artwork by Arlyn via IG @hanifaofficial

I don’t know how Breonna Taylor’s mama hasn’t set the whole damn world on fire.

Not with matches, or a molotov cocktail. Just from pure, raw, explosive pain and rage. Not just at the police who kicked in the door to Breonna’s home and murdered her in the middle of the night. Not just at their resulting report, four pages of nearly blank injustice, a shrug almost three months later that flipped “no forced entry” after a battering ram was used, and declared eight bullet holes “no injuries.” Not just that no charges have been filed, four months later, and two of the three officers involved are currently on tax payer-paid leave (the third is appealing being fired). No, not at all that.

I don’t know how Tamika Palmer, the mother of a radiant woman a few weeks shy of her 27th birthday, doesn’t make the world burn simply because of the Christian Trolls.

I have been told, by people who proudly and loudly declare themselves Christian, that Breonna Taylor is solely responsible for her death because she chose to date a drug dealer.

Now, I pick my online battles quite carefully these days [I read a draft to my husband and he burst out laughing and reminded me of yesterday’s online rant against the local laundromat]. I took personal offense to this line of reasoning, because I have dated a drug dealer. I now refer to him as my ‘Evil Ex,’ for good reason. And so to know that, if I had died as a result of having had the bad fortune/poor taste to date this joker by way of association — even after we’d broken up, as in Breonna’s case — someone, anyone, on this good green Earth would have the balls to say I brought it on myself… oh my.

If I was dead, of course, I wouldn’t personally be able to take any direct action against the trolls. But Lord help anyone dumb enough to say anything that would get back to my mama.

My mother is my biggest fan, sometimes to a fault [I love you, mama]. She is ridiculously biased, and I can recall occasions when I’ve had to explicitly tell her yes, I can be an asshole, believe it or not! because she’s so duped by me, her daughter. She unequivocally wants the best for me and wants anyone who doesn’t out of my way. She would breathe fire if I was murdered and the blame was placed on me.

I don’t understand the need to share a single word, besides condolences. Why do the police require your defense, Christian Troll? How exactly does your faith elevate you to a position to judge someone you’ve never met, in a situation you, directly, know nothing about? What Jesus did you read about in your Bible? Because the one I’ve studied spoke quite explicitly about casting the first stone.

I don’t understand.

Jesus was a threat to the Romans, and so the Romans killed him. But their plan backfired. In killing him, they made Him. In similar fashion, a brilliant young woman has been elevated in death by the very thing that destroyed her life on Earth.

Breonna was doing everything “right,” in spite of having the bad fortune to be born a Black woman in America, and she still was somehow found at fault for the end result of her birth rite. All the Christian Trolls are doing is proving how fucked the whole thing is. They are making her a martyr.

I wish the power bestowed Breonna in her afterlife could bring her mama comfort. But Tamika Parker has said herself there is none to be found for her, only for others who might avoid such pain in the future. Wanda Cooper Jones, mother of Ahmaud Arbery, knew this when she reached out to Tamika on what would have been Breonna’s 27th birthday, back in June. In lieu of “words of comfort… from mother to mother,” the best she could express was that she knew the grief of the first birthday of a gone child.

Mamie Elizabeth Till-Mobley knew there was no comfort for her when she demanded the body of her 14-year-old son, Emmett, snatched from a family home and murdered by white men after allegedly whistling at a white woman, displayed in an open casket for all the world to see what was done to her baby. “Lord, take my soul,” she reportedly cried upon seeing her child’s body, mangled and bloated after being tortured, shot, and weighted to the bottom of the Tallahatchie River. Perhaps He did, and in its place returned the fortitude to make her only child the horrible, unnecessary face of the civil rights movement of last century.

What an insult to her that Emmett wasn’t enough.

What a horror that there are mothers aplenty who know the pain Tamika Palmer and Wanda Cooper Jones must live with, that Mamie Till lived with. What a privilege to only rhetorically ask my own mother if it’s fair to say she’d breathe fire if I was murdered and the blame placed on me. [“I would be beyond outraged. Breathing fire is a good picture” was her response.]

The closest I can come to understanding the Christian Trolls is to assume they must need to dehumanize Breonna [and all the too many others murdered by police] to be able to deny their own complicity in white supremacy. They are the figurative Buffalo Bill, telling Breonna to “put the lotion on its skin” [or rather smearing it on her corpse themselves] and be thus reduced to a disposable, debatable talking point under the comments section of their favorite Christian artist’s Instagram post.

In the same interview where Tamika Palmer said there was no comfort for her, she made a promise. “I’m new here but I’m ready, and I’m here, and I’m not leaving because I have another daughter… and this cannot happen again.” Ms Palmer, me and my mama are right behind you.

¡Viva la Revolución!

TW: suicide, depression, white fragility, slut shaming, domestic abuse… it’s not a light read.

I do not expect to ever top my 4th of July of 2018.

I didn’t even realize until the following night when I returned to the States, (the fact that it happened innocently, unintentionally, made it all the more persuasive) but I spent that American Independence Day at Museo de la Revolución (Museum of the Revolution) in Havana, Cuba.

Ellen stands in a doorway to a Juliet balcony on an upper level of the Museo de la Revolución. She's wearing a white summer dress with blue details and tan sandals. Her hair is pinned up, and she has on dangly earrings. Her multiple tattoos are visible and she stands with her arms on the railing behind her; she's not smiling but she looks happy.
July 4, 2018 – Museo de la Revolución

I was visiting with three other women, two of whom (Rachel and Molly) I’d known for over a decade and a third, Lauren, whom those two met in a Facebook ‘women who travel’ group. I had reached out to Rachel [names have been changed] towards the end of May. She lived in Seattle, I in San Diego, and we’d met eons ago when my little brother was in the Army and stationed in Tacoma. They met on mySpace, to give you an idea of how long ago that was. Over the years we’d traveled to the other’s city and stayed together countless times. She was one of the few people with whom I thought I would enjoy traveling internationally, and we’d discussed going to the UK or something like that.

When I reached out to her in May, I didn’t care where we went.

I was barely keeping my head above water during the deepest, darkest depression I’d ever experienced (and I’d experienced it, to varying degrees, since well before puberty). I was getting to the point where I was scared, and needed help, but also didn’t want to scare those around me. So I casually asked Rachel if she could swing a trip… soon.

“Molly and I are going to Cuba in July. Want to join us?”

As obvious a ‘YES!’ as that was, it was still a dilemma. Consider yourself extremely fortunate if you don’t know firsthand how difficult it is to do anything while depressed — especially anything fun or new.

It was while giving a haircut weeks later, still sputtering weak excuses about humidity and uncertainty about drinking water, that I heard the words of encouragement I needed, from a client who traveled near-constantly for work to the likes of India and China. “Just go,” he said. And I did.

The taxi ride from the airport to our casa particular in Havana Vieja was worth the entire trip.

I could not have curated a better change of scenery, which was what I specifically felt I needed. I was 36 years old, had lived all those years in San Diego county, the past 9 in the same ~200 square foot studio apartment, the past 7 working at the same salon… I felt desperately, hopelessly (not quite!) stuck.

And so it is that I came to find myself at Museo de la Revolución on July 4, 2018. I saw my country and its history not from the perspective of an American, as told by Americans, but from that of Cuba. All the atrocities of which I’d heard those big, bad, communist countries accused… “we” did that. “We,” America, was the big baddie. In a US-sanctioned program (Operación Pedro Pan/ Operation Peter Pan), over 14.000 Cuban children were taken [their parents supposedly “agreed” but if that’s true did so under duress and with false information] from Cuba and sent to the US to be adopted or matched with American relatives under the guise of “saving them” (1960-62). In 1971 the CIA intentionally introduced swine flu to the island, which resulted in the forced killing of half a million Cuban pigs. There’s way too much more, but that’ll set the mood.

Radical acceptance is what has, in large part, allowed me to deal with my own depression, and it’s what’s helping me deal with my country’s past and especially present in the midst of both a revolution and a pandemic. It’s a concept popularized in the West by Marsha Linehan, who herself was diagnosed with and has struggled with mental illness, via dialectical behavioral therapy . To quote her, “Radical acceptance doesn’t mean you don’t try to change things, because you only have to radically accept the moment you’re in, and the past. But you can try to change the next moment.”

I used to loathe, with a seething passion, the phrase “it is what it is.” Not only did I find it obnoxiously, obviously redundant (my canned response is still a sarcastic “isn’t it, though”) but it pissed me off… because I didn’t want to accept what was. I fought, without realizing it, against so much that was beyond my control, thereby depleting my energy into that which I could affect.

I am not celebrating this 4th of July in the manner intended. I am celebrating it through the lens of radical acceptance.

I see nothing to “celebrate” while the cops who murdered Breonna Taylor and Elijah McClain are still gainfully employed. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of racial injustice and inequality.

I do, however, see a reason to write this, and to keep fighting.

For a country who loves its fierce individualism, we sure do undervalue our power when it comes to affecting real change. I have been seeing two — quite admittedly ridiculously dialectical and exaggerated-for-effect — tropes play out in the wake of the COVID19 pandemic. Exhibit A: I’m an American! I have rights! You can’t make me wear a mask! I demand a haircut! I haven’t personally died, so obviously this whole thing is a hoax and I should be free to lob my bean bag towards any corn hole I want. Exhibit B: Can the police stop blatantly murdering Black Americans, at least on camera? And if there’s anyone still listening who hasn’t succumbed to exhaustion, Black trans women (you know, like she who started the whole Pride thing) especially could use our support?? Also the most Native of Americans who are those most likely to die from COVID19???


Yesterday I reached out to Lauren (she was the third I didn’t meet until 6am as we gathered to board a plane in North Carolina bound for Cuba). I’d been holding a grudge. For two years. That day in the Museo, Lauren informed me, in what I believe were her first words to me that day, that my “dress [was] completely see through.” She added, to considerable effect: “Maybe that’s why you’re so popular.”

I was popular in Cuba. Rachel commented once while we were walking through Havana Vieja, where we stayed, “Now I know what it’s like to travel with a celebrity” because apparently people were turning and staring (I say ‘apparently’ because in 20 years of being almost 6′ tall, conventionally attractive [I’m still not at all comfortable typing or even thinking that], and increasingly illustrated I have adopted extremely thick blinders to cope with the inherent attention).

And my dress was see through. Not enough to warrant that slut-shame-y comment, but enough that, if you looked closely (I know because I did that morning, debated, and decided if someone cared enough to be upset that I was wearing light-blue-polka-dot-chonies under my white dress in 1000% humidity, they could suck it) yes, it was. I could’ve laughed it off, said “yeah, and what of it, ya big jerk?” and gone about my life. As it is, I unfollowed Lauren not long after our trip and took it as a personal attack on my first gasp of air after my long, deep depression dive — a veritable “fuck you, stay down, and don’t come back up, ya whore.”

When I told Lauren how sorry I was for being so consumed by my own depression to consider what she was going through — in the interest of privacy I will not divulge, save to say her battle was physical as well as emotional [and please do not commend me for any sort of moral aptitude without bearing well in mind the two years, leading up to the just the other day, which I spent filled with resentment] — one of the wonderful things she told me was, “I was jealous of your confidence.”

Oh, the bloody-sweet irony. What she saw as an abundance of self-assuredness was me, to me, trying my darnedest to find a buoy while barely treading water. I guess you never really can truly know what’s happening below the surface: of an individual, or a country.

For me to declare “I LOVE AMERICA.” would be akin to me saying “I loved my family growing up.” There’s the kind of “love” where you cover your bruises and demur any questions with slightly defensive explanations. And there’s the kind of love where you’ve had enough, way more than enough, and you say –as loudly and disruptively as needed — “HEY! I LOVE YOU! AND MORE IMPORTANTLY, I LOVE ME! AND WE ARE BETTER THAN THIS CRAP!”

And that’s how I feel about my country on this, its “Independence Day.”

The Ol’ Berate and Switch

TW: sexuality, bisexual erasure

Happy Pride!

I have dreamt of having an outdoor shower since the age of 12, when I took my first while on a family camping trip to Death Valley.

Now that I have your attention (boobies!!) I would like to share why I believe celebrating and fighting for diversity and inclusion are so very important. 

I am today in an amazing, monogamous partnership with the husband of my wildest dreams (he built me an outdoor shower, and took that photo!). I have only ever had relationships with cisgender men. And yet, after decades of varying levels of confusion, manipulation, exploitation, and homophobia, both external and internal, I have come to accept a) I’m about as straight as a paper clip and b) I’ll never be able to totally detangle my true feelings and attractions from the ingrained rubbish that taught me to fear my sexuality. 

My household supplied the standard 1980s Southern California progressive suburban dose of “we’ll love you no matter what” to my younger brother and I. It wasn’t okay to say it wasn’t okay to be gay, but no one had to. It was my best friend (who ironically went on to date women)’s mom telling us you could tell a girl was gay by the way she looked at her nails, or the high school drama teacher who warned me to not cut my hair so short people thought me a lesbian. It was the varyingly and often harshly negative experiences of my openly gay or bisexual friends, and those presumed to be. It was the men who “helped” me explore my attraction to women by coercing me into unsafe and counterproductive situations. 

I take responsibility for my decisions and am at peace with myself and my life. I don’t want to be with anyone besides my husband; I have no regrets. I’m okay, and I’m fortunate to have always had support and a bounty of privileges to ease my journey. But we can do better. We must do better, for ourselves and future generations. 

How boring, to limit ourselves to stale notions of what the world, and we as individuals, can be! I celebrate the disruptive change that makes (in part) this a Pride unlike any other. The old, dialectical ways of thinking no longer serve us, if they ever did. Life is too fabulously complicated to limit ourselves to simply Black or All, straight or gay, male or female, Democrat or Republican. How droll! I fight for a better future for everyone. Representation and normalization matters. Talking about it matters. We are ALL stronger and safer when we work to understand and support each other, openly and unapologetically. Never forget the first Pride was started by a Black Trans woman who threw a brick at a cop (I don’t care whether it’s literally true, it’s damn poetic). 

Happy Pride. I’m gonna go on a motorcycle ride with my husband to celebrate. He surprised me with a Honda Nighthawk yesterday, just like my first-ever moto, to help me get comfortable riding again after the last time we rode together (I tore my knee on a dirtbike). I won’t get too mushy on the internet because that’s not his style. But he changed my life. He lets me be myself in a way I’ve never known, and my capacity for dreaming and scheming has grown exponentially since meeting him. He’s my person.

I’m happy.

Bathroom Prayers and Tractor Rides

This started out as an Instagram post. In commemoration of Mental Health Awareness Month I shared some of the favorite things I’ve learned along my journey to better understand myself and the universe. I believe in talking about mental health because it saves lives. I quickly realized I had more than a post, and it was ready to come out. For context, my husband and I are preparing to move to the woods and recently purchased an old tractor, which we drove around our soon-to-be neighborhood last weekend. TW: suicidal ideation

As I was bouncing along in the bucket of the tractor at the yurt last weekend, I was overcome with gratitude and appreciation. Yes, it was a glorious day in the woods, I had a happy doggy in my lap, and my husband was driving our new-to-us tractor — what wasn’t to love? But it was more than that.

Two years ago, in the spring of 2018, I was the lowest I’d ever felt, for the longest amount of time. The scariest part was I was trying so hard. I was sober – like, really sober: kava tea from the health store was the hardest thing I ingested for 90 days. I had an unlimited membership to my local yoga studio and went to a class at least once a day. I started jogging, getting up at 6am because I couldn’t sleep anyway. I started going to SMART meetings (like AA but for people too stubborn for a higher power and who can’t not crosstalk) multiple times a week. I found a facilitator I liked, especially his guided meditation meetings. I meditated, when it didn’t seem to just give the nastiness in my head a clearer backdrop. I continued talk therapy through Kaiser, increasingly frustrated when I left my appointments feeling worse than when I went in and knowing I wasn’t being honest, with my therapist or myself. I started medication. I felt worse. I stopped it. I started a different medication. I didn’t feel better, but at least I didn’t feel worse. I cut out processed sugar and loaded my diet with foods to combat inflammation and depression: leafy greens, salmon, dark chocolate, berries. I’d collected a lot of tools to fight the funk over the years, and I used them all.

I worked as a hairstylist, which meant my clients expected and deserved to be the focus of our time together. Some days I was able to compartmentalize and work was a welcome relief from myself. But more often it was agony. I felt like a big sucking black pit of despair that would pull in anyone who got too close. My manager told me my coworkers were worried and avoiding me, confirming my fear that it was as obvious as it felt. My coworkers got the brunt of it; I gave every scrap of emotional energy I had to my clients, while behind the scenes I was raw and sullen. One exceptionally hard day I asked a trusted coworker for a hug, blinking back tears. After he embraced me he told me I could have one whenever I needed – even if he was with a client (I would never, but the offer was enough). I was open with my manager, and she gave me all the support she could. There were weeks I only came in for the few clients I already had on the books and took the rest off.

For months my life was work, yoga, meditation, walks, therapy, meetings. I had Movie Pass and would escape to the cinema 3 or 4 times a week. I over-scheduled myself days in a row; maybe if I was busy enough I wouldn’t have time to feel. I withdrew from my friends except a few (including my mom) with whom I felt comfortable sharing how bad I felt, since that seemed to be all I could talk about.

At its worst, my inner dialogue was a loop of my favorite insecurities, but like if a really nasty internet troll was yelling them through a megaphone. What was the point? I just kept repeating the same tired mistakes. I was either stupid or a glutton for punishment. I was so boring and narcissistic I had nothing better to do than wallow in self pity. I was a miserable waste of space and it would be better for everyone if I just called it. Quit dicking around and kidding myself that I was ever going to change, and snuff it. I was going to die alone in my cave anyway, eventually; might as well get it over with. The voice wasn’t dramatic, emotional, or overwrought. It was quite matter of fact. And it was persistent. And it was LOUD.

I stopped riding my motorcycle because I was afraid I’d be too distracted or give in while I was riding, do something stupid and permanent.

Sometimes the voice would start while I was getting ready for work, putting on makeup and watching myself in the mirror. Sometimes it played while I trimmed someone’s bangs or folded foils in a highlight. The absolute worst was when it happened during yoga. While in class, while in a pose, my head screamed at me to get up from my mat and run into traffic. If that didn’t kill me at least it would get me a break from myself – someone else could take care of me in a hospital, because I obviously couldn’t do it. This happened more than a few times. And that brought the disquieting realization that if I wanted to kill myself during yoga, I was fucked.

So why didn’t I listen? I knew that voice was not me. Even though it was the loudest and nastiest it had ever been, I recognized it. I’d been hearing it off and on since before I started having a period. I knew, logically, that my objective life was no different than it had been the year before, when I was feeling pretty good (except the cat I’d lived with for almost 22 years died at the beginning of the year – I majorly underestimated the effect this had). I knew I had people who loved me. I knew I was depressed, because I had been depressed before. I knew… it took a lot of searching and remembering… but I knew I hadn’t always felt this way.

I specifically remember one evening when the loop was really bad, and I was tired. I was tired of this round of depression, but more so I was tired of my mental health issues as a whole. I knew once I was done with this extreme bout I wouldn’t be “done” with it. It would only be a matter of time before there’d be something else, except next time maybe it would show up more like anxiety, or a drug I’d start to use too much, or I’d catch myself leaving passive aggressive notes on my neighbors’ cars. I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted to be happy.

It felt like a prayer, this plea for peace. I don’t know to whom. But a softness came over me, and with it understanding. This was me. It’s a package deal, and with my package comes this. I wouldn’t be the same without it, and it’s made me who I am. My struggles have taught me so much about empathy and made me a better human. I’ve been able to help others who are struggling.

On that night, in my bathroom, I made a promise to my future self that I would give her a chance. I knew, down to my toes, that this would pass. It would get better. I’d feel better. And I asked my future self to not forget me, and to try to send some love back to myself.

As I was bouncing down the road on my and my husband’s new-to-us tractor, I did just that.

May 24, 2020 Belfair, Washington


“I can build my own motorcycle.”

I suppose this is a departure from the original intent of the website… but at this point it’s a departure to post at all (last one was November 2018… oops) and it’s my damn page so there. I hope you’re keeping your chin up during the pandemic and you and yours are safe and sane. Hang in there, baby kitties. I love you. – george ellen 

Artwork by Yolanda Bustos ig @lollypop.hickey

San Diego, California. March, 2015. I’m at the DIY garage where I’ll soon move my ’76 CB550 for their monthly after-hours hangout. I’m there with my best friend “Michelle.” I’ve very recently broken up with my boyfriend of a little over a year, and it’s bad (it’ll get worse). I’m the skinniest I’ve ever been (I can’t eat, and I’ll get even skinnier when it comes time for the restraining order), and though I hate the cause I’m feeling the result, and I’m on a (temporary) high after finally ending the relationship. I’m single and ready to mingle… at least ready to talk shop and drink a couple beers.

Me & the Honda (then named ‘Geil’) in April when we moved into the shop

There aren’t a lot of people at this hangout, and Michelle and I are the only women. A guy around my age starts talking to the two of us and is hitting on me, hard. He’s exactly my type, down to his boozy overconfidence. Before long he demands my number. I explain I’m days out of a shitty relationship and I’m not ready (I’ve never subscribed to the notion that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else). He doesn’t accept this. “I’ll take you out to dinner, anywhere you want, and then I’ll help you build your motorcycle.”


Old vs. new fork oil

My ex was going to help me build my motorcycle. That had been the plan, anyway. I’d brought it to his house in bins, the engine belted into the passenger seat, and in the 6+ months it was there he helped me change the fork oil, mount tires, and buy a bunch of cheap parts I ultimately had to re-buy. I quickly learned that wrenching with him was a disaster that often ended with him throwing a fit (and tools) when he got frustrated. He refused to return the moto after the breakup, and only allowed my brother to collect it after my dad (who was the registered owner) called him. As I told my ex at the time — don’t fuck with my motorcycle. Holding my Honda hostage was the final nail in a coffin that was already six feet under.


The rolling frame I moved into the shop

So I looked this dude square in the eye and told him: “I can build my own motorcycle, thanks.” And to my vague astonishment I realized I actually believed myself. I hadn’t the foggiest idea HOW I was going to build this motorcycle, but the last thing I wanted was another man involved. He finally conceded to giving me his number instead of taking mine, and I excused myself to the restroom, where I had a sudden, clanging awareness. I knew this guy.

“Did you ever shoot a couch?” I asked when I returned. I knew the answer immediately by the way his eyes narrowed and his features hardened. “Oh, you’re friends with Xxxxxx,” he sneered. I didn’t recognize him at first. He’d gained some weight and wasn’t as coiffed as he’d been when I’d heard the story years earlier. Back then he had a penchant for mod suits and shiny oxfords when I saw him every so often at shows or on the campus of the downtown community college. I wasn’t friends with his ex-girlfriend, but someone getting wasted and shooting their partner’s couch was the sort of gossip that made its quick way around a town as incestuous as San Diego.

His tone flat and cold, he told me that incident was an isolated one due to too much cocaine, which he no longer used (well, aside from last New Year’s Eve). Just to get confirmation (he was pretty cute), I asked the owners of the motorcycle shop what they thought of him. I was told he consistently got sloppy drunk at their events and then rode his motorcycle home, and that he had a dog who apparently so abhorred living with him it broke through a glass window to escape. What was this bizarre occurrence — it was like I was actually SEEING the red flags that were smacking me in the face. When I dropped off Michelle and told her I planned to throw away his number, she took it “in case I changed my mind.” I probably would have, in the past.

I’m glad I didn’t.




I Can’t Stand the Rain

Victory bolts


San Diego, California. The good news is — I have a lot of catching up to do here. The bad news is — I have a lot of catching up to do here.

Where were we… congealed fuel filter. I was instantly convinced that if the filter looked that bad the fuel lines and gas tank couldn’t look much better. And wouldn’t you know it, I was thrilled to have something to do.

As I researched replacing the gas lines I became relieved I was doing so. Every forum I visited had foreboding warnings of DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU with a photo of a bus engulfed in flames. Apparently it was exceedingly common for the rubber sections of a vw’s fuel line (which connect metal pieces) to become brittle over the years of sitting, leak, and cause an engine fire. Yikes.

Photo: The Spokesman-Review


I also read that the gas tanks were poorly sealed and rust-prone to begin with, and that gasoline separates over time and the heavier water settles to the bottom and… you get the picture. But it seemed a local radiator shop would be able to “boil it out” (fill it with an unsettling cocktail of corrosive chemicals to clean out the insides). I just needed to remove the tank.

The only mention of this process in the holy script which is How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive is: “Remove it — it’s easy — and have it steam cleaned at a garage.” John Muir is a liar. Or, at the very least, he’s never witnessed a wrestling match like that between me and Norman’s gas tank.

A week after seeing the sorry state of the fuel filter Chris (my go-to guy for “wtf do I do now/htf do I do this”) met me in the garage. He dismantled everything that could be from the top of the engine while I prepared the fire wall for removal. Some screws, a couple bolts, a couple metal tabs bent open, and it popped out pretty easily.

The gas tank was strapped in place with metal suspenders that attached to the undercarriage of the van with bolts that were positioned in such a way as if to say: “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?” They were tucked up and behind and in between immovable metal and were impossible to get to with a straightforward tool.

The gas tank with its suspenders, the firewall removed to expose decades of dirt roads


One of the two bolts securing the tank straps


I stopped at Home Depot to pick up the necessary elbow joint and Chris went back to work. I also picked up some chemical splash goggles; flakes of who knows what had been getting in my eyes while poking around underneath the van. I decided to detach the two lines to the tank before attempting the bolts. Just cut them, Chris said, since you’re going to replace them anyway.

In the carefree days before I was baptized in gasoline


It took a good amount of muscle to get through the line with a pair of dull wire cutters. The first line produced a scant dribble of gas. Cool. I was even more confident the tank was empty. The return line gave up much more of a fight, but a last strong squeeze severed the line.

And gas rained upon me.

Not a little dribble. A downpour. Those new goggles came in handy since some splashed in my face and would have gone in my eyes. I rolled out as quickly as I could and centered the oil drain pan I’d had ready just in case under the deluge as best I could, but the stream was running off the starter and other components and falling in a haphazard mess, splashing everywhere and soaking the cardboard under the van.

Pro tip: When faced with a flammable hazard be sure to take the time to post about it


I crouched at the back of the van willing the rain to stop. Minutes went by and it showed no sign of slowing. How much gas could the tank hold? At least ten gallons. Panic began creeping in. I grabbed a large dog dish and set that on top of the drain pan, which worked much better since it was closer to the source and had sides to contain the splashing. A few minutes later the dish was halfway full. I was going to have to transfer the gas into the two small storage containers I had. I scrambled for the containers and my oil funnel. The funnel wouldn’t stay secure without holding it and I needed both hands for the dish, so I propped everything against a bush.

The dish was 3/4 full at this point. I somehow managed to slide it out from under the van without spilling any but made up for it tenfold when I poured it into the funnel. It went everywhere: on me, on the bush, on the dirt, on the driveway. I filled one two-gallon container and part of the other and replaced the empty dish, gas still gushing.

Wouldn’t you know, this was the moment my mom came out to talk to me. She handled it extremely well. She had been planning to take a shower, but thought maybe she’d hold off using hot water so the pilot light on the water heater, which was about four feet from the gasoline puddle, wouldn’t come on. “Isn’t it always on?” I asked. We were quiet for a moment. I tried making a joke about how blowing up the van would take care of the tank removal issue, but it wasn’t funny.

Finally the gas slowed and then stopped. I filled the other container and the drain pan, spilling more in the process.

I still wanted to try to get at those bolts, so I climbed under the van. I spent a terrible amount of time, probably 15 minutes, trying every combination of socket handles and extensions and elbows with no joy before realizing I was using a 12mm socket instead of 13. Now I had ahold of it, but I couldn’t get the bolt to budge. Thinking maybe I’d have better luck with the other, I slid to the right side.

As I fit the socket over the bolt my back started to burn. I had thought to remove the gasoline-soaked cardboard before going under but immediately forgot in my fumigated and agitated state. For the second time that afternoon I scrambled out from under the van as quickly as possible. I had had enough fun for one day. I was sick from the fumes, hot and itchy from laying in gas, and really rattled after a potential calamity. I was embarrassed about misjudging the fuel situation and making such a mess. The garage and yard smelled awful, especially right next to the front door where I’d abused the bush. I felt dejected and incompetent — I thought this was supposed to be easy!

Two days later I returned to dispose of the gas and have another go at the bolts. I sprayed the bolts with PB Blaster, a penetrant, to help loosen them before taking the gasoline to hazardous waste disposal.

I’d mentioned to Chris that I couldn’t get good leverage on the bolt the other day; I was too close to the undercarriage to use a regular-sized socket wrench, and the mini handle didn’t give enough torque. He said he had a second extension to use — I did too! I popped it on and it gave enough space to use the full size handle. After a half-dozen or so tries it budged!

Screenshot from a video celebrating the bolt’s vanquishing, showing the tool I used


I gave it a few more turns, then hopped up to check that the metal straps weren’t stuck and twisting with the bolt, as I’d seen happen in a YouTube video. We were good so I kept at it. One came off, then the other.

I was elated. I felt better after taking care of the used gas as quickly as possible, and was empowered by the victory over the bolts. I was one step closer to removing the gas tank! How many blog posts does it take to remove a gas tank? I’m not sure, but three months later that bush is not doing well. Oops.

Dear Prudence


The clouds will be a daisy chain/ so let me see you smile again — The Beatles

San Diego, California. On August 15, I received a text. “I was hoping to read some blogging on the van. Too much, too soon?”

“Yes,” I replied.

The text was from my mom (and it actually read ‘on the fan’ because she’s constantly battling her phone’s autocorrect, often to great comedic effect) a few days after I spent my first day in the garage with Norman, more than seven months after parking the van in her garage.

That was not the plan.

The plan was to promptly and enthusiastically work to get Norman back on the road, and instead I settled into the worst depression I’ve ever known.

What happened? There’s no simple answer. My family has an extensive history of mental illness, and I’ve experienced depression and anxiety since I hit double digits. I saw a therapist for the first time at age 12, and I’ve been learning how to manage that aspect of my health ever since. It will never not be part of me, and accepting this doesn’t mean I don’t resent it.


The beginning of this year my beloved cat of nearly 22 years died, and maybe this triggered some sort of existential crisis. Maybe I cracked under the (self-created) pressure I felt to not fuck this (the van, LIFE) up. Whatever it was, I spent six months in the darkest place I’ve ever been. I felt broken. My brain had gone soft and slow. Holding a conversation was tedious and frustrating: I couldn’t concentrate and worse yet I didn’t think I had anything remotely valuable to say to anyone or contribute to the world. The most mundane tasks were suddenly towering obstacles.

In the thick of this sludge I was presented with a very thoughtful gift from my friend Chris, who helped with the motorcycle and was excited for my next project. His wife delivered it to me in April when I cut her hair. It was an ornament of a Volkswagen bus, inscribed with the phrase “Believe you can and you’re halfway there.” I nearly burst into tears when I saw it, because it was so horribly true. I didn’t believe I could do much of anything, much less tackle this completely new endeavor which seemed nothing short of impossible. I was convinced I didn’t deserve the van, that I had somehow conned my family into letting me take it and had failed before I’d even begun. I couldn’t take the ornament home with me. I didn’t feel I deserved it, either.


At the end of June, desperate for a change of scenery, I traveled to Cuba with friends and felt good for the first time in such a long time. I cried the afternoon we left Havana because I was afraid my mood wouldn’t make the trip back home. Before I could really find out I pulled my back, and it was a full month before it stopped spasming whenever I moved.

As my back finally began improving my mom started asking about the van. She had been exceptionally patient until now, concerned and sympathetic. But she also was without half her garage, and had been for most of the year. Something needed to happen.

There’s a doozy of a catch 22 with depression: you feel shitty because you’re not doing anything that makes you feel good (being creative, hanging with friends, getting outside) but you can’t do anything that makes you feel good because you feel shitty. But I at least was feeling un-shitty enough to make myself do something and hope that would get things moving again.

The first feel-good came when I bought the first parts. I thought I’d start simple: new battery, change the oil and oil filter, change the fuel filter. I found a Volkswagen specialty shop not far from me that sold parts.

Walking into BRU Auto it was easy to forget what year it was. Decades-old Volkswagens filled the lot in various stages of repair. The wood paneled office didn’t look like it had changed much from the 70s. I fondly recalled the amazing old specialty shops and parts pickers I’d visited while working on the Honda. It made me happy that such places still existed in this modern age.

The following Sunday morning I arrived at my mom’s house with the battery, filters, and four quarts of 20w50 oil. I started by installing the new battery, and immediately worried that I was mixing up the negative and positive terminals and would blow up the garage (not quite, but still). My first action was met with crippling doubt, even though the connectors could only reach one terminal apiece with the battery in one possible position — it was essentially foolproof. I messaged my Uncle Chip a photo and he verified I did indeed have things situated correctly. Since I did not want the battery connected for any of the work I was about to do, I pulled it out again.

The oil change went exactly as anticipated. I got a kick out of the screw-in filter, and took care to fill it with oil and lubricate the seal.


The fuel situation scared me.

While the battery was attached I had turned on the electrical to check the gas level. The needle didn’t budge from ‘E.’ Uncle Chip theorized the fuel sender, a plastic float that sits on the surface of the gas and reports the level, might be stuck, so that didn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t gas in the tank. I really didn’t want to deal with a fuel line full of nearly decade-old gas, and didn’t trust that I’d be able to properly stop a flood in the garage, so I bought a cheap siphon kit. I thought I used it properly… maybe? I couldn’t really tell if I was getting a good seal to the hand pump. The hardcore way to siphon gas was just to suck it through a hose, right? Yeah, don’t do that, especially with gas that old. I got a lungful of rancid fumes, but no gas appeared.

Still anxious but not sure what else to try, I decided to give the fuel filter a try and hoped for the best. The rubber lines were fused to the ends of the filter, and I had to use a paint can opener to unstick the edges. About a teaspoon of stinky gas dribbled out of one end of the line. Relieved, I attached the new filter and marveled at my good fortune that there was no gas left in the tank. It must have evaporated, I assumed, not really knowing if that was a thing.


The old filter was not such good news. It was almost completely gummed through with coagulated gas. If the filter was in such a state so too, likely, were the fuel lines, which were old, dried-out rubber anyhow. And the inside of the gas tank was possibly a mess, too — from what I’d read they weren’t sealed well and were prone to rust to begin with, and as gas sits it separates, the heavier water settling to the bottom. I didn’t want to run into problems down the road and regret not taking care of it at the beginning. Unsurprisingly, my simple start was mutating already.

My first day in the garage was a success, but I still didn’t feel up to writing. Over the next couple weeks the dark cloud lifted. Last week at the beach I wrote:

I’m standing in the breakers crying, because this is what I promised myself for six months, that I would feel okay again, that it wouldn’t last forever, that it never does.

It was hard to believe, like trying to remember a dream upon waking: having a vague idea of the feeling but the details slipping with each sleepy blink. But I believed it enough, and that’s all that matters.

And as good as this feels I know that this, too, shall pass.

But for now there’s the pull of the ocean on my legs and the blue of the sky and I feel okay.

I’ll take it.

So here, finally, is some blogging on the van for you to read, mama.

Sorry I took so long. But I’m glad to be back.

Norman Hits the Road


Chino, California. The rooster crows his fool head off in the backyard as I nurse my mug of coffee. My cousin Ben graciously set the maker to start at 6am the night before, which makes being awake at such an early hour more bearable.

The Van is leaving my aunt’s garage for the first time in over 6 years to come home with me to San Diego.

This morning has been in the works for a number of months now, maybe six. While I’d been daydreaming about taking on The Van as my next project for a few years, I’d only more recently summoned the courage to talk about it with my family. The Van originally belonged to my Uncle Bill, my mom’s brother-in-law. He and The Van and an assortment of other passengers crisscrossed the country multiple times over the decades on adventures long and short. A school teacher, my uncle would take a month-long camping trip each summer during break with a variation of my three cousins and their friends. (My year-round school schedule was always at odds with his traditional, so I never joined.)

Uncle Bill passed away the end of the summer of 2008 during a solo canoeing trip on Mono Lake. The usually calm waters are sometimes suddenly and severely overtaken by high winds. Winds that day were clocked as high as 80 miles an hour. Making his way back to The Van, parked at the shore of Navy Beach, to return home for the start of the school year, his canoe capsized, and he drowned.

The Van was driven a few times after his death. My cousins, brother, and I took it to Joshua Tree National Park for my 30th birthday. But soon it sat, for longer and longer stretches, until it became a neglected fixture of my aunt’s garage.

It was summer last year when I observed the only time I genuinely felt excited was when I fantasized about taking on The Van as my next project. I’d only recently completed my first — a 1976 Honda CB550F motorcycle that had belonged to my dad and subsequently sat unloved in a backyard for 20-odd years. I’d never done so much as an oil change for my car or used a socket wrench. Having no idea what I was getting myself into I naively thought I’d “fix it up” and by the time I realized what all I’d gotten myself into (a complete rebuild) I was too invested and stubborn to quit. Three-and-a-half years later I was riding around town… and seemed to have something like post-project depression. The bug had bitten me. I wanted more.

A picture emerged in my mind: the moto (dubbed “Arnold” after we crashed in August and I used the insurance money to make upgrades — lemonade from lemons, and I prefer mine mixed with iced tea) towed in the back of The Van, a 1979 Volkswagen Type 2. Long weekends in the mountains or desert, season depending. I’d spend the day riding the moto, and return at its end to The Van, simply modified to safely and comfortably provide shelter for the night. I’d kick up my feet and put a record on the player (I’m happiest when fancying myself a character in a Wes Anderson movie, so record player is the logical source of sound), crack open a beverage and breathe in all that was good in the world.

I could never have gathered the gumption to ask to take on The Van without the confidence earned from the moto build, but even so it was sickeningly scary. My uncle is somewhat of a legend, not only among my family but in the broader community. He taught high school special ed math, and a regular incentive for his students was a trip in The Van to Joshua Tree; there are countless people with fond memories of my uncle and The Van. He was a prominent figure in his local Methodist church, and a mentor to former students long after they graduated. He is, to me, proof that life doesn’t owe you a damn thing or make any sense whatsoever in the way it shakes out. He was the kindest, most compassionate person I’ve ever known, and I am forever heartbroken at his absence.

I asked my aunt first, as I accompanied her to pick up Mexican food for the rest of the family. In the memory I’m awkward and halting, my nervousness tangling my words before they can leave my mouth. To my eternal relief she was receptive and calm, and nodded along with my plan. She liked it, but was very clear that it wasn’t her permission I needed so much as my cousins’.

I talked to them over the next few weeks, my confidence rising with each enthusiastic response. The youngest, Vanessa, had two qualifiers: don’t change the seats and don’t change the paint. I was vaguely offended at the second (change that paint job?!?? Are you kidding!!??!) but I was glad to have any expectations out in the open.

Everyone was on board. Not only were they on board, they seemed genuinely excited. My aunt and mom’s brother, Chip, was a life long car enthusiast who spent much of his time post-retirement at racetracks as a volunteer. I looked to him as the seasoned mechanic in my corner. He was glad to help. Thanksgiving morning we met at my aunt’s to give The Van an inspection. The battery was of course dead, but with a jump started right up. The excitement and emotion of hearing her running for the first time in years was exhilarating and sweetly sad. My aunt hooted, my cousins cheered and clapped. I declared we should start a mechanical project each Thanksgiving.

I expected AAA to tow us home, but I overestimated the package availed us. They would only cover 100 miles, and the distance between my aunt and mom’s homes was 123. At $10/mile over the initial 100, that made for a much more expensive trip than I’d counted on. (I live in a very tiny studio in central San Diego, with no space to store or work on… anything. My mom very generously donated a portion of her garage in Chula Vista for the moto, and is doing so once more for The Van.) But Vanessa had a friend, Thomas, with access to a trailer through his work and a penchant for moving vehicles.

And so here we are. Chino. Coffee. Early (so early).

I follow behind in my silver sedan, feeling like a protective barrier against the speeding Southern California drivers who whiz up behind us, going 55 – 60 mph. I’ve never driven so slowly on the freeway for so long. Around 10 am we arrive at my mom’s. She has a spot in the garage waiting — she’s relegating one of her vehicles to life outside. The guys push while I steer, and The Van is in my mom’s garage. Damn, it’s weird.


I had promised Vanessa I’d take them all out to eat, but by this time I feel like I’m about to crack open from the emotion and expectation of it all. I meekly make excuses about it being 10:30 on a Sunday and how crowded it’ll be anywhere, and palm her money for food. I do the same with gas money for Thomas (who also gave The Van a bath! What a guy).

My mom and I sit for a while with coffee and gradually the lump in my throat subsides. I opt for the mildest yet most satisfying first task I can think of: scraping old tape from the inside of the back window. The remnants had stuck out to me the entire drive here. I climbed in, armed with a razor blade. I thought of all the times with the moto that I’d spent days doing menial tasks because I was too overwhelmed to do anything else. Once I was done with that I thought I’d just see how the seats were secured to the floor; I knew they bolted in and out and was curious how easily the bolts would release. Not a one gave an ounce of resistance. My mom came out to see midway through and when I told her how easily things were going she declared it “meant to be.” “Oh no,” I argued, shaking my head. “I’m not going there, because when things are more difficult down the road I don’t want to have to admit the opposite.”


It’s my first big step towards my dream of kickin’ up my feet after a day of moto-ing and putting on a record. The most precious part of the whole thing is the support of my family. I know it’s difficult for them, as it is for me, to be reminded that my uncle isn’t here, but I hope it’s worth it. And I can all but hear my Uncle Bill saying: “cool!”