For months now I have been watching as democracy wobbles like a roller coaster. Only this isn’t a game, it’s real. People are already dying, already suffering. Intergenerational trauma of epic proportions is being violently perpetrated on real families across the country. Structures I’ve counted on my whole life are crumbling.

Coincidentally, my own life is in transition. In the past year I have gone into semi-retirement due to a health challenge that has at times brought me to my knees. Previously, my work fulfilled my social justice aspirations. But the last year or so I’ve settled into a semi-seclusion as I work to bring my health back to some sort of even keel. Right at a time when I know my days are numbered: I am within two years of the age my father was when he died, within fifteen of my mother’s when she passed. Living in the United States in this moment is complicated and often overwhelming. Whatever time I have left I want to count, but I’m not sure how. I am searching for courage. I feel very small.

At the beginning of this, my seventieth year, I made a commitment to explore my roots. In fact, “roots” is my word for the year. I am sorting through the written legacy my parents left behind, and like breadcrumbs left for the lost, they are helping me find my path again.

When I was just shy of four years old, my parents moved to Indonesia, where my father, a nurse at the time, ran clinics for Caltex Oil Company. Before he died, my father stuffed a looseleaf binder full of letters he wrote to my mother during the four months he was in Indonesia and she was waiting in the states for her visa so we could join him. Dad was thirty-two and Ma was twenty-nine at the time, with three kids under the age of four.

My father was working for what I would now call a capitalist colonial corporation, extracting wealth in the form of oil from the jungles of Indonesia. Dad was about as low on the totem pole as a white man could be in that setting – an RN where doctors held the reigns of control. Family legend has it that he frequently rubbed up against management.

Here is an excerpt from a letter to my mother dated August 30, 1959:

There’s so much I want to say and just can’t seem to get it out. One thing I’m getting out of the venture is an appreciation for my family and deeper look at other human beings. It is a shame, but I’m afraid that I haven’t much use for a lot of them. I’ve never considered myself any angel, but I am one and didn’t know it compared to some. It is not what people do that bothers me, but their attitude and what goes on in their heads. . . If wherever I work, I can work as I do here I will be happy on that account and when you are here, it will really make it wonderful. Maybe for a few hours each day I could forget I work for this amoral outfit. I’m my own boss here and I like that. I make my own decisions as far as the care of my patients are concerned, and that is what I like. I’ve set a shit pile full of precedents here but all on a personal basis since I have been told “Maybe the next man here won’t want to do it. “ So I do what I think is best for the patient and it helps my conscience a lot. I couldn’t live with myself if I followed what the Medical Department sets up as standards. Or what Caltex policy is. I’m for one thing – the patients, regardless of policy and regardless if the person works for Caltex or not. When someone says to me, I’m sick – will you help me I do the best I can under the circumstances – although I’m more or less told that I should turn them away. If I ever get my ass in a jam it will be for taking care of someone that isn’t Caltex.

In that binder are other artifacts, such as the medical report, written in Indonesian in my father’s hand and accompanied by an English translation – also in his own hand – of his examination of a thirteen-year-old girl, in which he documented for local officials that she had been raped. There are also written documents that corroborate some of my memories from that time, which are among my earliest impressions. These written records bring me to tears. And gratitude, that these are the things that my father felt important enough to save for someone in the future to discover.

Another artifact is what I call the “fuck you to management” letter, co-written by both of my parents (I’ve got receipts – both a copy of the final letter, and their draft, which has their pencil marks and corrections written into it). I find myself reading it over and over again for inspiration in light of our current political situation. The letter opens:

Duri, Sumatra
December 23, 1959

Dear Dr. D,
For some time I have felt increasing pressure exerted on me by the Rumbai medical department. Your letter of December 19 seems to me a further indication of this pressure. While I am certainly not so childish as to make an issue of a beard (and indeed, I have already complied with your request) still I should like to point out that your source of information was incorrect. Dr. H suggested I shave my beard, but as yet, neither Mr. TPC nor Dr. G has have made any mention, oral or written, of this to me. There naturally may be differing opinions as to the hygienic aspects of beards and moustaches, however, at the risk of seeming impertinent, I will add that many doctors, notably Albert Schweitzer, have successfully practiced medicine for years with one or both.

Boom. I laugh every single time I read this. The letter continues:

With regards to the pressure I have mentioned, I should like to recall your attention to my transfer from Dumai. The reason given by Dr. JBR at the time was that Dr. G felt I was too well-liked by the Indonesian people and that I was doing too much for them in the way of medical aid. While in reviewing the matter, I can understand the company’s viewpoint of the less people cared for, the less expense to the company, this viewpoint was not mentioned to me until the time of my transfer. Also, I was told by the New York office, quite emphatically, that the medical department was the most important one in Indonesia as far as public relations with the local people were concerned, and that treatment was not confined to Caltex employees and their dependents. Had anyone in the medical department here explained the local policy I could have adhered more closely to what was expected of me.

I have repeatedly been impressed by the fact that there is no standard operating procedure or manual of instructions for the medical department here. This is probably due to the fact that procedures must be flexible here for obvious reasons. It does, nevertheless, make it difficult for a newcomer to find out what is expected of him.

While I was in Dumai, having no instructions as to policy or procedure other than what I received in New York, I made it my business to mingle freely with the Indonesian people for two reasons: 1) To learn the language fluently, and 2) To try to obtain an understanding of Indonesian thinking and culture. I started and taught a class in first aid for the employees of the Indonesian clinic. This I did on my own time. I also treated non-employees, on my own time as well as the company’s admittedly with company medicine, but also with medicines purchased and brought by me from the States. I was sufficiently concerned by the lack of medicine available to the Indonesian people that I made arrangements to have more sent in, at my expense, to the Wedana of Dumai. Let me reiterate that at no time did I suspect that any of this was contrary to company policy. I felt that I was building good will for the company as well as for U. S. citizens by my behavior. In all honesty, I believe I succeeded, because the Wedana was quite distressed by my transfer, and I understand he wrote a letter requesting that I be allowed to continue as nurse there. Comments by expatriates to me indicated further that I was well-liked by them. So I hope you can understand that I was disconcerted to find that I had not acted in an acceptable manner. Also, I considered it rather odd that I was told by Dr. R that Dr. G wanted me to leave without telling anyone of my transfer. The explanation given was that the Indonesians would be upset if they were told. . .

When Dr. H was here he told me that no one has questioned my medical ability, although my attitude has been under scrutiny. I feel strongly that at no time have I been derelict in my duty, and I feel that I have always behaved according to standards becoming to an American citizen abroad. These standards are my own, formed after careful study and consideration of the obvious ill-will toward Americans by people of the non-western world. I have been increasingly dismayed to find my behavior incompatible with Caltex policy. In summation, I should like to say that if there are other explanations for the occurrences I have written of, I apologize for any offending attitudes on my part. If, on the other hand, I have been correct in my judgement, I cannot change my viewpoint, and the company must take whatever action it deems necessary.

Yours very truly,
S. B. Protzman

Boom again. In submitting this letter, my father risked being fired from a job where he was the sole support for a family of five, while living in foreign country thousands of miles away from home. I cannot express how proud I am of my parents, who in 1959, were willing to take that risk in standing up for their commitment to being part of and caring for others in their adopted community.

I have never been more afraid for my country, for my children, for my neighbors and their children. I want to dig deep into both personal and collective history to gather the resources needed for the next steps in this journey. As my sister says, the signs are there if we are willing to see them: our ancestors leave breadcrumb trails that can help guide us toward the next step, and the next, even if we can’t see the whole path. If we can soften our gaze and allow the emotions in, the signs will appear.

What lies before us will not be easy. Ultimately, I believe the resistance will be with our bodies and a thousand tiny risks such as the one my parents took in 1959. I am so very proud of them. They give me courage for what lies ahead.