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This article is one of what turned out to be an informal series on tax evaders. Collectively, these stories earned our family a (second) visit from FBI to question him about other tax evaders he may or may not have known.

That didn't stop him from playing bluegrass with them in his free time. He wasn't worried about the FBI. He had a press pass through the front door of life.

Today, fearless resistors fill my facebook and Twitter feeds and day to day life. Together, we sign petitions. We hashtag #ImportantStuff. We educate ourselves. We carry signs and candles.  Most of us try to be decent to Trump supporters, even though we feel they have put our lives at risk. We repeat as necessary until we (or people long into the future) are celebrating a world of love and justice.

At the foundation of what I crave as a resistor is to be free from corporations and colonialism. So, I charge an order online to my Bank of America credit card for 100 "Black Lives Matter" buttons. I give them out to my neighbors and fellow resistors.

And, this puts me in debt to the very system I oppose. It makes no sense to think I can use systems of oppression to free myself. Why does simultaneous oppression and privilege have to be so damn comfortable?!

There's something pure and appealing in Noman Lynd's approach. It makes sense to the activist in me. Anti-racism work means sitting with discomfort. Never knowing how my approach is working, exactly, to dismantle the system of white privilege. Feeling a sense of duty to myself to do the work anyway, because it's making me a better person. Besides, it inspires others.

Could I give up my social security number? Probably not. Will I find my own path of most resistance? Without a doubt.

Thanks to my Dad, I'm on it now.

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Here we are together, holding hands, after the picture taking non-incident.

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Understood as a stand-alone piece, this is just one woman's self-defense story. Taken as a part of his life's body of work, this is a David and Goliath classic, interwoven into hundreds of Dad's lessons for us.

I met my husband before I went to college and he's tall and intimidating when he needs to be. This means I've always had an escort whenever I might've otherwise felt unsafe. I remember being alarmed in my 20s when a 50-something friend of mine casually asked, "Oh. You've never been raped before? It's happened to me twice."

Written in 1981, this story is still timely. (I wonder how many different ways I will have to figure out how to say that during this endeavor.) I remember the fear I felt, walking around, in broad daylight, after Donald Trump was elected a few weeks ago. Was someone going to grab my breasts? Again. Or, maybe this time it would be my crotch.

I like the way this story educates and inspires women. Dad finds compelling ways to tell us how to be situationally aware and tips for avoiding trouble. He reminds us to take a self-defense class and learn karate and maybe most importantly, to decide that we will not be raped. He goes into detail about what Lisa Adams does to stave off her attacker, with a surprising twist at the end.

And he never forgets to notice the rain and make he makes a joke out of it. He loved the rain, and I got that from him, too, which is why I'm happy to live in Portland, Oregon where it rains nine months out of the year.

From an activist perspective, though, this story falls short of the important work of holding men accountable for rape in the first place. It would be interesting to have that conversation with him today.

Published Apr 11, 1980 by the Philadelphia Inquirer.

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Two days in of finally reading my Dad's articles and I'm realizing how much I was influenced by my Dad's willingness to see the world for what it is and then face it. He was so much more graceful at it, though.

In this article, he draws his audience in with a competition, weaving in a favorite subject, weather. He works his way into the motivations of a zoo keeper, tying this to our misconception of a world with wildness left. And, then my favorite part. The one-two-three punch. Population growth, development and its connection to species decline/extinction.

Meanwhile, he brings me a message of hope. Despite the odds, this zookeeper follows his passion, taking what protective action is within his realm and that he's best suited to.

He writes a message of overpopulation, which I learned well (I have no children), but there's also a lesson to me about the effective communication strategies of change agents.

Published Apr 9, 1980 by the Philadelphia Inquirer.

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Below is my Dad's byline and column photo. He was an award-winning, celebrated journalist for the Philadelphia Inquirer and before that, the Columbia Daily Tribune in Columbia, MO. He wrote out his own sense of justice and to bring people together, showing us our own humanity and inhumanity through the lens of his own immigrant experience as a third generation Italian-Sicilian American.

Believe it or not, I never read most of his many, many articles growing up and at 46, I still haven't. As I delve deep into my own herstory and the making of a fully realized Self, better equipped to work for a more just society, I've realized that these aren't just the stories of strangers. Dad's stories are part of my story. There are little bits and pieces of me in the way my Dad thought, in the way he told stories, and in what stories he chose to write.

He died after 19 years of cancer. He was 44. I was 21. As early as 14, I remember talking tough topics at the kitchen table, like South African apartheid or the existence of God. Now, I'm at the kitchen table with Frank again, to rediscover him and have an adult relationship with him.

As I read his stories, I'm going to post them, so you can read along too. These are the stories of family and justice and kindness and the heath and welfare of our communities, the same things that I hold so dear, because of him.

Thanks Dad. Rest in peace.

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Day 1: Backpacking, the Second Time Around

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Day 1: Backpacking, the Second Time Around

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I remember one moment of this trip quite vividly. Just before we went on vacation, I'd borrowed my Dad's camera and left it in my boyfriend's car. The camera was stolen that night.

My boyfriend wasn't going to hit up insurance to replace the camera and my dad was pissed. Even though he had a different camera with him, mile after mile, he wouldn't stop talking about the stolen camera and wouldn't it be great if he had it right now?

Dad wasn't afraid of heights. At one point in the trip, he stood out on a precipice, struck a manly pose with the drama of the "conquered" White Mountains as his backdrop. and asked me to take his picture,  As he handed me the camera, I thought, " One little push and I could stop hearing about that f****** camera!" At the same time he said, laughing a little, " I bet you'd like to push me into this canyon right now."

Publisher and date unknown.