Peppie, the Canadian Bear Dog (Oct 2003 – Feb 7, 2021)

Peppie lived her early life on 40 unfenced acres in Canada, flew in helicopters, and protected Guus from bears. She started out as a farm dog and was sent to the pound for killing chickens and eating their eggs. Her name was Eggy when Guus got her from the rescue when she was 8 months old. Guus had a job for her, to be a bear dog, which is a dog that scares and diverts bears in case of a bear attack. One of her many claims to fame was saving Guus from bear encounters twice when he was out working on his property. She was the Michael Jordan of dogs, with a bounding stride of ten feet or more. When she charged at a bear, she would rise up on her back legs making herself appear even larger and taller than she was.

In 2006 she made the transition from Canada’s Slocan Valley to a residential neighborhood in Beaverton. We were concerned that she would miss her Canadian lifestyle, but she easily adapted to suburban life because she loved humans more than roaming the wilderness.

She only had two faults. The first was unwavering devotion to family and those she loved. She wanted to be with us at all costs, which resulted in problems many times, like the time she tried to jump out of a second story window when we were standing in front of the house talking with neighbors. She would escape from the yard by scaling a six-foot fence to search for us when we weren’t home. We would find her sitting on the front steps or sunbathing on the road in front of our house waiting for us. Once we found her napping in the neighbor’s car parked in their garage. She had jumped into the car through an open window and fell asleep as everyone was frantically looking for her. We had to reinforce our fence with corrugated metal, concrete pavers, and buried chicken wire. We used fishing line to figure out where she was scaling the six-foot fence. Eventually our backyard was fully fortified against her Houdini escapes.

Her other fault was that as a youngster she didn’t get along with other dogs. But over the years she became best friends with our neighbor’s Golden Retriever, Daisy, and then Moritz, another rescue dog. We loved her so much we investigated having her cloned, but it didn’t seem like the right thing to do considering that she was a rescue herself. The vet asked what kind of dog it was that we wanted to have cloned, and when I said that she was a mutt they were puzzled.

She seemed to love Dad the most of all, not exactly sure why. Dad didn’t particularly love dogs. She always had a knack for winning over people who didn’t like dogs. She was a gentle giant. The kids were able to walk her, sit on her, pull on her, do whatever they wanted to do with her, she just loved it. She loved every minute of attention from the kids.

In 2016 when Guus was in Japan she came down with vestibular disease, which is an affliction of old dogs. She looked like she was having a stroke. I was able to get her non-ambulatory body in the car, grabbed Mom and Dad, and got her to the vet before 8 am opening. When we got to the vet’s office, we were all crying including the vet’s staff. They got her onto a stretcher and inside, and then the vet calmly told us she was not having a stroke and was probably not going to die. She mostly recovered from vestibular disease, but never fully regained her balance and coordination.

We used to think that she was part Newfoundland because she was extraordinarily large in stature. We got her DNA tested and it turned out she was half Golden Retriever, 3/8 German Shepherd, and 1/8 Akita. We didn’t understand where she inherited her luxurious soft black coat from, but in any case, deep down inside she was basically a black Golden Retriever.

She only barked a few times in her life. When she did bark there was clearly something wrong. Once Peppie barked a few times when a drunk driver crashed into the end of Murray Rd and tried to escape on foot. I told her to be quiet and went back to sleep. In the morning I found out what had happened.

Peppie was short for Pepper, though Guus didn’t know at the time that the word peppy meant full of happy energy, which described her personality well. We ended up giving her more names just for fun and to add gravity, spirituality, and worldliness to her title- Peppie Eleanor Tsonam Antelope Diks.

She was a poorly behaved handful of boundless energy as a youngster. She jumped on people and chased animals. I remember her chasing a farmer’s sheep into the Slocan River. Over the course of her life, she caused us lots and lots of problems, but none ever outweighed the joy that she brought us. Her love for us is what kept her going to the ripe age of nearly 17 and a half years, which is unheard of for a dog of her size. She gave it her all, and it was more than enough. Our hearts were stitched together. She was our favorite thing, and it’s only fitting to share her memorial on Valentine’s Day. She was the love of our lives.

Professional family photoshoots were taken by Carrie Fay Photography.



Filed under Essays

Coming out about Menopause

“Try taking more fish oil.” That was the suggestion my naturopath offered after many office visits over many months, and no noticeable improvement of my symptoms. I had tried nearly everything that she had suggested, fish oil, vitamins, herbal supplements, and the first tool in any naturopath’s toolbox, the elimination diet. She seemed exasperated when I asked, “is fish oil known for fixing these kinds of symptoms?” She responded, “it certainly can’t hurt.” And that was that.

Over the course of several years, I would try acupuncture, prolotherapy, podiatry, physical therapy, chiropractic, herbs and potions, and eventually another naturopath, who encouraged me to do the elimination diet again. I probably hadn’t done it right, or for long enough. My wonderful husband, who does all the cooking in our house, endured all of this without a single complaint. As I embarked on this second, more thorough, complete, and strict round of the elimination diet, I celebrated my 50th birthday. It was the only party I ever hosted where all the food was gluten, dairy, soy, nut, and egg-free.

For nearly 30 years I had maintained a weight of 125 lbs. And then suddenly in a single year I gained 15 lbs. When speaking with my primary care doc about insomnia, sweating, freezing, joint aches, muscle aches, and weight gain, he responded by suggesting that I exercise more.

In the past I had been an athlete. I raced triathlons and half marathons, ran Hood-to-Coast, lifted weights, backpacked at high altitude, and skied mountains around the world. However, at this point every trip to the gym was rewarded with pain. I understand what is meant by ‘no pain no gain,’ but wielding 2 lb. weights for 5 minutes would set me back with almost a week of soreness. Exercise had always been one of my favorite things, but I just couldn’t manage. So I starting walking… a lot. My husband and I were adamant about getting at least 10,000 steps every day, and 20,000 steps a day on the weekends. But even walking, which seemed totally benign considering that I had been quite athletic not that long ago, would send me to the couch with cold packs on my elevated legs. I sometimes wondered if this would be something that I’d have to live with for the rest of my life. My doctor’s suggestion to exercise more was more salt in the wound.

Last summer a friend invited me to join her for an evening swim in the Willamette river. I was embarrassed to tell her that I was in no shape for open water swimming, but I’d love to meet. As we floated in inflatable tubes, I described my maladies. I talked about how my feet felt like stiff wooden blocks, that the naturopath had suggested more fish oil would help, and that physical therapy seemed to be making things worse. Her eyes lit up as I spoke and she responded by sharing her recent experiences, which were similar, up to and including the painful feet. She had other issues, including brain fog and mood swings, that were particularly challenging in the context of her demanding career as a university professor. And then she pulled down the waistband of her shorts and revealed a secret. It was an estrogen patch that looked like a band aid. It was one of several hormones- estrogen, progesterone, and even testosterone- that were helping her manage her menopausal symptoms.

I found conflicting information online about the risk and efficacy of hormone treatments. Then I read a book, Estrogen Matters, that described various clinical studies and explained why the most cited study on the dangers of hormone replacement therapy (HRT) had been refuted by many experts around the world. I decided that HRT was at least worth a try.

It seemed only a matter of days before my feet no longer felt like wooden blocks and I was able to walk without pain. Within weeks I was able to lift light weights at the gym and within months I was jogging 3x a week. I did not lose an ounce of weight, but I gained much joy in being able to do things that I used to take for granted.

And so, I ask, why was HRT offered seemingly as a last-ditch resort? Why was this not considered to be the first thing to try? Why make someone feel like they are incompetent at the elimination diet or shaming them to exercise more? Why prescribe more fish oil?

People “come out” about lots of different things- sexual orientation, gender identity, mental health issues, and so on. Coming out about menopause is not something I want to be known for. I worry about what my male colleagues will think, and worse yet, I fear emboldening those people who continue to look for ways to justify women’s pay inequities and the invisible glass ceiling.

I also don’t like to complain, but menopause has been a frustrating and debilitating experience for me. It’s not a fun topic, which is why women experiencing menopause issues are ashamed to share their problems more openly. It doesn’t help that comments from other women, like “I didn’t have any issues”, can sound dismissive. Or my favorite comment from a man in the medical field- “women in China don’t have menopause issues.”

More than half of the humans on this planet are women, and though not all women experience issues related to menopause, many of them will. Yet instead of validating the experiences of many women we find ways to discount them. Why is that?

100 years ago the average life expectancy was only 53 years. Menopausal women probably felt fortunate just to be alive. Or perhaps the same societal forces that debated the existence of PMS (pre-menstrual syndrome) are still in play when it comes to other aspects of women’s lives.*

So what do we do about it? First, raise awareness among the general public. Second, do a better job providing women with the best available research** so that women can make well-informed decisions. Third, provide affordable access to menopause health resources. And fourth, we need to improve our medical research methodologies so that complex issues, like menopause, can be better studied. In the age of wearable health trackers, continuous sensing capabilities, and machine learning analytics, there is ample opportunity to apply “big data” methodologies to a wide range of problems. However, it will be tough to advance these new methodologies when people feel that their personal health data could be used against them, which is yet another can of worms.

I’m not back to where I was before menopause struck. But thanks to having the time, energy, health care resources, and a friend who opened my eyes to HRT, I’m happy for not having wooden blocks for feet, being able to sleep, and for finding joy in exercise again. I hope that in writing this blog I’m able to help other women, and their loved ones, have an easier journey.

A couple links to start with:
Estrogen Matters, Avrum Bluming, MD, and Carol Tavris, PhD, 2018
Menopause Stories, Bronwen Parker-Rhodes, NYT, Dec 15, 2020
The Gift of Menopause, Margaret Renkl, NYT, Aug 5, 2018

**Doctors seem not to be on the same page as to risks and treatments. Progesterone alone can alleviate some symptoms, without the risks associated with estrogen. After posting this I have learned about other estrogen-free treatments.

*Perhaps the topic of menopause has been taboo because because traditionally women’s greatest value to society has been in reproduction, and menopause signals the end of a woman’s childbearing years.

Additional quotes from friends, neighbors, and family:

“Thanks for sharing. I went on bioidentical hormones 2 years into my menopause. They recommended 5 years max. I stayed on 10! Such conflicting information is frustrating at best. I think I prefer to die with HRT in my medicine cabinet! I think the benefits out weigh the risks for me.”

“There is so much confusion about HRT. I had an OBGYN nurse practitioner insist I go off hormones and told me I would die an early death if I didn’t. It directly contradicted what my MD was saying.”

“The symptoms are debilitating, the hormone replacement is worrying and the implications of really being open about it at work are unknown but likely limiting.”


Filed under Essays

Several Options (fiction)

She checked the map as she left the nursing home where she worked part time after school. There was a COVID hot spot flaring up across town, but her neighborhood and favorite bakery were clean. She messaged her grandfather that she was on her way to pick him up. When she was a child, she had nearly lost him in the first wave of COVID and then she fell ill herself. She had recovered, but her best friend ended up with severe lung damage.

In the beginning there wasn’t a clear divide between people. There were careful people who were trying to minimize the spread of the disease, and those who were not trying at all, and people somewhere in between. There were people who could work from home via computer. They had clean homes and clean jobs. There were people whose jobs it was to deal with the public or to work on the front lines, and there were vulnerable people who had no chance of survival if they were infected.

Over time the situation evolved. The virus mutated rapidly, and vaccines were only partially effective. The incubation period was 14 days and there were asymptomatic carriers. The spread of the disease was managed with contact tracing, which was voluntary.

Wrist worns had developed advanced sensing capabilities. The devices detected pulse, blood oxygen saturation, body temperature, and activity level, and could detect the phones and wrist worns of other people through short range wireless radios. Wrist worn sensor data became the basis for detecting the onset of sickness. The devices sent data to medical authorities so that statistics could be collected for disease tracking. First responders were called automatically if blood oxygen saturation fell too low. The wrist worn, along with a phone, supported 2-factor biometric authentication. Facial recognition validated by synchronous heart rate measured from the two devices ensured the authenticity of contact tracing data.

Data had started to be collected in the year after the first onset. With years’ worth of data and advanced machine learning, data scientists developed predictive models of when and where COVID would hit next. Outbreaks could be forecast like the weather.

Records were kept on the transmission and severity of the disease. Every person had something like a credit score of potential risk of spreading the disease. Anyone could improve their COVID risk score with a strict 14-day self-quarantine and by submitting to wrist worn contact tracing. They could be verified as low risk, or clean. Some people were required to improve their risk score in order to qualify for certain jobs. Others didn’t even bother to try, though they wanted to, because their life circumstances created an impossible and hopeless situation.

There was a type of freedom and relief reserved for those who could verify their risk level. Being able to freely hug a vulnerable friend or to laugh joyfully in each other’s faces became a kind of luxury. Risk scores inevitably shaped social circles and gathering places.

She pulled up to her grandfather’s home and got out of the car to give him a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. She loved his stories about the past and he loved to hear about her dreams and aspirations. They arrived at their favorite bakery, which catered to vulnerable people, scanned their wrist worns at the entry, and sat down at a table. Her face lit up as she exclaimed that she had heard back from the colleges she had applied to, including one that had in-person classes and only admitted low risk students. She had several options to choose from.

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The Charm (fiction)

It was a gift for Christmas. Two nearly identical bracelets came in a box ready to share. His granddaughter had given him a bracelet and a charm, and she got the other bracelet, a smaller one but with an identical charm. The charm was something that she could tap, like a tap on the shoulder, a little sign to let him know that she was thinking of him. He could respond to her tap with a little squeeze that would trigger her charm to light up and blink at the rate of his heartbeat. The two friendship bracelets would help them feel closer to one another.

The bracelets were simple and rugged, and with a periodic change of a coin cell battery, kept them in touch. On her first day in junior high and before every competition or concert that she was playing in he would send a tap and she would return a squeeze. On road trips away from home she would send a tap to let him know she was thinking of him and he would return a squeeze.

Through these little gadgets they created metaphors for physical connection that they took for granted. They got the feeling that they were in touch.

After the first wave of the pandemic he was isolated at home. He could only visit with his granddaughter through a webcam. They still wore their bracelets, even as dated and worn as they were, and now it felt even more important to stay in touch. Sometimes she’d tap her bracelet just to solicit his response. And he would return with a squeeze that lit her bracelet up with his heartbeat. It was the only physical interaction that they could have, better than nothing at all.

The pandemic subsided in the summer but returned in the fall with more severity, spreading faster and killing more swiftly. This time the disease did not discriminate by age. For the young the time from infection to death was fast, sometimes only a few days.

He was unlucky enough to contract the disease even in isolation. It still wasn’t well understood how the disease spread despite the lock down. Even though the hospitals were prepared with beds, ventilators, and PPE for front line workers, his chances were slim. As his condition rapidly worsened his granddaughter would tap him several times a day, every few hours, to check on him. He always responded by squeezing the charm on his bracelet. Her charm would light up with his heartbeat.

Before they sedated him and put him on the ventilator, he squeezed his charm as hard as he could, sending his heartbeat her way. She saw his heartbeat flash by in a moment and then lost touch with him.

For days she tapped with an empty hope that he might respond by sending his heartbeat. Sometimes she would wonder when she had last changed the battery in his bracelet. Was it a long time ago? Would he ever respond?

His blood oxygen levels started to improve. He woke up and was finally breathing on his own. He didn’t know how much time had passed and couldn’t find the bracelet with the charm. He saw it by the side of his bed and asked the nurse’s aide to give it to him. He squeezed the charm to send his heartbeat. There was no response, nothing happened. He tapped and waited.


Filed under Fiction

I worked my tail off

I didn’t hear all of the Kavanaugh hearings, but there were two times when I was listening that struck me. The first was when Kavanaugh was asked about the word “ralph” in his high school yearbook and he explained that he frequently vomited because he had a weak stomach, back then and now too. The second time was when he vehemently stated that he had worked really hard. More precisely he said “I worked my tail off.”

This second one has stuck with me and makes me cringe. At a time when women earn 80 cents on the dollar as compared to men, and at a time when women face a glass ceiling because it’s worried that they can’t keep up with the workload, and when women are doing the majority of caregiving for the children and the elderly, this statement that he worked his tail off rubs me so wrong I cannot let it go.

I want to describe two people I know who have worked their tails off.

First, a professional colleague of mine who escaped Vietnam on a boat. As a teenager he was jailed and put in solitary confinement for years and he lost his voice from lack of use. When he escaped from jail at the age of 17, he dodged soldiers with dogs by hiding in a water tank as the soldiers and barking dogs approached. He fled, and unable to speak, begged a family for shelter. He escaped on a boat and at sea with no water he wet his lips with engine oil in order not to drink salt water, which everyone knew would accelerate dehydration and death. When he came to the United States as a refugee at the age of 18, a retired army officer on the East coast gave him a place to live and taught him English. Eventually he moved to Portland, holding down a minimum of two jobs, and sometimes three jobs. While working janitorial and restaurant jobs he got a degree and then a job as an electronics technician. But he had so much loyalty to his first employer that he continued to work at the restaurant on the weekends because they needed the help. My colleague worked his tail off.

My mother’s mother died when my mother was a few years old. My mother and her baby sister were found in a bombed out trench in WWII near their mother who died from injuries and sickness. My mother became a physicist. She immigrated to the US from Lithuania with my Indian father, me and my younger brother, two suitcases, and a handful of rubles. She went on to get her Master’s Degree in Electrical Engineering when we were little kids. Then she worked at Ford Motor Company in Detroit, commuting 150 miles round trip each day. She got her third Master’s Degree in Computer Science when I was in high school, while working full time at Ford and commuting. My mother worked her tail off. And my father treated her as an equal.

My colleague and my mother, if they had been born as white males in America, and been afforded all the advantages of life that Brett Kavanaugh had, would have gone even farther than they did. If they had been white men they would have had a ladder put right in front of them, with instructions on how to climb it. Brett Kavanaugh and others like him need to acknowledge that their success is in large part due to the affordances they have been given, to the lives they were born into.

I’d like to see our government represent the people who really have worked their tails off, because the diverse women and men of this country who have worked their tails off are the ones who represent our values, and the land of opportunity that this country stands for.

p.s. I asked my mom to proofread this story. She responded “I feel like crying. Why are you writing all that stuff. Nobody cares.” And I said I would delete the story.  She returned with “I was 1.5 years old and my sister 4 months old. Keep it, this our story.”


Filed under Essays, My Mom

5 days after the election

It’s America and it’s 5 days after the 2016 election during which Donald Trump was elected President.  I’m afraid, because I don’t think the new political regime under Trump is going to be able to help the disenchanted middle Americans who voted him in.  I actually don’t think any president could.  Why?  Because the train has already left the station.  Factory jobs in steel mills are not going to come back.  Every major industry, whether it is agriculture or automobile production, has turned to technology and increased automation.  In the coming 5 to 10 years, self-driving trucks and cars are going to become reality, and literally millions of people who drive for a living will face a new reality where drivers are not needed anymore.  The problem can’t be solved with more taxes or less taxes, it won’t make a difference.  Tariffs won’t be able to protect American jobs.  Holding back technology may slow the loss of jobs, but will cause the country to become uncompetitive on a global scale.  People need to plan for change and they need to retrain themselves.  But it’s not that easy.  The pace of economic change is faster than the pace at which we humans can change.  In a single lifetime we can only retrain ourselves so many times, maybe not at all.

I am afraid because Trump has appointed Steven Bannon, chief exec of an alt-right media outlet called Breitbart, as the White House chief strategist. Bannon wants to “bitch slap the Republican party.”  I am afraid because today on the 60 minutes news hour Trump confirmed his plan to deport 2 to 3 million undocumented criminal immigrants.  That seems like a whole lot of people.  How will these people be rounded up?  It sounds like the beginning of a series of ethnic purging.  Maybe I’m just paranoid, maybe mass deportation and ethnic purging are not going to happen.  Okay, back to disenchanted middle Americans.  Are Americans going take the jobs that these undocumented criminal immigrants are working?  Is this going solve American economic problems?  No.

It doesn’t matter if the President-elect never succeeds in his deportation plans.  His supporters have taken the anti-immigrant racist messages to heart.  On Friday a close friend went for a drive to enjoy the weather.  In a bar outside of Portland he heard two unrelated groups of people talk about getting their guns and ammo to shoot protesters. Later on Friday evening a protester was shot. This weekend swastikas and racial slurs were spray painted on the walls at Reed College.

I’m afraid because I read the Diary of Anne Frank when I was young.  I’m afraid because I am an immigrant.

I honestly wonder when the people who voted for him, and those who voted third party, and those who didn’t vote at all, will understand what has happened.  I wonder when we will all understand what has happened.  I’m afraid this is just the beginning of things getting worse. I would be grateful to be proven wrong.


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How to marginalize a person and reduce her sense of self-worth

Recently I attended the wedding celebration of my friend, who is a Bay Area tech entrepreneur.  It was a well-attended event, bustling with some of the who’s who in Silicon Valley.  I was introduced to the founder of a successful startup and learned about his next startup, which is working to address the national shortage in tech talent.  The startup is a training and placement program that gets people trained with software skills for a career in tech in just six months.  It seems to be successful and is getting a lot of visibility from business and government leaders.  These days the lack of women and minorities in tech, especially in Silicon Valley, is getting a lot of attention.  So I naturally asked if the program was recruiting minorities and women.

And the answer was “No.”  As my face registered surprise, he went on to add “because companies don’t want them.”

At this point my face flushed red and I started to feel hot and sick to my stomach.  But in the way that I normally am, I calmly responded “that seems odd because my employer is actively recruiting women and minorities”.

The conversation became even more interesting when he responded that “companies that are rich can afford to pad their numbers with low performing employees.”  Okay, maybe he didn’t say low performing, maybe he said filler, inferior, or sub-par.  “Smaller less rich companies can’t afford to pad their numbers.”  What I heard is that he, along with others, believes that women and minorities do not make good employees.

This was really offensive to me.  My head is still spinning.  My twenty five years as a woman at a large tech company relegated me to an inferior status.  I felt personally marginalized, and still do, when I think about this conversation.

And then he went on to use an analogy, asking me this question “if you were going to have heart surgery, and you were given a choice between a surgeon who is a minority, and may have benefited from affirmative action, or a surgeon who is a white male, whom would you choose?”  I responded that I would probably choose the minority because that person likely worked much harder to achieve their position.  He informed me that “not many people would agree, and that most people would choose the white male.”  Okay, he’s right.

I responded by describing a recent study that exposed implicit bias in the hiring process. The study, published in Harvard Business Review, describes how having more than one woman in the interview pool makes a bigger difference than probability would suggest.  When an employer interviews a panel of four candidates, and one of them is a woman, she has zero chance of being hired.  However, if the panel of four candidates includes two women, then the chance of a woman being hired goes up to 50%.  The study exposed the implicit bias that minorities face, and also showed a potential fix of having multiple women in the interview pool.

The article also cites other studies that expose implicit bias.  “When employers use a blind audition to hire their programmers and engineers, women tend to be hired at a higher rate than men. The same is true in blind auditions for professional orchestras.”

The next day I sent him a link to the studies and said I’d put him in touch with the recruiting department where I work to help find jobs for his program’s graduates, in particular minority and women.  I still feel personally marginalized from the experience, even after being a woman engineer in tech for 25 years.  My achievements are overshadowed by a cloud- I’m just padding, for my employer to meet diversity numbers.  It is a feeling that I still can’t shake off several days later.  But I am grateful for the experience of knowing what this Bay Area entrepreneur thinks, without a fake sugar coating.  His feelings are the same as the feelings of many others, he isn’t an anomaly.  It’s good to know where I stand, even if it hurts.


Filed under Essays

Is this Huge? Reflections on the 2015 World Cup

As I was waiting for my flight in the Vancouver airport, the day after the World Cup Finals, watching girls and women of all ages clutching their souvenirs on their way home, I couldn’t help but think that this just might be a huge moment, not just for soccer, but for women’s sports, and for women in general.

I’ve largely been following soccer through my husband, who is a huge soccer fan and doesn’t discriminate by gender. He loves men’s and women’s soccer equally well, having season passes for both of Portland’s teams, the Thorns and the Timbers.

In our hometown of Portland, Oregon, both the Thorns and the Timbers command impressive support, giving Portland the title of “Soccer Capitol USA.” Portland Thorns goalie, Nadine Angerer, in an interview stated that every Thorns home game is like a World Cup game. That’s because in her home country of Germany, where men’s soccer is immensely popular, sometimes only a few hundred people show up to watch women’s soccer. But in Portland, every Thorns home game commands ten to fourteen thousand enthusiastic spectators.

A few years ago when I visited Germany, my soccer playing friend whose sons are active in their local youth soccer club explained how Germans talk about soccer. Her sons’ soccer coach openly derided women’s soccer as a joke of a sport, and in front of her kids. In many countries where men’s soccer is a national treasure, women’s soccer gains little or no recognition. The United States puts those countries where women’s soccer is a second- or third-rate sport to shame.

However, even in the US, not all women’s sports fare well. Last year when my rock band was filming a music video with Portland’s semi-pro women’s football team, the Fighting Fillies, I had a chance to speak with one of the players. As she ran laps around the field I encouraged her to show off her skills for the video. She responded, “It doesn’t matter, I’ll never be a famous football player… because I’m a woman.”

This woman is an All-American athlete. She exudes athleticism from every pore; and sadly, she’s right. If she were a man with similarly stellar athletic ability, her story might be different. Yes, women have done well in many college, Olympic, and amateur sports, but less so in professional sports, especially professional team sports.

So I ask myself? Was this the biggest moment in women’s sports history?

Let the numbers speak. In all, 53,000 people came to see the Women’s World Cup Finals. 25.4 million viewers tuned into Fox TV for the game. Worldwide viewership smashed previous records from the Men’s World Cup and the NBA Finals. In the future, the meaning of “World Cup” will not automatically default to the men’s sport.

I wonder, is this a big deal? I actually think it’s a huge deal.

Why? Because well-known athletes, along with entertainers and celebrities, are the heroes of our culture. These heroes capture the media spotlight. They are icons of our society and they reflect what society values. In general, women who are in the media spotlight are valued for their youth, sex appeal, and beauty.

All too often, women in the public eye are judged for their taste in clothing, hair styles, and makeup, instead of their skills, determination, and experience. Furthermore, women who aspire for top positions in the public eye are swatted down and labeled as emotional, uncharismatic, catty… and sometimes they are even described as “bitches.” We see this happening over and over. But things may be about to change.

The U.S. women soccer players have taken on hero status for being passionate, for playing to win, for supporting each other, and for playing as a team. Maybe these attributes could become the new labels that media uses to describe women striving for success in other arenas- in politics, technology, and business.

As I watched the girls and women clutching their World Cup souvenirs at the airport, I got the feeling that they were holding onto something more than just T-shirts and soccer balls. They are holding onto something much bigger than that. I believe they are holding onto the idea of equal recognition for women.

Maybe, just maybe, this harkens in a new era where women could become heroes in our culture without being judged by their outward appearances, their youth, or other superficial factors. Women could become our heroes- cultural icons, business leaders, and political leaders- by being recognized and admired for their perseverance and fighting spirit, for their tenacity, and for being good.

Imagine that.

****thanks for reading****
More commentary about the momentous game can be found here:

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Keep Going, Broboat

Not long ago I sent an email to a well-known Portland band to see if we might play a gig with them, and this was the reply:

“We actually really liked you dudes. Keep goin, broboat.”

A few days later we played an opening set and while I was setting up, a guy looked at my electric guitar and Drew’s drums, and puzzlingly asked if I was going to sing a cappella.  I wondered, like what, some sort of Karaoke Idol?   I replied, “no, I’m gonna play the electric guitar, and Drew is gonna play drums…”  Throughout the night, people seemed confused when they first saw us, but when they heard us play they were both surprised and happy.

When they ask “you are going to play the guitar?” it’s not the words, but rather the tone of voice that gives away what they are really thinking.

In one year and five months on the Portland rock music scene, I’ve finally figured out that I don’t belong.  It’s been a tough lesson to learn, but then I wonder “why did I ever think I’d belong?”  My entire life I’ve only had glimpses of what belonging feels like.

I was born in the former USSR to a Lithuanian mother and Indian father, lived in four countries before moving to the USA at the age of 3 years old, and grew up in a blue-collar neighborhood in Ohio.  The kids in school accused me of being a communist.  From the start I didn’t fit in.

As a female student in electrical engineering, I was again an exception, but I never felt unwelcome.  In my job of 17 years as an engineer at a high tech company, I feel a greater sense of belonging than anywhere else in my life.  I work along with scientists and engineers from all over the world who put their differences aside to focus on creative endeavors.   I love my work, partly because I feel like I belong there more than anywhere else.

Among my friends, I’m one of the only people who doesn’t have kids.  I don’t know anything about diapers, car seats, or soccer.  Even within my own circle of friends I’m a misfit.

A sense of belonging and feeling accepted is important to everyone.   It’s why cliques form in high school, it’s what drives college students to join fraternities and sororities.  It is why cults form.  And dare I say it, it is one of the reasons that people join churches.   We are all driven to find a community where we belong.

And so it goes…. after so many years of being me, I should have figured it out by now.  I don’t fit in, never have, and probably never will.

As for music, my favorite musicians, the iconic ones, were also rogues.  Similarly in science, brilliant people are the odd balls.  Maybe all of us who feel that we don’t belong shouldn’t feel so bad after all.


Filed under Essays

On Leaning In and Being Maxed Out

There have been books and articles in the news lately about working mothers being “maxed out” and also about women “leaning in” for career advancement.   This essay isn’t about me, it’s about my mom, and others of her generation- the early ones, who leaned in and for whom being maxed out seemed okay.


I was born in the USSR, and my brother was born in India.  My parents arrived in the USA with a 1 year old and a 3 year old, two suit cases, and some rubles, which were a nearly worthless Soviet currency.  My mother’s father gave her his life savings to pay for our plane tickets. We had no relatives or friends in America and neither of my parents had ever driven a car.

As soon as my mother realized her physics degree wasn’t going to make her employable, she enrolled in university to pursue a master’s degree in electrical engineering.  We didn’t go to daycare.  She dragged us to school and to computer labs and we played with boxes of computer punch cards while she did her homework.   We were told to watch TV so that we could learn English, and we were enrolled in school as soon as possible, which for me meant being younger than the other kids in my class.  The choices they made showed how much they cared about me and my brother, but their daily lives didn’t revolve around us.

And so it went on.  My mom cooked, and if we didn’t like what she made, we could use the microwave to make frozen pizzas.  Nobody was home when we got back from school, but we didn’t think that was weird.  My parents’ lives were about their kids, but not about always being there to attend to them. Somehow we got all the lessons- music, ballet, photography, art, even horseback riding- to make sure any hidden talents had an opportunity to flourish.  But I never expected that my parents would be there to watch me do sports or other activities.  Why would they be?

My mother got her third master’s degree when I was in high school, this time it was in computer science.  This was while she worked full time at Ford Motor Company.  Her career was marked by achievement, and scarred by blatant discrimination that was the norm at that time.  Despite all of this adversity, she never gave up pursuing her career.

There was only one priority in our household, it was simple- academic excellence.  My parents always said nobody could steal your education, it’s the one thing that is yours and can’t be taken away.  So we ate sugar cereal and microwave pizza and watched a lot of TV, and we were left alone most of the time, but we did well in school because we understood the importance of it.  It was the one thing our parents asked us to do well.

Lately there are new books and articles about women Leaning In to their careers, and about moms being Maxed Out, and I’d really love to know how my parents survived raising us while pursuing their careers, and without freaking out about it.


I sent this essay to my lovable mother, and this was her short and telling reply,

Dear Ramune,

I think that somebody is making money brainwashing young people on how difficult it is to do natural and obvious stuff.

Love, Mom

Ford Ford rewards 2

moms grad pic


Filed under Essays, My Mom