I’m graduating in two days (although then I take another class so I really don’t finish until the 22nd. Boo). And I don’t have a job. For the first time, I’ll be standing in my cap and gown with no idea what I’m doing with my life.

Sure, my husband has a job, so I know we’ll be supported, where will live and all that jazz. But if we’re just looking at *me* and *my life,* I don’t know what I’m doing. And while the general chorus is “don’t worry, you’ll be fine!” if the tables were reversed and I had a job and the husband did not, let’s be honest, people wouldn’t be saying, “it doesn’t matter – your wife has a job!”

I want a job. I went to graduate school for two years not only to satisfy my intellectual curiosity, but to help me further a career in working with marginalized people of society, and particularly their health needs. If I don’t get a job immediately, it’s no biggie. I paid for graduate school myself, in cash, and helped support our little family while doing it. We aren’t out any dough. But still. Whenever that conversation turns from “congratulations!” to “what are you doing next?” I hate answering with “any suggestions?”

I’ve filled out four job applications, sent cold-call cover letters to four other places. I’ve gotten one call back with a “we will keep you in mind for a job we might have opening up.” I’ve polished my Linked-In profile. I check the school career center, Montana NonprofitI’ve passed my resume along to several family members, and had some networking opportunities, which have also mainly ended with “we’ll call you if the stars align and something opens up.” So it’s not completely dead ends, but no “when can you start?” either.

I don’t know at what point you start setting you sights lower, as several people have told me to do. To volunteer, to do Americorps (not again!), to take an hourly wage, entry-level job that only requires a high school diploma or equivalent. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not proud. I’m willing to work my way up, to do the grunt work, to earn my worth. The thing is – I’ve already done that. I’m experienced; I’m educated; I’m qualified.

I listened to this talk today:

It makes me wonder about the advice I’ve been getting. Don’t worry – your husband has a job. Take a job you’re vastly overqualified for. Sell your self short. Would we be telling that to a man? Probably not. And that’s why men succeed. The career world is already tough on women. Any job I apply for, they’ll see a woman in her mid-twenties, married, and think “is she going to have kids?” But we don’t think that with men. And you know what? Men have kids at exactly the same rate women do.

I’m frustrated. I’m frustrated that I’m already applying for jobs I’m over qualified for (not vastly overqualified, just as in they are looking for 1-2 years work experience and a BA and I have 3-4 and an MA) and I haven’t heard anything back. Not unusualy when it comes to state jobs I hear, but still, frustrating. I’m frustrated that I can’t even get a “no thanks, we’re not interested” from places I cold call. I’m frustrated that the job market where I live now is miniscule compared to where I came from. New jobs in the non-profit world are posted every few weeks, not every few days here. I’m frustrated the economy is terrible and that my generation is graduating into a significantly bad job market. And, yes, I still plan on voting for Obama because voting for a party that wants to defund the public sector, you know, pretty much the only people who do public health work, doesn’t make sense either. I know there are many people who have been looking for work much longer than me, but I am still frustrated.

I’m smart, I work hard, and I’m ready to get started.



Sometimes, you finish a year or two of JVC and you realize it wasn’t what you expected. The community didn’t turn in your best friends for life, and while you’re happy you got a husband out of it and all, you just thought it would be a little different.

Then you get a call and a text and a message to find out a man had died. A good man, one that you knew. Who lived next door to where the JV house used to be, years ago.

And you call your one housemate who lives in New York, even though you haven’t talked in, gosh has it been a year already. And you run across town to hug your other former housemate and friend. And you cry, and you talk, and you hug.

You wonder if anyone has told your husband’s aunt and uncle  (who live across the street from the couple), who met when she did JVC in the house next door. You wonder if you’ll see your professor at the funeral, who also used to be your landlord, and lives in the next-door house now.

And you realize that maybe its a pretty small town after all.

So then you talk, and you remember. You remember the man who had a harder life than you’ll ever know. A man who would always ask you how things were going at the shelter you worked at, start talking local politics with you, and was usually more up on everything than you were. You remember a man who had an apple tree with so many grafts on it, he had forgotten what kind of a tree it originally was.

You feel blessed to having known a saint during his time on this earth.

You remember the pie that he had baked that set on your counter when you first moved here. How you ate it for dinner late that night and breakfast the next morning before you found your way to a grocery store. You eat the sweet cherries and the cakey crust.

You put down your fork, and think to yourself – this is something big.

This is community.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a bit, you might remember that I’ve been doing this thing called “grad school. Totally forgot, right? Its okay, I sometimes do.

But not this week. This week I defend my thesis (on guard!). To be specific, tomorrow I defend. Tomorrow! I have been slaving away over this puppy for over a year. I took the entire summer off (well, plus working part time) last year to focus on the research. I have spent hundreds, hundreds! of hours researching, interviewing, transcribing, analyzing, compiling, writing, and editing. And it’s almost done.

Hurrah! Sing hallelujah!

I’m getting my degree in a field called Medical Anthropology. If you’re thinking “what’s that?” that’s cool, I think most people related to me have the same question. Anthropology is essentially the study of humans, or more specifically, that which separates us from non-human animals. There are four major sub-fields of anthropology: biological (studies evolution and the body itself. Think Jane Goodall and Bones the TV show); linguistics (language, something again, mostly unique to humans. Think Noam Chomsky); archaeology (that’s the one where you dig up stuff. Think, of course, Indiana Jones); and socio-cultural anthropology (everything else. The study of culture. Think….old white guy studying small tribes in the Amazon).

Cultural anthropology has come a long way since it’s admittedly, somewhat racist roots. (From “Discover the ways of the savages!” to “Preserve this culture before we kill them all off!” to “Hey, every group has a sub-culture. Let’s study white people too!” Medical anthropology, what I do, largely falls under the umbrella of cultural anthropology (though you will have people who argue it’s its own subfield. Overachievers).

Medical anthropology essentially studies diseases, health, and healing in a cultural context. While it does sound super-obscure, it is actually one of the most developed subfields of cultural anthropology. My particular branch of medical anthropology, (or at least what my research is on, I do work for a professor who does medical anthropology with a very different focus and population) focuses on the effects of social stratification on human health. Why are poorer people more likely to get sick and die? What has happened globally as underdeveloped “third-world” countries have shifted rapidly to a capitalist country? How are bio-medical fields and traditional medical practices combining? Why do people who live in inner cities have less access to health care? How do older beliefs of healing persist in rural areas? Those are the kinds of questions we ask. It’s a pretty fascinating field, really, especially realizing how complex health is. We tend to think of it in very black and white terms using our biomedical framework. But what about diseases that exist only in countries like America and aren’t found elsewhere? What about very real, very obvious diseases that occur only in India? Why doesn’t “understanding” what doctors say always result in action?

If you want to learn more about Medical Anthropology, I can’t recommend enough the book: Mountains Beyonds Mountains by Tracy Kidder. It profiles Paul Farmer, a MD and anthropologist, who starts a network of clinics in Haiti and other countries. (His partner, Jim Yong Kim – also an anthropologist, was just named head of the World Bank).

For my thesis, I looked at food insecurity in people who are homeless. It was very enlightening and exhausting research. And I’m happy to share with you the abstract below, in part because it’s arguably the most well-written part of it all, and in part because all 130 pages won’t fit in this blog post.

Another Day, Another Donut: Political Economy, Agency, and Food in a Montanan Homeless Shelter

Despite widespread undernutrition among the homeless, there has been little anthropological research on the experience of food insecurity in this population. Between 20 and 40 percent of the homeless population is undernourished and one third regularly miss meals (Gelberg 1995). This thesis addresses the significant problem of food insecurity in the homeless from a political economic perspective, analyzing how larger social structures influence the individual person. Fifteen residents at a shelter in Missoula, MT were interviewed about their dietary practices and experience of social service programs. The macro-social level influences the diet of the individual in two important ways: first, by creating the environment in which homelessness occurs, and second, by regulating the social measures which address food insecurity. These social measures which are designed primarily for the needs of the housed are insufficient to deal with the unique challenges of food insecurity. An inability to cook and store food limit how effectively homeless people can utilize these social programs. It is necessary for these programs to appropriately adjust their services for the homeless; however, to truly solve the problem of food insecurity, the reality of homelessness must end.

The defense is at noon tomorrow (MST) so if you want to send some prayers/good thoughts/rainbows/butterflies my way then, it would be appreciated!


Earth Day

I spent Earth Day killing plants.

I uprooted them, threw them away. I pulled them out of the ground so that they would grow no more. I disrupted the natural propagation process of trees and flowers. I say that I love the earth, but I spent the whole day impeding its natural processes, killing its fruits.

Or I could say that I spent the day weeding and raking, so that flowers could thrive.

It’s all a matter of how we look at things. One man’s love is another man’s hate. One person’s sin is another person’s justice. We take our best guests, our stabs in the dark, to try and live God’s will. But we can never truly know it.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Is. 55:8

We can never know in this lifetime. Christ rebuked those who chastised people for loving God the “wrong” way. The goal is not to determine who is “right,” the goal is to love.

Let all you do be done in love.

I support gay rights because I am Catholic, not in spite of it.

I grew up Catholic. Catholicism was early morning and late night masses, hot cross buns on Good Friday, wearing a pretty white dress for my first Communion, confused friends who wanted to know if I worshipped Mary. It was glowing candles on the dinner table during December, and palms folded into crosses in April. It was simple, and it was good. I believed it then, and I believed it now.

But it is not as simple now as it was then. Now I realize being Catholic isn’t defined by whether or not you attend Fish Fridays, but is a complex world of the orthodox and the not-so-orthodox. I am not an orthodox Catholic (used in the sense of one who follows every belief to the letter, not in the sense of the church that became identified as such during the Great Schism). And there is a reason that we have that term “orthodox” or “traditional” (the term my husband’s uncle, a religious, used instead of our term which I believe was “crazy conservatives” at brunch last week). Because despite Catholicism’s call for us to adhere to one set of beliefs, we do recognize, at least popularly, that there is a myriad of beliefs, experiences, and practices that create Catholicism. All this to say, my beliefs here do not reflect the beliefs of the Catholic Church, which opposes the legalization of gay marriage.

But I believe in it, and other gay rights, because I’m Catholic, not in spite of it.

You see, if the Church had wanted to turn me off of supporting the marginalized in our society, it should not have read the Sermon on the Mount to me each year. It should have silenced Jesus’ cry of blessings on the poor in spirit, the persecuted, the meek, the peacemakers, and those who thirst for righteousness.

The Church should not have taught me of the love God has for all of his people. It should have taught me instead that Jesus only came for those who were rich, who were white, who were straight, who were male, who were powerful, who were orthodox.

If the Church wanted me to oppose gay marriage, it should not have taught me that scripture is historical and contextual. It should have taught me instead that it is always literal, but it did not. It should not have taught me that God is love. It should not have taught me about the dignity of the human person, that everyone deserves a place to live, a place to work, a place to eat without being discriminated against.

It should not have taught me about the beauty of marriage. How the love between two people mirrors the love of God and his people. It should not have instilled me with the morals of faithfulness, commitment, and love if it had wanted me to discourage those practices in others.

The Church taught me instead about personal conscience (Catechism) and that “A human being must always obey the certain judgment of his conscience. If he were deliberately to act against it, he would condemn himself” (1790). It taught me that the conscience is inscribed on our hearts by God.

The Catholic Church taught me not to judge. And not in some trite “love the sinner but hate the sin” (but secretly hate the sinner too because that’s just easier) way, but in a deep, true way.  It taught me to look inwardly to my own faults, not outwardly to the faults of others.

It taught me to fight for the rights of the least among us. It reminded me that those whom society deemed okay to hate, we were required to love.

Of course, some will say that I am a shining example of the fallen American laity. They will remind me that the Church does not conform to the whims of modern society, and instead follows the teachings of Christ.

To which, I would respond that I agree. The Church is bigger than simple societal whims of oppression, of hate, of bigotry, of fear. I would say that the Catholic Church, at its core, preaches love and acceptance, hope and grace. If it wants me to adhere to another belief set, one of prejudice and marginalization, it should have taught me something else.

I support gay rights because I am Catholic. Not because I do not understand the teachings of the church, or because I simply choose not to follow them out of convenience sake, but because I do believe them, because I do follow them. And it’s not just me. A study  in 2011 showed that Catholics are more in favor of same sex marriage than any other religious group, and more than Americans as a whole.

If the Catholic Church wanted me to oppose gay rights, it shouldn’t have told me what Christ taught.

I’ve never been a stitch-marker gal. Being the lazy/cheap knitter I am, I’ve tended to use things like rings, rubberbands, and safety pins to mark my stitches. But a few months ago, I got third in an online contest through Ravelry for my cupcakes. My lovely prize was a set of stitchmarkers from Amanda’s Jewellry.

You can find her here at: Your Jewellry. Yes that’s spelled right. She’s an Aussie, folks.

Amanda was incredibly sweet and offered me several stitch markers as the prize, and shipped them all the way from Australia for free! I promised her I would blog about them, in the hopes that someone from my small little blog would see them and send some business her way.

Her stitchmarkers are beautiful:

Unfortunately I haven’t had much of a chance to use them since I’ve been battling cubital tunnel syndrome after typing some 500+ pages this year. But when I start back knitting again, I’m going to pick something out that requires multiple stitch markers, just because I love these.

So check out Amanda’s work at http://www.yourjewellry.com. There is plenty of non-knitting stuff too (for those of you who haven’t discovered the joys of it yet!)


Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. Except no lemons here, this is IC (aka low acid) friendly. Not to mention raw foodie and vegan and gluten free too! Let’s all have a party and make some waitresses weep!


3 cups whole dates (yuck not those nasty rolled in flour things you got in school lunch. Real, whole medjool dates. Take out the pits though.

1 3/4 cup almonds

.5 cup carob chips, unsweetened. (trust me. Dig that bag you accidentally bought once out of the cupboard. I know, I hate them too. Usually) If you are lucky and can eat the real stuff, duh, use chocolate.

1 tbsp nut butter

1 tbsp coconut, shredded. (yeah that’s not in original snickers, but so what? Neither are dates)

Toss almonds and chips in the food processor. Throw the dates in if yours can handle it. Toss half the coconut in the bottom of a 9×9 pan. Press date mixture in. Sprinkle rest of coconut on top. Cut in squares. Enjoy. Snicker at people whose candy bars come from wrappers.