When I moved to Washington from Western Montana for a new job, the last thing I expected was to get lost on my first hike inside the District.
As I apartment-hunted from Montana, I used Google Maps to check the location of every place I was considering in Washington. My final decision was based partially on the existence of a green band half a mile from what would become my address. A place called Glover-Archibold Park just one-half mile away: Not bad, I thought, for a city. Still, I doubted the green band could compare to the trailhead the same distance from my apartment in Montana. That route climbed 2,000 feet into mountains before giving way to a national forest—and then a wilderness area, if you hiked far enough. The park in my future neighborhood in the East? I pictured a manicured lawn with swing sets and slides and crowds of people.
***
I go exploring in Glover-Archibold Park one morning in November, not long after Hurricane Sandy. At the entrance on the street, there's a sign warning of raccoons with “rabies and distemper.” I think of the entry sign at the national forest on my favorite hike in Montana: “Entering bear country. There is no guarantee of your safety.”
Thirty feet into my new backyard park, I pick up a piece of litter on the trail. It’s someone’s receipt from Panera—a breakfast sandwich and coffee three days ago. Doesn’t that just figure? The East, I think, exasperated.
But it’s not long before the scene around me upstages the litter at my feet. A few minutes into my hike, the trail is blocked by a tree trunk four feet in diameter. A rake of long splinters spears the air from its base, like the fibers of an enormous, snapped popsicle stick. The leaves of the downed branches are barely wilted, the exposed wood creamy beige. Sandy was here.
I follow a dip in the trail and find myself under a lid of lemon-lime—a beech ceiling punctuated by sugar maple, crisp and coral. A little farther and I'm in a grotto of Japanese maple, where leafy branches create a perfect scarlet pattern in the sky.
Beech, sugar maple, Japanese maple—these aren't trees I would find on a hike in Montana, where a few species of conifer dominate the forests. I savor the colors of the leaves, the dry fall scent of them in the air. I realize that, in hastily assuming this forest wouldn't hold a candle to those out West, I've forgotten that autumn in the East is really a treat.
After thirty minutes, I stop to think about where I intend to emerge onto the street. But I realize that I can’t hear cars anymore. And I haven’t seen anyone else for a while. Come to think of it, the trail is no longer well-defined. I've been crossing more and more downed trees, which means this route is not frequently maintained. Perhaps most concerning of all, I haven't seen a piece of litter for a long time.
I realize I am remote—somehow. I'm lost—somehow—in a tame tangle of woods just a half mile from my apartment.
I come to the top of an incline, stop under a massive beech tree, and recall the classic advice for people lost in the mountains: Head downhill; eventually you’ll find water and, likely, a road.
I descend a steep slope, slippery with rotting leaves. At the bottom I find a trickling creek. It's lined with down limbs, their gorgeous fall leaves still attached—citrusy tints of beech accented by crimson maple.
If I could teleport my friends from Montana to this spot, they wouldn't believe they were in the District of Columbia. I’ll have to tell them where I've been today, I think, before remembering I actually don’t know where I am.
An abrupt rustle behind me shakes me back to reality. I immediately pictures raccoons—with rabies and distemper. I twist around. It’s a runner. She’s forty feet away, just up the opposite bank of the gully. I climb to discover a clearly defined path, six feet wide. A man walking a dog approaches from the other direction.
A short distance up the path, I reach the street, where I find an intersection that is familiar to me. I am relieved, not to be out of the woods, but to have discovered them in the first place.
Lauren Koshere writes about place, play, and (sometimes) the Packers at floword.wordpress.com. She lives in Northwest DC.
When the Body Works Plus Abs instructor tells us to grab our heaviest dumbbells, the woman in front of me doesn't mess around. Before every class, she stops by the weightlifting area, where she selects two ten-pounders to carry through scores of squats, curls, rows, and presses.
This fitness class superstar is slim and pretty, and on most days, she wears her long hair down. She somehow appears fashionable and put together as she powers through each workout. I glance at her from the corner of my eye several times during the class—how does she do that?
Perhaps it has to do with her wardrobe, which is comprised mostly of hot pink and tiger-print spandex. But it's not just that. When I check out my own form in the three walls of mirrors, I see that I'm using wimpy one-pound and two-and-a-half-pound weights and struggling along. When I glance at her, I note that she never drops to her knees during a pushup set and appears not to break a sweat. Ever.
It's not just her I've developed a crush on, though. I've fallen hard for my whole gym.
The facility, located just outside the District line, could be described as...basic. There are a few rows of cardio machines, a room full of muscle-toning contraptions, a half-court basketball area, a small spinning studio, space for workout classes, and a sauna. No towel service or personal lockers. No lotion or cotton balls. And the reasonable monthly membership fee includes one personal-training session—one, for your entire relationship with the club.
Yet, like a mate to whom you weren't totally attracted at first, it can grow on you. Soon after I joined in the summer of 2012, I started chronicling sweet scenes in my head: A locker-room greeting between retirees that bespoke years together in Aqua Fit classes; a trio of middle-aged women grunting through Body Works in old T-shirts and full makeup; the guy with a buzzed head and calves like a World Cup MVP heeding Step instructions like "walk sexy for eight!"
Then there's the fitness teacher who says, just as my triceps are about to explode, that we have 12 more reps to do, even though she's spent all class saying "listen to your body," and mine is saying "that's enough." And, of course, there’s the stylish strongwoman knocking out endless, sweat-free reps to the Black-Eyed Peas.
I spend most of my time in social situations in Washington worrying that I won’t be able to keep my head above water when the conversation gets intense. But at my gym, there's no need for doggy paddling of that sort—the only time I struggle to stay afloat is in the pool, while a woman who could be my aunt calls out moves in Aqua Fit. No one cares what I do there. I want to hug them all.
Even as I passed my half-year mark at the gym, I was still appreciating these vignettes from afar. They helped me to feel at home in the gym, but I was just an observer, watching people go about their fitness, greet their friends, and then move along.
Until one morning, just before Valentine’s Day, when I find myself next to the spandex-clad fitness goddess in the locker room.
I play it cool at first. It's not like I've just watched her all through our class and wondered how she keeps her manicure intact. As she towels off on the bench beside me, we inadvertently exchange a look. And as I think about what I might say to her, I realize that in five months here, I've never really talked to anyone.
"Did you..." I start. She looks up at me, intentionally this time. "Did you, uh, have to work up to those weights?" I ask.
The gym class heroine smiles. It's not a catty smirk or a condescending grin. It's more like a reminder that she's just a normal person, too. Like when she steps out of this tiny world in a few minutes, she’ll hop into a Nissan Sentra, drive to the fourth floor of a garage somewhere, and elevator up to an office suite that smells like printer toner and powdered creamer.
"Definitely," she says. "You'll get there."
Rhea Yablon Kennedy teaches English and writing courses at Gallaudet University and has written about art, culture, religion, and the deaf and Jewish communities in the past. She lives in Takoma.
Snuggled in bed at the end of a long day, I was glued to my phone, undoubtedly on Facebook, when a news alert came through. I expected "Dow Hits Record Low," or "Angelina Jolie’s Leg's Twitter Account Reaches One-Million Followers." What I saw shocked me. "Mississippi Baby Cured of HIV."
My first reaction was disbelief—it couldn't be true, someone must have made a mistake, the reporting must be wrong. I mean, we’re working toward a cure for AIDS, but that’s still years away, right?
After reading many stories from credible sources online, I realized: "Yes! This is really happening!" I’ve been waiting thirty years to see these headlines. I leaned over to my husband, who was also on his phone, “Have you seen this?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
“Holy cow, this is huge,” was all I could get out.
Those were our only words. Shocked and excited, we went back to furiously searching the internet for more info.
Why? Because I have been living with HIV for 30 years.
I was born with a heart defect called Tetralogy of Fallot. I had open-heart surgery at age three, and I recovered well and got back to the business of being a kid quickly. But five years later, my parents got the most shocking phone call of their lives: I had received a blood transfusion during surgery that was possibly infected with HIV. The doctor told them that I might have been infected and that I should get tested just to be safe. Their worst fears came true when they found out my test was positive. The doctors said that I had two years to live.
When my parents told me that I was HIV-positive, I was devastated and terrified. I asked my mom if I was going to die, and she said, “I don’t know, Sweetie, but we're going to do everything we can to keep you healthy.”
I began a new life—a life dominated by frequent medical appointments, around-the-clock medication, and a great big secret. This was life-changing news for my family, but we couldn’t tell anyone for fear of being ostracized from the community. I quickly learned how to skirt questions about why I missed so much school, and I kept that part of my life safely tucked away. I saw friends from the clinic lose their battles against AIDS, and I grieved in private. My family started taking wonderful vacations, as a way to cherish every moment we had together.
This life presented its fair share of challenges, but I never lost hope. I came to terms with the idea that I might not live to graduate from high school, but my parents somehow created a pervasive feeling of hopefulness within our household. I dealt with what I had to deal with, and we all hoped for the best.
Now, at age 33, I’m healthy, married, and successful in my career. I know that things are only going to get better. I have been lucky to witness huge progress in the fight against HIV and AIDS over the last three decades. The development of HIV medications and proven methods of preventing mother-to-child transmission are exhilarating milestones that it thrills me to see. News of patients being functionally cured is cause for even more excitement. We don’t know what it means quite yet, but we know that it’s a monumental step in the right direction.
Along with that excitement comes the realization that we have so much work still to do. In the United States and around the world, too many mothers are unable to reach the services that they need to prevent transmission, and too many children are still infected with HIV. This is 100-percent preventable—the dream of eliminating pediatric HIV can and should be a reality.
As a child, I knew that I had no promise of a full life. I knew that I might not live long enough to go to the prom or go to college or fall in love. I relied on new medications to keep me healthy, and I took everything one day at a time. With each day came a little more hope. I clung to the dream that some day, I would read a headline saying that we had found a cure for HIV and eliminated the disease worldwide.
This month’s news makes me even more hopeful. I think about what headlines we could be reading ten, five, even two years from now: What will we have accomplished as a result of our continued advocacy, research, and education? What will we be celebrating? I can’t wait to find out.
Jamie Gentille is a hospital administrator and foundation ambassador for the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. Her full story can be found in a memoir out this year, titled Surviving HIV: Growing Up a Secret and Being Positive. She and her husband live in Northern Virginia.
I am deeply grateful to all the readers who expressed concern for the dog who lived next door to me, after I wrote about her a few weeks ago. After watching her suffer for so long and wondering how anyone could allow a pet’s condition to decline to such a dangerous state, it was heartening to hear from so many animal lovers.
At the same time, the sincere worry that many of you felt for the dog makes it harder to share this update: She was recently euthanized. It was the best option but certainly not the outcome I had hoped for.
After I wrote about the dog’s plight, the Washington Humane Society, the Metropolitan Police Department, and others became more heavily involved in her case. Officers from the Washington Humane Society and MPD met with the dog’s owner and ordered her to bring the dog to a veterinarian for an examination and tests. The vet determined that the dog—who was 12 years old—had worms and cancer. Though she had been skinny for the entire year I observed her, her weight had declined drastically in the weeks before I wrote about her. I’m told the worms were likely the reason.
Given her age and myriad health issues, euthanizing the dog was the most humane thing to do. I am grateful to the Washington Humane Society for giving her some peace at the end of her life. Otherwise she would have continued to suffer and waste away in her filthy backyard.
But what now? It took months of phone calls, dozens of visits from Washington Humane Society officers, and media attention to get a resolution for the dog next door—and by the time action was taken, it was too late for her. I know I’m not the only one who’s had to throw a tantrum to get help for a mistreated animal in the District, and, more important, I know I won’t be the last.
After reading my piece about the dog, a friend and fellow journalist got in touch to tell me about a similar experience of his own. One of his neighbors had kept a puppy—a puppy!—outdoors 24 hours a day, no matter the weather conditions. He was surrounded by piles of his own waste and subsisting on pasta and other leftover human food. My friend had a view of the puppy from his home and took photos of him routinely. He showed me some of the pictures, and to say they were disturbing is a severe understatement.
When, as I did, he found Humane Society officers unhelpful, he sought another solution. In his words, he “carpet-bombed” the DC government authorities that had a stake in such a situation—including the health department, the DCRA, and the DC Council—with e-mails and photos of the puppy. Finally, a Washington Humane Society officer arrived at night during a storm and rescued the poor thing.
That dog got a second chance. But what about the mistreated pets whose neighbors don’t know how to put pressure on the right government agencies or don’t have a platform like Washingtonian from which to garner attention? Why must it take such a ridiculous amount of effort to get someone to help? The reason—and the big lesson I’ve learned from this ordeal—is that the law is flawed.
Under federal law, pets are treated as property, not as living, breathing, emotional beings. They are legally no different from flat-screen televisions.
To anyone who loves their pets, this seems insane. But more to the point—not only in DC, but nationwide—this means it’s extremely difficult for law enforcement to intervene when a pet is being abused or neglected. Like any material possession, pets are covered by the Constitution’s Fourth Amendment, which guards against search and seizure of property, unless authorities can meet the high standard of probable cause.
Of course, I always believed there was probable cause for the Washington Humane Society to rescue the dog next door: She was plainly unhealthy, and her yard conditions were deplorable. But I’m just a concerned neighbor. I don’t have the perspective or liabilities of a Washington Humane Society officer. Since pets are considered property, the officers are at real risk of getting sued if they seize animals too hastily. And they work for an organization that relies on donations—WHS can’t afford to spend years tied up in litigation or have its reputation tarnished for being overly aggressive.
When I spoke with Scott Giacoppo, the Washington Humane Society’s vice president of external affairs, for my first piece about the dog, he summed up the situation: “We can’t take an animal, get sued, and have the bad guy win.”
A quick search through court records shows that the Washington Humane Society has already been down that road. In 2003, a woman sued the organization in DC federal court for violating her right to due process after officers seized her dog. Two other pet owners who had also had their animals taken joined her lawsuit. The litigation dragged on for eight and a half years, until April 2012—long enough for one of the plaintiffs to die—before it was ultimately resolved in mediation and dismissed.
I have no doubt that a lawsuit of that magnitude seriously spooked the Washington Humane Society—and with good reason. Who knows how much money was spent on nearly a decade’s worth of legal fees, which could have otherwise been used to help the District’s animals? The organization’s officers are completely right to be cautious, given the potential for such disastrous consequences. But there has to be some kind of a balance. It’s lunacy that a dog must literally be on the brink of death before “probable cause” can be established to intervene.
The dog next door was a good girl who never got a fair shot. I wonder how many others like her throughout the city are waiting for someone to help them.
Marisa M. Kashino covers law and lobbying as a staff writer for Washingtonian, and also edits the magazine's Pets coverage. She and her husband live in Bloomingdale with their dog, Bexley, and their cat, Olive.
Our letter-writing contest is over—more than 100 notes came in, some from as far away as Texas, and three winners were picked late last week. But there was just so much cuteness, we couldn't keep it all for ourselves.
This week, three winners were selected in our letter-writing contest. These kids showed a strong interest in the elephants at the Zoo and in the wild, they researched the animals and learned about their new habitat, and they wrote us compelling notes. We're proud to congratulate the three winners, who will read their letters aloud to the elephants at a media event welcoming them to their new community center next Thursday at 10 AM.
The winner in our youngest category, Ethan Schipper, is a Kindergartener at Westbriar Elementary in Vienna. In addition to his note, Ethan sent us $1.85 from his piggy bank. Commence heart-melt.
The winner in our middle category, Sarah Price, is a third-grader at Wood Acres Elementary School in Bethesda. When Sarah's mom told her she'd won our contest, Sarah said: "I can barely breathe, I'm so excited!" We're excited, too, little one.
And the winner of our oldest category, Tony Phonemany, is a fifth-grader at Crestwood Elementary School in Springfield. Tony and his compatriots in Mrs. McNertney's class built an elephant herd in the hallway of their school and completed serious research as they prepared to write letters to us. Our staff and the zookeepers were struck by Tony's level of knowledge and with his sense of humor—we're still chuckling, even though we've read his letter a dozen times.
We asked area elementary schoolers to write to Kandula, Shanthi, and Ambika, the elephants who live at the National Zoo. They're moving to a new community center this month, and we hoped that the kids might be able to offer some guidance on moving or on conservation.
Some of the best letters we receive will appear here, and three writers will be invited to the Zoo to read their notes aloud to the elephants on March 21.
Today's featured letter comes from Karenna Keane, a second-grader at Glebe Elementary School in Arlington. At 8, Karenna has already learned how rewarding it is to help animals in need.
We asked area elementary schoolers to write to Kandula, Shanthi, and Ambika, the elephants who live at the National Zoo. They're moving to a new community center this month, and we hoped that the kids might be able to offer some guidance on moving or on conservation.
Some of the best letters we receive will appear here, and three writers will be invited to the Zoo to read their notes aloud to the elephants on March 21.
Today's featured letter comes from Dorothy Smith, a kindergartener in the Smithsonian Early Enrichment Center. We think the elephants will love her drawing!
Last week, we asked area elementary schoolers to write to Kandula, Shanthi, and Ambika, the elephants who live at the National Zoo. They're moving to a new community center this month, and we hoped that the kids might be able to offer some guidance on moving or on conservation.
Some of the best letters we receive will appear here, and three writers will be invited to the Zoo to read their notes aloud to the elephants on March 21.
Today's featured letter comes from Lina Stensland, a second-grader at Janney Elementary School in Northwest DC. Lina is an experienced mover and glitter-application expert whose thoughtful advice we're sure the elephants would appreciate.
Last week, we asked area elementary schoolers to write to Kandula, Shanthi, and Ambika, the elephants who live at the National Zoo. They're moving to a new community center this month, and we hoped that the kids might be able to offer some guidance on moving or on conservation.
Some of the best letters we receive will appear here, and three writers will be invited to the Zoo to read their notes aloud to the elephants on March 21.
Today's featured letter comes from Wood Acres Elementary School third-grader Katie Sklaire, admittedly an elephant-lover since infancy. It's important to Katie that the elephants' wild counterparts are conserved for several reasons—read on to find out why.
