In my last job I took a required workshop on Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. One of the exercises paired me up with a young woman whose parents were born in India, although she’d been born and raised in the States. We were supposed to talk about where we’d grown up. Who did we feel comfortable around? And who not so much? She grew up in Dallas, Texas. At first, she lived in a neighborhood with a bunch of other brown children. She liked it. Then her parents moved her to a “better school.” She was the only kid with brown skin there. So she said she felt most comfortable with people who looked like her. She felt least comfortable with (looking at me) old white guys. I said I totally got that. I’d grown up north of Chicago, on the shore of Lake Michigan. My mother was consistently kind and competent. My father was often mean and drunk. I was raised on the dividing line between the Black and white parts of town so was definitely aware of race. I’m comfortable with people who are kind. I’m ...
Before I came to Garfield County, I lived in two big cities: Chicago and Denver. I was surprised to learn that I did a lot more walking and biking there than I did in the more rural and suburban settings I’d lived in before. Cars are a hassle in the city. In the country, you have to have one. That means you spend more time sitting. Foolishly, I did a little too much biking in Denver despite the wildfire smoke trapped in the heat inversion. It led to adult onset asthma. Since starting my job here, too much driving and sitting behind a computer edged me over into Type 2 diabetes. (I’d been borderline most of my life but kept it under control through exercise. My siblings, all younger than me, slipped over years ago.) Let’s not even get into sleep apnea. Or dental issues. The story is old as time, because it IS time. I’m getting old. Last May, I started thinking about retirement. I’m just one year younger than my father when he died. Four of my six best friends have died in the last coupl...