Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du bizi duenean

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Basque translation of my original essay: https://elizabette.substack.com/p/my-father-knows-fascism-when-he-lives

Elizabette Guéçamburu: 2026ko urtarrilaren 20a

(Itzulpena: Xabier Irujo)

Aita jaio zen egunean, amona erditzen ari zela, soldadu naziak bortizki sartu ziren gure baserrira. Herriko jendea —gehienak emakumeak— etxetik sartzen eta irteten ikusteak susmo txarrak piztu zizkien, zerbait iluna gertatzen ari zela sinetsita; ez, ordea, emakume baten erditze batek dakarren joan-etorri zahar eta arrunt hori besterik ez zen. Ez zuten, ordea, aitonak ganbaran ezkutatua zuen irrati klandestinoaren berri. Goizaldeko lauretan BBCren emisioa entzuten zuen egunero, AEBetako eta aliatuen aurrerapenen berri jasotzeko; soldadu estatubatuar ausart haien kontakizunek okupazioaren iluntasunari kontrapuntu ezin hobea jartzen zioten. Aitona irrikan aritzen zen lapurtutako albiste apurrak auzokideei zabaltzen. Euskara erabiltzeagatik eta “bestelakotasunagatik” sarritan zigortuak, irainduak eta mespretxatuak izan arren, une hartan abantaila ere bazuen. Askoz errazagoa da informazioa nazi baten aurrean pasatzea hark esaten ari zarena ulertzen ez badu.

Horregatik, ez da harritzekoa orain, 84 urte geroago eta 6.000 milia haratago, aitak faxismoa berriz ere bizi duenean berehala ezagutzea.

Aita —seme-alabarik gazteena— jaio baino urte batzuk lehenago, amonak astoa hartu eta merkatura abiatu zen apirileko astelehen arrunt batean. Aste hartako hornidurak erosteko patrikan txanpon nahikoak izango ote zituen otoitzean zihoala, kezkatzen hasi zen Luftwaffeko burdinazko gurutze zorrotza zeramaten bonbardatzaile-eskuadroiak mendien gainetik baxu hegan igaro eta Hego Euskal Herrirantz oldartu zirenean. Une batzuk geroago, lurra dardarka hasi zen eta airea urrutiko eztandek astindu zuten. Egun hartan milaka euskaldun hil ziren. Eraso haiek 1936ko Gerraren testuinguruan euskal erresistentziaren aurkako mendekua izan ziren; diktadore espainiarrak eskualdea nazien esku utzi zuen, haiek tiro-praktikarako gogoz baitzeuden. Ke beltz eta zorrotz batek estali zituen muino eta haran berdeak, ahaztu eta ezkutatu ezinezko dolu batean. Hurrengo urteetan, euskaldun askok erregimenetik ihes egin zuten. Zorionekoenek Amerikara iristea lortu zuten; beste askok, berriz, oinez egin zuten ihes mendietan barrena, Iparraldera. Batzuk aitona-amonen baserriko atarira iritsi ziren, mugatik gertu, babes bila, janaria eta lo egiteko tokia lanaren truke eskainiz. Aitaren haurtzaroaren zati handi bat errefuxiatu horiekin igaro zen mahaiaren bueltan, haien istorioak entzunez, haien tristura sentituz —eta elkarrekin partekatzeko zuten janari bakarra barazki-zopa urtsuaren lapiko bat eta aurreko astean egindako ogi gogor eta zaharkituaren puska bat zela.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du usaindu bezain laster.

Frantziako eta Espainiako gobernuek eragindako mendeetako bazterketa, diskriminazioa eta gerra ugarik utzitako hondamendi ekonomikoaren ondorioz, Amerikaren argiak aita bezalako euskal gazte asko erakarri zituen. Eta horrela ekin zion bideari, lan neketsua eta bakardade urteak ordainetan emanez, Kaliforniako artzaintza ustiategi bakartu batean aritzeko, Amerikara eramango zuen txartel bakarraren truke. Hain zen pobrea haren familia, Amerikara iritsi zenean, bidaiarako zeramatzan arropak etxera bidali behar izan zituen postaz, ez baitzuten jantzi bakar bat ere galtzerik. Urteen poderioz, aitak Amerikarekiko zuen maitasuna sakondu egin zen: askatasuna eta aukerak eman zizkion lekua zen… Ez zuen gauero gosetuta oheratu beharrik, zopa urtsu bat besterik hartu ondoren. Azkenean, harro lortu zuen hiritartasun estatubatuarra, negozio bat sortu zuen, ezkondu egin zen eta familia hasi. Baina inoiz ez zuen ahaztu nondik zetorren.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du handik ihes egiten duenean.

Kontserbadore harroa, lan gogorraren, adeitasunaren, errespetuaren eta herritarren askatasunean esku hartzen ez duen gobernu baten aldekoa, aita errepublikarra izan zen bizitza osoan. Alaba ezintasun larri batekin izateak kontserbadurismo errukitsu baterantz bideratu zituen bere printzipioak —eta baita etorkin gisa lur ezezagun batean bizi izan zituen zailtasunek ere. Beti eutsi zien bere balioei eta Amerikaren ontasun geldiezinean zuen sinesmenari. Eta Amerikaren barruan, etorkinak ziren haren odol-bizia; langileek aukera zuzena eta tratu justua merezi zuten; eta herrialdearen aberastasuna beti erabili behar zen ahulenak zaintzeko. Bere iparrorratz morala zuzena zen —eta egiazkoa. Horregatik, noski, uste zuen Amerikaren printzipioek INOIZ ez zutela huts egingo. Pentsaezina zen. Ezinezkoa. Goizean eguzkia ez ateratzea bezain ezinezkoa.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du ukitzen duenean.

Hasieran, aitak barre egin zuen eta mespretxuz baztertu zuen. Telebistako milionario pribilegiatu hura, politikari errepublikarra izan nahi zuena. Aita irakurria eta ongi informatua da, eta urteak zeramatzan pertsonaia ospetsu haren txorakeriak eta porrotak jarraitzen. Ez zegoen modurik, zioen, Amerikak sei aldiz porrotera eraman zituen negozioak zituen iruzurgile puztu baten hitzetan sinesteko. Pentsaezina zen halako gizon baten hitzak fidagarritzat jotzea, amuarrain baten antzeko aho batetik ateratzen zirenak —aita Sierra Nevadako ibaietan harrapatzea eta baratxuritan frijitzea maite zuen arraina, azala kurruskari eta gozo bihurtu arte. Amerika askoz ere azkarragoa zen halako gizon batean konfiantza izateko. Erabat sinetsita zegoen. Ideia horri eutsi zion duela hamar urteko azaroko gau hartara arte. Eta, ezinezkoa gertatu zenean, txundituta geratu zen. Baina oraindik ere Amerikarekiko fedea mantendu zuen. Azkenean, gizon zakar eta barregarri hura gaindituko genuen. Denbora kontua besterik ez zen. Aita pazientzia handiko pertsona da —badaki eguzkia eta zeru garbia itxoiten. Azken finean, hori zen artzain batek galdutako ardiak aurkitzeko unerik onena.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du entzuten duenean.

Lau urte geroago, urtarrileko egun hotz hartan, aitak ikaraturik begiratu zuen nola jende mordo bortitz batek Estatu Batuetako kapitolioaren hormak igotzen zituen, galdutako presidente baten izena zeramaten banderak astinduz. Gaiztoak, haserretuak eta beren burua eskubidedun sentitzen zutenak, poliziak jo zituzten, hautetsien aurka urkamendiak prestatzen saiatu ziren, eta kongresuko aretoak gernuz eta gorozkiz profanatu zituzten. Aitarentzat, okerrena zer izan zen? Amerikako herritar horiek presidenteak berak elikatutako gezurretan murgilduta zeudela, bere aginduak beteko zituzten matoiak behar zituen boterean jarraitzeko eta historia berridazteko. Guztia bere onura ekonomiko hutserako. Aitaren buruan, hori izan zen Amerikaren azken traizioa. Espainiako generalisimo baten, bibotedun austriar baten eta bere burua enperadoretzat zuen korsikar txiki baten kontua zen hura. Aitak maite zuen herrialdeak EZ zuen inoiz hori onartuko. EZ dago modurik hori ahazteko. Ez bere Amerika.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du ikusten duenean.

Baina asteak eta hilabeteak igaro ahala, oroitzapenak pixkanaka lausotzen hasi ziren. Milioidunek programatutako algoritmoek gure pantailak bete zituzten. Elite haiek gure menpekotasuna behar zuten, errudun ordezkoak behar zituzten estatubatuar arrunt eta zintzoak distraituta mantentzeko, Urrezko Aroko ustelkeria eta desberdintasunak saihesteko ezarritako babes-hesiak isilpean desmuntatzen zituzten bitartean. Eta presidente galtzailean, eterretik berriz arrastaka itzultzeko etsita zegoen hartan, boterea berreskuratzeko bidea ikusi zuten. Etorkinen errua da, oihukatzen zuten algoritmoek. Komunak erabiltzen eta kiroletan aritzen diren pertsona transen errua da. Medicaid-en daudenek gure zerga-diruak alferrik xahutzearen errua da. Aitak zarata hori guztia zeharkatu zuen. Joko-liburu ezaguna zen. Jendeari beldurra emateko norbait eta errua botatzeko norbait emanez gero, ia edozer onar dezaten lor daiteke. Pikutara egia. Hala, bere Errepublikano Alderdi maitea leku ilun batera amiltzen hasten zela ikusita, aitak erabaki bat hartu zuen. Alderdia utzi zuen. Independente bihurtu zen.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du irakurtzen duenean.

Hala eta guztiz ere, aitak itxaropena mantendu zuen Amerikarekiko. Sinesten zuen azaro hartako egun berrian, nolabait, arrazoia nagusituko zela. Horrela izan ez zenean, ez dut inoiz ahaztuko haren begietako tristura. Traizioa. Hainbeste maite zuen herrialdeak huts egin zion. Horregatik, gero isilpean negar egin nuenean, ez nuen neure buruagatik egin. Harengatik egin nuen negar. Izan ere, aita bezalako gizon batek Amerikaren aldetik huts egitea bizi izan bazuen, gu guztiok oso bide oker batetik gindoazen seinale zen.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du beldurra ematen dionean.

Arrazoia eta zuhurtzia mespretxatu dituzten politika eta agindu bakoitzarekin, aitaren nazka handitu egin da. Etorkinak, bera bezalakoak, kaleetan jazartzen eta mehatxatzen ikustean. Langile gogorrak, duela berrogeita hamar urte baino gehiago berari eskaini zitzaion hiritartasunerako bide legal bera ukatzen zaienean. Pobreak eta desgaitasuna dutenak babesten dituzten programak murrizten diren bitartean, milioidunek zerga-salbuespenak eta botere eta baliabideetarako sarbide mugagabea erosten dituztenean. Aitak burua astindu zuen Medicaid/Medicare iruzurgileak, milioidun zerga-iheslariak, korporazioetako iruzurgileak, kanpaina-emaile aberatsak eta narkotrafikatzaile presidente atzerritarrak barkatuak izan zirela ikusita. Eraikin historikoak eraitsiak ikusi zituen, eta zuzenbide estatua eta botere legegilearen independentzia bazterrean utziak. Ikusi zuen programak eta oroigarriak berrizendatzen zirela, urte gutxi batzuk lehenago gobernua iraultzen saiatu zen gizonaren izenean. Aita sabelean gaixotu zen matxinada bortitz bereko kide haiek askatuak izan zirenean, haien krimenak ezabatuta— etorkizuneko ustelkeria eta anabasa beren buruzagiaren izenean berriro erabiltzeko bidea zabalduz. Eta izutu egin zen Groenlandia hartzeko mehatxua egin genuenean, gure gertuko aliatuak beldurtuz eta Amerikak munduan zuen errespetua are gehiago higatuz.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du aurkitzen duenean.

Eta orain, aitak hitz egiten duenean, ingurukoei ohartarazten dienean, liluratuegiak daude egia entzuteko. Ez dute aitortzen haren irizpide zuhurra eta bizitzan pilatutako esperientziaren balioa. Telebista-kateek, oihartzun-ganberek eta algoritmoek haren hitzak baztertzera bultzatzen dituzte— haren azentu sendoak, haren etorkin izaeraren “bestelakotasunak”, are errazago bihurtzen dute entzungor egitea. Zer ote daki, bada, ingeles apurtua duen gizon honek ezertaz? Eta urte askotan lehen aldiz, berriro ere arrotz sentiarazten dute bere herrialde propioan.

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du sentitzen duenean.

Non uzten gaitu horrek? Nola konpondu gaiztakeriak ireki dituen arrakala sakonak? Nola berreskuratu errukia eta errespetua, eta nola kanporatu pozoizko usteldura, berandu izan baino lehen? Nola berreskuratu geure burua aitaren begietan? Nola izan berriz ere munduan itxaropenaren argi izan zen Amerika hura? Izan ere, itsasargi hori ahuldu egin da. Atzerrian ditugun senideek izuturik begiratzen diote gure herrialdearen egoerari, eta etengabe galdetzen digute— nola utzi genuen hau gertatzen? Amerikak askatasuna ekarri zien askori; nola galdu gara horrenbeste orain? Aitaren erantzuna tristea da, baina sinplea eta egiazkoa: oso ongi dakigu nola gertatzen den, historiak berak erakusten digulako. Xehetasunak eta hizkuntzak alda daitezke, baina muina bera da beti. Eta oraingoan, nor izango da gu salbatuko gaituena, geure burua salbatzeko gai ez bagara?

Aitak faxismoa ezagutzen du bizi duenean.

Not a “Great” year, so far.

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Here’s a list of just some of the policy changes that have impacted my life in the last nine months.

  • The massive $1 trillion in Medicaid cuts passed by Congress: in anticipation of these cuts, states have already begun to restrict eligibility for services. Just recently, I had to surrender my financial autonomy & independence just to keep the vital caregiving assistance that allows me to go to the bathroom, take a shower, and do all my daily tasks. As the Medicaid cuts take further effect, I anticipate my caregiving hours will be reduced, and I will have less care and support.
  • I had been scheduled to begin two new groundbreaking treatments for my Spinal Muscular Atrophy in December. These treatments had been in the works for years and the data shows great results. Last week, the federal government delayed the approval and shocked our entire community of doctors, researchers and SMA families. No word on when/if I will be able begin these treatments. (I suspect, given the funding cuts to Medicaid and healthcare, the government doesn’t want to pay for these treatments and decided to kick the can down the road.)
  • The federal government cancelled Rare Disease Day in DC. This worldwide, annual event promotes awareness, support programs, and clinical research into rare disabilities, like mine.
  • This week, the federal government revoked the policies that force airlines to protect disabled passengers in wheelchairs. Corporate airlines lobbied this administration to slash these protections to save themselves money and effort. It worked. It will now be more dangerous for disabled people, like me, to travel. This is a reversal of hard-fought disability rights.
  • For “budgetary” reasons, many states are fighting to erode the federal protections of Section 504 for disabled adults & children in schools. This is an assault on the progress we’ve made to improve disability inclusion. The dismantling of the Department of Education (which enforces these policies) will make this worse.

I’m sad and tired of these systemic efforts to slash vital programs, services and policies that help my disability community.

What has our nation become? What’s next?

The Tale of Three Jobs

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When you’ve got a significant disability, like I do, you often have three jobs. This makes sense, right? In 2025 America, no one has only one job anymore. Who do they think we are… Boomers?

So here’s a rundown of my jobs. Please note that none of them are with Uber, DoorDash, or the Department of Government Efficiency.

JOB #1

This is my actual job. The thing I do that makes me money (but not too much money). It’s important to note that the amount of money a disabled person can earn is limited. For me, it’s $967 a month. Yes, I know that’s equivalent to a wage from an 1800’s coal mine. It’s a pittance. Especially in our economy where you need a reverse mortgage to buy eggs. But at least I won’t get black lung at 29 and leave behind 7 children to die in a Dickensian hellhole.

I cannot earn more than the prescribed amount. If I do, the federal government will slap me with a hammer and scream: “WTF! YOU ARE NOT DISABLED! STOP FAKING IT, YOU LIAR!” Then, they will take away the meager disability benefits that I receive. For me, that’s also $967 a month.

In case you were under any delusion, being disabled is not a lucrative enterprise. We’re not rolling in cash. We’re not dropping Benjamins at the club like Diddy in the 90’s. We’re lucky if we’ve got extra cash to buy the name-brand “soft” disposable underwear instead of the cheap store brand. After all, peeing your pants in comfort is a luxury for people who aren’t disabled.

JOB #2

This is the administrative/logistical job that a disabled person has to undertake that allows us to… survive? It’s the minutiae of disabled life. It’s the doctor appointments, wheelchair repairs, medication management. It’s the arduous bureaucratic tasks of dealing with insurances and government benefit requirements. It’s the complications of coordinating homecare. And ALL the other assorted stuff that needs to be done. I’d like to point out that Job #2 is the most time-consuming of all my jobs. If I got paid for all the time I spent on it, I’d have PLENTY of money for the fancy paper underpants. The good shit with the soft pink flowers that hug my thighs like a cloud.

JOB #3

This is the most unexpected job of all. This is the extra labor that disabled people like me must do because OTHER people (often medical professionals) don’t know how to do their jobs. This work is unseen, unrecognized, and sometimes… super weird.

There is a widespread belief that healthcare workers are trained in how to handle/assist disabled patients. That their education includes disability awareness and information. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that ain’t true. At all. In fact, the most ridiculous things I’ve EVER heard said aloud have come from one of two places. The mouths of healthcare professionals. And the mouth of the dude that lives at the White House.

I once had the following conversation with a cardiologist at an initial consult. (Note: I did not return to see this guy again.)

Me: “Do you have any disabled patients?”

Doctor: “Err, yes… so many. You can trust me. Definitely.”

Me: “Okay. So, what are your questions for me?”

Doctor: “Where do you sleep?”

Me: “In a bed.”

Doctor: “What do you eat?”

Me: “Food.”

Doctor: “How did you get here?”

Me: “I flew in on a magic carpet.”

I wish I could say this was a joke. Or an isolated incident. But stuff like this happens to me ALL the time. I’ve been asked if I can talk… write… read… and do basic thinking. It’s super fun.

At the same time, though, people like me are silently expected to provide lessons and ongoing encouragement to healthcare workers on how to treat us. All because people aren’t trained (or can’t be bothered to learn on their own) how to do so. Often, we must undertake this extra labor in moments of sickness, exhaustion and vulnerability. Because, if we don’t, we won’t receive the care we need. And that can mean the difference between life and death.

Sometimes, though, our efforts are met with resistance. Sometimes healthcare professionals don’t want to admit to their ignorance. They don’t want to ask for help. And it’s these folks that are my favorite targets.

The other day, I had a cardiac ultrasound as part of a routine checkup. When I arrived, the ultrasound technician took a look at me and I saw fear flash in his eyes. I’m well accustomed to this look. I am a boogeyman that ushers stress, despair, and way more work than an ultrasound technician wants at 1:40pm on a Wednesday afternoon.

But, just as quickly as that look arrived, a confident bravado slid down his face. His chin lifted in defiance. Nonetheless, I pushed onward and automatically began to offer him the information he would need to complete the ultrasound. Specifically, I tried telling him that my organs are squished in my body because Spinal Muscular Atrophy causes scoliosis. But, as I was in the middle of warning him that my heart wouldn’t be in the “usual” spot, he waved off my words with a cocky shrug: “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got it.”

I snapped my mouth closed. Inwardly, I gave a little cheer. In that moment, I knew this appointment would be nearly as much fun as the last episode of South Park.

For the next 20 minutes, I lay smirking in the darkened ultrasound room while the technician looked for my heart in all the wrong places. His frown grew larger and larger with each minute that went by. Eventually, he found my heart. (Duh. I’m not a vampire.)

But any satisfaction the technician may have felt in that moment was erased when I said, “I could have helped you find it, but it seemed like you really wanted to do it on your own. It was probably more fun that way? Like a scavenger hunt?”

My philosophy is to take joy in the little things. For me, that’s what life is all about. It’s the small things. The little joys. These moments build a full, happy life. And, in that moment, I knew that ultrasound technician wouldn’t forget me. He wouldn’t forget how I made him feel incompetent. He wouldn’t forget how those extra 20 minutes wasted finding my heart meant that he couldn’t watch porn on his phone between patients.

And that made me happy.

So, I guess Job #3 ain’t all bad, right? Some of the perks are worth the frustrations. Too bad they don’t include high-absorbent cotton blends.

Oh, well. A girl can’t have everything.

Collateral Damage

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What I’m going to write here is very important. I ask for your time, patience and understanding.

The programs that support disabled people like me are in peril. Serious peril. Since I suspect this notion will be met with confusion and denial, let me explain why:

At the end of this year, the 2017 Tax Cuts passed during the first Trump administration are set to expire. This legislation offered large tax breaks, mainly to corporations and the top 1% of Americans. This tax cut was primarily funded by increasing the national debt.

Corporations and super wealthy people have really enjoyed these tax cuts. So, they have been lobbying HARD to get these tax cuts quietly renewed this year before they expire. However, to renew these cuts, they first must figure out how to pay for it.

The price tag to renew these cuts? Around $4 trillion. Yes, you read that right. $4,000,000,000,000. That’s twelve zeros. A zero for every day of Christmas. A zero for every Apostle. A zero for every month of the year. A zero for every bulging vein that has developed on my forehead.

Now, here is where you really need to start paying attention. $4 trillion is a ridiculous amount of money. They know this. But the political/financial pressure being put on this new administration and legislative majority to quietly make this tax cut happen is HUGE. It’s bigger than Elon Musk’s ego. It’s the real reason Elon Musk is even in Washington at all.

The House Budget Committee has already begun identifying targets for budget cuts. It would be reasonable to think that every single government agency, program or department would be on the list. But that’s not the case. The number one target on the list?

Medicaid.

The program that serves the most vulnerable of Americans: the poor, the disabled and the elderly.

Sure, finding “fraud” and “wasted spending” in social programs is the explanation provided for Musk’s involvement. But, in reality, fraud and wasted spending in these departments is nominal. it’s incredibly difficult to qualify for these programs and to remain eligible. Further, efficiency and fraud offices already exist because spending money on poor, disabled and elderly Americans is something that the US Government doesn’t really like to do. We’d much rather give a blank check to defense contractors that donate generously to political campaigns.

Instead, they plan to amputate nearly $1 trillion from Medicaid. That’s a quarter of the amount estimated they need to renew the tax breaks for Mr. Musk and his friends.

A funding hemorrhage of that magnitude would be catastrophic for disabled people, like me. The Medicaid programs that provide home and community-based services, medical care, and supplemental nutrition would be thrown to the wolves. We would have to beg for crumbs and scraps in a world where we carry ZERO political clout.

Did you know that people like me can’t run for elected office even if we wanted to? I’d be putting any government assistance I receive in jeopardy. There are strict rules I must follow to qualify for the Medicaid program that helps me get out of bed in the morning and use the toilet. I could lose everything by just trying to be a legislative voice for my disability community.

That is precisely the reason why Medicaid makes such an easy target: we don’t have representation. We don’t have money to buy a seat at the table. We don’t have a corporate lobby. It makes complete sense that they come after us first. If you don’t believe that (or want to believe that), then you might be in denial about how the world works.

This brings me back to where I began. If you voted/support the new administration, I have a request of you. Do you want people like me to be the collateral damage of that vote? Do you want the legacy of this era in history to be the moment when America failed its most vulnerable?

I believe your vote was made with honorable intention. So, are you now willing to hold your elected representatives to account? Are you willing to remind them of their moral and ethical responsibility?

Your support is needed now more than ever. I know you care. But now is the time for action. Please call the offices of your congressperson, and your Senators. Tell them you support Medicaid and want them to vote to protect it– not cut it. And keep calling on a regular basis. It will only take you a moment to do this. While it may not seem like a simple call could make a difference, it does. They listen to their constituents. You have power. Please use it. It could make all the difference.

I’m counting on you.

Call-to-Action

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Dear Readers & Supporters:

The results of this election will have far-reaching impacts on the programs and services that my disability community relies upon. The heavy tax cuts prioritized by the incoming presidential administration and Congress will come with a price. Something will pay. And, if history serves, the programs that support disabled adults and disabled children are the easiest and most-likely target for these cuts. The most vulnerable always suffer in times like these. Disabled people like me are deeply frightened about what will happen in the coming years. For us, it’s about survival— and living independently in our communities and having access to support services. Others have the privilege to vote on the price of eggs, which candidate is more “Christian,” which candidate allows them to buy 7 guns they don’t need, which candidate they think “loves America more,” or which candidate will protect them from supposed boogeymen that eat cats & dogs. But, we disabled people have to worry about a budget cut that means we only get to go to the bathroom twice a day, instead of three or four times. Or, figuring out what to do when the program that provides the meals that fit our specific nutritional needs is slashed to give a tax cut to those that don’t need it.

Disabled children and disabled adults must not be sacrificed in political storms.

To that end, I have attached a copy of the note that I will be sending to all my elected representatives in the coming days/weeks/months. If you want to be part of this advocacy effort, feel free to borrow from it for your own outreach purposes. Your support is appreciated and needed.


Here is a link to find your specific elected officials: https://www.usa.gov/elected-officials

LETTER SAMPLE

As your constituent, I am writing to affirm your commitment to support and defend the rights and care of disabled Americans. I was born with a severe neuromuscular disability called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. The heavy tax cuts prioritized by the incoming presidential administration and legislatures WILL come with a price. If history serves, the programs that support disabled adults and disabled children are the easiest and most-likely target for these cuts. The most vulnerable always suffer in times like these, but you have a duty to look after our interests. The disability community must not fall victim, as they have in the past, to political whims and selfish agendas that often leave us behind.

I ask that you pledge to safeguard priority funding for Medicare, Medicaid, in-home supportive services, public education, DDS regional centers, and supplemental nutrition programs (including medically-tailored meals). These services are vital to our disability community and we are deeply frightened about what will happen in the coming years. Our lives are in your hands. We have a right to live safely and independently in our communities.

I hope you take these words to heart. We are a large and diverse community of disabled adults, disabled children, loving families, and supportive allies. We are ready to make our voices heard.

Please don’t let us down.

Thank you.

Surviving Summer-geddon

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(originally appeared in The Patterson Irrigator newspaper)

I don’t need to tell you it’s been hot lately. Or that the heat wave has been record-breaking. The signs have been obvious. Do these sound familiar?

— Your dog tries to avoid their daily walk.

— Your A/C runs so much you must sell an organ to pay the bill.

— Your children eat their weight in popsicles.

— At day’s end, you peel off your underwear with a wallpaper scraper.

Trying to beat the heat is no easy task in this town. It can be discouraging when the hot days drag on like the 2024 Election. So, I’ve assembled a list of ideas for getting relief when our Central Valley resembles the bowels of Hades.

First, head to Blues Cafe for their famous Mocha Chiller. This chocolatey, caffeine boost makes any day better. Then, walk down the street to Patterson Family Pharmacy and peruse their cute gift shop— relishing the nice, frigid indoor air in the process.

Want something more? Our city recreation department has fun stuff for kids, teens, adults and seniors— most of it NOT out in the blazing sun. For example, the Walnut Grove gym hosts drop-in pickleball games for adults. If you don’t know what pickleball is, imagine a sport where you can feel as athletic as the Williams Sisters, without needing skills or talent. It’s worth checking out if you want some exercise and an ego boost. Go to the Patterson Recreation Department website for a full list of their community activities— you won’t regret it.

If you’re looking for a more sedate option, you can head to the Patterson Library. Our librarians have fun activity days for kids— along with well-stocked children’s shelves. Adults will find the air-conditioning quite appealing; plus, there are books set in wintry months so you can escape into a world that won’t give you heat stroke. There’s something comforting about reading a crime thriller that’s set in a cold Scandinavian town. Sure, there might be a few murders, but at least all the characters are well-hydrated.

Personally, this plan appeals to me since I do everything possible to ignore that summer even exists. You would do the same if you lived in a black power wheelchair that sucked up heat like a Dyson. It probably doesn’t help that I also burn after only 3.8 minutes in the sun. (But perhaps you don’t need to know this much about how pale I am?)

Anyway, I wish you the best in beating the summer swelter. Stay safe, cool and hydrated— and be sure to check on your elderly neighbors and loved ones that are vulnerable at times like these. If you need advice, or a cooling center, call Stanislaus County at 211. They can direct you to available resources. Be well, Patterson… and wear your sunscreen!

A graduation wish for the Class of 2024

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(originally appeared in The Patterson Irrigator)

Pomp and mylar balloons. Bright, toothy smiles. Polyester blend gowns that rustle in the breeze. It’s graduation season. We can see it— feel it. Heck, we can even smell it! The flower bouquets that fill stadiums on graduation night? It’s that grandma floral smell reminiscent of a 1980s linen cabinet. While it’s musty and makes you sneeze, it’s full of love.

All graduations are special. High School. College. Each one is momentous. But the Class of 2024 had to overcome more obstacles than most. They had exams, projects, homework, extracurricular activities— but also a worldwide pandemic that upended all our lives. All teens have stressors, of course— like pop quizzes, bad breakups, and zits the size of Mount St. Helens. But the Class of 2024 had to worry about a lot more than that.

The screen of a 14-inch Chromebook replacing time in a classroom. Parents losing income to pandemic cutbacks. Cafeteria lunches with friends swapped for a cold sandwich at a lonely kitchen table. Loved ones hospitalized from COVID— some never to return home again. Short goodbyes. Sometimes, no goodbyes.

This is a LOT to deal with. When most of us were teens, our problems paled in comparison. For example, if the snack bar ran out of Hot Cheetos, you’d be convinced we were dying of starvation. If friends didn’t have enough money for a Friday night out, you’d think they had been exiled to Siberia. Does this sound dramatic? Why, yes. But what else were we to do in the era before TikTok and smartphones? We’re lucky our whiny tantrums weren’t documented for all eternity.

Unlike us, the Class of 2024 had real problems. Cancelled recitals, proms, athletic events. Rushing to the bathroom during an Algebra Zoom break, only to remember there was no toilet paper because idiots hoarded it like pirate treasure. Trying to give a presentation online only to have your cat stroll across your keyboard and flash his butthole to your entire class.

For dealing with this madness, and all the extra pressures heaped upon the Class of 2024, it seems fitting that we give these high school and college grads a special shout-out.

Graduates— we are so proud of your determination, your resilience, and for staying focused and steadfast as the world around you was so uncertain. Was it fair that this happened during these special moments in your life? &*#% no! But you pulled through. You made things happen. And we couldn’t be more honored to give you the recognition you deserve. So, enjoy it. You’ve earned it.

And, lastly, we can’t forget the parents, guardians, educators and coaches that helped the Class of 2024 get to this point. Your headaches, sacrifices and mandatory WebEx meetings weren’t in vain. So, if you shed a few happy tears on this day, that’s okay— you can just blame the flowers.

Congratulations to all!

Get your copy!

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Have you ordered your copy of my award-winning book, Murder at the Boardinghouse, yet? 📚 There are currently EIGHT ways you can get it:

1. Order directly from me (and get your copy signed!): https://subscribepage.io/eTMJkx

2. Buy from the Center for Basque Studies Online Bookstore.

3. Pick up a copy from Patterson Family Pharmacy🏥

4. Buy one at the famous JT Basque Bar & Dining Room in Gardnerville! 🐑🍷

5. Order it from Barbot Etchepare Basque Imports! 💚❤️

6. Grab it at the historic The Star Hotel in Elko! 🍽️

7. Snag one at Blackrock Wine Co. in Reno! 🍷🧀

8. Lastly, you can find it on Amazon (proceeds from Amazon sales benefit the Center for Basque Studies). 💰

Local author to sign books

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(originally appeared in The Patterson Irrigator)

Oh, my goodness, it’s been so long since I’ve written here. I’m terribly sorry about that. I hope you didn’t think something awful happened to me. Like I accidentally drove my wheelchair into a cosmic black hole that sent me back in time where I was eaten by a giant sloth. Or something even less realistic— that I couldn’t write because I was too busy working long hours for Trump’s reelection campaign.

Anyway, I’d like to state, now, that neither of these things happened. I’ve been busy with something else: I wrote a book! It all began when I heard about a writing contest held by the University of Nevada’s Basque Studies Program.

At the time, I didn’t know what I should write about, so I put it out of my mind. But then, a few months later, while sitting on the toilet taking a poop, I suddenly had an epiphany. (I’m convinced that all my best thinking happens while I’m staring at the bathroom wall.) So, I dropped everything (including writing for the Irrigator) to work on this project. I used every free moment to write. For months, I didn’t even watch Netflix (gasp!). Of course, I did take time to poop because I had to keep the ideas flowing somehow.

After I was done writing, I entered my 67,000-word manuscript into the contest. A few months later, I got an email. I had won! And they wanted to publish it into an actual book! A real book with paragraphs and honest-to-goodness CHAPTERS. Like Leo Tolstoy, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf and all those serious authors that we pretend to have read, only we totally haven’t.

This isn’t to say that my book resembles those classics. It doesn’t. At all. You see, it’s a murder mystery. The kind of whodunit you read on a rainy day that makes you suddenly wonder if your uncle’s old neighbor that collected copies of the San Francisco Chronicle in his garage might have been the Zodiac Killer.

The publication process has been long. But my novel, Murder at the Boardinghouse, is now finally available. It’s a thrill to have it in-print. When I hold the book in my hand, I feel a zing happiness— like it’s a cuddly kitten, a pumpkin spice latte or a coupon for a free sandwich.

I’ve always dreamed of being an author, but stringing that many words together, in a row, seemed too daunting— and, frankly, annoying. But now that I’ve done it, it makes me realize that maybe I didn’t have the right incentive. Or maybe I just needed to spend more time pooping.

Nonetheless, I’m thrilled to share my novel with the community I love— and that has supported me and my writing for all these years.

So, I will be having a book signing event on Saturday, October 14th between 11:30am and 2pm at Blues Café right here in Patterson. There will be prizes, yummy drinks, and we’ll be collecting donations for two of my favorite local groups— Friends of the Patterson Library and the Patterson Township Historical Society. And, of course, I’ll have books available to buy— and I’ll sign any copy you bring to the event that you’ve purchased elsewhere (like Amazon).

If you want to purchase a copy locally, you can do so on my website or by stopping by the Patterson Family Pharmacy. They have a great gift shop where you can start your holiday shopping, too! I hope to see some of you on October 14th at Blues Café. I’d love to connect! In the meantime, happy fall—and happy reading. website: elizabetteunplugged.com