holidays 2025

 

The really hopeless victims of mental illness are to be found among those who appear to be most normal. “Many of them are normal because they are so well adjusted to our mode of existence, because their human voice has been silenced so early in their lives, that they do not even struggle or suffer or develop symptoms as the neurotic does.” They are normal not in what may be called the absolute sense of the word; they are normal only in relation to a profoundly abnormal society…These millions of abnormally normal people, living without fuss in a society to which, if they were fully human beings, they ought not to be adjusted, cherish “the illusion of individuality”…

-   Brave New World Revisited, A. Huxley

Dear everyone,

Every year brings change; this one, especially life changing. Collectively, those of us in America began to lose democracy; personally, I lost my parents.

I’m sending this holiday letter early for two reasons: First, the content is heavy, even for me. You do not need to read further – either way, I wish you well. Second, I’m begging those of you who typically send holiday cards in the mail to refrain. I spent the better part of the year drowning in paperwork, managing my parents while they were alive, and even more so after they died. In particular, I spent a transformative week mid-summer cleaning out fifty years of my family’s home, with a heavy lift from Beata and her cleaning company (shout out) and Marci (another shout out) who helped with archiving. Any cards you send, either my estate, or I, will eventually have to discard.

This is the second draft of this letter. It’s still too long, even as the first was trending towards three times longer. Also, I came to appreciate this year the importance of protecting one’s peace, which can mean protecting one’s privacy. Not everyone deserves your business, and no one deserves all of it. While I have tended in these annual letters to be more forthcoming, to poke figurative holes in the bromidic and sometimes forced cheer of the season, I’m seeing the need to be more circumspect, for political and personal reasons. I also have come to appreciate the not-so-fine line between others’ concern and mere curiosity.

Diagnosed with lung cancer several years ago, Momma was sort of holding steady until this winter when she started to lose weight and developed a chronic cough. She went to the hospital where the doctor diagnosed her with bacterial pneumonia. After treatment, Momma was very weak and was transferred to rehab to regain strength. I was shuttling back and forth from Washington, DC to Queens, NY, trying to tend to her and Dad, home alone with dementia, at the same time. It was rough.

I was able to take Dad to see Momma the day before she died. At the end of our visit, I kissed her goodbye on her forehead, and she looked at me so wearily. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see her alive. She passed the following day, April 2. I’m grateful for all the support I received around her passing.

I spent the next few months trying to find care and manage Dad from afar, physically and financially, made more difficult because Dad didn’t want help. He fell in his bedroom in late June, and my brother-in-law took him to the hospital. Again, I shuttled between DC and Queens to visit. I last saw him alive on a day when I had made an exhausting day trip from DC, to squeeze in one last visit before a pre-planned extended trip. Dad complained the Pepsi I brought him was not cold enough, as I poured small sips down his throat (he had protective mittens on). He, too, was eventually transferred to rehab, and died the evening of July 21. After he fell, I had planned to move him to assisted living, and I had already hired Beata to prepare the home for sale. In the process, I found photos and other documents I had never seen (one attached) and was struck by how much of their lives had been hidden in drawers, overshadowed by bickering and medical appointments.

Each of my parents had lived challenging lives in different ways. My momma, Judith Levy, was born in Brooklyn in 1937 to a comfortable middle-class Jewish family. Yet, she had a difficult childhood because both her brother and mother struggled with mental illness, and both were institutionalized for a while. During those times, Momma was sent to live with her father’s relatives, who she said treated her badly. Momma started college at Syracuse University, and then returned to New York City, homesick, to finish at New York University.

Momma married once and got an annulment, as her first husband had misrepresented his prospects. Then she married my father, and they had two children (my older sister and me) and were married for over sixty years.

Momma enjoyed reading and she became more religious and involved in synagogue as she grew older, in part for community, in part to cope with being married to Dad. She was, in her own way, more interested in American popular culture than I ever was, perhaps, because, unlike me, she had not one but two parents who were born in America. She liked watching baseball – she rooted for the Mets after her beloved Brooklyn Dodgers betrayed her and moved to Los Angeles.

In her sixties, Momma learned how to use a computer. We wrote emails to each other almost every day for over twenty years, with me providing occasional tech support, until a few years before her death. It brought us closer.

Momma and I drove each other crazy, yet we were also crazy about each other. I’m glad I was able to accompany Momma to Israel, London, and Paris; more recently, a short cruise to Bermuda; and a few Broadway shows. More mundanely, I visited her every six to eight weeks while living in DC. I’m glad I was able to bring her a fancy cake from Lulu’s Bakery on Union Turnpike in Queens on her last birthday. I think of Momma every day and I miss her.

My father, Walter Levy, was born in Landau en der Pfalz, Germany, in 1932, to a middle-class, entrepreneurial Jewish family. My grandmother realized the political climate in Germany was becoming perilous, and she arranged for her family to emigrate to the United States in 1937. With immigration quotas, my grandmother had to leave my father’s younger sister behind; Aunt Trudy arrived at Ellis Island on New Year’s Day, 1939. Having turned 90 this year, Aunt Trudy is living near her children in Port Jefferson Station, NY.

My father went to City College and Brooklyn Law School in New York City; he spent several years in the late 1950s in the army, a few years stationed in Japan, serving as a radio jockey and participating in theater. He met and married Momma in the early 1960s and worked mostly as a realtor until he retired. He liked animals and gardening, dabbling in saxophone. Yet what he really loved was getting things for free (as he saw it), and hoarding money in an embarrassing, stereotypical way.

While Momma loved being a momma, despite all the challenges, I don’t think Dad enjoyed supporting a family at all. I think he resented us, and because of that, he was emotionally and sometimes physically abusive, and especially towards my mother and sister, usually around some incident when we did something which caused him to have to spend extra money. He was particularly cruel to my sister, and did not provide the care or support her mental illness required, which indirectly led to her early death. He sometimes even made fun of her behavior. When she passed, he complained, “This [the funeral] is costing me eleven thousand dollars.”

Dad was a troubled and troubling person, narcissistic, devoid of empathy, immature, selfish, controlling, and greedy. Still, I need to wrestle with that this man was my father: the man who taught me to ride a bicycle; picked me up from nursery school on a snowy day with a sled; took me on walks in the woods; kept a roof over my head, fed, and educated; and, during visits, asked questions about my life, and expressed pride in my achievements. As adults, we had a mostly civil relationship. And, as my father was born in the wrong place at the right time, I was able to obtain German citizenship through his lineage. While some have reduced my father to a “sociopath” or a “stingy bastard” or a “cute old man” (all partially true), I have come to believe that labels are best reserved for file folders.

Indeed, in dealing with my parents’ during end-of-life, I’ve received various unsolicited commentary and advice on my family and estate affairs. Advice perhaps well-intentioned, alas most of it not applicable, or beyond my capability. I found the support of lawyers and a realtor more useful and tailored to my situation. On trying days, dealing with bureaucratic, uncooperative financial institutions, I comforted myself that at least I had not succumbed to a marriage and children of my own. That would have been just too much to handle.

I know some people enjoy their families. Yet my own experience in family has felt mostly like an unsought obligation, emotionally damaging with little reward, and one I have no desire to replicate. The joy has not outweighed the burden, and I’ve spent years in therapy trying to heal. It’s better that my family’s pervasive experience with mental illness end with me, too. I’ve spent too much of my life raising children of all ages.

During one of our numerous family fights, Momma told Dad she only stayed with him for economic reasons. I stayed with Dad primarily for that, too. And for Momma. As the sole surviving member of my immediate family, my world feels stark, and I have many yahrzeit candles to light. These days, I mostly feel relief about my parents’ passing. Perhaps, over time, my perspective will change, and I’ll remember more of the good. Still, moving forward, I intend to stick with friends, yoga, piano, study, and travel.

Alas, Dad was not the only difficult man with whom I had to deal this year. For many of us, we had to deal with Trump. And for us feds, Trump isn’t just the president of the United States; he’s our boss with influence over our working conditions.

From Inauguration Day on, the administration has attacked, among other groups it hates, the federal civil service. On Inauguration Day, Trump signed an executive order requiring staff to return to the office every working day – first managers, then everyone else. Yet in the prior administration, our labor agreement only required staff to work in the office (versus working from home) two days every two weeks. Many staff had relocated relatively far from work based on that initial requirement. And the government had spent millions over a decade renovating the building where I work to accommodate multiple agencies, building technology and facilities specifically designed for just occasional in-office work.

A few days after inauguration, we feds received demeaning and menacing emails encouraging us to quit, lest we be subject to tests of loyalty to the President (not the Constitution, as per our oaths) and possible relocation. During this time, we were also ordered to review any documents for reference to Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion – almost humorous at the Census Bureau, where I work, where we have files which mention “inclusion sampling” and “home equity lines of credit”.

In March, we were told to prepare for layoffs, avoided because so many employees took buyouts in April, either for quitting or retirement. We lost a sixth of our staff. Around that time, our agency’s union agreement was involuntarily broken. We spent the spring bracing for our software contracts to be revoked. Travel, training, and hiring were curtailed.

Of late, the attacks have subsided. And I know that staff at other agencies have been treated far worse. Still, these various adverse actions, carried out under the guise of “government efficiency,” have instead been inefficient and costly. We had to spend staff resources scrubbing documents for “woke” bias, retrofitting systems, and buying extra equipment.

I share all this not to garner sympathy – I know many people don’t have the convenience of working from home, and these days private sector seems an especially ghastly employer. Still, I wanted to give those outside federal service a better sense of how your tax dollars are being wasted, and the federal workforce mismanaged. I’m angry, and you should be, too.

Meanwhile, some aspects of work remained the same. The gym reopened; we receive announcements about the rotating lunch vendors. I would walk through the hallways and overhear colleagues talk about March madness. Still, the mood in the office was grim, and staff were uncharacteristically forthright about their anger, fear, and stress. Over lunch one day with my boss, we mused about the last time we had each cried in the office.

I was more concerned about staff who only mildly groused about the changes. “Yeah, I wish I didn’t have to come to the office every day. My commute’s a pain.” Perhaps they were just being cautious. Still, it’s been dismaying to see, outside the office, bigger crowds heading to sporting events than protests, thousands unaware or unwilling to face the prospect of democracy undermined around us, whether through immigration raids, military deployments to American cities, illegal data breaches, or other atrocities. Abnormally normal people, living without fuss in a world to which they should not be adjusted. I know it’s not healthy or realistic to spend all one’s time anxious, angry, and protesting; still, I’ve found the civil response to Trump 2.0 anemic and disappointing. We should replace the eagle as our national bird with the ostrich.

This combination of some normalcy and aggressive administration actions of questionable legality has made life unsettling. Aside from return to office, my quotidian life has not changed – work, yoga, groceries -- even as those of us in DC see the National Guard, and I have friends with kids at school raided by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement. I know for immigrants, life is far from the same, or safe.

Our political climate has shifted, and feel it in my gut, and I know others sense it, too, even as there’s a recent sense Trump’s support is waning. I am grateful to a friend, a former Fed, who early on scooped a bunch of us feds into a Signal chat, where we could share information and support each other while fighting this creeping authoritarianism. The recent “blue tsunami” and better-attended protests give some hope; yet we did not get into this situation overnight, and we won’t get out of it overnight, either. Alas the United States’ turn towards authoritarianism is symptomatic of a worldwide trend away from democracy.

During this difficult year, the hope of spending time again on the Mediterranean Sea, as I had as an exchange student in Barcelona three decades ago, sustained me. And it was such a joy to make a short trip to Barcelona towards the end of the recent government shutdown. With my parents’ passing, there is little tethering me to this country, even as I value friends in the District and further afield. As such, I hope to move to Catalonia, at least on a trial basis, next fall after I retire from federal service. Maybe some of you will visit. If I invite you. 😉

If we haven’t been in touch in a while (or even if we have), please let me know how you’re doing. And here’s to a shorter letter in 2026.

With love and light,

Rich

 

 

holidays 2024

Dear Everyone,

After last year’s heavy year-end letter, I vowed to write a letter this year which would be lighter. Then 2024 happened. So instead of lighthearted, you’ll have to settle for sardonic and candid. If you wish to stop reading now, that’s ok. Know I wish you and yours as good a 2025 as possible. Otherwise…you’ve been warned. 😉

For me, personally, it’s been a good year. With the help of a persistent yet flexible coach (shout out to Daniel) I’ve lost a few pounds, my clothes fit a bit better, and my heartburn has subsided. I still have a few more pounds to lose. Among other travel, I rang in the New Year listening to jazz in Paris, fawned over iguanas in Puerto Rico in March, played jazz (shout out to Nate) and classical piano in Maine in July, and ate food from street carts and Michelin star restaurants with my friend Robin in Mexico City this past November. (We gawked at pyramids in Teotihuacan, too. Native Americans built pyramids two thousand years ago; today, we make apps. 😖)

After over four years of working from home, my colleagues and I started returning to the office on a limited basis, and it’s been good for my mental health to have more than the company of sparrows outside my window every workday.

Friends and colleagues have had their share of joys – newborns, grandchildren, marriages, and new jobs among them – yet there has been at least as much sorrow. Several friends lost their parents this past year. Some lost other relatives, including children, especially heartbreaking. Others dealt with fractured relationships. Friends had pets pass away, or they dealt with sick pets. Having grown up with cats and fish, and preferring loving other animals generally, I know those losses are their own kind of devastation.

Various friends struggled with health problems, or health problems of loved ones, and challenging surgeries. Some struggled to find housing, others to sell their housing in a still-troubled market. Some friends chose retirement, while others found retirement thrust upon them; either way, such milestones underscore the passing of responsibility to younger generations, and the relentless march of time.

Friends, particularly those around my age, struggle with dealing with aging parents. For every story I tell (or begin to tell) about my parents, I am repaid with tales of turmoil about theirs.

My father, 92, and my mother, soon to be 88, are surviving, yet far from thriving, even as they realized a long time ago a bad attitude will add years to your life. (F*** positive thinking. Seriously.) An overdue test revealed, as Momma and I had suspected, Dad has hearing loss; yet, ever in denial, he refuses to get hearing aids. Alas, his hearing loss has only exacerbated his dementia. Momma has various issues – vasculitis in her legs, arthritis throughout – which limit her movement. She’s made choices – installing a stairlift, using a walker – which make her more comfortable, yet I fear afford her fewer opportunities for maintaining strength. These days she can barely walk a few feet without discomfort, and it's a struggle for her even to stand up from a couch.

Over the past two years, my brother-in-law, whose health had already been poor, took a turn for the worse. He has a family history of thyroid cancer, and tests this year revealed he has it, too. He’s had surgery and radiotherapy to address, while also dealing with diabetes and kidney problems. His sister helps him, yet he does not have the level of social support I think he needs. He’s a decent man, yet I find it difficult to relate to him.

Grief over having lost my sister last year continues to impact all of us. The grief does not go away, it merely changes over time. Whenever we’re together, Emily's absence is felt. My thoughts are with all of you who are in varying stages of grief.

I am often left feeling frustrated by my parents’ choices, and it is maddening they rarely take any advice or offer to help from me. Their existence of shopping for groceries, visiting doctors, watching tv, occasionally attending services at the local synagogue, punctuated by visits from me every six weeks or so, does not seem like much of a life at all. Yet, when I asked her recently how she felt about life, my mother said she was not unhappy. And I am glad, for now, we continue to stay in touch every day by phone or email.

I’ve found it hard to manage the myriad people in my life in need, and I feel like I have not been able to give as much to others as I would like. And frankly, I decided this year I wasn’t going to help anyone by not enjoying my own life and taking advantage of opportunities, for travelling or otherwise.

Still, I apologize to those for whom I have fallen short. Just know I think of my friends and family often, and if you need something, don’t hesitate to ask. If I can, I’ll help. If I can’t, I’ll let you know that, too. I appreciate it whenever my friends ask how my parents are doing. Especially my momma.

On top of the sadness around my friends’ and families’ difficulties, the escalation of conflict in the Middle East and the recent election results have cast shadows in the background. I have hardly commented on the Middle East turmoil on social media or elsewhere, and that’s not by accident.

It’s been difficult to navigate my friends’ myriad and strongly-held views. Some focus solely on Israel’s actions; others solely on those of Hamas and the Palestinians. Some, like me, see both sides as having contributed to the current conflict in different ways. The situation is so complex, with hurts piled upon hurts over decades and centuries, that I find it hard to see one side as all good and the other as all bad.

Even with research, I find it difficult to get a handle on the situation, period. This past year I’ve had some challenging discussions and learned more about the history of the Middle East, some of which has been tough to swallow.

As a Jew, I am an involuntary party to one of the sides of the conflict. It has been painful and scary to see some protests veer into anti-Semitic or anti-Muslim sentiment, even as I support people’s right to peaceful expression of opinion.

It’s also been telling that only certain injustices seem to merit protests: Human rights violations in, say, Syria (with conflict recently reanimated), Qatar, and Sudan (not to mention the United States) do not seem to inspire the same levels of outrage as those involving Israel. This relative lack of concern doesn’t excuse either Israel or Hamas for the hurt they have inflicted. Still, the world’s focus on this particular conflict has me thinking, with the backdrop of millennia of anti-Semitism, “Here we go again.”

I wish we humans would just stop fighting and hurting each other. Attention to these conflicts divert attention from problems which are so much broader and existentially threatening. I wish we cared as much about, say, the extinction of other life on earth, as we seem to care about the tribal conflicts in the Middle East or what people choose to do with their own bodies. According to the World Wildlife Fund (corroborated by other sources), “Globally, [populations] of mammals, fish, birds, reptiles, and amphibians have declined an average of 68% between 1970 and 2016.” I notice fewer birds than when I was growing up. Mismanagement of the impacts of human population growth, particularly land use, hurts other living creatures and threatens the survival of our own species, too. Maybe the coral reefs should hire Sterling Cooper for snappier media coverage.

A piece in The New York Times about Senator Chris Murphy discussed a spiritual crisis around the issues I cite above, and others, underlying what seems to be behind our more surface discontent around issues like inflation -- a valid concern, yet perhaps not a root cause of our current collective unhappiness. Americans have a talent for both marketing and denial.

This past election day, the American people collectively chose, narrowly, a president that the rest of us highly doubt will help address these issues. So, we start 2025 with some trepidation of what next year, let alone the next four, will bring us.

In addition to the links above, I list below some of my preferred charities, contact info for elected officials, and some resources of interest. They may be of interest to you, too. Rest assured President Trump and other elected officials will be hearing from me next year as applicable.

Wishing you and yours a satisfying holiday season, and fortitude for the year ahead.

Love,

Rich

 

Charities:

·      Carbon Foundation

·      Compassion in World Farming

·      Extinction Rebellion

·      Population Matters

·      Save the Manatee Club

·      Turgwe Hippo Trust

·       Women Wage Peace

 

Elected officials:

·      House of Representatives: www.house.gov

·       Israeli Prime Minister’s Office website

·       The White House
    1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
    Washington, DC 20500
    1.202.456.1111
    www.whitehouse.gov

·       Senate: www.senate.gov

·       State of Palestine, Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Expatriates website

 

Resources (some contradict each other, exactly the point):

·      Learning to Die in the Anthropocene

·       Not the End of the World

·       The Occupation of the American Mind

·      Urban Warfare 2.0

·      We’re Doomed, Now What

·     When Things Fall Apart

holidays 2023

 Dear Everyone,

I hope this note finds you as well as possible. For some, this year has given my circle and me reason to celebrate: New jobs and promotions. Pregnancies and births. Romance and weddings. Travel. Connection. I have enjoyed some deepening connections with longtime and newer friends and travel to various places, often primarily to see them: Berlin. Boston. Chicago. Copenhagen. Culpeper. Denver. Portland, OR. Savannah. Seattle. Many trips to NYC to visit friends and family, and my annual trip to Lubec, ME for Summer Keys.

Unfortunately, this year has also given people in my circle reason to grieve: Physical and emotional health problems. Fractured relationships with partners, parents, and children. Job losses and career frustration.

And losses. So many losses. For a while, about every week a friend’s parent or elderly relative was passing. A dear friend’s mother just passed away a few weeks ago. A colleague lost his brother last week. And some loved ones, such as spouses and siblings, lost much too soon.

In my broader community of Washington, DC, to date over 250 homicides, a third more than last year (more on that, below). And in the larger world, violence just inciting more violence. My thoughts with all who are grieving.

As most (if not all) of you know, I lost my own sister, Emily Hoffenberg, this past January. It was also too soon: She was fifty-eight. For the first time in my life, I became all too acquainted with the lonely and strange journey of grief that the loss of such a close relative begins.

One friend noted, soon after Emily passed, that my sister was now in a better place. My friend was right. Emily had been a troubled soul from when she was young. Naturally pretty, she struggled with her weight from an early age, descended from stout women on both sides of the family. She had difficulty getting along with peers, and, while no one likes getting teased, she held grudges against those who had teased or mistreated her far beyond what seemed merited. She was not interested in school. She had volatile relationships with boyfriends which usually ended with drama.

As she got older, she developed behaviors consistent with obsessive-compulsive disorder: Vacuuming the carpet to a pulp; taking multi-hour showers; and engaging in other bizarre rituals to manage her anxiety. Into adulthood she continued having trouble getting along with others and worked only for a few years after barely graduating college. She spent the better part of her adult life indulging her compulsions and watching TV.

My mother, her husband, and I all tried to caution her about the impact of her behavior. Unfortunately, she would not listen and had a defiant, perversely libertarian attitude towards her rituals and lack of employment. I can still hear her defenses: “Why should I change just because society says I should?” “You’re my younger brother: Don’t lecture me.”

Years of multi-hour showers, and who knows what other behavior, had worn away at Emily’s skin, and left her vulnerable to infection. And given her excessive tendency towards doing things her way, she usually waited till the last minute to seek medical care. After Emily developed skin rashes covering much of her body in October 2022 (not the first time in her life), two doctors told her she needed to go to the emergency room. She refused until the pain became intolerable.

After that, Emily spent the few months left of her life between stints at home, bedridden, and trips to the emergency room and hospitalization. Her body, after years of self-abuse, began to shut down. She became unable to walk and her throat closed to the point she couldn’t swallow food. Doctors were preparing to insert a balloon in her esophagus the days before she passed at Long Island Jewish Hospital, with her husband and sister-in-law by her side, on January 18, 2023. I take some comfort in that I had been able to take my parents to visit my sister, one last time, a few days prior. It was the last time we saw her alive, and the four of us were together.

In her last few months, Emily acknowledged the damage she had done to herself, yet even then, it was not around getting the mental health care she long had needed. Alas she talked about needing “try harder” to stop her compulsive behavior. Unfortunately, she never got the chance.

My mother (still here in mind, if not in body), my brother-in-law, and I are left with some guilt. (My father, not so much: I’ll save him for a future holiday letter.) My mother took Emily to counseling when she was younger, yet Emily was not engaged, and it was ineffective. My sister carried that skepticism of counseling into adulthood.

In hindsight, I could have sought guardianship, yet even that outcome was uncertain, especially as she was married, and her husband, even with his own illnesses and limitations, had rights over me. At best, she would have ended up institutionalized, medicated against her will, a quality of life different yet not higher than the one she achieved left to her own devices.

The way my sister thought and behaved, I couldn’t have as close a relationship with her as I would have liked. Yet we spoke on the phone a few times a month, and my parents and I would visit with her and her husband when I was in Queens. Childlike, she mostly wanted to talk about movies and our favorite animals. I miss those conversations, and the prospect of a sibling, however troubled, for company in old age.

I am continually appreciative of the support I received right after my sister passed: The phone calls. The texts. The donations. The shiva visits, both in New York and in Washington, DC. The food -- SO much food, and the food sent to my parents’ home, especially appreciated. My mother and I sent thank you notes to all who we could, yet I wanted to acknowledge this kindness again.

Still, outside my friend circle, part of my own, undeclared journey has been finding myself in professional and social milieu with people who largely come from more affluent and less troubled families than mine, and who could not relate to my situation. I remember, once over a meal at Cornell, a friend asked, “Why didn’t your sister go to Cornell?” I didn’t imbue her with bad intentions, and frankly don’t remember how I responded. Yet the question left me feeling embarrassed.

Years later, at lunch one day at the Census Bureau, the subject of families arose. A young woman in my lunch group asked about my sister, and this time I remember I was more forthcoming about her condition. My colleague paused, uncomfortably, and changed the subject to the song playing in the cafeteria.

Over the years, I came to see that my own sister was not an “appropriate” topic of conversation with people I did not know well. Indeed, many of my well-educated research-oriented colleagues at Census would only come across someone like my sister and her husband in a row in a public use data file, which they might be analyzing using the latest techniques for a conference presentation or journal article.

As one colleague observed, many (not all, but many) people with advanced social science degrees look at life "through a window." For them, research is not intended to solve the plight of poor or otherwise marginalized people; rather, the data of troubled people mainly serve as fodder to advance their careers.

On the one hand, I can't begrudge others their lived experiences. On the other hand, I can't help but wonder if many of our larger social problems -- those which, in theory, our various academic institutions teach students how to address, and which governments and other helping institutions hire these students to solve -- remain unfixed, among other reasons, because the people we've hired to solve them don't have actual experience in the lives of the people they are supposed to help. And, even when these professionals do create policies and programs, in the design they may be overestimating the resources and capabilities of the people of interest, projecting their own resources, capabilities, and aspirations onto the target population. As I learned from my sister, not everyone wants or is able to work.

Living and working in the nation’s capital, I don’t have to look far to see this obtuseness. Earlier this fall, the Justice Department organized a conference celebrating "Fifty Years of the National Crime Victimization Survey" just as Washington, DC was experiencing the highest level of homicides in two decades and more than twice as many carjackings as last year, often committed by teens. This summer my neighbors and I were afraid to leave our homes. Later this fall, Census organized a two-day conference on “Advancing Research on Race, Ethnicity, and Inequality”, as if we haven’t been studying these subjects for decades, with, at best, a mixed record on improvement. Just more admiring problems, looking at the world through that safe analytic window.

I came to realize I’m so sensitive to this because I went into public service to solve problems, not merely to study them, especially coming from a family with such pressing needs. My concern with those in need is not removed or merely academic. And as I am squarely middle aged, it's disenheartening to see yet another generation mired in social problems which only seem to promote another generation of research. I get equally weary of conflicts, like those in the Middle East, which never seem to get resolved. People hating and killing each other because of what someone wrote on stone tablets centuries ago.

I found myself wading in this sort of futility for much of the year, yet having given myself the time to stew has helped me recently be more open to light. A blog by Bill Gates remind of our progress and innovations to reduce carbon emissions, among other achievements.

On a smaller, yet no less important scale, a former colleague has helped open a sanctuary for abused and neglected animals. It won’t bring back the megafauna which I wish we humans hadn’t killed off – I imagine a giddy world with woolly mammoths and glyptodons roaming the streets of Manhattan or the Champs-Élysées -- or reverse more recent species extinction. Yet it's something, and it's refreshing to see an effort not mired in analysis paralysis.

And I think of the dedication of the nurses and staff who helped my sister in her final months. The last time I saw her alive, a few days before she died, her hospital bedstand was covered in napkins and cups filled with water to the brim. She was bedridden, barely sentient, with IV tubes in both arms. Yet at least the staff had given her what she wanted, however bizarre it might seem to others, to relieve her anxiety.

When I am feeling at my worst about the state of the world, I try to remember all the people who are working very hard to make the world a better place, even if not always succeeding. Things would probably be worse if it weren’t for them. As George Eliot wrote at the end of Middlemarch, "That things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”

Here's to a 2024 with less loss.

Love,

Rich

holidays 2022

Dear everyone,

I hope this letter finds you well, or at least managing. We return to life that resembles life pre-COVID19 (even as we’re still in a pandemic), yet with sighting the more-than-occasional mask-wearer, the grief of loved ones lost, and the processing of the trauma we collectively experienced.

This year, like many recent ones, several friends lost parents or other loved ones, human or otherwise. My thoughts are with you.

I learned of the passing of two of my college mentors: Patti Papapietro, a student advisor who succumbed to pancreatic cancer several years ago; and an economics professor, Dr. Lois Gosse, who passed earlier this year. I think of them often and the wisdom from which I continue to draw.

Yet, I am surrounded by fertility, too: My boss became a dad second time around, and my employee is expecting. Various friends became parents and others are expecting, too. And other friends hope to become parents, despite challenges. I hope they all find parenting as rewarding as they expect.

On the other end of the life cycle, this past May my father turned ninety, and my mother, nearly eighty-six, keeps on, her nonsmall cell lung cancer nodule growing, yet thankfully, at a slow pace. I am relieved they are so relatively robust at their advanced ages.

My sister, chronically unwell mentally and physically, took an especially bad turn this year, needing hospitalization and awaiting rehabilitation. She’s had skin disease and cannot walk because she’s been bedridden so long. I have not shared this difficulty with many, until now. People have their own mishegoss and sharing such news can lead to anxiety for the recipient, activating their urge to fix. It’s especially hard because my sister has always been resistant to treatment, which is why her own situation is so dire now. It’s in Gd’s hands now.

More broadly, it was a year of reconnection after two years of isolation: I attended conferences where I reconnected with colleagues from current and former employers. I helped organize, with the help of my galpal Khairah and a heavy lift from the alumni association, the 35^th reunion for my graduating class from the Bronx High School of Science. It was a joyous event, a high point of the year. Towards the end of the evening, we all burst into dance spontaneously, perhaps drawing from energy pent-up after all that time physically distanced. I feel blessed to have so many friends from that time long ago who I consider academic brothers and sisters.

It was a year of travel: San Francisco. Puerto Rico. Chicago. Cabo San Lucas. Lubec, ME. Two trips to Denver, a city overflowing with pornstaches (blech). Los Angeles. And several trips to NYC.

I travel so much to connect with friends in other cities. Yet when I return to my adoptive city, Washington, DC, my social life is often challenging to keep robust in an ambitious, overprogrammed, too-often-transactional, and transient environment.

This feeling of alienation was on my mind when I wrote last year’s note, too, in preparing for this one: “I’ve committed, in what I hope is a healthy way, in the coming year to observing and listening more, reaching out less, and seeing what the universe brings to me. I’ll do my share and see if others contribute theirs.”

This year, I tried to do that. In turn, the universe handed me a lot of need. Friends, or their significant others, in pain, with sickness and injury, reeling from difficult or ruptured relationships, straining to support troubled children. Work dissatisfaction. Colleagues and subordinates craving attention and support. People in my neighborhood begging for money or attention, in the shadows of new, luxury high-rise apartment buildings, amidst a nationwide housing shortage. Recently children have been occasionally tapping on some of my condominium building windows, seeking attention I guess, further aggravating residents already besieged with maintenance and repair needs.

Pema Chodron, the Buddhist nun, noted the world needs people who can pay attention to the pain of others since it is too easy to shut down. Yet, for those of us who refuse to shut down, who don’t stick our figurative fingers in our ears and who want to experience life in its totality, it can be exhausting. We have to find ways to be able to absorb all that hurt and take care of ourselves. I have not been so good at that. For 2023, I commit myself to more consistent meditation and journaling, and I’ve just restarted counseling.

The need I hear is just a kernel of the ongoing, larger pain in the world. Data, both quantitative and qualitative, speak to a mental health crisis borne from the dysfunction and indifference of contemporary society, and exacerbated by the pandemic.

It’s not all bad, yet there’s a lot of hurt these days: Ukraine, Russia, Iran. In America, mass shootings as commonplace as grocery shopping, and in places where we shop for groceries, too. The revoking of rights previously bestowed. Ongoing anti-Black racism and the resurgence of anti-Semitism. Unmerited hatred and discrimination towards so many groups, really. This past winter I started reading How to Stay Human in A F***ed Up World. For 2023, I need to finish that book, too.

Some developments this year give some short-term hope. Various components of the Inflation Reduction Act, if implemented effectively, could buy us some time to stave off the worst effects of climate change. A recent nuclear fusion breakthrough holds some long-term energy promise. And the American midterm elections revealed a large share of the electorate willing to fight for democracy.

Ultimately, whatever political or technological battles we win or lose, our human existence here is temporary. We are but visitors on an improbable and ridiculous journey on this orb, trying to make our ways, individually and collectively, as best we can.

In that vein, I am wishing you a safe and happy holiday season and a fulfilling 2023.

Love, Rich

holidays 2021

Dear friends,

I hope you are all as well as possible. The pandemic continues with variants using more Greek letters than fraternity row. And, for various reasons, despite the availability of vaccines, in the US more people died this year than last.

Closer to home, this year has been marred by losses. A former boss died of (breakthrough) COVID19; friends lost parents. A few weeks ago, a classmate from high school passed suddenly. I recorded Send in the Clowns to channel my grief. A few days later, Sondheim died. 

I know many friends my age struggle with taking care of aging loved ones, from parents to pets. Various friends struggle with relationships that have fallen apart, and rebuilding their networks after that; work challenges; and health issues, related to COVID19 or otherwise. My thoughts are with all of you, those whose struggles I know and those I don’t.

My parents, thankfully, are doing reasonably well. Last year, I reported Momma’s bleak prognosis per her non-small cell lung cancer. Yet this year her cancer seems to have stopped growing and she is in better health. My father marches onto ninety in body, if not in mind. His short-term memory is quite poor. All those researchers who report a positive attitude will lengthen your life, well, should stop smoking crack. 

I have been extremely grateful to all of you who have routinely asked about my parents’ wellbeing.

As for me, it’s been a year of meaningful work with supportive colleagues, adventurous travel, and reflection – reflection particularly about relationships. I’ve come to see that, for several reasons, I’ve tried too hard in certain friendships, and maintained other friendships merely out of habit. I’ve also been reflecting on times when I’ve alienated people by ignoring their cues, not listening attentively, or assuming their willingness to be candid matched mine.

There is a fine line between being true to oneself and needlessly adding hurt to situations. The Buddhist teacher Sylvia Boorstein has written you can communicate just about anything to anyone if you say it in the right way.

In that vein, I’ve committed, in what I hope is a healthy way, in the coming year to observing and listening more, reaching out less, and seeing what the universe brings to me. I’ll do my share and see if others contribute theirs.

And in that vein, I’ve committed to writing a shorter holiday letter than previous years. I succeeded! Perhaps that will create more space to hear from you.

I’ve appreciated various invites to join friends on trips to Kauai and Asheville, generous hosting in Cincinnati, and the chance to travel across the pond to Madrid and Lisbon to meet acquaintances old and new. It was good to spend a week in Lubec, ME, even if SummerKeys was not in session. (Hoping it will be next year!) Next year I have some physical travel planned yet will also be resuming an educational journey by taking linear algebra and differential equations. These classes help in understanding current statistical tools, from machine learning to differential privacy. Wish me luck!

Wishing you and your families all the best for 2022. Please drop me a line and let me know how you are doing.

Love,

Rich

holidays 2020

December 2020

Dear friends,

It’s been a rough year. Several friends lost parents to the coronavirus or other illnesses. Other friends contracted the virus, yet thankfully recovered. My thoughts are with all who have struggled with health or lost loved ones this year. My thoughts are also with those of you who have lost jobs, suffered pay cuts, or have otherwise struggled due to the pandemic.

My immediate family has also dealt with health issues. My sister and father have had various health concerns yet keep holding on. And Momma's radiation treatment last year may have slowed the growth of her lung cancer but did not kill it. Chemotherapy this year didn’t kill it, either, and she suffered debilitating side effects. Yet, after a bleak prognosis from her oncologist, and some new meds for her chronic lymphocytic leukemia, Momma is feeling better, at least for now, and is as feisty and interfering in my life as ever. Nothing like bad news to perk up my lineage. 😊

Treatment having failed, the lung cancer will eventually kill Momma, and she knows it, yet her equanimity is impressive. Not too long ago she sent me an email which read, “Today I am leading the book group at the synagogue. So-and-so was going to lead it, but she died, so now I am leading it.” The Buddha would be impressed, too.

I have been appreciative of my friends’ inquiries about Momma’s health throughout the year. I will miss her terribly when she is no longer in this life.

As for me, and as for many, my struggles this year were more internal: I have struggled with loneliness and depression, even more than usual. Thankfully, I am addicted to regular exercise, including yoga, which helps to mitigate. My piano and piano lessons over Zoom have been a source of comfort and growth. Next year I will investigate fostering a cat, since adopting a hippopotamus, while obviously preferable, alas, seems impractical. For now. 😉

And I don’t want the loneliness and depression to go away entirely. I can’t help but think the pandemic was nature’s wakeup call for us to pause and observe our current existence, and see where there is pain, personal or global, in need of remedy. Discomfort can spur us to act, and nothing aggravates me more than toxic positivity.

In the meantime, it’s been a year of impaired existence, constrained by masks and limited social interactions. We’re not making many new memories; we’re just trying to survive. It’s been a time of assessing the past versus working towards the future. I’ve found myself visiting places and things filled with memories: Ithaca, NY, and Cornell; extended stays in in New York City; my photos, journals, and yearbooks. Between these travels and double pigeon (yoga pose), I find memories -- good, bad, awkward, embarrassing – bubbling to the surface, all part of a journey backward. At least that is more interesting than the current mix of ennui and fear.

I re-read the editorial I wrote – with a heavy lift from my 9^th grade English teacher – for my junior high school yearbook. Borrowing from Francis Bacon, the theme was “Knowledge is power.” I noted how scientific discoveries had advanced civilization through the millennia. I was hopeful then.

I no longer think that statement is true. We have millions of books, thousands of journals and journal articles, sources of knowledge online and in print. We are drowning in knowledge. Yet none of that knowledge was able to prevent or stop this pandemic timely.

Bill Gates gave a TED talk in 2015 warning us about the risk of a pandemic, yet many were surprised when it arrived. The prior administration prepared a handbook for future administrations to use in case of a pandemic. Yet still, America failed in testing, in providing personal protective equipment, in tracing contacts, and ultimately in flattening the curve and controlling the spread.

I've come to see that while knowledge can lead to power, it is not equivalent. Knowledge must be applied effectively. Researchers have to work across disciplines, to make sure their findings are accessible to all those who need to hear them and become institutionalized. The elitism that permeates academia – and parts of government, by extension, which I’ve seen first-hand – only serves to alienate further those parts of the public that are already skeptical of experts.

Yet it is also incumbent on the public to be willing students, to stay informed and heed guidance. On an A train where a gently humorous sign showing right and wrong ways of wearing masks was posted, there were people on that same train wearing masks under their noses.

Of course, it doesn’t help when some of our leaders, for political gain, give mixed messages about proper behavior. While some direct their anger at opportunistic and craven elected officials – not unjustifiably -- I reserve most of mine for those who voted these cretins in.

So, at a time when we are overflowing with knowledge and technology, we have been anything but empowered during this crisis. Instead, we've gotten sick, watched loved ones get sick and die, seen faceless numbers in the news, how many infected, how many people died today, states in different shades of red on an online map. I feel especially badly for the health care and essential workers who have risked and lost their lives to sustain the rest of us. And the reports of people storming state capitols and attending large events without masks are disheartening.

It is difficult to quantify how often this is happening. Yet, America is dubiously leading the world in COVID-19 cases and deaths, and has among the highest of cases per capita among nations. Clearly, America is handling this pandemic atrociously.

Many of us don't seem to learn from the past. There were battles over wearing masks 100 years ago during the 1918 flu pandemic. And here we are again. We have the same problems generation after generation, whether problems with governance or tolerance. It is disappointing.

Thankfully, we are on the cusp of receiving vaccines, a relatively small comfort amidst vast suffering. I am grateful for the applied wisdom and perseverance of our scientists. In the meantime, it will be a difficult winter ahead. In the long-term, we still need to deal with climate change. It is enheartening that President-elect Biden will be creating a cabinet-level position dedicated to climate change. I fear it will be too little, and way too late.

Wishing you and your families resilience and safety during the holidays and in the months to come. Feel free to drop me a note to let me know how you are doing, especially if it’s been a while.

Love,

Rich