In line with last week, this week I continued to answer constituent inquiries and take notes on the White House Task Force briefings. However, this week seemed to bring a preponderance of constituent inquiries that I could not answer. On the phone – sometimes for hours – with upset constituents, there were times where I felt frustrated myself in being unable to fully assist them. In the moment with them, though I was taking notes on their issues in order to pass them along to other staff members within our office who would be able to assist them, I wished I could do more.
I came to D.C. both for academic and professional purposes. It has always been my intent to use my skills and opportunities, privilege and potential to serve others. In working with Sen. Sullivan’s office, I am grateful to join others like me, similarly devoted to the public good. Throughout my time with the office, I’ve been proud to work with everyone I’ve come into contact with. I believe we do good work, and are able to help people who need it. With this, paired with my internal frustration, I felt confident that while I may not have been able to directly, fully assist the individual I was speaking with, our team would. No matter the issue, from PPP loans to EIDL loans, EIP questions to VA concerns, our team is amazingly equipped and perfectly suited to handle whatever comes our way. That being said, in being the first contact point for the individual from our office, I often wondered how were we able to end up helping the person who called in. With this question in mind, I was overjoyed to get a couple of emails this week containing constituents’ reactions to our office’s work. These were constituents who I had talked to, who had gone through various trials and tribulations, and who graciously offered their opinions on our work when talking to other members of our team. Sanitized of all other details, the reactions I was able to read meant a lot to me. It was nice to receive their thanks and know that we helped. That the work that we do helps people. That they feel heard. And that they feel supported. Especially in a time like this. Discombobulating and disconcerting, the coronavirus pandemic has upended plenty of peoples’ lives, not just my own. “Normal” hardly seems recognizable after months living in an altered reality. For many people who have called in over the past week, “normal” hardly seems like a possibility now. “Normal” represents a dream. Reality is much different. Yet, through our work, we might make “normal” a possibility again. The comments from this week attest to that. So I continue to work. To take notes. To listen. To support and to help. It’s not only my job to. Not only my responsibility to. But it’s my privilege to. I’m grateful for my chance to do so. I just can’t wait for more.
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Beyond directly responding to constituents and working with them through their concerns, this week I was also tasked with taking notes on the White House task force and their daily briefings. In this I spent roughly an hour and a half daily watching representatives from the White House, from the President on down, discuss developments concerning the nation’s responses to the COVID-19 pandemic. And while I was a bit bemused in hearing some of the theatrics and heated back and forth between reporters and White House representatives, I was more bemused by taking notes.
It reminded me of my classes, which all have moved online in response to the coronavirus. Initially detailing each member present, I took bullet note after bullet note on all that was said. Though unlike my classes, where we sometimes take notes on abstract and nebulous concepts I’m unsure I’ll ever be able to apply to real life, the notes I took this week were directly applicable to the world around me. Despite the inherent politics involved, I felt more secure knowing the notes I was taking actually meant something. That like the notes I was taking on the Governor’s press conferences, the information would be used for others’ education. That they could be relied upon for others’ work. Taking notes for over a decade now as a function of my own education, it felt terrific to take notes for a purpose. To feel like all my practice meant something. That all of the articles, books, poems, etc. I’ve gone through and written upon could have prepared me for something beyond a grade. Still working at home with little else changed, that slight bemusing thought made my week. Working to recognize and accept the new reality promoted by COVID-19, I’ve been trying to take solace in the little things of life that bemuse me or give me joy – especially as it pertains to the work I do. As I miss my co-workers, college friends, significant other and Alaska friends, I think it’s important to highlight the little things that make one smile. With that and faith that, in the end, things will be okay, I believe one may leave this pandemic just as okay as one entered it. Until then, I’m going to try and enjoy the knowledge that all of the notes I took for other things allowed me to take quality notes on the White House task force and Governor’s press conferences. One of the things I feel like gets taken most for granted within any office is the ease of communication. Beyond an Instant Message or scrolling email thread, your coworkers are never far away. In the Senate, they’re often just around the corner.
When one needs a second pair of eyes on a document, has a question in mind, or wishes to collaborate on a piece of work, it’s never hard to find a person to help. Functioning as a team, we’re easily able to support our fellow Alaskans by virtue of our close contact. With it we are able to share out information faster, hold the same line in responding to constituents and interested parties, and best connect available resources to the constituents who need them. Unsurprisingly, our entire working environment has changed due to the coronavirus outbreak. Now, texting takes the place of talking. Talking points are discussed and centralized in shared working platforms over quick conversations. And weekly calls represent the only face time I would normally get daily from all of the co-workers I have grown to love. Though still a part of a team, things can feel quite alien. Working in isolation has also slowed down the pace of work, at least for me. I still feel productive, though like many other people I’ve talked to, communication difficulties and changed working environments have stunted general productivity. Everyone I know seems to be working doubly hard to maintain a sense of normalcy, though the unpredictable nature of everything facing us ultimately seems to require a reconciliation between the ideal and the pragmatic. The unknown consistently seems to come between the work one would like to do, and the work one is able to do. As everyone trudges on, we continue to work our hardest to serve our fellow Alaskans. It isn’t lost on us how many people are relying on us, now more than ever. So while our environments may feel alienating, we’re trying to be consistent. Consistent in the quality of our work, the effort we put to it, and the outcomes we’re able to provide for our constituents. While so little remains in our individual control, collectively consistency is what allows us to keep things straight amongst such a great period of chaos. Hopefully, the results help out each Alaskan in need. Alongside all of the other obvious differences between working in the D.C. office and what I lovingly refer to as my home office (aka the old work desk and footstool right next to my bedroom window at the foot of my bed), one of the things I love most about working from home is the ability to pause from my work and look up out the window. I did this often throughout the week, taking a few seconds between tasks to look up, admiring the layered blue skies of home. Watching the chickadees twitter about the birch branches outside, I could imagine my cat Shadow upstairs jealously twitching his tail, his primal instincts restricted. My candle burning on the window’s ledge, I felt settled in as I worked remotely on the laptop before me.
Like the past two weeks, this week’s workload was relatively light. Researching, writing, and taking notes on select meetings, it was just what I hoped working from home would be. Yet I was most grateful for the chance to man the phones. Having signed up for two two-hour long slots in the morning and early afternoon, I would occasionally break from my work throughout the day to respond to the needs of my fellow Alaskans. Pausing the podcast I was listening to, I would answer their calls through the computer, taking notes in my notebook just as I would if I was in D.C. Over the course of the week I listened to a number of Alaskans voicing their concerns over COVID-19. Providing them the best information I could, I realized the Senator was right last week: we are the front lines. One constituent I heard from was so relieved to hear a voice pick up her call that she inadvertently gave a shout of relief upon my salutation to her. According to her, she spent the morning calling dozens of legislators across the state and nation, filled with questions concerning the government’s response to the coronavirus pandemic. Worried for her future and that of her husband, her calls had all been met with pre-recorded voicemail responses, all except this one. The ability to talk to someone, for her, offered just as much comfort as the answers I held for her concerning the questions she had. Over the phone, she was able to share some of the stresses that had been holding onto throughout the past few weeks. Concerns over rent. Over her husband’s job. Over paying their heating bill. There were times where she broke down, talking to me about it all. I couldn’t begin to imagine the stress she was under, the emotions building up within her as she and her husband dealt with the impacts of COVID-19 alone. The toll that would take. Yet in hearing to constituent after constituent, I understood her situation was more universal than I’d like to think. In hoping to mitigate the effects of a virus 1/20th the size of a single bacterium, individuals across our state were forced to face perilous situations. Facing an unknown future, many are uncertain with how they’ll be able to make next month’s rent. To pay their employees’ next paycheck. To safely and comfortably continue living in a state as inhospitable as ours can be. In the multipronged local, state, and federal responses to this crisis, I recognize my role as a small one in responding to the needs brought forth by my fellow Alaskans. Yet I’m proud to do what I can for the Senator and his team in responding to the needs of all Alaskans burdened by this crisis. The conversations I’ve had this week have only reinforced that for me. I just pray that we’ll be able to resume normal operations soon. So much as I like the ability to look out my window and admire the scenery of home around me, I’d prefer knowing my fellow Alaskans can make rent. That we all can live our lives without fear for the unseen and the unknown. And that we may be able to move forward together, not six feet apart. Still working from home, this week saw my first small reorientation into the world as I left it. In the early half of the week I drove the family car around for the first time since I came back home. I didn’t dare roll down a window, nor exit and walk around as I drove down to Portage and back, but I still enjoyed the drive. The freedom. The control. Amidst a time of uncertainty, the familiar solo drive down the Seward highway left me whooping in joy.
On Wednesday, I felt even more connected with the world around me. In the morning, the interns and I, along with the staff assistants and certain members of the senior staff, were able to be on a conference call with the Senator. Hearing my friends and coworkers’ voices, I was grateful to hear about their safety. Their family’s safety. I was glad to hear their joviality in the face of this conflict. To hear their determination to serve as the need from each Alaskan back home grows in response to the tragedies of this pandemic left me all the more grateful for the opportunity to work alongside them. As Wednesday evening approached, my excitement again grew. Opening my bedroom door after work, I found my parents waiting for me. Having only seen them from down the hall following my flight in from Minneapolis, our contact had been nonexistent, save for any small talk across the length of the hall. To have them there before me; to finally hug them. To hold them, and tell them how much I loved them – I couldn’t have felt more connected to home. Heading with them upstairs and hugging my sister, I could see how much had changed since I left them last. The Christmas decorations yielding to the beginnings of an Easter celebration. Candles changed from pine and fir scents to those of summer – of rain and the seaside breeze. With work stations set up along the kitchen counter and the dining table, I began to see how my family was dealing with the pandemic. As much as things could be the same, they were. But for the sake of health, changes had been made. In any case I was happy to be with them. To cook my own meals and bask in the sunlight on the back deck. To not have to ask for a glass of water and for a dish to be taken up. Though some things would continue to be off for who knows how long, reconnecting on some level made things just a bit more bearable. And as the pandemic continues to worsen, anything helps. Coming back to D.C. from my Alternate Break, I had a little catching up to do concerning COVID-19 and its effects on my life. Keeping in constant contact with my parents, and being sure to communicate with my professors, the First Alaskans Institute, and Sen. Sullivan’s office, my immediate future seemed to be very much up in the air. My family, just returning to Alaska after traveling to New York, placed themselves in self-quarantine, working from home and unsure if they had contracted the coronavirus. At American, classes were canceled, university-wide, Monday and Tuesday, and were to be held online for the rest of the semester. My professors, reacting to the unexpected change disjointedly, canceled classes through the week, citing the need to change their syllabi, class structure, etc. For work, I was first furloughed with pay, before hearing that all internships were suspended till at least April 1st, with a weekly reconsideration following that date.
In the meantime, I was anxiously following Alaskan and national news outlets, afraid that domestic travel would be cut off as foreign travel had been, leaving travelers with no options moving forward. As I called my parents daily, I felt an instinctive urge to come home. I knew if I were to get sick, I would face fewer challenges at home. I would have more people to look after me. More capital to help keep me fed and safe. All alongside the security of knowing I could be there for my family if any of them got sick. That I wouldn’t need to worry about being stuck for an indefinite amount of time a continent away from them should travel be cut. For me, all signs but one pointed to going back home. In D.C., I had work. Or at least I had the potential of work. Work that pays. A fellowship that I love. With a group I love. Doing work I find meaningful. The prospect of giving up an opportunity I had worked so hard for, and that I held so much pride in, was not one I wanted to face. Knowing my position as the First Alaskans Institute’s Al Adams Young Political Leader Fellow, I felt I would be letting down not only my own dreams, but the possibility of serving my people. Of advocating their interests. Their perspectives. In considering my position, I can’t help but to take it seriously. Not to mention I was hoping to earn college credit through my participation in the Fellowship. As of that week, I needed to work only 48 more hours to satisfy American University’s internship requirement for the number of credits I had enrolled for. Though I was told I had the opportunity to make up those hours through alternate assignments, I much preferred the possibility to simply keep working through them. All things considered, I was left feeling a great deal of anxiety throughout the week. Not knowing if I would have work moving forward. If I would be able to stick it out in D.C. should travel be cut. Or what classes would look like for me. Everything was up in the air, and I could impact none of it. I could just stay inside. Isolate myself from groups larger than 10 people. Make sure I stayed away from touching my face. And pray that things might resolve themselves. Thankfully, they did. Everyone I talked to showed grace concerning my situation, from Ryan Ringel, the office’s preeminent decision maker on personnel, to Karla Booth at FAI, to my professors and parents, all of whom encouraged me to put health over anything else at this time of unprecedented need. To them I’m so very grateful, for they helped ensure I could (1) work remotely, using a work laptop and cell phone to continue serving the office, (2) fly home and work from Anchorage, and (3) do so in a timely manner. With their help, and the help of Marcus Gamble and Ella Tonuchuk, I’m happy to say I’m back home with my family safe and sound. I still am able to work and write blog posts. And though I’m in the midst of my 14-day quarantine, isolated away from my family in my room, the downstairs bathroom, and the family room directly adjacent to mine, I couldn’t be happier. Thank you so very much to everyone listed, and everyone unlisted. Please be safe throughout this tumultuous time we’re in. And know it’ll be okay. This past week has been a whirlwind. Leaving D.C. on Saturday for Maryville, TN, I’ve spent the past week in and around the Great Smokey Mountains, learning more about the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians and their relationships with the United States Federal Government than I ever thought I could learn. Spending the past week with my participants has been an amazing experience, marked with plenty of laughter, music, and adventuring. We’ve talked to elders, culture bearers, and tribal leaders about everything from the casino system to integrated systems of care for tribal members. We’ve learned some of the traditional idiosyncratic practices underlying communication between tribal members, ways in which the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians are trying to spur economic growth within the Qualla Boundary, and areas where certain factions of the Eastern Band are in conflict with one another.
Along the way, the participants and I worked to clear cultural heritage sites and provide fuel for residents. Through our direct interactions with a litany of community members, the participants were able to apply the information I taught them through the curriculum I created months before, sometimes catching our community partners off guard. In a conversation about the Major Crimes Act, Sen. Sullivan’s POWER Act, and the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA), I particularly remember a member of the EBCI’s Attorney General’s staff remarking “Wow, you guys really did your homework!”, something I took great pride in hearing. As a leader of the program, and one of its creators, I was thankful to finally see everything fall into place. Nothing made me quite as happy as falling asleep at the end of the day, secure in knowing my program was running smoothly, waking up excited to see what new relationships and ideas lay just over the horizon as a result of the program. However, excitement was soon tempered with reality. My faculty advisor, the director of all Alternate Break programs, daily would pull me aside to talk about COVID-19. Without reception on my phone, I had been flying blind as to the progression of the crisis, though his updates had me wary about the future of our program. He spoke of rising cases in Italy and then New York, of an outbreak in Washington State and potential travel closures all across the United States. Before we had come to Maryville he had been forced to cancel every other planned Alternate Break except for mine and Puerto Rico’s, twelve in total. I understood his position, and that of my family. That of every family of our participants, watching the same distressing news on the television, reading about it on their phones, seeing it break over social media. The instinctive urge to pull their children in, to call them back to their care, to watch over them and be supportive of them. As the numbers infected rose, and the number of deaths similarly rose, we were forced to pull the plug on our program, returning first thing Friday. Driving back to D.C., the mood was somber. Everyone wanted to stay and live freely for as long as possible, dreading quarantine a life away from their new found friends. I joined them in that feeling. Though I had a responsibility to keep everyone safe and look out for their best interests, I couldn’t help but to feel a bit greedy in my want to keep our group intact. I wanted to learn more. I wanted to laugh more. I wanted to show off a culture similar to my own. A people similar to my own. The thought of leaving everyone and everything left me a bit empty. As we neared D.C. and phones lit up and people split off, I was grateful to spend some more time with my (now) former participants. Pushing off the necessity of leaving just a bit longer, we stayed up talking and reflecting on all we had gone through. All we had learned. The ways in which we all had grown closer. The things we were surprised by and scared by. Times where we were frustrated and upset. The little moments of friendship building and love being shared. It was there, on Emily’s bed that Friday night, where I learned that while our trip may have ended a bit early, the bonds made would last forever. And the knowledge gained would too. My mom is my hero; she always has been. Her work for our Alaska Native communities through the lens of public health has directly impacted local, state, and federal policies. Her publications have been cited hundreds of times across her tenure with the state of Alaska and Southcentral Foundation. She has worked tirelessly to secure grant funding for crucial research encompassing some of Alaska’s most vulnerable populations.
Originally born in California, she worked her way from the streets of Stockton to the classrooms of Stanford, where she met my dad. Upon her graduation, my parents headed up to Alaska and had me. I couldn’t have been born to a better family. Before my birth, my mom dedicated herself to my health, changing her diet and forcing herself away from known health risks. Upon my birth, she provided for me in the best ways possible. She carefully looked over my diet, my sleeping habits, and my environment. As a child she was the first to help me practice my hand-eye coordination. The one who stressed the importance of reading every day. In my faintest memories I can still remember her bringing me to the library every week, the two of us choosing a new book for me to read. As I entered elementary school, I remember her playing Lego Star Wars with me before working on our homework together – me with my basic arithmetic and her with her master’s homework. She often served as a role model for me in this way, subtly promoting a positive view of academia that has served me well throughout school. Her ability to work full time, pursue a master’s (and later, a doctoral) degree, and raise my sister and I while maintaining a loving and fruitful marriage has amazed me and inspired me. I can't choose an area of my life where she hasn't guided me. When I heard she had the opportunity to come to D.C. and see me, I felt proud to show her where I worked. I wanted to have lunch with her in the Dirksen cafeteria. To have her meet some of my coworkers – the same people I rave about weekly to my family during our weekly FaceTime calls. But what I was most proud of was the chance to show her the Capitol for the first time. To see in her eyes the same wonder I feel every moment working here in D.C. When she finally did come, I showed her all I could of the Capitol. We were on a tight schedule, but I made sure she saw as much as possible: the Crypt, the Hall of Statues, the Rotunda, and plenty more. It wasn't lost on me how special the moment was. For the first time, I could show my mom my work. A place I was proud to go every day and proud to leave every evening. A place where I felt like my work mattered. A place where I felt accepted. Where my interests were other people's interests, not just an interesting talking point. A place where I could show my mom what her support and love has led to. Where I could treat her just as she has treated me all these years. Where I could show her off as my Alaskan of the week. |
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Photo used under Creative Commons from Mike Juvrud