Frank is Emptiness

March 20th, 2020

There is nothing like spending a lot of time in close proximity with my loved ones to make me realize how dysfunctional I am. The members of our family get along well…for short periods of time. After a while, people tend to get on each other’s nerves, and it gets a little nuts. We aren’t used to the idea of being together for an indefinite amount of time. This is new.

Up until now we have lived together, but not necessarily spent that much time together. Karin would go out to her knitting groups. I would do volunteer work. The girl we love would go to meetings and therapy sessions, and then spend time at the gym. So, we would actually be in the same place for only brief periods. We had enough time to interact, but not enough time to piss each other off. When we did hang out, we often did in places away from home. We didn’t feel shut in. It all worked pretty well.

Well, that lifestyle is over for now. We have to be in the same house most of the time, and we have to deal with each other. Each of us has carved out some personal territory. Sometimes we do things together. Sometimes we act like we were all on different planets. It will take us some time to adjust to social distancing.

The flip side of the situation is that we are separated from friends, many of whom are nearby. We can’t go to the Hillside Coffee House and hang out with our buddies. We can’t go to daily Mass with people from our church. We can’t just get in the car, go some place, and spend time other humans. This sucks.

I am told that I can interact with all sorts of people online. This is true to a certain degree. I guess I am trying to do that right now. However, going on Facebook or writing a blog post is not at all the same as sitting across from a person and having a freewheeling conversation. There is more spontaneity involved in a face-to-face interaction with another person. There is more soul. There is more intimacy.

Isaac Asimov wrote a book called The Naked Sun. It was a science fiction novel about a planet called Solaria. There were only 20,000 inhabitants of this planet, and none of them ever had any physical contact with anyone else. They viewed holograms of each other when they absolutely had to communicate. Asimov’s description of the population of Solaria was in a way prescient. He was explaining what it would be like to live in a world that took social distancing to its logical conclusion. The book was very disturbing to me. It still is.

We are not to the point where we totally keep away from other humans, but we are getting there. I remember, when I was still working, that there was a woman in the office who would rather send me an email than walk three steps from her cubicle to speak to me. How often do we text somebody rather than call them or visit them?

This coronavirus crisis encourages us to dig ourselves deeper in our individual cocoons.

When it’s all over, will we come out again?

 

 

March 19th, 2020

I took a young woman to her therapy appointment yesterday. Since most everything is shut down, going there was the highlight of the day. Her session lasted for almost an hour, so I had time to kill. All the restaurants and coffee shops are closed. I had to search for a place to hang out. I thought I would go to Half-Price Books and see what was there on sale.

I got out of my car just a woman was coming out of the shop. She looked at me and said,

“Oh, I’m so sorry. The store is closed to customers because of the virus. If you want, you contact us by phone or online. We can find what you want, and then you can come to pick it up, or it can be delivered to you.”

Great.

Having only takeout or delivery defeats the purpose of a bookstore. I never know what I want when I go into a bookstore. I wander through the stacks and tables, looking at covers. I might pull a book from a shelf and page through it. I might read a synopsis of the book. Then I might put it right back. This process may be repeated a dozen times before I actually take a book up to the sales counter. If I knew exactly what book I wanted to read, I would just buy it online and be done with it. Going into the store means that I am interested in exploring. I am looking for something that is new to me.

I guess the same things goes for many of the stores I enter. There are times when I am on a mission, and I grab what I need and get the hell out. Other times, I want to roam and linger. I want to discover something. Now there is no place to do that.

Almost all the houses of worship are closed. I like to hang out in those places too. I don’t necessarily go to these locations to attend a specific liturgy. I don’t often mingle with the other people even when I am in my own church. However, it helps me to just be with others when I pray or meditate. When I am in church, or at the synagogue, or in a mosque, or at the Zen Center, it is better when I am not completely alone. Spiritual activities are by their very nature communal, even if everything is done in silence. Some people say that a person can have the same experience online. I doubt it.

I like sitting in coffee shops. Once again, being an introvert, I don’t usually want interaction. Mostly, I just want to sip a drink and observe. Just watching the people come and go is stimulating. It makes me more alert.

Now, the only outlet seems to be grocery shopping.

I wonder how long that will last.

 

 

 

 

 

March 19th, 2020

“Connections with other people affect not only the quality of our lives but also our survival.” – Dean Ornish

“We are leaving the industrial economy and entering the connection economy.” – Seth Godin

 

It is fascinating for me to see the all the underlying connections in our economy, especially now that the whole system is collapsing around us. The coronavirus has decimated various industries: airlines, hotels, entertainment, restaurants, etc. The show is just starting. The segments of the economy that have already taken a hit will soon affect other parts of the whole. It’s just a matter of time, and not much time at that.

Four years ago, I retired from a trucking company. I worked there for twenty-eight years. During that time, I found out that the trucking industry is an accurate barometer for the overall health of the national economy. Trucks haul everything for everybody. If the economy as a whole is doing well, then so is the trucking industry.

I texted a friend of mine who is a dispatcher at my former workplace. I asked him,

“Has business slowed down yet?”

He replied, “It’s starting now. We’re going to be in trouble soon.”

I think about how the current crisis is affecting individuals. Industries are not monolithic. They are all composed of people, lots of people. Each worker has a unique situation, and each one has specific concerns. I read that (as of 2017) 35% of all adults in this country have only a few hundred dollars in savings. 34% of them have nothing saved up. This means that many of the waitresses, airport baggage handlers, and others who are unemployed right now are hurting right now. They are out of work and they have no idea when they may get called back, if they get called back.

I think about our sons. They are both in construction. Construction is booming. Hans is pumping concrete all the time down in Texas. Stefan is welding each and every day. They are okay for now. Hans told me that the Texas DOT has a number of bridges to rebuild in the Waco area. Even if home and commercial construction slow down, the government projects will still be there. Stefan will be busy for months on huge buildings that are currently going up in the Milwaukee area. The work that is in progress will continue. The boys will keep busy and keep getting paychecks.

What happens in six months? That’s a different story. With the construction industry there is a time lapse. Other parts of the economy shrink rapidly, and then then bounce back quickly. Construction takes a while to slow down, and then it stays slow, sometimes for years. Hans and Stefan will be in a whole new world come summer or fall.

I am retired. My 401K is based primarily on the stock market, which is currently a mess. If the economy continues to take a hit, my wife and I will cut back. As a case in point, I drive a beater, a 2006 Ford Focus that my son rebuilt. It runs, but it has its issues. The question is: Should I trade it or should I keep repairing it? I will keep repairing it. I don’t plan on any big purchases in the foreseeable future. I’m pretty sure that millions of other people don’t plan to do that either.

When times are uncertain, and people are scared, they sit on their wallets.

That’s not good.

 

 

 

 

March 15th, 2020

“Men are naturally barbarians, and that will remain forever. The passion, the love, and the lust is intensifying with time – Fawad Khan

“People sometimes tell me that they prefer barbarism to civilization. I doubt if they have given it a long enough trial. Like the people of Alexandria (in a poem by Cavafy) they are bored with civilization; but all the evidence suggest that the boredom of barbarism is infinitely greater.” – Kenneth Clark

 

Hans called me from down in Texas.

I barely had a chance to say “hi” before he started talking.

“Dad, it’s getting really stupid down here.”

That wasn’t a good start for the conversation, so I asked Hans,

“Uh, so, what do you mean?”

Hans drawled, “I was just at Walmart, and I saw five fights over toilet paper.”

“That’s no good.”

“Hell no, and I couldn’t find any ammo. Nobody has any.”

“That’s no good either.”

Hans went on, “I got a full magazine for the .357. That won’t last long. I got a magazine for the .40. That won’t last long either.”

“No, it won’t.”

I could hear Hans’ lighter click. He was firing up another Pall Mall. He took a drag and said,

“Now I got fifty rounds for my .45, but that won’t last long either. Mostly what I got for ammo is shotgun shells. Tomorrow, after work, I’m buying a home defense shotgun.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

He took another drag on his cigarette, and told me,

“I’ll get one of those shotguns with the short barrel. They are only about $700. They’re easy to maneuver. They hold up to fifteen rounds. After that you have to reload, but if you’re reloading at that point, you’re screwed anyway. I just want Gabby to have the shotgun at home in case something happens. I’d rather she shot with that than fire a pistol and miss.”

“Yeah, It’s hard to miss with a shotgun up close. Accurate aim isn’t that important.”

Hans replied, “Yep.”

Hans continued, “The .357 is going into my truck. I can pull that out if somebody tries to jack the truck. A well-placed .357 round can do a lot. If somebody gets hit, well, they don’t get up again. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Hans said, “I don’t want to go anywhere without a gun any more. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe they were fighting in Walmart over TOILET PAPER. I mean I could understand if they were fighting over the last loaf of bread. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

Hans sighed. “Well, I just called to let you know what was going on.”

“I’m glad that you did.”

“Bye Dad. Love you.”

“Bye Hans. Love you too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 14th, 2020

“Panic is highly contagious, especially in situations when nothing is known and everything is in flux.” – Stephen King

“Fear is the mind-killer.”
― Frank Herbert , from the novel “Dune”

Woodman’s is a massive grocery store in Oak Creek. It’s size can be overwhelming. A person can find nearly anything in there, assuming that person doesn’t get lost while doing so.

When I go to Woodman’s, it is generally during a slow time of day. I go there when all the other retirees go. We usually have the place all to ourselves.

But not yesterday.

Yesterday the parking lot was packed with cars. The store itself was jammed full of people pushing carts that were stuffed with everything imaginable. It was a chaotic scene.

I had gone in there innocently seeking toilet paper. I had not heard about any kind of shortage. I just figured that I would buy some. That was a mistake.

Woodman’s has an aisle devoted to toilet paper, paper towels, facial tissue, and the like. It also has a tower of toilet tissue near that aisle. This mountain of paper products is twice my height on a normal day. Yesterday it had completely disappeared. There were only empty wooden pallets left on the floor. Every roll of toilet paper was gone. It was the same in the aisle. The shelves were completely empty.

Two Woodman’s employees were feverishly ripping open boxes of toilet paper, as anxious customers hovered near them. I asked one of the workers if I could grab a package of four rolls from the cardboard box. He glanced nervously at me and said, “Yeah, sure.”

I should have taken more.

I don’t get it. I assume that this shopping frenzy had to do with the Coronavirus scare. However, I can’t quite understand how toilet paper plays into this scenario. Is one of the symptoms of the disease diarrhea? Will infected persons need to wipe their asses constantly? What the hell is going on?

I left the store in a hurry. Mobs make me edgy. Some of the folks in Woodman’s were not quite right. Many of them had that look in their eyes. You know, the look that says they are expecting the End Times to come at any moment. Apparently, the Apocalypse involves some heavy shit. Therefore, they need to stock up on toilet paper.

The scene in the grocery store reminded me of how things work here just prior to a major blizzard. (I live in Wisconsin. We have major blizzards on occasion). Before a big snowfall, people raid the stores, just in case the power goes out, or the snowplows can’t dig out the streets, or the shops are closed, or whatever. They do the paleolithic hunter-gatherer thing for legitimate reasons. They know that they might be shut in for a while. It mostly makes sense. Well, except for the fact that most of the hunting and gathering happens in the liquor department. Emergency supplies always include cases of beer.

Yesterday’s chaos had nothing to do with anything that was real. It was all just a subtle form of hysteria. I mean it could have been much worse. I mean nobody was shooting somebody else over a roll of shit paper. I could imagine it getting to that point. The thin veneer of civilization was close to being torn away.

Perhaps I exaggerate. I often do that. Maybe not this time.

Let’s look at the stock market.

Holy fuck. What a disaster. It dropped 20% (or more) within a week. I care about this. I have a 401K, and it depends on the market. My currently comfortable existence is in jeopardy.

Okay, I know that sounds really selfish. It is. However, if I go down, lots of others go down too. I am taking care of other people. If I am broke, then nobody cares for them. Honestly, I don’t think it will get to the point where we are all penniless, but it will get bad.

I have often thought that things were crazy, and they couldn’t get any crazier.

I have always been wrong about that.

 

 

 

 

March 14th, 2020

This afternoon, I was driving a young woman to the gym, so that she could work out for a while. Earlier in the day, Karin and I had been hanging out at the Hillside Coffee House. The young woman has started working there part time as a barista. The café also functions as a small bakery that specializes in cakes and other sweet things. The young woman is fond of confections, so while Karin and I were at the café, we bought her a thick slice of cake and a large cupcake. We brought it back to the girl after we ran a few errands.

As the young woman and I were driving to the gym, she asked me,

“What kind of cake was that?”

I couldn’t remember for sure. I told her,

“It was some kind of cheesecake sort of thing. Was it okay?”

She told me, “Yeah. The baked goods there are awesome. I mean the coffee is good, but compared to the bakery, it’s crap.”

“So, you liked the cake?”

She deflected the question and asked me, “How long was the slice of cake in the box?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe two hours.”

She just said, “Oh.”

After an uncomfortable pause, I asked her, “Why do you ask?”

She replied, “Well, the oils from the cake had already started to soak into the cardboard. I was anticipating this amazing bakery moment. I was expecting this glorious cake experience, but it wasn’t all that…glorious.”

It was my turn to say, “Oh.”

She went on, “I’ve tried the bakery at the coffee shop. It’s always been amazing. But then it was fresh.”

“And the slice of cake wasn’t fresh?”

She shook her head.

“So, did you just throw it away?”

She frowned. “No, I ate it, but it wasn’t as amazing as it could have been.”

I told her, “Well, if we aren’t competent to get you cake from the shop quick enough, then maybe we shouldn’t try to do that any more.”

The young woman replied, “You can still buy me cake, just bring it right home.”

I changed the subject slightly. I asked her, “So, how was the cupcake?”

“Oh, that was good. It tasted just like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. It would have been better fresh.”

“Yeah, fresh.”

She nodded. “Yeah, fresh.”

Then she asked me, “Was anybody been looking at my artwork in the shop?”

“I didn’t see anybody looking at it in an obvious way.”

She sighed from the depths of her soul. “Well, I guess I need to paint some new stuff.”

I told her, “That’s a good idea. People might want to to look at artwork that’s fresh.”

She gave me the death stare.

Then she said, “I guess we could talk to all those dead artists who never became famous until they were dead.”

“No, let’s not do that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

March 13th, 2020

Jeanne is dead.

She’s been dead since July, but I just learned that fact a couple days ago. The news saddened me, but it didn’t surprise me. I knew that she was on her out, but I didn’t know exactly when that would happen.

I had known Jeanne for several years, but I can’t say that I knew her very well. I have only a few memories of her, but those scenes are etched deeply in my mind. At this point, it is difficult for me to remember all of the circumstances involved. Time has a way of blurring thoughts and focusing emotions. The technical details of my memories are fuzzy, but the feelings in my heart are more intense now than they were at the time that the events occurred.

I have to start by mentioning Jeanne’s husband, Greg. Greg worked with me at the trucking company. He was a driver and I was a dock supervisor. People sometimes have an idea that truck drivers are rough and uneducated. This is generally untrue. Most of my co-workers were intelligent and talented in remarkable ways. Greg had a passion for music, and an encyclopedic knowledge of it. He even had his own pre-dawn radio program at a local college station. It was called “GB and the Neutral Drop”. Greg and I would talk about music and politics quite often. Sometimes we got on each others nerves, but we stayed friends.

Several years ago, Greg retired. I can’t remember how long ago that was. At first, we only heard good things from him. He was enjoying his retirement, and he and Jeanne did a lot of traveling. One of their sons was working in China, and Jeanne and Greg visited him there.

Then Greg got sick.

He had a seizure. He was subsequently diagnosed with cancer, both in his brain and in his lungs. Greg wasn’t a smoker, so I don’t know the cause of his cancer. I think he had to have both radiation therapy and chemo. His life changed radically, and so did Jeanne’s.

Karin and I were invited to a party at the home of Greg and Jeanne. It was a small get together. There were only eight of us there: Terry and Patti, Dave and Anne, Greg and Jeanne, and Karin and myself. I remember that we all spent most of the time in the basement, a place where Greg had his old school juke box. He spun 45’s, and some of us played pool. Jeanne wanted people to get up and dance. We did. It made Jeanne happy to have us all together, and to see Greg enjoying himself.

The radiation and the chemo hit Greg hard. He lost his hair, and it then it grew back differently. I went to visit him at his house one day. We talked. I think he was in his pajamas, but I’m not sure any more. Jeanne made us sub sandwiches. I ate all of mine, and Greg ate about half of his.

Jeanne was so excited about that. She smiled and said,

“Greg hasn’t eaten so much in a long time!”

Then she turned to him, smiled, and said,

“See, you’re getting better!”

He wasn’t.

In the summer of 2014, Karin and I had a party, a big party. We celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. We had tents in the backyard, and lots of food and drink. We had two bands that came to play music for us. Randy Van and his boys played the blues. Lee and Ian played horror punk. We invited all and sundry. It was a wonderful time.

Karin and I invited many people to the party. Most of them came. We also had people come uninvited. I was told that the true measure of a celebration is how many strangers show up. We had a few. God smiled on us that day.

When Karin and I decided on having a bash, I was determined to invite Greg and Jeanne. Actually, they were the very first people to be invited. It was important to me that they be there. They came.

Greg looked okay, but I could tell that he was tired. He wore a huge straw hat, and he generally sat in a chair while the bands did their thing. Greg sucked in the music like oxygen. I could tell that he enjoyed it.

Jeanne danced with me on the lawn (with Karin’s approval, and assumingly with Greg’s). As we whirled, we talked. I told her how much it meant to me that she and Greg were with us. She smiled.

Greg died.

There was no funeral. Both Greg and Jeanne were atheists. A funeral seemed both pointless and unnecessary.

Months later, Jeanne and the rest of Greg’s family had a party in a local park to remember Greg. Karin and I were there. So was Randy Van, Terry and Patti, Dave and Anne. It was a good memorial. I don’t recall any ritual, but that wasn’t the point.

Jeanne told me repeatedly, “Let’s just remember the good times”, and then she smiled.

I kept in touch with Jeanne after Greg’s death. She traveled extensively. She visited her kids in Chicago and DC. She lived. I know that Jeanne grieved for Greg, but that didn’t stop her from being in the world. I admired her for that.

Last year, sometime, Jeanne wrote to me. She told me that she had stage IV pancreatic cancer. She knew that she was dying. I can’t remember if she sent me an email (since deleted), or a snail mail letter (since misplaced).

I sent her a Christmas card. I wrote to her. No response.

I finally wrote an email to Terry. I asked him about her.

He replied, “Call me.”

We really didn’t need to talk. I knew.

Let’s just remember the good times.

 

 

 

March 11th, 2020 (4:30 AM)

In an hour I have to wake up a young woman to start her first day working as a barista at the Hillside Coffee House in Oak Creek, Wisconsin. I am almost certain that this young woman will wake up in a raspy mood, and that it will be a struggle to get her out the door and into my car. So be it. This needs to happen.

Karma is a strange thing. Westerners (especially some Christians) often look at the idea of karma with suspicion, like it is this sort of dark, esoteric notion that will seduce the unwary into error. Karma is really pretty simple:

“What goes around, comes around.”

I heard that comment years ago from Mark Manning, who was not obviously religious, and who was not, perhaps, very spiritual. However, Mark could be ruthlessly honest, and he was incredibly hard on himself. That I know. He understood karma. He lived it. He died it.

I have said that karma is really pretty simple. Like most things, that is almost true. The things that I do affect me, but they also affect others. My actions affect people I don’t even know, and people who are not even born. I bear a huge responsibilty in my actions. What I do (and what you do) can literally change the world.

Hillside Coffee opened yesterday. Did this change the world? Fuck yeah.

It really did change the world. You might laugh at that. Go ahead. I would too.

However, the existence of the Hillside Coffee House changes everything for me.

Karin and I can roll with whatever happens.

In a way it’s all a dream.

The coffee shop has a beautiful feel to it. The walls are painted in a way that makes a person comfortable. The furniture is old and unconnected, but somehow it all matches. There are living plants everywhere in the cafe. It all feels right, in a soulful way.

The young woman’s paintings cover one of the walls in the cafe. That changes things for me.

The owner, Rose, bakes her own imaginings. She has canoli cupcakes, among other things. This is Rose’s dream, and she is taking it to the limit.

God bless her for this. Creativity gone crazy.

Cool.

 

 

 

 

 

March 8th, 2020

“But I wasn’t about to throw the bastard away, either.  A good .357 is a hard thing to get, these days. So, I figured, well, just get this bugger back to Malibu, and it’s mine. My risk– my gun: it made perfect sense. And if that Samoan pig* wanted to argue, if he wanted to come yelling around the house, give him a taste of the bugger about midway up the femur. Indeed. 158 grains of half-jacketed lead/alloy, traveling 1500 feet per second, equals about forty pounds of Samoan hamburger, mixed up with bone splinters. Why not?”

(*the writer’s lawyer and previous owner of the .357 mag)

Hunter S. Thompson – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

 

Hans called yesterday. That is not unusual.

Hans bought a new gun. That is also is not unusual.

It is relatively easy to wrap my head around things that are rational. However, with our eldest son, Hans, things are not always rational.

Hans called me and said,

“Hey Dad, I bought me one of those revolvers that people used back in the Wild West days.”

“Uh, yeah. Great. What did you buy?”

“I got a .357. The kind you see in the cowboy movies.”

I was tempted to ask him why he bought this weapon, but some questions are not worth asking.

So, instead I asked, “So what kind is it exactly?”

“It’s an Uberti 1873 Cattleman .357 mag. It’s a replica of the original Colt Cattleman.”

“So, what’s so special about it.”

“Well, you have to pull back on the hammer every time you want to get a new round in the chamber. You have to cock it after you shoot a round. It’s not double-action like most revolvers.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Hans replied, “Well, it makes it a lot more difficult for rapid fire. If somebody is coming at you, you might only get off a couple rounds. If you’re a good shot, it don’t matter that much.”

“Hans, with a .357 you only need one shot.”

“Yep.”

“And this gun is for self-defense?”

“Yep. I got a good deal on it. It was only $500.”

“Excellent.”

Hans went on, “I like it. The fittings are all brass, and grip is wood.”

Then Hans asked me, “Do you know why it’s called a ‘Cattleman’?”

“No. Why?”

“Well, back in the old days, most of the pistols were Army issue. They were like this one except that the barrels were longer. Now the ranchers mostly carried the Army pistols, but they weren’t good for drawing quick, when you needed to shoot a rattlesnake…or something. So, the cowboys sawed off the end of the barrel on the pistol. Eventually, Colt just started making short-barreled revolvers like the one I got.”

“It sounds like you got what you wanted.”

“I like my new gun.”

“Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Now, I’m thinking about buying a Glock.”

Another quote from Hunter S. Thompson concerning firearms:

“The sun was hot and I felt like killing something. Anything. Even a big lizard. Drill the fucker. I got out my attorney’s .357 Magnum out of the trunk and spun the cylinder. It was loaded all the way around: Long, nasty little slugs–158 grains with a fine flat trajectory and painted aztec gold on the tips.”

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

March 7, 2020

It had been almost three months since I was at the offices of Voces de la Frontera. Before Christmas, I had been going to Voces on most Wednesday evenings to help teach the citizenship class. After New Year’s, I suddenly got very busy with caring for somebody at home. I stopped going to Voces because my priorities shifted radically. I let the people there know that I would be MIA for a while. I just didn’t know how long I would be unavailable.

Mary Pat, one of the other instructors at Voces, called me this Wednesday. She sounded desperate. The teachers at Voces were overwhelmed with people who needed assistance to prepare for the citizenship test. Mary Pat asked me if I could come back to help. Honestly, I was okay with not going to Voces. I had a built-in excuse to stay at home. I could always claim that I was too busy with my personal shit, and I would have been right to say that.

I told Mary Pat that I would come to help. It was the right time.

It’s always hard to re-enter an environment after you have left it for a while. The people are a bit different, and the place is a bit different. Voces is always Voces. It always has this grungy, working class feel to it. That never changes, and I actually like it. Voces does not have a classroom for the citizenship course. It only has an open space filled with old tables and rickety chairs, and that space fills quickly when the citizenship class starts. The large room becomes indescribably noisy and chaotic. It is difficult, at best, to teach people in that place, especially if English is not their first language.

However, that is where we do it, and we do it well.

I sat down with four people who needed to work on their N-400. The N-400 is the application for U.S. citizenship. It is a twenty-page document of Byzantine complexity. Nobody sends in their application without consulting with a lawyer. Once a person mails in the N-400, along with a rather large check, they wait for the Department of Homeland Security to tell them when their test will be. We, at Voces, prepare the person for the interview with USCIS (United States Citizenship and Immigration Services). The four people needed a little help.

I was sitting with Adolfo, Tony, Myra, and Ma.

I know Ma. I have worked with her before. Her name was actually Maria, but on her paperwork from Mexico it says, “Ma”, because apparently in that country “Ma”, and “Maria” are interchangeable. This not so in the United States, and this issue has caused the woman no end of problems. Ma is a homemaker. She doesn’t get out much, which means that her understanding of English is not the best. It’s not her fault. However, any lack of English comprehension will cost her during her interview. She needs to learn English, first and foremost. Nothing else during the test really matters.

Adolfo is a truck driver. He is also from Mexico. His English is good. He will do well on the test. Realistically, the USCIS only cares about English comprehension. They will ask civics questions and they will expect to receive the right answers. But the interviewers are mostly concerned that the potential citizen understands English. That is what drives the process. Adolfo will be okay.

Tony is from the Dominican Republic. His English is sketchy. I tried to explain to him that he really needs to be able to express himself in this language. I know that is hard. I would never be able to take a citizenship test in another language, even though I can speak German. I understand that it is hard for him to explain things and to answer questions in English. I get that. He just needs to practice. He is a smart young man. If he keeps coming to classes at Voces, he will get there. He’ll make it.

Myra is Mexican. She also needs to work on English. She is intelligent and quick. She also just needs to take the time to learn a few things. I have no worries about her passing the test.

I look forward to each of these people going to the interview and passing it with flying colors. I look forward to each of them becoming citizens of the United States, and then becoming politically active in their communities.

We need people like these four.

I am glad to be with them.

It’s good to be back.