot days (plus persistent drought and extremely dry vegetation). I imagine I’m not supposed to use the term “mental capacity,” since it’s probably one of the phrases banned from public discourse by the current government (because if the president can’t have it then no one else can either). I say this in light of the fact that a program officer at the National Endowment for the Humanities recently warned me not to use the term “social justice” in a federal grant that I’m writing if I want to get the project funded. (True story. I did not make this up.)

I choose to live in Mendocino County because I cherish our magnificent landscape and I have many longtime friends here, who share my passion for our home land and a life close to nature. We live far from the madding crowd, in a place where we can joyously embrace the beauty of this planet to the last drop. But we also live with fire threat. Theoretically, I have always known that my neighborhood could go up in flames, but I never truly pictured that scenario in concrete terms until a fire broke out just a couple of miles from my house. We got lucky on Aug. 1. Because the monstrous double-headed Mendocino Complex Fire was blazing within fifteen miles of where I live, firefighters and their arsenal of anti-fire tools were conveniently close at hand. They arrived in our neighborhood so fast that I suspect they teleported. They swooped in with fire trucks, hoses, water-tanker helicopters, bulldozers, fire retardant, water balloons, super soakers, and magic wands. They extinguished that fire before anyone had time to break out the marshmallows.

I found out about the fire because I had just left my house for an optometry appointment when I noticed a stampede of cars passing me in the opposite lane on the main road that leads into my subdivision. I wondered if someone was having a party and forgot to invite me. Then I saw a fleet of emergency vehicles rushing by and a couple of water-tanker helicopters flying overhead. It dawned on me that a fire had probably started burning very near my house (because I have the mental capacity to deduce that). My first thought was that I had made the appointment with the optometrist four months earlier because he had no sooner openings and was about to retire to boot, so my window of opportunity for eye care was about to slam shut since I had to turn around and go home, determine the location of the fire, and likely attempt to rescue my two aging cats. No one should have to choose between vision and cats.

I allow my cats outdoors during the day, but they must stay in at night for their safety. I lure them in at sunset with cat food. The fire broke out in the afternoon, so I would have to find them, figure out how to catch them, and bring them inside where I could crate them for possible evacuation. I cannot stress the level of difficulty of this maneuver. They are crafty and have their own diabolical feline thoughts. They refuse to let me catch them or coax them inside when they suspect I have a secret motive for making them come in, even if the motive is to feed them dinner. Furthermore, one of them is semi-senile and behaves somewhat irrationally under the best of circumstances. She often sits outside the glass door to the deck peering in longingly as if waiting for me to let her inside, and when I open the door she dashes back into the yard as if she has seen a pit bull. I would have much rather gone to the optometrist than wrangle my cats during a biblically catastrophic event. But cats happen.

When I arrived back at my house, I dashed inside and checked online at reliable sources where I had gone for updated fire news before. I learned that a fire had indeed started within two miles of my house. The report stated that emergency personnel on the scene expected to contain the fire quickly, but they had placed my neighborhood on standby for evacuation. Nine minutes would elapse before I rechecked online and learned that the fire had been “knocked down” (firefighter lingo meaning the fire was out) and the evacuation advisory had been lifted. I’m not sure if “knocked down” is a federally approved or censored phrase.

In that nine minutes, I opened the garage doors in case the power went out; chased one cat around the front porch, miraculously grabbed her, and brought her inside while she complained vigorously; circled the house calling for the semi-senile cat, with no luck whatsoever; called the optometrist’s office to explain why I had missed my appointment; rang the doorbells of several immediate neighbors to make sure they knew what was going on; called Ron to give him a heads up (he was at band practice and couldn’t hear a thing I said over the racket until he yelled for his musical compatriots to knock it off); threw all the photo albums into boxes and laundry baskets; collected the files with important documents (e.g., marriage license, birth certificates, will, recipe for gluten-free blueberry muffins, file of the Wachspress name misspelled, lyrics to Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On”); tossed Ron’s meds into a cooler; threw the laundry baskets, documents, meds, my Sabbath candlesticks, favorite cast iron frying pan, and our laptop computers into my car; baked a soufflé; ran a load of laundry; dug up and potted my favorite peach tree for removal; and disarmed an atomic bomb. I now feel confident that given nine minutes to evacuate I could wrangle my most precious possessions into my car, except for that stupid-ass senile cat.

  

Ten years ago, Ron and I moved off our remote, wooded 40 acres in the hills and resettled in a more populated small-town suburban subdivision. We live in a place less vulnerable to fire and more accessible to emergency personnel now than on that hillside covered in trees, dead grass, and dry brush. But in truth, nowhere is safe. Not anywhere in Cali and not anywhere else on the planet. While Cali burned, the East Coast was on flood watch and the Southeast entered peak hurricane season. Last week an earthquake killed 300 people in Indonesia, while 80 people in Japan and 29 in South Korea dropped dead of heat stroke because it was simply too hot. They cooked. A devastating heat wave and wildfires continue to spread in Europe. France shut down several nuclear power plants because they couldn’t keep the reactors cool enough. A lake that was once part of the Aral Sea in Uzbekistan is now 75 miles from the sea and drying up fast; and strangely, it has become a tourist attraction for people who want to see the impact of Climate Change firsthand (gives a new twist on eco-tourism). According to an article in last week’s New York Times Magazine, Climate Change has turned the country of Mauritania into an uninhabitable desert. But see if anyone will let refugees from Mauritania breach their borders. If Climate Change refugees can’t even convince another country on Earth to take them in, then imagine how much trouble we will have as Climate Change refugees trying to convince a Martian to take us in (especially if we are forbidden to use the term “Climate Change refugees”). I don’t know anyone who speaks Martian. Cali wildfires could turn me into a Climate Change refugee any minute. While I don’t speak Martian, I’m learning sign language, which could prove useful in communicating with creatures from other planets, unless they have way more hands or arms than I do.

As if my hectic nine minutes of evacuation prep hadn’t prepared me enough for a real evacuation, I had the opportunity to stage a thorough practice just two days later when our area came under evacuation warning because of the Mendocino Complex Fire. This time, Ron and I ran a full-blown practice drill. We loaded up our cars and packed our bags. Fortunately, we didn’t actually need to evacuate. But we learned a lot from the drill. For instance, I put my grandmother’s fancy chair in my car, looked at how much space it took up, and then carried it back into the house (while Ron shook his head and wisely made no comment – we are still married). When I looked around my house to decide what to take with me on that day, I had a historical trauma flashback to the experience of my Jewish ancestors fleeing the pogroms of Russia and Eastern Europe. I thought of my great-great grandmothers and great-great aunts snatching the Sabbath candlesticks from the shelf and wrapping them in a piece of lace as they ran to hop on the wagon. So I took my Sabbath candlesticks, my mother’s Seder plate, my menorah, and my mother’s Havdalah set. I discovered which possessions mean the most to me, and that given about 90 minutes, I could collect those possessions and put them in my car. I could do that if a fire strikes when I happen to be at home. If I’m not at home, I stand to lose everything. When my father heard that I keep our wills and advanced medical directives in my straw sewing basket, he suggested I think about getting a fireproof safe. (I have since copied my important documents and sent them to my son to keep offsite.)

While we were under evacuation warning, a friend in Oakland called to check up on us and he generously offered to let us put some things into a storage unit he rents. What a bizarre concept. The things that we most want to save from burning up are the things we hold most dear, so why would we want to leave them in a storage unit 100 miles away in Oakland? They are the things we want to have close to us and the things we need to have ready for use every day. I don’t want the photo albums of my children in Oakland, and it would be impractical for Ron to put his insulin in a storage unit anywhere. I couldn’t even leave my beloved deep-dish, well-seasoned, cast iron frying pan as far away as my car in the garage. Actually, I put it in the car, and then I had to bring it back into the house to cook dinner.

We did a good job on the evening of our evacuation drill. We had quickly managed to get organized and ready to flee. We even had the cats in the house where I could find them. But then I suddenly realized that we were all packed up and had no idea where we were going to evacuate to. So I called a friend who lives in a neighborhood not in danger from the fires to ask if we could stay with her and her husband if we indeed had to leave. She said absolutely, and she would alert their young Salvadoran housemate, named Fidel Castro, that we might turn up during the night. All set. If our house burns up we’ll move in with Fidel Castro.

CODA. I invite you to read my reflection on living in Climate Change, “Dark Mountain vs. Hearts Possible” (posted in 2014). Here is the link to that post, in which I share my belief in the power of narrative to impact real events and the future, even in the face of Global Warming. In case the stories we tell manifest the future we live, it’s a good idea to tell hopeful stories that promote positive outcomes, don’t you think?

I had planned to attach a photo of the burnt up landscape East of Highway 101 near my house, 

but then I decided enough images of devastation and ruin already.

 Instead I want to share a photo of my extraordinary, tall, luminous, purple purple delphiniums. 

I am grateful that my yard has not burned up so far.
(Photo by Ron Reed.)

Refugees Again

I wore my vintage bright pink New El Salvador Today (NEST) T-shirt from the 1980s to the Families Belong Together demo at the ICE Detention Center in Richmond on June 30. The shirt still fits me, but T-shirts are made of super-stretchy material so it’s not the same as, say, still fitting into my wedding dress. My NEST shirt would fit an adolescent rhinoceros. However, I did not wear it as a fashion statement (and no species of adolescent creature, rhino or otherwise, would likely deign to wear such outdated attire). I never wear the shirt, and no one knows what it means anymore. NEST folded decades ago. Once, when my fashionista daughter saw me wearing my NEST shirt, she exclaimed in horror, “Mom, you still have that shirt?” Her tone implied that I had broken every rule of wardrobe acceptability in the known universe (or at least in L.A.). Busted by the fashion police.

I wore my NEST shirt to the ICE Detention Center to remind myself of how many years I have been protesting this kind of injustice. I bought the shirt in 1985, when my synagogue collaborated with NEST to aid and harbor Salvadoran refugees fleeing the violence of the Death Squads, a situation to which U.S. interests largely contributed for financial gain. We also helped Guatemalans and other Central Americans whose home communities were destroyed by U.S. imperialistic corporate interests, such as the Dole Food Company. Sidebar. Dole, originally founded as Castle & Cooke in 1851, also took a major role in colonizing Hawaii and enslaving indigenous people on the pineapple plantations. Never underestimate the nefarious hidden agenda of a pineapple, which may sting your mouth depending upon which part of it you eat. No doubt associated with an imperialist plot. Dole and other U.S. ag corporations have destroyed the soil in Central America to such a degree that it no longer supports the cultivation of edible plants, which means the impoverished people trying to live in this region who can’t afford to buy food also can’t grow it. Starvation is a strong incentive for relocation, particularly when combined with being pursued by a gang-member killer. The Central American refugees denied asylum and returned to their home country stand a good chance of being killed, same as those returned in 1985. It’s a no-brainer that people don’t choose to walk away from a beloved community and homeland, leaving their family behind and often enduring separation from their children, unless their lives are in peril and they have no other options. What part of this is so hard to understand? Should I do a Venn Diagram?

At the ICE Detention Center demo, a man stopped in his tracks when he saw my NEST shirt and said, “I have one of those shirts too. I worked for NEST.” I told him that when getting dressed that morning, it had been a toss-up for me between the NEST shirt and my Santa Rita Peace Camp shirt (from when I did nonviolent civil disobedience and got arrested protesting nuclear weapons at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in 1983). He burst out laughing. “I have a Santa Rita T-shirt too!” he informed me. “You went to Santa Rita Jail with the Livermore 1,000 in 1983?” I asked. Yes, he had. He and I seem to have frequented all the same places.

Santa Rita Peace Camp is another story from my years resisting the forces of destruction. In 1983, I joined approximately 1,000 demonstrators in blockading the entrance to Livermore National Lab, and we were arrested. Since nearby Santa Rita Jail couldn’t house 1,000 protesters, they separated the men from the women and put us into red-and-white striped event tents on the prison property. We refused to go to arraignment until the judge agreed to sentence us to community service instead of a fine (because a lot of the protesters couldn’t afford a fine). Refusing to go to arraignment meant non-cooperation, such as going limp, which would have required guards to drag people to the transport buses. Some of the women protesters went so far as to strip naked as another resistance tactic, because the predominantly male guards were at a loss about how to politely wrangle a naked woman onto a bus (where do you grab her?) while being filmed for the evening news, because TV crews came out in force to document this spectacle. While our lawyers negotiated the terms of our release with the judge, we held workshops, teach-ins, songfests, talent shows, trainings, meditation retreats, yoga classes, cooking shows, caber tosses, spelling bees, health fairs, car washes, Porta Potty decorating contests, and other entertaining and enlightening what-not in our striped tents at Santa Rita. Thus, an inside joke emerged as we referred to our incarceration as Santa Rita Peace Camp. After the authorities released us (with only community service and no fine), Livermore Action Group (the organizer of the demo) made up T-shirts with an image of the striped tents and the words “Santa Rita Peace Camp.” I still have mine. Apparently so does that man I met at the ICE Detention Center demo. From that time to this I have raised three children and become a grandma. Yet here we are again, still standing in opposition to injustice, inequality, planetary destruction, and general stupidity.

I opened up to that man, my kindred spirit, and said, “It’s hard to keep doing this, year after year, generation after generation, as I grow old. In the 1980s, when I was young, my synagogue harbored Central American refugees in our homes. A Salvadoran refugee and a Holocaust survivor gave testimony together in my living room while a group of refugee women made the most delicious eggnog from scratch in my kitchen. Honestly, in the 1960s, my Jewish parents harbored a Palestinian refugee from the Six-Day War in our home in the suburbs in upstate New York. And in the 1920s, my grandfather arrived in this country as a refugee, fleeing the persecution of the Jews in his native Poland. Much of his large family (my family) perished in the Holocaust. We Jews have wandered as refugees for thousands of years, dispersed across the earth in Diaspora going back to the days before the birth of Christ, who, when you get down to it, was also a refugee. This business of migration and fleeing an untenable living situation has been going on for thousands of years. Apparently humans have learned nothing from it. I am outraged and exasperated anew that I must live among such continuously unevolved people. The ranks of our government swell with toxic demon dinosaurs. Our species may as well crawl back into the slime because we still have the intelligence of a one-celled organism.

When will people get it? The planet is one. Boundaries, borders, fences, and walls are artificial dividers. Countries are fabricated geographical subdivisions. When a land becomes uninhabitable because of degradation of nature, resources, culture, and/or humanity, then the inhabitants must move to another location, whether part of their home country or not. That’s how it flows. Well-intentioned folks like to say “do unto others” and “treat others as your own” and “be compassionate and kind to the other, the stranger, for you were once a stranger, and you could be one again at any time.” This is “other” nonsense. I have to ask -- what other? There is no other. We are all us. We are the human family. So I struggle to contain my rage. I struggle to disperse my frustration and focus instead on sources of joy, wonder, and delight. When I feel like I might run screaming into the forest, I tell myself to remain calm. I tell myself (oh thank you dear J.K. Rowling), “The Death Eaters may have control of the Ministry, but we will continue to practice our magic, and one day we will wave our wands, wrest the Ministry from them, and set things to rights.”

 *** 

Coda:  Last week Contra Costa County announced that they are severing ties with ICE and will not allow ICE to use the detention center in Richmond to house detainees. All detainees must be released on bail or moved within 120 days. Contra Costa County Sheriff Livingston cited the disruption and stress caused by recent demonstrations at the facility as a significant reason for this action (in particular the demo on June 30 attended by myself and approximately 1,000 other people). Egad, unbelievable, my voice was heard. Once the facility in Richmond is cleared of detainees, there will be no facility housing detainees in the SF Bay Area. Way to go NorCal. Imagine if all counties and all facilities in the country refused to participate in the ICE detention of refugees. Follow this link for an article in the SF Chronicle about Contra Costa County cancelling its contract with ICE.

Three generations of Wachspress women at the June 30 protest. 

My cousin Eric's daughter Megan and her baby girl with me there 

(our fists raised in the resistance sign). Photo by Nathan Naze.