Samples of My Work in Text and Audio.
Podcast, memoir, humor, education, and playwriting.
Podcast appearance on When Bearing Witness with Maria Bryan (2024).
A discussion about oral history & ethical storytelling (33 minutes).
https://www.mariabryan.com/podcast/episode-13
Blindsided By Friendship (2023)
(Personal memoir written in response to finding community during the pandemic)
In the early part of 2020, I was invited to take part in a three-day retreat at the Firehouse in San Francisco. The Firehouse is a vibrant community space for art, culture, spirituality, and activism nurtured by Anne Germanacos.
Anne’s idea was to bring together the myriad culture-makers whom she had collaborated with through her community engagement, art, and spiritual practice, philanthropy, and fierce sense of wonder. I would later come to appreciate this as the Germanacos Venn diagram.
I was thrilled to be invited. I had never been referred to as a “culture-maker” before. I had always thought of myself as a clinician–a useful and occasionally inspired educator and site-specific artist. I was excited and a bit nervous about it all.
I imagined Anne preparing for our March gathering- helping to coordinate flights, accommodations, meals, conversations, and potential group outings. And then the unknowable happened.
The unthinkable.
The COVID-19 virus. COVID? The media was calling it a pandemic, and the CDC was telling us to stay home. What the hell was going on?
Our in-person gathering was off. Based on what we were hearing, it wouldn’t be safe to be together in person. The experts were saying this lockdown could easily last a few weeks or a few months.
Confusion and stunned silence followed. In this confusion, many of us didn’t know what to do. We clung to media, ordered takeout, Spoke frequently with our loved ones, obsessed over toilet paper, and washed our mail. There were Soviet-era lines at Trader Joe's.
Once we understood that the few weeks of lockdown weren't going to end anytime soon, Anne had the idea we should convene for a virtual gathering.
Venn diagrams in a Zoom square.
Our first Thursday morning meeting had over 15 souls and included group singing. There were time delays. We were out of tune. We were shy. We were ecstatic.
As the lockdown months wore on, our weekly meetings became more established, and as our online relationships grew deeper, I began to release myself from my curated professional persona.
The world was ending, so what did I have to lose?
I no longer felt sheepish about being in this company and started to express the idiosyncratic and irreverent soul that I truly was. For example, my professional work over many years has been focused on social justice and I found myself making fart jokes about human rights.
I was reminded of a comment I heard as a kid. “Don’t laugh, it just encourages him.”
The Thursday group was very encouraging.
What lovely and caring people I was keeping company with. Psychiatrists, Rabbis, professors, nonprofit leaders, writers, filmmakers, curators, educators, activists, policy specialists, poets, and publishers. Through different time zones, disciplines, religions, classes, geography, and more.
What did we have in common? Far more than I ever thought possible. This was a community of listeners, empaths, and critical thinkers. And I was one of them!
I’d come to love and appreciate everyone so deeply as I looked forward to each Thursday morning. Our conversations helped me understand that my need for friendship and connection had existed long before COVID.
I’ve spent much of my life as an independent soul. I am someone with a handful of friends and many colleagues. I learned at an early age to take care of myself. I’m a latchkey kid–a general term with very specific experiences. Growing up, I had lots of “me time.”
Taking part in the Thursday club has been a game-changer for me. Through this experience, I’ve realized that it’s okay to be seen by other people, to be vulnerable (and cheeky), and still be accepted as my complicated and joyful self.
It’s been an incredible gift that our group has been able to get together in person over the last two years. Our time together has been so loving and expansive. Seeing and smelling each other. Robust hugs. Quickly getting past “You are so much more fill-in-the-blank than I thought,” and moving on to conversations about family, life, love, poetry and where are we going for lunch.
I have such big feelings for this Firehouse clan. I love them for who they are first and what they do comes after. Even knowing that what they do is extraordinary.
Coffee. Falafel. Eggs. Adventure bread. Weird Firehouse smells. Salad. Museum visits. Improvised ferry rides. Bookstores. Conversation. Walks. Chocolate.
Venn Diagrams.
I’m still stunned as to how I could end up with crushes on two Rabbis.
How did I get so lucky?
Anne’s idea was to bring together the myriad culture-makers whom she had collaborated with through her community engagement, art, and spiritual practice, philanthropy, and fierce sense of wonder. I would later come to appreciate this as the Germanacos Venn diagram.
I was thrilled to be invited. I had never been referred to as a “culture-maker” before. I had always thought of myself as a clinician–a useful and occasionally inspired educator and site-specific artist. I was excited and a bit nervous about it all.
I imagined Anne preparing for our March gathering- helping to coordinate flights, accommodations, meals, conversations, and potential group outings. And then the unknowable happened.
The unthinkable.
The COVID-19 virus. COVID? The media was calling it a pandemic, and the CDC was telling us to stay home. What the hell was going on?
Our in-person gathering was off. Based on what we were hearing, it wouldn’t be safe to be together in person. The experts were saying this lockdown could easily last a few weeks or a few months.
Confusion and stunned silence followed. In this confusion, many of us didn’t know what to do. We clung to media, ordered takeout, Spoke frequently with our loved ones, obsessed over toilet paper, and washed our mail. There were Soviet-era lines at Trader Joe's.
Once we understood that the few weeks of lockdown weren't going to end anytime soon, Anne had the idea we should convene for a virtual gathering.
Venn diagrams in a Zoom square.
Our first Thursday morning meeting had over 15 souls and included group singing. There were time delays. We were out of tune. We were shy. We were ecstatic.
As the lockdown months wore on, our weekly meetings became more established, and as our online relationships grew deeper, I began to release myself from my curated professional persona.
The world was ending, so what did I have to lose?
I no longer felt sheepish about being in this company and started to express the idiosyncratic and irreverent soul that I truly was. For example, my professional work over many years has been focused on social justice and I found myself making fart jokes about human rights.
I was reminded of a comment I heard as a kid. “Don’t laugh, it just encourages him.”
The Thursday group was very encouraging.
What lovely and caring people I was keeping company with. Psychiatrists, Rabbis, professors, nonprofit leaders, writers, filmmakers, curators, educators, activists, policy specialists, poets, and publishers. Through different time zones, disciplines, religions, classes, geography, and more.
What did we have in common? Far more than I ever thought possible. This was a community of listeners, empaths, and critical thinkers. And I was one of them!
I’d come to love and appreciate everyone so deeply as I looked forward to each Thursday morning. Our conversations helped me understand that my need for friendship and connection had existed long before COVID.
I’ve spent much of my life as an independent soul. I am someone with a handful of friends and many colleagues. I learned at an early age to take care of myself. I’m a latchkey kid–a general term with very specific experiences. Growing up, I had lots of “me time.”
Taking part in the Thursday club has been a game-changer for me. Through this experience, I’ve realized that it’s okay to be seen by other people, to be vulnerable (and cheeky), and still be accepted as my complicated and joyful self.
It’s been an incredible gift that our group has been able to get together in person over the last two years. Our time together has been so loving and expansive. Seeing and smelling each other. Robust hugs. Quickly getting past “You are so much more fill-in-the-blank than I thought,” and moving on to conversations about family, life, love, poetry and where are we going for lunch.
I have such big feelings for this Firehouse clan. I love them for who they are first and what they do comes after. Even knowing that what they do is extraordinary.
Coffee. Falafel. Eggs. Adventure bread. Weird Firehouse smells. Salad. Museum visits. Improvised ferry rides. Bookstores. Conversation. Walks. Chocolate.
Venn Diagrams.
I’m still stunned as to how I could end up with crushes on two Rabbis.
How did I get so lucky?
Second Guessing my LinkedIn Posts: A Self Dialogue (text posted on LinkedIn 7/12/23)
Audio Recording by Cliff Mayotte (1 minute)
What Is Oral History and How Does It Relate to Social Justice?
From Say It Forward: A Guide to Social Justice Storytelling, Haymarket Books, 2018. https://www.haymarketbooks.org/books/1225-say-it-forward
Historian and activist Howard Zinn popularized the practice of “people’s history.” His description creates a useful distinction between top-down history, or “winner’s history,” and underrepresented accounts from individuals whose stories complicate or contradict dominant narratives. Zinn’s term also serves to illustrate that history should include the voices of our friends, families, neighbors, and community members. Oral history seeks to grab the mic from the constantly amplified voices of the powerful and privileged and direct it toward ordinary people with stories that deserve hearing. This impulse is an oral historian’s response to the inequity that results from ignoring or silencing the mosaic of stories that make up any historical event, time period, or social issue. As playwright and poet Bertolt Brecht states in his poem “Questions from a Worker Who Reads”: “Philip of Spain wept when his armada went down. Was he the only one to weep?” Brecht’s lines eloquently capture the intersection of oral history and social justice, asking, how would those who are not in power write history differently?
This Precious Life: Theodor and Seppi learn that their friend Nikolaus' death has been foretold and only has ten days left to live.
From my stage adaptation of The Mysterious Stranger by Mark Twain. World premiere by San Francisco Youth Theatre, Fall 2024. (1:38 minutes)