March 2026

It was the summer I was hated. Living in North Carolina, where they still called it the War Between the States, my Yankee accent stood out. Pending my schedule I trained as a community organizer by day or went door-to-door canvassing money for social change in the evenings. To pay my rent I worked a rotating schedule as triage receptionist in the Emergency Room. I was the one asking your name, address, and insurance, asking you to spell things for me, telling you to move your car out of the ambulance bay.

I was on a blind date, a week short of turning 21, when the Triumph I was riding in crashed into a light pole on the Bronx River Parkway. My date thought the car was burning and rushed around to pull me out; the door was locked, and by the time he got back to the driver’s seat he realized the car with spewing steam, not smoke, so he just held me still.

When the ambulance got me to the hospital, it turned out I had jackknifed over the lap belt and broken my back.

The constraints of traditional marital roles put Rita at a disadvantage when she was unexpectedly widowed in her 80s. Finances, cars, and home repairs had been her husband’s purview. But Rita was determined to learn to manage her own affairs, despite her grief.

Her learning curve was steep and her missteps frequent. She initially needed reminders not to pay bills set up for autopay. Duped by scammers, Rita had to cancel credit cards and open new bank accounts a few times. After learning the art of the screenshot, she frequently texted photos of mail to her daughter with a query: “Scam?”