RPR 112: This is not a story about plates
it's about justice and poodles and rest and reemergence
It’s been a long time, my RPR fam. A year exactly from my last dispatch, actually. I didn’t plan such a nice round return, but the universe gives us everyday magic like this all the time. So. Hi again, friends. I’ve missed us.
First, a time-sensitive update. I know many of my loyal readers all are still reeling from Rose Crisis 2023. I continue to send thoughts and prayers to all of us in the aftermath. RIP Midas Touch that never had a chance.
But we’re not here to mourn perennials. We’re here to talk about neighborhood menaces. Here’s what happened. A few days ago, someone put a pile of white plates on the corner. The plates were an odd addition to the anti-capitalist curbside commerce that’s common in Seattle (it’s usually questionable couches and IKEA storage units) but, I thought, whatever. Someone will pick them up. Spoiler alert: no one picked them up. They were there for maybe three days.
AND THEN! And then while I was walking my dogs (yes, I got another messy shelter doodle, it’s a weird story too, but that’s for another RPR) this morning, not only were the plates gone—no shards of ceramic anywhere—there was a sign left in their place. Behold:
WHAT. Who would do this?! Such strong language! Such psychopathic handwriting! Such planning and care—red paint on canvas!!! Such passion, such fury over a pile of plates?! Surely it must be the same heartless criminal that crushed my rose bush dreams.
Okay so this is my long way in—my meandering news peg if you will—just to say that in my yearlong hiatus from sending out RPR, a lot has happened.
So I’ve been doing what I do when everything is a lot. I’ve been cocooning, retreating. Trying to defend against a world where a pile of plates can be met with rage. Trying to decide if I can still wrap myself around the unlikely optimism that’s never just been the fuel for this misfit dispatch.
And yet. And yet! There have been so many incredible things from the last year too. For example:
Keri and I taught Teenager Leong how to drive(!)
Teenage Leong and I went back to Hawaii and found ourselves mask-to-beak with a turtle the size of a small car while we were snorkeling
I rescued a skeleton and loved him back to life and now he’s a normal sized beast who eats my books
I started my dream MFA program and found the humans I think I’ve been looking for my whole life
I co-founded a youth org with my friend Jerome and our students reminded me that I should probably just live in a classroom forever
I started a new full-time gig as Senior Editor with a team of very sharp women who get shit done
I grew an obscene amount of Nasturtiums from seed and I’ve been making Keri eat them with me all summer
Mellina survived and is now carpe the hell out of this diem
And also this: My friends married each other at the Seattle Art Museum and asked me to officiate. I got to stand up in front of everyone and all of our higher powers and love them, and love love, and love art, and love that there are moments in this ridiculous life that are so much bigger and more beautiful than any of of the hurt we’ve all powered through.
As I look over this list, I can feel the unlikely optimism creeping back. I can feel all the shitty things over the last year taking a step down.
Here’s a gloss: I had to go back to court starting last July (this turned into a months-long adventure)—but this time, instead of fighting to protect my son, his name was on the docket and I was fighting to support his voice.
We won, sort of. It’s a complicated story as all Family Court stories are, but the long of the short of it is that it has now been over a year that Teenager Leong has been freed, safe at home full-time with me and Keri and our doodles and houseplants. We are so, so grateful.
Returning to court and all of the reports, records, exhibits, and rulings from the last 16 years was soul-crushing and infuriating. Also exhausting. The process opened doors I had long shut and locked, and that was…rough.
The collateral damage was far reaching, and just now, a full year later, I feel like I am finally emerging again.
Thank you for hanging in there with me, friends. And to those of you who have reached out and continued to reach out despite all my efforts to move underground, I see you, I love you, I appreciate you more than you can know. Return texts, emails, and calls are on their way.
I don’t know what the cadence of RPR will be moving forward. And as much as I would love to say we’re returning immediately to our every-Thursday rhythm with regular updates from The Family Court Report, I’m going to be real and just say that I’m going to be definitely more in touch than I have been over the last 12 months.
There’s so much I want to share. Over the last year I never stopped saving links for things to Read, Listen To, and Hold On To. I got you, even while underground, RPR fam. 🧡
I hope you all are reveling in midsummer tomatoes and edible flowers or cocooning or doing whatever you need to do that feels like care. I’ll see you back in your inbox sooner than later.
K.