Resetting Your Moral Compass

preamble 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 remedy

Continuing with the remainder of my numeric outline of your staff’s June House Meeting minutes:

4. One problem with framing the issue of yard work as an option I could “decide to move forward with that interest” if I wanted is your current team of dual banjos again avoids finding a healthier solution for the much more serious problem of Delores’s trauma-induced criminally violent rage:

unplay avoid

Unplay mark highlighting the ‘avoid’ station of the passive aggressive volvelle.

Based on what you have reviewed so far, which way does April need to spin her passive aggressive volvelle into healthy communications, and at which station should she start before she might be ready to know how to reach successful resolution of any conflict?

Much as I had anticipated spending every minute that I am not at my computer out in the yard once the weather warmed, from the moment Hilary offered to help me retrieve my computer and my therapeutic service animal, walked me through your property, and I looked out my unit window and saw the wooden picnic bench in a wooded park-like setting, as long as you keep a rampaging criminal maintaining your yard while threatening me with bodily harm, I will never decide to move forward with my interest in gardening at Restful Peace Cottage.

For much the same reason that Angie decided not to move forward with parking her car in the garage. Twang. Likely the same reason that Selam restricted herself to half a kitchen cupboard space to Delores’s two cupboards instead of moving forward with adequate space for cooking and living under the same roof. Twang-twang. Or the same reason, I hear through multiple sources, that Emily,* one of your clients whose tenancy overlapped with Delores’s, decided not to move forward with your social working team and fled the abuses here long before I arrived, leaving behind even her identity, her phone, and remaining possessions. Twang-TWANG-twang.

In her first two years out of a Texas Master’s in Social Work (MSW) program, Hilary has lost at least two of your tenants, a third loudly boasts of affiliations with ISIS, and a fourth is reporting your criminal abuses to Washington’s Governor, seeking better solutions to the state’s mass shooting problem, because your “inaction in the face of this violence is unacceptable.” That’s her success rate in working with traumatized clients-?

How well is she working with folks living in their cars while getting paid not enough to pay rent on poverty hutches while scrubbing toilets in Seattle’s skyscrapers?

At June’s meeting, Delores both sneered/complained at me that I don’t work hard enough since I don’t help her martyred self with the yard work, and simultaneously raged, “She better not fucking touch my garden,” blatantly threatening future violence in front of your current case and program managers, protecting the garden as her space, not mine, not the space shared by all the other clients in your household. Yet still your staff rewarded her rampaging behavior. She further defended her foul-mouthed raging with still more raging, “IT’S MY THERAPY!” While I whole-heartedly agree that gardening can be very therapeutic activity, neither April nor Charlotte seemed to notice the foul-mouthed, contradictory illogic of these statements while April tried to coerce me into still more household labor despite your team producing fewer resources than we originally agreed back in November.

I suggested if you want tenants performing yard work in addition to household chores, that you include that labor in your lease agreement. They refused. Perhaps your pro bono counsel recommended omitting yard work from your written contracts because they are more familiar with Washington law than April and Charlotte?

I recommended cycling the yard work with the household chores, so everyone can take a turn. For your clients who do not enjoy gardening, that option was understandably unappealing. But if the yard work is optional, then why is your team favoring Delores’s contributions to the household over mine, believing her perspective over the perspectives of all the women she has abused in your household, despite a preponderance of evidence and witnesses to the contrary, and coercing additional work by threatening me with eviction if I do not comply with Delores’s contradictory, rampaging demands?

I explained for me it doesn’t matter what work you want done, as long as it is not illegal or hazardous to my health, and you may review my online portfolio for the breadth of my skills, this blog for the depth of my knowledge from which you might select in exchange for your resources, but for me the issue is time, and suggested, much as I suggested for the senior electrical engineer at Micron and his wife, who also trafficked my household labor, and also enjoyed the privilege of threatening me with eviction anytime I did not instantly comply with their contradictory commands, that you punch list your goals for your yard, and offered to cycle into yard work instead of housework, depending on your priorities any given week or season. Your staff again refused to describe, specifically, what yard work they wanted done, or agree to their arbitrarily redefined contract terms, despite April going so far as to paradoxically declare, in a sing-songy, slow, stupid voice as if she seriously underestimates my intellect, “We don’t care about the time. We just want the work done.”

So sayeth every slave-master or labor trafficker – or whatever term replaces the same abuse of power in the 22nd century – who ever strutted about the planet.

April may not be psychologically healthy enough to value her own life to value time as I do, but again, her underlying issues are more appropriately worked out with her psychologist rather than her visibly poor time management skills causing your clients further harm.

A second problem with framing yard work as an “option” with which I could “decide” to move forward is your staff’s coercive and threatening strategies for presenting me with that “option,” a gross misdemeanor according to RCW 9A.36.070, in reckless disregard of my safety, or trafficking in the first degree, a Class A felony according to RCW 9A.40.100, and because yard work maintains your property values, thus you benefit financially from that coercive “option,” trafficking in the second degree, another Class A felony according to the same Title, Chapter, and Section in Washington’s Revised Code.

A third problem with framing yard work as an option while financially benefitting from Delores’s audibly and visibly evident post-traumatic stress is more violations of RCW 9A.40.100. As I already communicated to both you and Charlotte in my email dated 18 July 2016, your social services nonprofit corporation financially benefitting from a woman who suffers multigenerational trauma, whose genealogy includes slavery, rewarding her yard work efforts while overlooking her criminally abusive behavior and visibly providing her with incompetent or zero psychotherapeutic care, is the most egregious form of racism that I have observed since my two hands helped carve the memorial totem that now stands in the shadow of the Space Needle, as you may corroborate with Rick Williams, whose brother was shot in the back and killed, by a young, white, male officer formerly employed by Seattle Police Department (SPD), for the “crimes” of being not-white, impoverished, hard of hearing, wearing earbuds, and carrying a chunk of wood and small carving knife well within the legal limit while crossing an urban intersection, and whose personal art collection expanded with two of my original charcoal drawings, which he took to his lawyer for framing.

“Why your lawyer?” I inquired, remembering framing my prosecutor ex-husband’s law certificates for him.

“Because her brother works for the Burke Museum.”

Again, I am very choosy about who benefits from my volunteer labor. Not looking for trafficking opportunities from your staff.

In between then and now, my observations and personal experiences of endemic national racism have been considerable. If you assume that Idaho’s predominantly white mental juridical health system employees harbor no discrimination toward impoverished transgender African Americans, Native Americans, or gay African American men, to mention just three examples from my recent experiences, your assumptions would be based on irrational thought.

For another example similar to one I previously reported to inappropriate responses from your white case and program management staff, on or about 18 March 2016, as the weather warmed I sought sunlight and the out-of-doors without having to descend through the predictable gauntlet of Delores’s rage the interior stairs between upper and lower levels of Restful Peace Cottage, where, in addition to threatening all of her housemates with posting our likenesses to Snapchat, she has raged at me for my temerity in seeking the vacuum cleaner disappeared for several days from its usual storage place in the upstairs coat closet. She described me as a “stalker” for attempting to complete the household chore requirements of our lease agreement. Despite my mindfulness of my housemate’s ever-widening zone of personal space, still Delores disrupted my morning meditative tea and writing practice on the deck that extends from the dining area with more of her raging from outside below.

Two of your maintenance staff had come out to very generously replace the kitchen faucet where the dual stream/sprayer’s worn gasket had left us without the spray function, and from my perspective, they had gotten roped into listening to a lengthy tirade of her martyred complaints about gardening. Prior to my move in, a spate of high winds had torn down more branches from the trees that had removed a chunk of your fence, which remains in a state of disrepair as of this writing. How much work she does in the yard, but she can’t do that work with dull tools. Her poor back. Bending over to chop dandelions when she wearies of pulling them, and so on and so forth, wrapping up her rage with the accusation, “She just sits up there on that balcony, like she’s overseeing the work of all the slaves who do the yard work!”

A theme she returns to again and again, indicative of an unhealed trauma monologue, while paradoxically ordering your maintenance crew and your other tenants about as if she is the lady of the manor, revealing deep internal conflicts, both patterning herself after her multigenerational abusers and raging accusations of abuse. After I surrendered the outdoors to her rage and returned inside to continue writing at your living room coffee table, your maintenance crew again rang the doorbell from the front entrance. Before I could complete a sentence and cap my pen to respond, Delores charged upstairs, raging at me as if she was dissatisfied with the caliber of her household help, while at the same time accusing me of elitism.

“Oh, just sit there,” she snarled, livid, on her way to the door for your maintenance crew, “Take your time! Queen!”

From my position as a multiracial trafficking survivor, I can readily empathize with Delores’s ancestral enslavement heritage, but you are not paying me a professional wage to help her unravel her multigenerational trauma. If you are unable to recruit and hire better educated employees due to your organization’s dysfunctional reputation within the social work community local to Seattle, your trauma-uneducated case, program, and clinical management staff may find helpful continuing education readily available in the PNW from Dr. Joy Degruy, faculty at Portland State University, who has developed curricula for what she describes as Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome.

While April arrived at May’s mandatory house meeting at least emotionally intelligent enough to recognize the palpable tension generated from long-running harassment, malicious harassment, and threats of bodily harm, unresolved by your staff’s reluctance to maintain the boundaries set by your own lease agreement and municipal and state laws, after that meeting dwindled into her executive smoke session with Delores, April came prepared to June’s meeting only to openly blame me for the group’s dynamic, dutifully replicating Delores’s martyr narrative, defining “passive aggressive communications” as any perspective that disagrees with Delores.

I had hoped, after Delores encountered me in the kitchen after their executive smoke session, and raged, “APRIL’S NOT AS DUMB AS YOU GUYS THINK SHE IS,” that meant they might not have been getting as chummy as their body language appeared from inside the house glancing out, and that perhaps April would have an opportunity to rethink enforcing Jenn’s instructions to remove the upstairs landline affecting the safety of all of your upstairs tenants. Instead, April is busily abusing her program management position of power over me, readily identifying with the biggest martyr in the Restful Peace Cottage household.

Despite her paycheck, April is still not in a position to reinvent the English language. Or psychoanalytic theory. Or human psychology. Or law.

Starting at the deny station on her passive aggressive volvelle, April thrice denied that May’s meeting devolved into her tit-for-tat grade school argument with Delores before they descended the stairs and outside to the backyard, where they bonded, shouting and smoking together:

“We did not.”

As I began to refresh their conjoined memory of the dissolution of the previous meeting, describing Delores’s foul-mouthed raging that even your program manager had in May recognized as combative, not conducive to conflict resolution, April broke in to insist, “I didn’t say battering.”

And still a third time, April reiterated her hostile position at denial, utterly shut to hearing my perspective, primly, “That’s not a word I would use.”

Returning to my notes from May’s house meeting, I was wrong. April is so right.

She did not say “battering.”

April described Delores’s behavior at the May meeting as “battling.”

First she had very astutely observed Delores’s foul-mouthed rampaging as, “You’re giving your power away.”


“You’re coming across as battling everyone.”

“This frustration is after months and months of people messing with me,” Delores whined, blaming her feelings of anger off the charts to any of these superficial household conflicts on her housemates, identifying as the victim in the household disputes, and the April/”At” team permitted this passive aggressive behavior, rather than recommending her for psychotherapeutic care or teaching her healthier coping strategies for her anger no doubt generated by her earlier severely traumatic experiences.

“You’re battling me,” April insisted.

And that’s where their dialogue further devolved into am not/are so prior to their executive smoke session in the backyard, where April docilely listened to still more of Delores’s rampaging martyr narrative, and began taking dictation from a woman so traumatized by her previous life experiences that she is paranoid to the point of being delusional, raving about the FBI watching the house, “booby-trapping” her dirty laundry as she loads it into the washer, and describing your boilerplate wifi agreement as a government conspiracy.

On the other hand, if Delores genuinely does have connections to ISIS, then maybe the FBI is keeping an eye on her in the interest of national security? Or maybe they should be. Maybe those ravings are not her paranoia? Maybe her life experiences have just been on the other side of the law from most of my life experiences?

Since “battering” is not a word in April’s vocabulary, yet battering is very often the experience of victims of domestic violence, and familial abuse is a leading cause of homelessness for women, April openly confessed in June’s meeting that she is not qualified to provide program management for women transitioning out of homelessness, as if that fact were not already abundantly clear to me, a lacking not just in April’s education, but education missing from all of your staff who have paraded in and out of the Restful Peace Cottage since at least November 2015. In the first provision of our lease, and reiterated in your Case Management Plan Addendum, Compass Housing Alliance claims to receive state funds:

“The Department of Housing and Urban Development, State of Washington, King County and City of Seattle provides [sic] funds that assist the Landlord with the operation of this program.”

That means you are in violation of RCW 70.123.070, where the legislature quite clearly spells out all of your employees must obtain “sufficient training in connection with domestic violence” and even more clearly: “refrain from engaging in activities that compromise the safety of victims” [emph. mine].

If you have checked some check boxes indicating that April or Charlotte or your subsequent Tom, Dick, or Harriet case or program managers have sufficient training in connection with domestic violence, that training is, in itself, insufficient, and that may well be true, from what I have observed back in 2012 with the Domestic Violence Victim Support Services Supervisor at SPD, later cycling through Idaho’s mental juridical health system, then back to Seattle’s poverty industrial complex, true of my experiences with many of the front line counter workers at DSHS, Department of Licensing (DOL), YWCA, the Salvation Army, Mary’s Place, Jubilee Center – despite the tireless efforts of their volunteers sifting through donated clothing, paid staff at that shelter for “homeless” women nevertheless wanted me to cough up a move-in fee and to be already employed, while mystically offering no further computer hours or hardware and software improved over the region’s WorkSource centers, and would have further required me to attend beading workshops taught by amateurs, for “Personal Enrichment,” their social workers babbled unintelligibly to my BFA- and MFA-educated expertise, as if adding still one more medium to my considerable skill set is going to net me a professional wage job in a visually illiterate culture – and even the young telephone operators at the national call center for human trafficking are unprepared for the post-Great Recession trafficking experiences of America’s educated poor.

For space considerations, I will save my psychoanalytic design analysis of the hypocritical Christian soldiers marching off to the Salvation Army’s war on Seattle’s impoverished for a very special post of their very own. Suffice with this sneak preview of the graphic design efforts from the Director of their Pike Street women’s shelter, who indulged her frustrations by raging at her clients for one hour per week subtracted from our job-seeking activities and educational goals, compounded with another hour per week meeting with a case manager as every bit as passive aggressive as Charlotte, their team as dissatisfied as Delores and your staff with the City of Seattle’s solutions for communicating the differences between recycling, compost, and landfill:

salvation army recycling

Salvation Army print collateral graphic design alongside City of Seattle Public Utilities print collateral graphic design.

According to Jubilee’s program rules, I am too poor to be homeless.

According to Kendra at the national anti-trafficking call center – who demanded my last name but refused to provide hers, after blaming your staff’s criminal behavior on my “feelings” – only small children or non-English speakers can be trafficked in the United States, and trafficking must include sex. In ignorance or thinly repressed fantasy or blatant defiance of federal and Washington laws.

Ditto Maria Pintar, a YWCA-paid employee conducting business out of a DSHS office, whose high-speed oral delivery of information provided on badly designed print collateral only further proves my theory of the correlation between visual illiteracy and abuse.

In reviewing RCW 10.31.100, it is all the more puzzling to me why the officers called out to the house on 11 January 2016 chose not to arrest Delores, as she was quite clearly in the midst of perpetrating misdemeanor and felony offenses, as two eyewitnesses concurred, but maybe because they recognized her earlier history as victim, and may not be trained to understand that victim oftentimes revolves into abuser without the tremendous self-awareness work of trauma recovery? Another clue may be found in that section of Washington’s Revised Code that agrees with Lin Payton’s description and my experiences of the state’s workforce, where the legislature in 2010 acknowledged its intention may differ considerably from current practice, forecasting the desperate need by 2016 to improve still further:

“The legislature intends to improve the lives of persons who suffer from the adverse effects of domestic violence and to require reasonable, coordinated measures to prevent domestic violence from occurring. The legislature intends to give law enforcement and the courts better tools to identify violent perpetrators of domestic violence and hold them accountable. The legislature intends to: Increase the safety afforded to individuals who seek protection of public and private agencies involved in domestic violence prevention; improve the ability of agencies to address the needs of victims and their children and the delivery of services; upgrade the quality of treatment programs; and enhance the ability of the justice system to respond quickly and fairly to domestic violence. In order to improve the lives of persons who have, or may suffer, the effects of domestic violence the legislature intends to achieve more uniformity in the decision-making processes at public and private agencies that address domestic violence by reducing inconsistencies and duplications allowing domestic violence victims to achieve safety and stability in their lives” [emph. mine].

Or perhaps the senior responding African American male officer could more readily identify with Delores’s violent behavior as not outside the norm of his experiences, as described by RCW 9A.36.080, which requires that threats of bodily harm must be perceived by a “reasonable person” as threats of bodily harm, and further, with much cultural sensitivity, defines a reasonable person as “a member of the victim’s race, color, religion, ancestry, national origin, gender, or sexual orientation, or who has the same mental, physical, or sensory handicap as the victim,” an especially challenging conundrum in this situation, where my own relatives readily identify with the martyr narratives of my subsequent traffickers, cheerleading if not outright assisting one schizo-affective woman’s criminal behavior, and bringing up the question, are mentally handicapped – according to the lawmakers; I would say severely traumatized – individuals capable of distinguishing “reasonable” from irrational-? Or is that definition circular? Since you will be hard-pressed to find a “reasonable person” who shares my ancestry, may I instead ask for review from trauma-educated psychologists and prosecutors of a preponderance of evidence of my experiences of malicious harassment, threats, and trafficking at Compass Housing Alliance?

I was at least racially sensitive enough to ask, “What does ‘pop’ mean to you?”

To which the officer replied, “Punch.”

That’s what Delores’s threats to “pop” meant to both African American Linda and me too.

And who in the state is better qualified to help the legislature achieve more uniformity in the decision-making processes ostensibly improving the lives of persons who suffer from the adverse effects of domestic violence than a survivor of the globally renowned Bundy clan, who just happens to have completed her graduate work in critical theories of identity, trauma, and the taboo at the start of the Great Recession, and more recently reduced that complex research to a four-point conflict resolution model based on the structure of trauma, that anyone who understands simple geometric shapes should be able to follow, rather than perpetuating the toxic myth of the DOJ-funded, United Way-marketed model of woman-as-victim, man-as-abuser still in play at SPD as recently as 2012?

As the situation here in your women-only transitional group housing staffed with predominantly women evidences, women can be the perpetrators of domestic violence just as readily as men, which is why it is so important for you to recruit and hire personnel capable of maintaining the boundaries set by your lease terms and Washington law, coming to agreement on behavior that is civil, rather than blaming the victims of criminal behavior, regardless of gender, sexuality, race, genealogy, ethnicity, or spirituality.

5. Pace the legal opinions of April and Charlotte, obtaining visual and audio evidence of criminal behavior appear to be, after some considerable searching on my part – once again, doing the jobs of your case and program managers without benefit of their combined paychecks to protect myself from your criminally abusive client and staff – two separate issues in Washington law.

Compass Housing Alliance neglected to directly address those two issues – compounded by the accessibility and speed of 21st century technology – in your lease, addenda, or policies I reviewed and signed on 19 November 2015. In my first formal, written grievance emailed to Hilary on 28 December 2015, however, anticipating from her verbal responses during our earlier meetings your staff’s difficulties of mediating between two parties, when already Delores had stomped firmly on the avoid station of her passive aggressive volvelle responding to our then-Case Manager’s two prior attempts to schedule mediation sessions, and having already overheard by then Delores raging at Hilary when she stopped by the house, already I recommended a 21st century adaptation of King Solomon’s repair, splitting the baby:

“In contrast, I am so confident in my level of self-awareness and -restraint that I welcome your addition of audio-visual devices to the common areas of the household… and it comes down to a she said/she said, and you have no way of fairly judging between the two without more directly observing our behavior.”

Delores’s rage continued to accelerate through January, inclusive of all of her housemates, though more acutely targeted toward me due to my ancestry and that month’s news reports of the Oregon militia, prompting Linda’s 911 call.

By 19 March 2016, Delores’s physical aggression toward me accelerated from body blocking doorways or deliberately shoving into my body, sometimes accompanied by her snarled, “Fuck you,” in response to my courteous, “Excuse me,” to gesticulating at me with a chef’s knife in the shared, narrow galley kitchen in the midst of one of her rampages that she launched into my dinner preparations.

Late in the evening, after I patiently waited for what sounded like the end of her own dinner preparations, I entered an empty kitchen and began to prep mine. Unfortunately for me, Delores had not finished with her food. Her rage seemed to build from unrelated conflicts earlier in the day, gauging by a snide note she had left on the whiteboard, accusing Linda of not returning the curbside bins to their proper location, another midterm lease change Delores had dictated at the rest of us. Abruptly ripping open the pocket door from the dining area, she entered the kitchen after me. As per her usual maliciously harassing behavior, she grumbled about my existence on the planet, complained about having already wiped down the portion of the counter that I had chosen for dinner prep, and aggressively flung compost juice toward my food.

From my perspective, contrary to Delores’s high self-judgment about how she performs her household chores under our lease obligations, I had started my food prep by wiping down a countertop littered with crumbs, and scrubbing my hands at the sink, my usual kitchen hygiene. Regardless, I always clean up after myself too, so there was no reason for my food prep to adversely affect a rational human being.

Without saying anything in response to her first bout of rage of the evening, I shifted my preparations farther down the counter. She stomped out of the kitchen and on downstairs still grumbling. When she returned a few minutes later, Delores carried a platter of cut fruit, and began raging at me for taking up space at the far end of the counter, where I had moved to escape her spray radius. Her second – or extended first – bout of rage of the evening accelerated as she began gesticulating at me with a chef’s knife in her clenched fist, raging her paranoid accusations that I had moved too close to her juicer at the end of the counter.

“Delores, can you please put down the knife?” I asked calmly, my gaze moving from her eyes to the flashing blade and back again.

She immediately began jeering, gesturing with the knife with more intention, while simultaneously denying that intention, “OH, THAT’S RIGHT. CALL THE COPS ON ME AGAIN. LIKE YOU DID BEFORE ‘CUZ YOU’RE AFRAID. YOU CALLING THE COPS IS GONNA GET YOU IN TROUBLE AGAIN.”

A clear threat to cause bodily injury as defined by RCW 9A.04.110, as well as another boast of how readily she manipulates your susceptible staff.

“Maybe you can learn to stop threatening people?” I asked, invoking your Non-Discrimination Anti-Harassment Policy.

From rampaging martyr, Delores spun rapidly to deny on her passive aggressive volvelle: “I’M NOT THREATENING ANYONE.”

After denial, she spun onward to avoid, wildly seeking to blame me for her own aggressive behavior, with little slips of logic between each assumption: Angie saw her downstairs with the knife. Angie knew Delores was only cutting her fruit, and would back her up. Even more fancifully, she claimed Angie was sitting just outside the kitchen door and overhearing our entire exchange. Both assertions might come as a surprise to Angie, but reveal Delores’s experience with manipulation, a tactic common to both abusers and psychopaths.

I continued to hold her gaze until she looked away first and finally lowered her knife.

Delores’s rampage accompanying my dinner preparations that evening nevertheless wore onward, spanning her predictable gamut of ordering me to perform chores, “I’M NOT PUTTING YOUR DISHES IN THE DISHWASHER,” harassment even as I was in the midst of cleaning up after myself, “YOU HAFTA CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF”; to malicious harassment that revealed much about Delores’s relationship with her own mother who perhaps abandoned the child to an abusive father, “YOUR MOTHER MUST NOT HAVE LOVED YOU VERY MUCH”; and by the time I retired to the relative safety of my room for my first plate of truly divine romaine-spinach salad with apple, avocado, and cucumbers dressed with a walnut vinaigrette, and returned for seconds, she had revolved back to martyred jeering, her rage a transparent mask for her own fear from my psychoanalytically educated perspective, “AFRAID OF A KNIFE.”

“Who’s afraid?” I asked calmly, quietly, again meeting her eyes directly.

Again, though I had made no move and spoken no language that could possibly be construed as a threat by a reasonable person, she flinched away first.

With Delores’s knife attack timed shortly after suspected murderer John Lee’s Alford plea filing for the three homicides he allegedly committed in Moscow in January 2015, but prior to his 24 May 2016 sentencing hearing, while I was in the midst of addressing the issues that have led to this period of homelessness, per the Case Management Plan Addendum to our agreement, writing my still-in-progress psychoanalytic design analysis to the small town Chief of Police who asked for assistance from the public for motive, reporting no known knowledge of the mass shooter receiving Idaho’s version of “treatment” for severe trauma, rigid division of masculine/feminine roles, STEM-isolated education, and lack of healthy communications/conflict negotiations skills anywhere in the state’s K-18 curricula – because your staff prioritize felonies, misdemeanors, and violations of landlord tenant law higher than – though hopefully not leading to – mass shootings – and hoping to place a boundary warding off her further threatening behaviors, I added, referencing a threat that Delores commonly uses toward me, “The last guy to threaten to knock my glasses off my face is looking at thirty years to life for triple homicide—“

Typical of Delores or any other victim unrecovered from multigenerational early childhood sexual abuse, she raged over the top of me from the blame station of her passive aggressive volvelle, falsely accusing me of an imaginary crime, “YOU’RE THE ONE WHO DID HOMICIDE.”

“—your little knife doesn’t scare me one bit.”

An altercation that could have been easily mediated by audiovisual computing technology cheaply available on today’s market, reducing the excessive cost of your personnel budget.

Delores’s kitchen rage continued unabated the next morning, 20 March 2016. Aurally assaulted by more of her tirades, I returned to my room with tea and journal in hand, only to discover my door locked and closed with my key inside. As per your Tenant Grievance Procedure, which states, “Grievances may be written or oral,” I called your emergency voicemail number, explained that my housemate had the night before threatened me with a chef’s knife, and again in the morning my housemate had made more verbal threats to stab me, that I was locked out of my room, and even though your staff typically only respond to lockouts during weekday office hours, would they mind making an exception given the emergent threat of bodily harm?

An hour or two later, with no response from your staff, I left another emergency voicemail, still more briefly summarizing the situation, requesting assistance.

Another hour later, still no staff response, I called then-Program Manager Jenn Pargas’s mobile, and reached her voicemail. To her credit, she at least called back within an hour. Jenn stated she had received my messages. Plural.

Still, her inappropriate response to the emergent threat of bodily harm to me was to chide me, much as April later accused me of acting out of vengeance, sourly, “First of all, locking yourself out of your room is not an emergency.”

Jenn thankfully chose not to continue her bullet-point list of my failures with a second-of-all during our brief phone conversation. Given her January threat to evict me if Delores’s behavior did not change, and with my physical safety dependent on her largesse, I did not then challenge her competence, though I wondered privately at that time what constitutes an “emergency” in your program management playbook, if brandishing a chef’s knife does not?

In speaking with Jenn, I also did not accuse Delores of locking me out of my room, because I had not directly observed that action. As a healthy communicator, typically I ask more questions to better understand any given situation or individual narrative, rather than falsely accuse on too little information.

Because Delores responds with rage to my very existence within her radius, that left me with no one to ask, thus I can only tell you the sequence of events as I experienced them: in the midst of more of Delores’s raging in the kitchen, she left the room before I did, and may have continued farther on down the hall to my room instead of making a right through the door to downstairs. Her similar behavior I had previously observed, as she will sometimes continue to the bathroom, snapping off its light/fan hallway switch left on to ventilate the room, while raging her complaints about the rest of us “wasting” electricity, or slamming open the bathroom window to bray her trauma monologue out into the neighborhood after I leave the house, in violation of your Good Neighbor Policy. While I remain open to the slim possibility I may have accidentally turned the lock on the inside of the knob on the door to my room on my way to the kitchen, back in March it was my custom to only intentionally lock my unit door when I planned to leave the house altogether, not when I was still in pajamas and slippers and fetching my morning tea, and if she reached her hand inside my unit to lock the door, then in addition to your Crime Free Lease Addendum, that week she violated Sections 9 and 10 of your lease agreement, as well as the redundant verbiage within your Case Management Plan Addendum.

Linda further corroborated Delores’s customary behavior, tit-for-tat with your client who occupied my unit prior to my tenancy, Christine, whom she describes as nearly as criminally violent as our current housemate, or “a white Delores,” both of them motivated by sheer meanness, spite, or vengeance. I wonder if both Delores and your case and program management staff might be confusing me with Christine, as reluctant as they are to get to know me as a human being instead of just a chunk of data for your grant proposals funding their paychecks-? Perhaps all white – or white-passing – people all look the same to severely traumatized Delores?

On 25 April 2016, Delores violated her usual list of lease agreement, policies, and addenda during the hours specifically forbidden by your Good Neighbor Policy:

3. Quiet Hours are 10:00PM-8:00AM Sunday through Thursday, and 11:00PM -8:00AM Friday and Saturday.

About 11:00 pm that Monday night, on my way to bed, I quietly slipped to the kitchen for a glass of warm salt water gargle per recommendations from my dentist. Unfortunately for me, Delores happened to be in the midst of charring a chunk of animal flesh in a frying pan on the stovetop, window shut, exhaust fan off, and greeted me with her customary narcissistic rage, “FUUUCK, I KNEW IT. I WAITED ALL DAY TO COME UP HERE. YOU HAD ALL DAY TO USE THE KITCHEN. STOP HARASSING ME.”

I continued about my business without responding to her verbal onslaught, holding my breath away from the stench emanating from the stove.

“YOU DID NOT NEED TO RETURN ONE CUP FROM YOUR ROOM RIGHT NOW,” she bellowed, in textbook passive aggressive fashion, dictating control over the needs of others while blaming her own behavior on the victim of her abuse, “YOU’RE JUST DOING THAT TO HARASS ME.”

Collecting salt from the cupboard assigned to me and a glass from the shared house cupboard where you store your glassware required that I navigate the narrow galley past Delores’s position at the stove. She decided to lurch past me to her own food cupboard right at that moment, then abruptly spun around nearly into me, as had become typical of her physical assaults on my person. While I politely murmured, “Excuse me,” she raged at me more blame for her own behavior, “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME. DON’T YOU TOUCH ONE THREAD ON MY SWEATER.”

Given many threads on her sweater had already lurched into me, her command seemed utterly meaningless to me, though I could see where the situation would be challenging for responding officers to sort out who did what, when, where, and first if Delores accelerated her violence still further and I needed to physically defend myself from her assault.

From my peripheral vision, while I reached into my cupboard for salt, she adjusted her position, lounging against the counter opposite her meat spluttering on the stove, and smirked, “I wish you would. Then I will make all of your fantasy nightmares come true. ‘Cuz I will tear your fucking head off.”

I wordlessly passed through this narrow gauntlet between sizzling meat and her threats, accomplishing glass, salt, and continuing to the sink for water and the microwave for heat, while Delores maintained her raging monologue of threats and malicious harassment, again targeted specifically for my ancestry, or hereditary psoriasis, “I’M REPORTING YOU FOR HARASSING ME… CREPE-NECK! …WATTLE-HEAD! I HOPE YOU DON’T HAVE AIDS! ‘CUZ WITH THOSE DISGUSTING SPOTS ALL OVER YOUR BODY, YOU SURE LOOK LIKE IT! YOU LOOK LIKE A LEPER! STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

Sounds like my childhood enduring malicious harassment in the Bundy clan, with my genetic sisters calling me names like Oatmeal Head and Cracker Head when psoriasis inherited from both of our genetic parents plagued my scalp more than other areas of my body, was excellent preparation for remaining calm, cool, and collected in adulthood, however much it might enrage Delores to learn how much an energetic Black Lives Matter activist has in common with the rednecked Bundys.

As you can see from this image meta-dated the following day, under Robert Bowery’s clinical management, April and “At” announced their revolving door of your staff’s house visit via gossip from the housemate with a lengthy, well-documented history of threats and malicious harassment, in black, to which I added my request for audiovisual protection since Jenn and Hilary had failed to uphold your own contract terms and law, urgent priorities in pink, household maintenance requests in green:

cha safety request

Restful Peace Cottage whiteboard meta-dated 26 April 2016.

To my safety concerns, Linda and Angie added theirs, with Angie’s additional prompt for your team’s months’ long failures to uphold your Case Management Plan Addendum adding further evidence of the hypocrisy of their 10-Day Notice to Comply or Vacate to me, retaliation prohibited by Washington landlord tenant law RCW 59.18.240:

cha april av safety requests

Restful Peace Cottage whiteboard meta-dated 29 April 2016.

When Delores observed our requests for audiovisual protection on the whiteboard, she raged at me, “YOU DID THAT SO THEY WOULD THINK IT’S ME.”

Curious if our whiteboard requests were still visible when or if your staff dropped by the house while I was out pursuing my educational and employment goals?

When I again broached the subject of audiovisual protection for the safety of your clients in the presence of your staff, at the June meeting April went beyond trotting out the excuse I anticipated, that you do not have a budget for 21st century technology helping you achieve your stated goals, to scolding us for calling the police when one of your clients is threatening the rest of us with bodily harm, her behavior again identical to the behavior of my dysfunctional graduate school departmental faculty, who then rewarded the perpetrator of violent behavior, their organizational decisions eventually leading to a federal investigation of institutionalized behavior so similar to April’s decision-making faculties.

Not to mention a mass-shooting, triple homicide still awaiting federal investigation into the complicity of Idaho’s Skittles Schools in perpetrating that behavior.

With at least four global-headline-grabbing psychopharmacological-drug-related shooting homicide events to their tiny, agricultural college town credit since 2007.

So far.

Delores chimed in with a new-to-me version of her martyr narrative, falsely accused me of taking pictures of her, whined to April that her housemates had not granted her permission to violate our privacy, destroy our property, or review our digital devices, and threatened me with a lawsuit for legally protecting myself from her criminal behavior under RCW 9.73.030, exceptions to laws forbidding the intercepting, recording, or divulging of private communications, even if we continue to pretend for your incompetent staff that threats of bodily harm rampaged throughout a shared communal living environment might be reasonably construed as “private” communications rather than flagrant violations of your lease, addenda, written policies, and law.

How about if we stop pretending?

Astonished, I waited patiently for April or Charlotte to do their jobs and better apprise Delores of state laws or enforce our contract.

Instead, doll-like, April repeated Delores’s interpretation of law, threatening not just my safety but the safety of all of your tenants, not just at Restful Peace Cottage, but all of the sites managed by Compass Housing Alliance, further abusing the power of her position as Program Manager, and confirming her dismal lack of qualifications for the job required by RCW 70.123.070:

“It is illegal to record anyone without their permission,” she giggled and shrugged that she had just learned at an earlier house meeting that very day that it was also illegal to take pictures for self-defense, stating, “That would not be okay with us.”

Not that I am granting permission to your staff to dictate at me the limits of my communications with law enforcement, but I inquired of April when she thought it was acceptable to call 911.

“This calling the cops needs to stop, because,” April rambled through a disorganized list, of which I was only able to note two examples, as Angie and Delores and Charlotte simultaneously chimed in to offer their legal opinions, while your Program Manager shared the limits of her knowledge of domestic violence law, “So when you’re in the middle of an argument, that would be a waste of police resources.”

Curious what opinion Chief Kathleen O’Toole might offer about best use of her department’s resources-?

From my perspective, Compass Housing Alliance abuses police resources by failing to perform their job descriptions as case, program, and clinical managers while nevertheless receiving grant-funded paychecks for those services.

Regardless, happily for her housemates, Linda did not violate even April’s new interpretation of Washington law when she called 911 in January, because no reasonable person would describe Delores’s raging trauma monologues as “fights” or mutual dialogue, despite her sulky accusation, “Calling the police and lying.”

But what about when Delores called out the police to report her “stolen” bicycle-? Or Delores’s confession to using Snapchat in a secret location? Or, more recently, while your property is torn apart for re-plumbing and construction repair, forcing upstairs residents to run Delores’s rampaging downstairs gauntlet to shower in a room with holes through the ceiling on either side of the door, openly boasting on the kitchen whiteboard of her potentially criminal behavior prohibited by RCW 9A.44.115 pertaining to voyeurism, RCW 4.24.795 the distribution of intimate images, and infringing upon the rights protected by RCW 63.60.050 as evidenced by her handwriting in this image meta-dated 02 September 2016:

cha camera voyeur

Restful Peace Cottage whiteboard, meta-dated 02 September 2016.

Or earlier, on 04 July 2016, in the midst of the week or so that Linda occupied the upstairs common living area dealing with her hoarding issues, organizing, and repacking her possessions for her forthcoming departure from your program, and I witnessed Delores click her camera phone at the towers of boxes while Linda sat in the middle of them? While I did not see the resulting image, from the angle and proximity of Delores in relation to her subject matter, drawing upon my educated expertise in visual communications, Linda was likely the focal point.

Not technically illegal, not addressed in your lease or companion documents, but maybe a threat to the safety of survivors of domestic violence, depending on how a felon chooses to meta-tag and distribute her photography? Furthermore, does April’s one-sided listening meet the state legislature’s intent to achieve more uniformity in the decision-making processes at public and private agencies that address domestic violence by reducing inconsistencies and duplications allowing domestic violence victims to achieve safety and stability in their lives, or thwart it?

“If someone threatens you with a knife, or something, then I could see…” April meandered through June’s meeting without an agenda, describing the situation that occurred three months prior that her predecessor Jenn had not considered emergent enough to warrant a call to your emergency voicemail line, let alone accessing SPD resources via 911-?

Anticipating that April might next paradoxically chastise or threaten me with eviction for not calling 911 on the occasion when Delores had threatened me with a chef’s knife, I did not then ask further questions, pursuant to your Non-Discrimination Anti-Harassment Policy:

If you feel it’s safe, ask the person harassing you to stop the behavior [emph. mine].

I am not safe under your staff’s criminal mismanagement. My lack of safety is not a “feeling” of mine. That is a judgment I am sharing with you. I make that judgment based on your staff’s words and actions violating and supporting violations of Washington criminal law despite a preponderance of evidence and eyewitness grievances reporting those crimes. Really important distinction between passive aggressive and healthy communication, learning the difference between feelings and judgments, which is why I have explained that difference using stick figure drawings so even small children could understand generations of philosophy and psychoanalytic theory underpinning my judgments, and encourage your rewriting of your lease and companion documents to more rationally communicate judgments rather than passive aggressively dismiss our valid safety concerns as “feelings.”




Replicating her unprofessionalism from May’s meeting, April also neglected to adjourn June’s meeting, which dwindled to an opportunity to continue pursuing my educational and employment goals when Delores again left the table raging. When in May Delores had stormed off after her passive aggressive nopology for April’s “feelings,” and she and April continued bickering over the top of each other, in June, April and Charlotte, confusing healthy boundaries on abusive behavior with passive aggression, again abused their positions of power by permitting Delores to again blame me for her feelings and her criminally abusive behavior, as she got up and left the table, raging, “If she [glaring at me] stops doing passive aggressive stuff, then I’ll stop getting angry…”

Recalling SPD Officers Bennett and Davenport explaining to me that taking pictures of someone is not illegal when they responded to my call about the drunken man verbally harassing me while adding images of me to his camera phone during one of my early morning workouts at South Lake Union last summer, at my subsequent first and last case meeting with Charlotte, I followed up on the safety issue, asking for the legal cite for April’s new rule not addressed under the terms of our lease agreement.

Charlotte glared and passive aggressively avoided answering my direct question by quickly changing the subject.

In that meeting, free from Delores rampaging over the top of me and accusing me of lying, I also clearly stated that I had not taken any images of Delores, though I acknowledged I am using my smartphone to document my experiences of daily living. Not a crime to document my personal life experience. Nor does documenting the criminal abuses I experience on your property violate any of our lease terms.

Another pouty-faced glare and more avoidance from your passive aggressive case manager in response to my question hoping to prompt your staff to change their behavior encouraging criminal behavior, “If Delores doesn’t like me recording her rampaging threats of bodily harm, then she can do what?”

For the benefit of the safety of your entire household, as you can see from this image meta-dated on my birthday this summer, I added my request to the meeting minutes Charlotte had taped to the kitchen whiteboard:

cha violating rcw 9.73.030Shortly thereafter, the June meeting minutes disappeared from the common area.

Continuing her perpetual abuse of the fourth clause of your Good Neighbor Policy with no motivation to read your contract as anything other than a list of boundaries for her to violate without compunction, on 30 August 2016, Delores hosted late-night company. A portion of her contribution to their conversation that I could not help but overhear, try as I might on my way to bed that night, behind closed doors and a blocked vent:

“…I think he’s an ISIS sympathizer, honestly. I was so afraid that someone would text Homeland Security and call the cops on us…”

If Delores wants to have private conversations waxing nostalgic on her criminal behaviors, maybe she could schedule them during office hours? Better still, away from the house? Or keep her tone lowered to what a reasonable person considers conversational?

No, I do not have a recording to prove what I overheard after a long day pursuing my educational and employment goals. Just my ear-witness testimony.

Noting that Delores expressed greater fear of American police brutality than ISIS, with some highly publicized, well-documented, reasonable rationale for that fear, may I get some trauma-recovered, trauma-educated, identity-educated law enforcement backup now, please?

I don’t care if they’re white, black, some variegated brown, male, female, cis-, trans-, gay, lesbian, pansexual, hung like horses, or you need a microscope to find their penises, Muslim, Jewish, Hindi, or some fundamentalist Christian sect, Republican, Democrat, Pink, or Green Party, born in Antarctica, or hail from the warm cradle of civilization. As long as they are psychologically healthy enough to listen to multiple perspectives, technologically savvy enough to know a URL from a hole in the ground, emotionally intelligent enough to keep their trigger-happy fingers off their triggers without a criminal first threatening to fire in their direction, and follow secular law in their law enforcement activities.

With no offense intended to him personally, but in my forty-plus years of experience, Special Agent in Charge of the Seattle Division, Frank Montoya, Jr., with his degree from Brigham Young University, may have a spiritual or gendered conflict of interest with fairly hearing my perspective without first unpacking his childhood baggage of judgments. Maybe not. Maybe he’s the one or two or 110,000 Mormons, according to the Salt Lake Tribune, who might like to see their chosen religion find better solutions for incest, trafficking, rape, and homicide than quietly sweeping them under the rug or blaming victims of criminal abuse of patriarchal authority. Maybe better to avoid even the appearance of conflict in a neglected investigation of Idaho’s Skittles Schools that I first requested via a call to the Boise office at 8:45 on the morning of 27 May 2014, the date that really was the 14th anniversary of my real wedding to my real prosecutor ex-husband, son of alleged ex-FBI parents, yes, really, while locked up without arrest or access to competent counsel for a month of my life by Idaho’s mental juridical health authorities who described all of these relationships as “delusions” with no attempt to fact-check reality beyond my abusive family’s testimony, and again on 28 November 2014, after I posted my statement online for whichever body of law enforcement would like to commence enforcing the law-? Just think, maybe the brother of former Idaho state legislator Tom Trail might still be alive if trafficking survivors were given a little higher priority on the punch list of men running around waving guns in public, stomping their feet, insisting on the “rightness” of their perspective or quietly isolating their womenfolk who speak out against the toxic parenting in private that leads to those very public abuses:

fbi trafficking tipWhich is just as well that he retired in the midst of this writing, by Jungian coincidence, on the wedding anniversary of my genetic parents – that U.S. Navy and IRS veteran father and obedient mother – coincidentally the third anniversary of the Washington Navy Yard mass shooting. In addition to his years of service with the Marine Corps, I wonder if the new guy has taken any college courses in identity theory? How do you suppose he feels about consanguinity data analysis or DNA evidence or the synchronicity principle?

The Victim Witness program isn’t working nearly as well as it could be if the DOJ had hired me for its available support staff position in Arizona when I applied for it last year after I missed the deadline for a similar position in Ohio, limited as I was by Paul Allen’s technology. Now that that agency has finally indicted Cliven for his offenses coincidentally simultaneous to my 2014 incarceration in Idaho for the grievous “crimes” of describing our relationship – second cousin, once removed – and reporting a poorly investigated and perhaps too rapidly prosecuted cold case homicide, maybe one of those agencies could be persuaded to hairball up a budget that includes a genuinely safe house – or bare bones structure I can convert into well-designed live/work space – and transportation for arguably the global expert in the psychology of serial killers while I work on bringing them up to 21st century speed on the intersections between psychoanalytic and identity theories and the inextricable interconnections between gender and sexuality and human psychology? Happily resolving the housing, bus pass, and employment concerns of your case and program managers, while simultaneously addressing the issues that led to this period of homelessness, or multitasking on nothing more than a food stamp budget.

In researching for my analysis of Moscow’s 2015 mass shooter, I’ve reviewed the Behavioral Health Unit alum’s posthumous psychoanalysis of the 2007 mass shooter at Virginia Tech, the event that prompted my drawing studio pedagogy mediating conflict and emphasizing collaborative working skills introduced to a group of Seattle’s designers and engineers in 2010, and it sounds to me like issues of masculinity and that revulsion against finding commonality with the horrifying other might still be limiting the FBI’s understanding of human psychology more than 18 years after the State of Florida executed my adopted eighth cousin, twice removed Ted.

Briefly, in a 260-page Portable Document Format (PDF) report converted from Microsoft PowerPoint by Windows Distiller 6.0 by someone using the machine registered by author “tcopping,” boasting an index missing interactive links to corresponding sections, but replete with page numbering that does not match Adobe Acrobat’s automatic pagination, covered in a pixelated image of white, drop-shadowed, small-capped, serifed typography so tightly leaded that the baseline of the first line perches directly atop the ascenders of the second line, layered above possibly generic stock or more likely amateur photography, stretched beyond the scale of its original dimensions to fit the width of the page, nationally recognized experts across the fields of law and psychiatry, including Tom Ridge, former U.S. Secretary appointed by former President George W. Bush to the then-newly created but administratively redundant Department of Homeland Security, selected by then-Governor, now-U.S. Senator and Vice Presidential Candidate Timothy M. Kaine fail to recognize the harm of a childhood devoid of praise or shaking a child as abusive behavior, much as Idaho’s mental health professionals in 2014 still failed to recognize spitting or slapping as abusive behavior, or your case and program managers fail to recognize malicious harassment and threats and gestures of bodily harm as illegal behaviors, compounded with the potential long-term harm effects of antidepressants prescribed in adolescence, and instead recommend more money, more case managers, which, in the field of psychiatry corrupted with the influence of pharmaceutical company executives who care about little more than acquiring more real property for themselves or padding their own bank accounts, means little more than still more meds inevitably contributing to still more egregious social harm.

In other words, after our national response to the 1999 Columbine High School massacre was zero tolerance and increased police surveillance, instead of learning from that brutal lesson, since 2007 the surveillance duties and responsibilities have shifted to undereducated “mental health professionals.”

And who, pray tell, is surveilling the passive aggressive and visually disabled case managers and mental health professionals undereducated in human psychology and so unfamiliar with 21st century technology that they fail to use Google to ascertain the difference between “delusions” and public record facts-?

My apologies for wasting so many years applying to those little art faculty and corporate design survival jobs. I had no idea how desperately this nation needs my cross-disciplinary skills at the imbrication of law and psychology until I was locked up with the mass shooter who returned to our graduate school community seven months after our shared incarceration and seven years after I published and nationally exhibited my MFA thesis examining the crux of difference between any two, not black and white polar opposites as we might feel more comfortable believing, but a blur of greyscale value, where we have twice-privileged the presence of abuse, neglecting the harm caused by the absence of nurturing.

As challenging as it might be, until we begin to recognize commonalities between self and, yes, even that most horrifying other, the serial killer or the mass shooter for some of us, or a beautiful, intelligent, compassionate woman crossing campus for others of you, our culture will never repair the egregious crimes that began as communication problems role modeled during early childhood development, and continue through a lack of healthy educational, communal, or spiritual role models.

With no changes in current education policy or social services delivery, you may expect the next generation of sexual assaults and campus massacres to be live-streamed and drone-delivered by white, male hackers lounging in the comfort of their recliners in the basement rec rooms of their fraternities. All because the short-term thinking, narcissistic engineers at Alphabet and Virginia Tech saw an opportunity to turn a profit delivering ever-faster burritos to the same target audience. Or the frat boys could learn how to roll and stuff their own tortillas?

April’s psychologist might begin by repeating familiar language back to her, gently asking, “Why did you give your power to Delores?”

Follow-up questions, prompting still further self-reflection, might be, “Was it out of white guilt?”

Or maybe, “Would you like to talk about what happened in your first five years of early childhood that left you readily identifying with the martyr narrative of the loudest person in the room instead of listening to all perspectives and weighing the preponderance of evidence before making sound business decisions?”

If April works very hard over the next 10 years, she might be able to repair whatever traumatic events she experienced that leave her still visibly stranded at the oral stage of early childhood development, ineffectively self-medicating her trauma with her chain-smoking addiction.

As far as I have been able to ascertain, once again performing the jobs of your case and program management team without benefit of their paychecks in the interest of protecting myself from criminally violent behavior, with respect to photography, the Washington legislature primarily concerns itself with image production and distribution as it rightly should, recognizing models and photographers as paid professional positions, hence the consent requirement, so passive consumers of imagery do not benefit from the active labor of professional visual producers without paying for it. Contrary to the opinions of a former director elected to Seattle School Board and her campaign manager brother of a 2016 contender for Commissioner of Public Lands, you cannot legally use visual product without paying the visual producer your contractually agreed wage.

Otherwise, are your staff familiar with 21st century sharing media such as YouTube, Flickr, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Vimeo, Pinterest, and don’t forget Delores’s Snapchat preference, and so on and on and on, each Silicon Alley, Valley, or Shanghai team globally vying for market triumph? According to RCW 63.60.070, consent is not required in connection with matters of cultural, historical, political, educational, newsworthy, or public interest, including for comment, criticism, and satire. April, Charlotte, Delores, and their gangs of thugs may not like my commenting on the criminal behavior perpetrated by Compass Housing Alliance, but cleaning up your social services act is newsworthy, and in the public interest. In other words, I can satirize your identity as a private- and taxpayer-funded nonprofit corporation that Lost Its Moral Compass Somewhere Along the Way Dysfunctional Housing Unholy Alliance Burning White Crosses on Seattle’s Front Porch, but you cannot legally use my original, satirical graphic design without my permission:

cha identity satire

You’re welcome to redesign the identity core to your business values.

Which design and branding firm are you going to hire for that job?

They might be interested in hiring me, as I have already done the hard work of design research from the point of view of your clients instead of inventing stereotypical homeless personas, essential to providing healthier solutions to your communications problems.

As you can see from my Spring Rolls demonstration above capturing an audio snippet of Delores’s near-daily, foul-mouthed trauma narrative harassing your other clients, I have deliberately refrained from taking images of my housemates, even if it is legal, out of respect for confidentiality in our precarious positions as impoverished women, with who-knows-how-many of us fleeing domestic violence. Back to that Golden Rule, where I would not want Delores snapping her camera at me anymore than I want her raging at me. Yet once again, Charlotte disrespected the recommendations of arguably the global expert in the psychology of serial killers and former wife of a state prosecutor and preparing for my own law schooling, April only respected the loudest voice in the room and obediently allowed a criminal to dictate her program management decisions, and it looks like, in between the first of August and 22 days later you failed to inform your undereducated staff that landlord retaliation is prohibited by RCW 59.18.240, when Clare Tremper, Property Manager, stopped by to disrupt my pursuit of my educational and employment goals, knocking on my unit door without a prior appointment and demanding that I attend to her priorities at her convenience, personally hand-delivering another 10-Day Notice to Comply or Vacate, because April told her to, she stated to me:

preamble 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 remedy

Resetting Your Moral Compass

preamble 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 remedy

Continuing my numeric outline of your staff’s June House Meeting minutes, I’ve pulled aside this analysis of Seattle’s problem communicating its recycling/composting/landfill solutions to its intended audience because of the duration and volume and expanse of Delores’s rage stemming from three packets of tea:

3. My apologies in advance for the length of my analysis documenting the chain of passive aggressive communications, replete with Delores’s ongoing harassment, malicious harassment, and threats of bodily harm, circling around the the compost issue. After this, I’d like to not have to write, speak, or listen to anymore raging about compost for the rest of my life, which I still – perhaps unreasonably – hope is not more than halfway spent. I don’t know about you, but I feel exhausted by the combined total hours I have listened to people rage about compost, recycling, and landfill in Seattle, despite its national reputation as a green city. Those hours are subtracted from my job-seeking time. I have not experienced “spare” time for at least two decades, when I decided to value life perhaps more than your average couch potato. That is how I have been able to accomplish so much on such minuscule budgets. On the upside, this microcosmic conflict beautifully demonstrates how passive aggressive communication rationalizes abusive, or criminal, behavior, providing still further evidence of the value of Unplay to the global market:

From my first morning at Restful Peace Cottage, Delores disrupted my meditative tea and writing ritual with her rage.

At the June house meeting, Delores rudely interrupted my telling of my perspective on the compost issue at this point by shouting, “THAT’S A LIE.”

Followed by April sharing with everyone who attended June’s meeting her judgment formed on the basis of nothing more than listening to Delores’s martyr narrative during their executive smoke session outside May’s group meeting, openly accusing me of “vengeance” rather than recognizing the urgent need of placing healthy boundaries on her criminally abusive behavior. So, again, if Compass staff could be better educated to withhold their judgments while remaining open to hearing multiple perspectives and first weighing the preponderance of evidence, then may I continue?

Plucking my three paper packets of tea where I had left them in the countertop plastic bin that Hilary had indicated during my walk-through was to be used for kitchen compost, Delores announced, apropos of nothing as far as I could see from my position at the dining room table, holding aloft her fistful of tea-dampened paper, her tone shaking with rage, “We recycle here.”

Because none of her arguments against disposing food-soiled paper in the compost bin were logical, and her rage far out-sized to her perceived offense, I could readily see Delores’s conflict was internal, symptomatic of trauma, unrelated to her superficial complaint:

First, she argued, dictating at me that I must prioritize her rage ahead of my morning’s meditative practice, the paper packets of tea were not compostable because they were not designed and printed with the text “recyclable,” which to me communicated nothing more than her unreasonable expectation for the graphic designer producing the packaging, as well as her confusion of the separation between Seattle’s recycling and composting programs, where of course any food-soiled paper, including enormous, meat-greasy corrugated cardboard pizza delivery boxes, can be deposited in curbside yard waste/composting bins, as long as the paper consists of wood pulp or other natural fibers, no plastic.

Next, she raged that my three paper packets of tea took up too much space in the kitchen compost bin, and that I needed to be more considerate of the compost space needs of the five other women in the household, her argument made all the more illogical, or self-centered, after she dumped her basket coffee filter and spent grounds – scaled considerably larger than my petite three packets of tea – in the same bin. Clearly, then, Delores’s rage pertained to autonomy and sharing space.

Third, she spluttered onward about dyes and inks, which relate in some regions, again, to recyclable, not compostable, material. In Seattle, however, paper recycling is so comprehensive we do not distinguish between soy, oil, or rubber-based inks, all paper that is not food soiled belongs in the recycling bin if you cannot find other reuses for it. I suggested she better familiarize herself with Seattle’s recycling and composting rules rather than continue to disrupt my morning meditative practice. Instead, she unpinned the curbside pickup schedule from the kitchen bulletin board, and flung it in my direction on the table where I had been peacefully writing before Delores decided to disrespect my spiritual and healthy psychological practice, a clear violation of your Non-Discrimination Anti-Harassment Policy, which states:

Compass Housing Alliance will not tolerate harassment or intimidation of residents, guests or staff because of their protected class – race, age, ancestry, color, creed, disability, religion, sex, sexual orientation, national origin, marital status, parental status, political ideology, gender identity, military status [minus Oxford comma] or section [lowercase S, sic] 8 status. [emphasis mine]

Further, Delores and your staff remain in clear violation of the same policy:

Compass Housing Alliance will not tolerate retaliation by staff or residents against anyone who complains of discriminatory harassment or intimidation or who asserts their [sic] rights under fair housing laws. We will not tolerate retaliation by staff or residents against anyone who provides evidence or participates in any such investigation.

Because I had asked her to stop disrupting my meditative writing practice, I had already followed what to me is civil communications, placing healthy boundaries on her abusive communications, or your procedure:

If you feel it’s safe, ask the person harassing you to stop the behavior.

Instead of respecting my verbal boundary, however, Delores continued to stomp back and forth between the kitchen and the dining area, her tone and volume by then in full-blown rage, while I practiced Buddhist equanimity.

“I KNOW PAPER TOO!” she raged against my expert knowledge of paper, with my archival works exhibited nationwide and included in Special Collections in libraries in two of those states, having successfully persuaded the Graduate College at the University of Idaho that paper manufactured with 100 percent cotton fibers is actually more archival than their minimum 25 percent cotton requirement; printing from movable type, with surviving samples from the 11th century in China, likewise, more archival than their contemporary photocopier requirement; and hand-bound folded mould-made signatures sewn on cords in a manner dating from the 14th century in Western Europe much more archival than the institution’s glued machine binding of flat, machine-produced 8.5×11 office paper, thanks to the support of their conservation librarian, despite the graduate school’s administrative staff’s initial resistance, their ignorance, hostility, and arguments every bit as illogical as Delores’s, I note for those higher education administrators and law enforcement still searching for healthier solutions to the problem of mass shootings and sexual assault on college campuses or random alternate locations nationwide.

As I already explained in my grievance to Robert Bowery, all paper is biodegradable, which is what Seattle’s compost requires. While I respect the likelihood that Delores speaks from her experiences different from mine, from where I’m coming from, usually the question is not if paper will biodegrade, but how fast. What I further learned from her irrational rage over three paper packets of tea, it is very important to Delores to be right, to be an expert in something. She may well be a master gardener, but if she wants to be an expert in Seattle recycling, composting, and landfill law, then she needs to better familiarize herself with Seattle’s rules.

Apropos of nothing related to her composting complaint, but an indicator of long-running, unresolved household conflict far pre-dating my tenancy, she further raged, “DON’T LISTEN TO ANGIE!”

Not until many weeks later did I notice the neighborhood curbside pickup schedule’s taped edges had never been opened until I arrived in your household, with Seattle’s sorting charts printed on reverse. Perhaps that helps to explain some of Delores’s composting/recycling/landfill confusion-?

Still inexplicable to your trauma-uneducated staff, her monologic rage response to any perceived conflict, no matter how small.

Still oblivious to your trauma-uneducated staff, their denial, avoidance, and blaming the victims of Delores’s felonious rage.

When she exited the kitchen one last time that morning, pausing in the dining area to offer a passive aggressive nopology, not owning her rampaging behavior, but for “the confusion” before stomping back downstairs, I gave Delores the benefit of the doubt, thanked her for her “apology,” and privately hoped that meant she would better educate herself about Seattle recycling laws, and we could start our relationship anew. Instead, as I anticipated from observing her behavior during my house screening interview, wherein she frequently interrupted Angie to deny Angie’s perspective while declaring her own personal truth, their voices ever-rising in tone and volume as they competed for my attention, Delores’s “confusion” and rage over composting continued through summer’s growing season, exacerbated by your staff’s inability to maintain healthy boundaries on Delores’s criminal behavior.

Factually contrary to April’s amplification of Delores’s paranoid, falsely accusatory, narcissistic martyr narrative during June’s house meeting that Restful Peace Cottage residents had been adding kitchen compost to Delores’s personal garden project instead of leaving our kitchen waste for curbside collection until I came along in November and turned all of her housemates against her, by late January, Angie discovered that Delores had scooped cross-cut shredded paper bits from out of the curbside compost where Angie left them, into curbside recycling, sure to jam Seattle’s recycling equipment, thus violating Seattle law.

Yes, on your payroll, you include a program manager who defends, without question, the behavior of your client who neglects addressing the issues leading to her homelessness, employment, and education goals to prioritize going through our trash to redistribute cross-cut shredded paper bits.

What followed was a lengthy back-and-forth on the house whiteboard between the two of them. First Angie printed the applicable composting rule from Seattle’s website, then Delores avoided owning her peculiar behavior by changing the conversation to announce that the curbside green bin would revert from food waste to yard waste beginning in February, apropos of nothing to do with the terms of your lease or daily living for the rest of us, as of course Seattle collects food and yard waste in the same green curbside container.

As you can hear from this audio clip meta-dated 06 February 2016, with Delores still raging over three packets of tea nearly four months later. So much for her apology for her confusion, she returned to insisting the compost bin is the “wrong” place for tea-dampened paper, her intolerance for people who cannot admit when they are wrong, and she still assumed she knows my multiracial heritage better than I do:

After announcing, on Thanksgiving, “Today’s the day I kill the pilgrims,” as I already reported in my grievance to Hilary’s inappropriate response, Delores celebrated Valentine’s Day by raging at me, forbidding me from touching “her” kitchen countertop compost bin, adding to her seemingly never-ending personal kitchen inventory, boasting that she had made Hilary purchase the house bin specifically for Delores, and she would not allow my “poison paper” in “her” compost bin.

Yes, she actually used the term “poison” – typical of paranoia – to refer to three paper packets of tea.

That was in the midst of a lengthy martyred tirade, to which she responded to my request that she please stop raging at me by stomping on the deny station of her passive aggressive volvelle: “I’M NOT RAGING.”

Onward to avoid, if she was raging, then I would know about it, because she would be scratching my eyes out, she threatened, accelerating her rage. A moment later, she vigorously shook her pointing finger at me, not farther than six inches from my eyes. In self-protection, I raised a flat hand between her finger and my face, screening my eyes, and quietly told her to get her finger out of my face.

She shifted around her trauma narrative to blame, accusing me of her own aggressive behavior, darting away while squealing, “DON’T TOUCH ME!” At the blame station, thoroughly immersed in incoherent, disconnected events of rage, she accused me of previously calling the police to beat her up, a theme she returns to again and again.

Both proceeding to and propelled from the martyr station, next Delores raged into personal attack, describing my mustache as ugly, stating that I am a “retard,” and I have very low I.Q., more perpetual themes that Delores revisits in her raging inappropriately directed toward me. Angie she perpetually refers to as “fat bitch” and Linda as “nigger,” “psychopath,” or “baldy.” In addition to “retard,” as I already reported to Robert Bowery, some of her choice appellations for me have included “stupid,” “waste of space on the planet,” “bitch,” “cunt,” “lesbian,” “Andy Warhol,” “ugly,” “stalker,” and she enjoys sharing her psychologically uneducated diagnosis “psychopath” for me as well.

Once, she changed her “diagnosis” of me to agree with the diagnosis offered by one of Idaho’s gummy-eyed, white, male mental health professionals, who reenacts his thinly suppressed rage with his mother on women under his control, and in my case decided I suffer “bipolar disorder” because I was more knowledgable about Governor Otter’s campaign for reelection than the limits of his own familiarity, which communicates to me that Delores has very likely been diagnosed with one or both of these psychiatric labels at some point in her trajectory through our broken national mental health system.

Again, it is so important for the safety of all of us that your case, program, and clinical staff learn to hear Delores’s trauma, learn what she has very likely suffered throughout her childhood, so they can help her hear herself. Ultimately, the goal with trauma recovery is not just for the narcissistic subject self to be heard by an empathetic, listening other, but, where we all self-talk, for Delores to hear herself, to recognize the other inside herself, instead of lashing out in rage covering fear, and learn to build empathy for the other, all-important skills visibly unformed or broken in her early childhood, as she rages over the top of anyone whose perspective diverges from her own.

Just as important, for the safety of all of your clients as well as for the mental health of your staff, that they learn to recognize that raging trauma monologues are not based on facts of current events. Trauma follows the structure of memory, repeating, repeating, as the unrecovered traumatized subject self relives previous traumatic events by what Freud and later the philosopher Jacques Derrida described as nachträglich, belatedly, deferred, experienced more fully in the present than in the past when they occurred, when the child survived traumatic events by repressing them. Obediently capitulating to Delores’s raging commands is the very worst thing your staff could do on all counts.

An adult unrecovered from severe childhood trauma seeks boundaries, limits that her parents failed to establish in their neglect, or viciously bridged, in sexual slavery, because she needs to learn that she can depend on the safety of living without harassment, coercion, and threats, hence Delores no doubt follows early childhood role modeling and repeatedly tests the boundaries set by your lease agreement and companion documents. Each time she has abused those boundaries, your revolving door of staff have twang-TWANG-twang failed her, banjos rewarding or amplifying her abusive martyr narrative instead of establishing a world grounded in basic human dignity and mutual respect. Rewarding criminal behavior only reinforces the paradigm established by abusive parents, confirming for the victim/abuser that abuse succeeds.

I responded to her insults by complimenting her intelligence, “I think you’re a whole lot more intelligent than you give yourself credit for.”

Because Delores is not healthy enough to hear even compliments, let alone bask in them, she continued to rage, “I’M A WHOLE LOT SMARTER THAN YOU!”

“I’m not competing with you,” I kept my tone conversational throughout her tirade, “You have a terrific amount of energy, how about do something productive with that energy, instead of wasting it on me?”

Forbidden from touching “her” countertop compost bin without incurring still more of her daily foul-mouthed raging, ever-shifting limitations to compost found nowhere in Seattle law, but hearing that Delores wanted very different convoluted, incoherent, and indecipherable rules applied to “her” garden, two days later, while you were in the midst of revolving the door of your case and program management staff, I devised a temporary design solution to the house problem of no kitchen container for all of the compost she forbid from the yard: paper grocery sacks – or compostable bins for compost – like I used for three years in my apartment in Seattle’s Queen Anne neighborhood without raging, supporting healthier ecology even before Seattle made it illegal to dump compost into recycling or landfill, placed a note atop her countertop bin communicating to my housemates something like Delores’s garden compost here, compost for Seattle curbside law beneath the sink, and labeled the sack under the sink.

Problem solved, so Delores could focus her energies on her garden, and the rest of us could return to focusing on our educational and employment goals.

When I returned from the libraries later that evening, I found the countertop bin shoved inconveniently in front of an electrical outlet, in an unsanitary location adjacent to the kitchen knives, and my note communicating the new city collection location to my housemates had disappeared, replaced with Delores’s spidery, copious handwriting. Despite many times sneering her disdain at me for my educated expertise in visual communications, raging at me, “I’M AN EXPERT IN COMMUNICATIONS! I TEACH IT!” leaving me deeply empathetic for the suffering of her alleged students, you may notice her incomplete and incoherent instructions for separating what she defines as “yard waste” (though generated in the kitchen) and “garden compost” (while defining no distinction between yard and garden) with no direction to our four other housemates as to where they might dispose of their food waste she forbid from “her” countertop container, as this image meta-dated 16 February 2016 demonstrates:

cha compost feb2016Later, I noticed she had also gone to all the trouble to obstruct my communications to my housemates written on the paper sack, simply to follow Seattle composting rules, which are already posted on the house kitchen bulletin board, or available online. She had double-bagged the sack with my instructions inside another sack, ripped and torn, and left a jumbled mess under the sink.

Again, the narcissistic trauma monologue is never about the superficial conflict, as this situation clearly demonstrates, rather, the severely traumatized child’s urge to control the actions and communications of everyone in her immediate vicinity. Dissatisfied by the unresponsiveness of all of her housemates as we continued with our own individual priorities, by the next morning, Delores demanded acknowledgment that she had been heard:

cha compost stove

Restful Peace Cottage whiteboard meta-dated 16 February 2016.

While she is to be commended, for perhaps the first time since I have encountered Delores, for including “please” and “thank you” with her dictatorial commands ordering the entire household to obey her instructions, a demand prefaced with please is still a demand. The demand to follow her personal compost rules instead of Seattle law was left beneath her demand to clean up a scorch mess she herself had left behind on one of the stovetop burner pans, which I moved to the sink to soak in hot, soapy water for her, but did not volunteer my time further to either of her projects. As I have repeatedly communicated to your team, I will meet my contractual obligations plus offer a little bit more; beyond that, I will not permit my healthy boundaries to be further bridged.

That’s why healthy psychologists refer to these boundaries as boundaries.

Later that evening, returning again from addressing the issues that led to this experience of homelessness and pursuing my educational and career goals within the maximum time limit of just three-and-one-half hours of library computer time, I observed what must have been a very busy whiteboard day for Delores. Still dissatisfied with the lack of acknowledgment of her irrational demands from housemates preoccupied with our educational and employment goals, she arrogantly presumed to add to our household chores, in brown, with my healthy boundary response to her abusive rampaging in blue:

cha compost boundary

Restful Peace Cottage whiteboard meta-dated 16 February 2016.

A short while later, and after typical office hours, your then-Interim Case Manager John Clark dropped by the house unannounced to check mail and dole out bus tickets. Delores bounded upstairs for his attention, whirled around the kitchen, enraged by my boundary communications on the whiteboard, and hastily erased my contribution to the discussion, hissing at me while I waited for the microwave and John went down the hall to check on Yenesulesh, “You wrote that on purpose! So he would see!”

Of course I had no way of guessing that John would drop by the house unannounced that evening, I simply communicated directly to Delores what she needed to do if she wanted my help with her garden, but her erasing is another example of behavior typical of abusers isolating their victims by obstructing or controlling communications with authority figures.

While I retired to my room to eat my dinner in relative peace, John permitted Delores to rage at him for well over an hour that evening. Curious if he submitted overtime that week for his inability to place healthy boundaries on her trauma monologue by simply scheduling an appointment for her with your clinical services manager and wishing her a good evening, or if he very generously donated an hour of his personal time to her rage-? The parts of Delores’s rampaging that I could overhear from behind the closed door to my room and above the music on my smartphone are typical of children traumatized by abusive parents who teach them “right” from “wrong” while neglecting or abusing those children, typical also of chronologically adult abusers, “I’VE TOLD HER ALREADY… SHE’S JUST WRONG…” As well as her martyred plaint, blaming her abusive behavior on the rest of her housemates, “THEY’RE MAKING ME DO THIS… THEY’RE PUSHING MY BUTTONS…”

Maybe that’s what Hilary meant by “triggering” victim/abusers blaming others for their own criminal behavior?

When I slipped out to the kitchen in the midst of her hour-long tirade to scrub off my dirty dishes and add them to the dishwasher, Delores had open one of the kitchen drawers, and was gesticulating wildly. She paused long enough in her rage at John to rage at me, granting her permission for me to communicate with your staff, “I’M TELLING MY VERSION. YOU CAN TELL YOURS.”


Kudos to John, for nevertheless offering the most emotionally intelligent response I have heard from any of your revolving door of case and program management staff, prior to his finally escaping to hopefully his own safe home that evening, I overheard his comment to Delores as she attempted to force his judgment of me to agree with hers, “Well, I can’t really say. I’ve only met her the one time.”

Can you blame him for fleeing to Mexico?

Two days later, Delores’s spidery English-only instructions for what she permitted in her countertop compost bin had disappeared. Likely the chain of communications remained unintelligible to Yenesulesh. Delores’s rage, unchecked, or worse, openly rewarded by your staff, had long since chased away Selam. Angie spends every chance she can get house- or cat-sitting elsewhere. Linda carts her compostables away from your property to donate to a Jewish community garden. Yet still Delores remains confused about the quantity of compost she has been able to collect from her housemates for her own personal garden-?

And yet, without hearing my perspective, by June’s house meeting, April openly accused me of “vengeance” for my unwillingness to “settle this” compost issue.

Since I had already described my behavior as maintaining healthy boundaries on Delores’s abusive communication, I inquired why April thought I was being vengeful.

She passive aggressively avoided answering my direct question, and instead repeated another of Delores’s judgments, like a mechanized doll wound during their executive smoke session, “So you’re being passive aggressive.”

Typically, Delores will rage a similar judgment as she goes storming through the house, slamming doors, cupboard doors, or windows open or shut, depending on her preference at any given moment, which changes moment by moment, or day by day, without regard for the preferences of any of her housemates, “NONE OF THIS PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE SHIT!”

During your early spring-summer 2016 era of revolving case management staff, Delores simultaneously began raging at all of her housemates to unload “her” ever-changing inventory of dishes from the dishwasher and stow them in “her” second kitchen storage cabinet, which she had commandeered when she moved in prior to my tenancy. At the June house meeting, Delores repeated her martyr narrative version that I had already heard her deliver many times already, demanding not only that I obey her irrational commands, but that I should feel grateful for her raging at me, “AT LEAST I TOLD YOU WHAT TO DO. WHEN I MOVED IN, NOBODY EVEN TALKED TO ME.”

To hear our other housemates’ versions of that same event, however, when Delores first moved in, she went through the kitchen, ripping off organizational labels, destroying graphic design communicating boundaries between yours/mine/ours, and raged at her more senior housemates, “YOU WILL ACQUIESCE TO ME!”

At which point two of our housemates added padlocks to their individual food cupboards.

By late February or early March, I saw no reason to keep her personal unsanitary compost bin on the counter where we prep food while the rest of us were already accommodating her change in the house composting bin location. Since she was then ordering all of us to leave “her” kitchen inventory in “her” second kitchen cupboard, when it was my assigned chore to clean the kitchen, I returned “her” compost bin there as well.

Instead of responding with gratitude, she raged paranoid accusations at me for “hiding” her compost bin.

Try as I might, I could not help but overhear her another time raging into a phone, either to her friends, the psychiatrist or physician who offered to write her a note to keep her out of jail, the back cover telephone book lawyer who advises her it is illegal for me to record her rampaging threats of bodily harm, or to your staff, “SHE DUMPED THE COMPOST INTO HER SACK… SHE DIDN’T DO HER CHORE… IF SHE TRIES TO FUCK WITH MY GARDEN, I’M GOING TO SCRATCH HER EYES OUT… CAN I DO THAT?”

What I observed out of my periphery that morning was Selam, back at Restful Peace Cottage for a rare and brief day or two, trying to accomplish her assigned household chore that week. She maybe missed Delores’s whiteboard war on compost, or independently agrees with my opinion and the opinion of the Washington legislature that Delores is not in a position to assign new tasks above and beyond our lease agreements. Hauling Delores’s compost to her personal garden means either navigating a steep, rickety flight of outdoor stairs from the dimly lit garage, after wrestling with a door warped from humidity and locked with a stake that might once, years ago, have slipped into a hole drilled into the concrete floor; or circling the entire house from the front entrance to the back corner of the backyard; or running Delores’s rampaging gauntlet by carting her compost down the inside stairs and out the lower level back door. Or the rest of us could simply complete our lease obligations and obey Seattle law by leaving our compost in the appropriate curbside bin, just steps from the front door, on our way out to accomplish our educational and employment goals.

In any case, at the crack of dawn long before Delores typically comes flying out of her cave, while writing and sipping tea at the dining table, from my peripheral vision I noticed Selam dumped Compost A into Compost B, then returned through the front door a few minutes later with the full-to-near-overflowing paper grocery sack, unable to dump the combined total of Composts A and B into curbside Composts C or D, sighing that Delores had both full-size curbside compost/yard waste bins filled to overflowing with the energetic results of her early spring pruning. I commented that I noticed the situation when I tried to take out the compost an earlier day that week, also noting that Delores had neglected to take the house compost from the kitchen to the curb when it was her assigned household chore the week previous, despite adding to the general house paper sack all the material she rejects from her personal garden compost. As the biggest meat-eater in the household, her food waste can be considerable. Selam returned the full compost sack to its position under the sink, and we both continued pursuing our individual educational and employment goals, pace Delores’s illogical rampaging accusations against me.

One week when it was my assigned task to clean the kitchen, I observed Delores carelessly dump her coffee grounds so they spilled halfway into the compost sack under the sink, halfway onto the kitchen floor, followed by her raging dictation to me, “CLEAN THIS FLOOR!”

By the end of March, Delores discovered, to her narcissistic shock, that I am obeying Seattle law and upholding the terms of our lease rather than following her imperious compost commands, when she happened to come into the kitchen while I was in the midst of making cookies. (With the handheld mixer, the only mixer I have seen on your property.)

“YOU’RE NOT PUTTING EGG SHELLS IN THE COMPOST?!?” she shrieked disbelievingly, diving into the brown paper sacks under the sink after my egg shells.

“That is compost,” I explained.

“SEATTLE DOES NOT MAKE THE RULES FOR GARDENS!” she raged, apropos of nothing, from my perspective. Does Delores assist with my educational and employment goals? My therapy? Does Compass Housing Alliance supply me with a painting studio? The equivalent of the tools you supply Delores for her garden – brushes, paint, medium, paper, canvas, stretchers, gesso, tools for stretching, an easel, track lighting?

May we compromise with just a safe place to live, free from a criminally abusive housemate, as per our lease agreement, and the return of my therapeutic service animal – as per our Service Animal Contract, discussions at length with your staff, and Washington law?

Later, after I pulled the last tray of cookies from the oven, wiped down the counter, and stood waiting for Delores to finish her turn at the sink so I could wash cookie dough off my hands, she glanced over at me and raged, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“Just patiently waiting—“


“—for my turn.”

Then Delores decided to launch another of her malicious harassment attacks over my hereditary skin condition, not for the first time in my experience, but a first for Yenesulesh and Selam, both of whom happened to be just on the other side of the sliding pocket door, unbeknownst to either Delores or myself. As winter waned and I began peeling off layers of clothes but before summer warmed enough to expose my skin to the healing rays of the sun, I had noticed Delores glancing ever more frequently and fearfully at psoriatic outbreaks on my arms. Typical of abusers, she usually tries to isolate the target of her attacks.


Imagine if our behaviors were reversed, and I had rampaged the same question at Delores. Would your case and program management staff continue their discriminatory behavior for her ancestry?

As Delores swept open the pocket door and stomped out, still snorting and grumbling, I caught a glimpse of Yenesulesh’s shocked, whitened, wide-eyed expression from where she sat at the dining table, a look on her face that matched Selam’s, as she glided into the kitchen to offer her support.

“You should report that,” Selam advised, “We heard that.”

I shook my head wearily, repeating a similar statement I had earlier made in my grievance reports first to Hilary and second to Jenn, “If I wrote down everything Delores says to me, I would accomplish nothing besides writing her life for her.”

“It’s harassment,” Selam insisted.

“I understand,” I reassured her calmly, “It’s illegal in Seattle. It’s also less important to me than the deadline that I am working on.”

Appreciating one of the rare opportunities to hear Selam’s perspective, I also asked, already knowing the answers from my in-depth knowledge of human psychology and observing the behavior of your case and program management teams, had Delores’s behavior been like this before I moved in? And what had she done to try to resolve the problem?

“Talked to the case managers.”


And what did they do to solve the problem?

Unable to respond verbally, Selam shrugged, her lower lip stuck out and shaking as if she was struggling not to cry.

“So you see how effective that is,” I observed wryly.

“We were witnesses,” Selam insisted.

“Thank you for witnessing,” I replied, finished cleaning up the kitchen, and returned to working on providing expert psychoanalytic design witness testimony on a triple homicide mass shooting case.

Following May’s house meeting, your case and program management team finally delivered a plastic composting bin for the entire household to use, along with April’s garbled meeting minutes for a topic not discussed in open forum until June’s meeting. I thanked Delores for negotiating a household compost bin from your team, as you can see from this whiteboard image meta-dated 16 May 2016, despite her vigorous denials at June’s meeting that she did not realize anyone else in the house might like to garden too:

cha compost roses

Restful Peace Cottage whiteboard meta-dated 16 May 2016.

Perhaps April assumed I am motivated by “vengeance” because vengeance is what she and Delores put out into the world, thus vengeance is what they reasonably expect to receive-?

Despite her raging harassment and threats of bodily harm, still I communicated a willingness to forgive and negotiate to peace. And, no, the offer of roses was not a trick, as you can see from this image of more generous neighbors offering potted flowers well within my zero budget limitations, meta-dated the same day:

rosebushes zero budget

Rosebushes in Seattle’s open-air market. Price: $0.

This point in our household composting dispute reminded me of the summer before grad school that I spent building a site for a local judge’s law firm and slapping out ads for The East Oregonian, which required placing healthy boundaries on the raging narcissism of their visually illiterate sales staff, before trying to start our relationship anew by paying for a delivery of flowers to their Hermiston office.

Of course the bouquet did nothing to change the raging behavior of their sales staff, but my subsequent letter of resignation prompted the publisher to encourage his Advertising Services Manager to clean house. Pulling me into her office, she privately described my floral delivery as “a class act” and wished she could persuade me to stay, but unfortunately could not afford to let go her abusive sales staff, citing the difficulties of finding qualified sales personnel in rural areas.

You shouldn’t have that excuse in an urban area.

So what is preventing you from upholding your own contract terms and Washington law?

As you can see, even all these years later, their paper remains every bit as much an eyesore online as it is in print, comparing their masthead, page layout, and interface design against, say, The New York Times, or The Seattle Times. Except for those weeks when the urban papers allow their banner surround ads to be art directed by certain clients.

And the only thing that’s changed about my “class act” is the depth and breadth of my knowledge and skills have increased exponentially while my budget has shrunk to zero, and the criminal abuses I have experienced have accelerated in direct opposition to my budget.

Perhaps Delores just despises roses as much as she despises innocent woodland creatures that fly or wander into your yard?

It’s not that I’m so hot on roses myself, but beggars can’t be choosers.

As this image illustrates, meta-dated 27 May 2016, by fascinating Jungian coincidence, the 16th anniversary of my wedding to that state prosecutor son of ex-FBI parents, and now my second anniversary of my first appearance in Idaho’s Kangaroo Court in shackles and chains, where those factual relationships were reported on the court record as “delusions” by mental juridical health professionals too incompetent to try using 21st century technology to ascertain matters of publicly accessible fact when a victim and witness reports crimes as serious as trafficking and homicide, here is the aesthetic that Compass Housing Alliance adds to the neighborhood in the same week when Delores volunteered for again-missing Selam’s recycling/trash/composting chore:

cha compost litter

Restful Peace Cottage, meta-dated 27 May 2016.

Delores will probably try to blame my paper tea packets – you see there scattered on the ground as well as atop your curbside bin – for her violation of your lease Section 9. Tenant Duties, as follows:

“D. Tenant shall properly dispose of all rubbish, garbage, recycling and waste in a clean, sanitary manner…

“E. Tenant acknowledges this is a shared living space. Nothing shall be done by the Tenant in or about the premises which will interfere with the rights, comforts, and conveniences of other residents or neighbors.”

As well as your Good Neighbor Policy:

1. “No littering on the Community Transitional Housing premises or in the surrounding neighborhood.”

As well as my rights according to your policy on Safety, Security, and Non-Violence:

4. You have the right to live in a clean and healthy environment.

Her martyr narrative accusing me of lying will probably again appeal to April, except that Linda described observing this same mess when she left in the morning, and before I left the house at midday to go to a neighborhood park for my daily workout, since Delores makes your yard off-limits to me with her rampaging. And the bins were full and turned away from the curb when I left, which means this litter is not the responsibility of the Friday utilities collection crew.

From the park, I tried to call “At,” catering to his demand for weekly attention from one of his mother-substitute-objects in exchange for six bus passes, since he had not delivered them by Friday that week either, as well as to alert the house case manager that his case might need better managing, only to be forwarded directly to a Verizon automated outbound message that sounded like he might have been in the midst of trying to set up his voicemail box, not accepting incoming messages. Call to his supervisor, April, resulted in the following conversation:

(Snarled tone.) “This is [something garbled] – What?”

“Did you say April?”


“Hi, April, this is Jana from the Restful Peace Cottage.”

“You decided to go for a walk while we were in the midst of resolving something at the house,” another accusatory snarl.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, what?”

“How are you doing?” I asked cautiously.

“Good, except I’matthehouserightnowinthemidstofanemergency – Can I call you back?”

“Thank you, I’ll have my mobile with me.”

April has yet to return my call from late May. Well, it’s only October.

Not sure if she meant she avoided conflict resolution at Restful Peace Cottage by answering her codependency device in the midst of a challenging conversation, or if another of your properties simultaneously reached meltdown under April’s mismanagement?

Further adding to the household chores of all of her other housemates, Delores frequently leaves both yard waste bins in the backyard, so we have to go in search of them, instead of more mindfully leaving one at the curb in front while she engages in her gardening “therapy” in the backyard, as you can see from this image meta-dated 30 May 2016:

cha curbside bins

Restful Peace Cottage backyard image meta-dated 30 May 2016.

My only time down the rickety outside steps leading from your garage to your backyard occurred sometime in late February or early March 2016. I did not document this instance of criminal violence in my journals, during a time when my writing thoroughly focuses on a triple homicide case, but I remember it clearly. It occurred sometime in the week after a friend returned my computer and unwashed clothes and bed linens that had been in storage in her basement for over a year, so I laundered everything, as per basic hygiene and the terms of your Bed Bug Heat Treatment Information sheet and your lapse in staff, with my phone call to John Clark’s voicemail unreturned as of this writing.

One of my aging goose down pillows fell apart in the dryer, billowing feathers out the vent and down the steps into the backyard, unbeknownst to me, though I did the best I could to clean out the dryer and the lint trap. After my downstairs housemates noted my attention to the larger problem via our whiteboard communications, I did what healthy communicators do to repair our bad behaviors: I immediately apologized, and promised to clean the stairs. In writing. In advance of cleaning the outside stairs and downstairs back porch.

By the next day – if I remember correctly – or I may have waited ’til the weekend – when I went to access the stairs via the door in the very dark corner of your poorly lit garage, I nearly cut my hands on the teeth of a blade-up jigsaw that seemed to be very deliberately wedged in the doorframe of the door between garage and outside stairs that requires wrestling with a metal stake drilled into the concrete floor to force the door open in best of circumstances. I did not accuse Delores, as I have no proof that she booby-trapped the doorway.

If Delores would prefer not to be suspected of criminal violence toward me, however, best apologize for her past threats of violence and cease threatening criminal violence, as none of my other housemates have threatened me with bodily harm, leaving her the most likely suspect.

Later, I noticed the jigsaw was removed from where I left it on the shelves – flat, teeth facing the wall – adjacent to the door. Where are your outdoor tools typically kept?

If Compass Housing Alliance wants me to contribute rotting fruit and vegetable waste to your backyard, then you will first apologize for your retaliatory threats of eviction, begin upholding the terms of our crime-free lease agreement, restore your previously promised transportation services, and return my therapeutic service animal.

At the 16 June 2016 house meeting, like a wind-up doll incapable of listening to multiple perspectives or thinking for herself, April repeated two versions of the illogical martyr narrative that I have already heard Delores raging many times before.

First it was recycling rather than composting. Then I was taking up more than my fair share of space in the composting bin. Then her martyr narrative changed to I was poisoning the earth with my tea-dampened paper. Then Delores forbid me from touching the bin that she made Hilary buy for her and her alone. Next she didn’t need my help with her gardening anyway, because there’s plenty of compost without mine. Then she blamed me for all of the other housemates, herself included, not being mindful that my temporary design solution to the problem of no shared plastic container and inadequate case and program management meant taking the paper compost sack to the curbside bin on a daily basis rather than waiting for it to overflow and attract ants. By June’s meeting, Delores had revised her martyr narrative yet again to whine that the household was not generating nearly enough compost, for all the yard work that she does for the house – on your property that she does not permit me to enjoy without enduring her raging criminal threats of bodily harm – so she needed topsoil and compost, playing your current set of banjos, “It’s not expensive, but again, it’s a big fucking yard.”

The hostile glare on April’s face matched the expression on Delores’s, like a black April, a white Delores, in stereo vision, sitting together across the table from me. I didn’t get a glimpse of Charlotte’s expression from where she sat in my peripheral vision, but all three broke in to interrupt, in typical passive aggressive fashion too eager to insist on “rightness” over “wrongness” about minute details rather than listen to the perspective of the other, how wrong I was about the dates when Seattle prohibited food waste in its landfill, last July, or the year before, whichever – all three diverting their attention to a point of fact immaterial to the problem or its solution – “This July,” Charlotte insisted.

In researching Seattle’s municipal code for you, actually, Charlotte was off by a year and a half. I was wrong too, but since the date is immaterial to Delores’s argument that the house composting had been upset by my arrival in November 2015, I note the dates here only to help you better educate your staff to obey local and state laws rather than reward delusional rampages from your criminally abusive client in their efforts to coerce or force me into performing labor outside the terms of our lease agreement.

The law changed effective 01 January 2015, a full 10-and-one-half months before my tenancy at Restful Peace Cottage.

By as early as 01 October 2014, the Director of Seattle Public Utilities was to have begun a program of customer outreach. In October 2014, my labor was still being trafficked in rural Idaho.

The deadline for your staff better educating themselves about the change in Seattle law without incurring fees for violations was 01 July 2015, still over four months prior to the start of my tenancy.

You’re welcome, Compass. Are 10-Day Notices to Comply or Vacate how you typically communicate “thank you” to your destitute, homeless tenants doing your case and program managers’ jobs for them, sans paychecks?

Only 17 months after Seattle law prohibited food waste or food-soiled paper from its landfill containers your staff finally delivered a solution beyond tiptoeing our eggshells out to the curb after each batch of cookies or violating Seattle law by dumping our kitchen food waste into the trash after Delores forbid us from using “her” compost bin. In addition to publicly shaming me for correctly identifying the problem and devising a temporary design solution for the entire household, potentially saving you between $1–$50 weekly collection surcharge – depending on whether Seattle Public Utilities views your operation as residential, or, as a nonprofit corporation, commercial – while you juggled your case and program management staffing decisions, in her May meeting minutes, April sounds like she also could not understand Delores’s incoherent ranting dictation affecting compost, the time of all of your other clients, and your real property, yet nevertheless adds to all of our household chores, once again in violation of RCW 9A.40.100, trafficking in the first degree, recruiting and harboring homeless women in full knowing that we have run out of options beyond tent cities or dirty mats on dirty, overcrowded church floors, fraudulently describing your property as safe and free from criminal violence, while attempting to force or coerce additional labor beyond the scope described in your lease terms:

“A compost bin has been place [sic] inside the kitchen area. Refrain from using a paper bag and start using the bin provided for compost needs. Place all compose [sic] in the large garden compost bin in the backyard.”

Maybe she does not wash dishes or compost or perform simple tasks of daily living in her own home-? Maybe remind April that trafficking in the first degree is a class A felony?

To her compost bins (plural) that Charlotte decided to commandeer in June, she added graphic design art-directed by Delores via April, dissatisfied with Seattle’s visual communications of its own laws, tightly leaded text-only, English only – from your “expert” in housing the “refugee population” – ever so carefully Scotch-taped to the top of each under-the-sink bin, with the instructions to condense gigantic pizza boxes defying the visual design principle of scale:

cha compost undersink binsOr physics.

And no one in her right mind is going to try to empty a cross-cut shredder into that tiny bin.

Or another example of what I mean by the correlation between visual illiteracy and abuse.

Yes, of all of your tenants and your staff, I confess, I am the only person who listened to the perspectives of all of the stakeholders, correctly identified both the surface and underlying problems, and provided a design solution for the compost problem, using your available materials budget, instead of merely complaining about or avoiding resolution.

That is because I am a psychologically healthy, visually educated designer.

If you want my trauma-educated help with the underlying problem, however, you’re going to need to pony up an apology and a professional wage.

Better communications design: pretend for a moment that we could scroll back or page up to late January when Delores first began dreaming her garden plans, here’s how her note on the whiteboard might have gone:

garden healthy communications

Healthier communications of changes in compost/garden/yardwork chores.

Perhaps your paycheck-earning case or program managers could help Delores brainstorm a healthier solution to the problem of acquiring adequate quantities of compost to fill her heart’s desire, once she had pushed away all of her housemates with her rage, instead of twang-TWANG-twang rewarding her criminally abusive martyrdom requiring the rest of us to obey her contradictory, raging commands? If she only wants produce scraps in her garden compost, maybe shift her diet to vegetarian away from spluttering grease from dead animals? Maybe hop into that vehicle of hers and drive on down to the nearest food bank? Or now that she’s negotiated return of her bicycle from the “thief” who “stole” it, maybe put that ecologically sound transportation to good use? If she asked really nice, I bet the food bank would supply her enough rotted fruits and vegetables to meet her demand.

The key is asking nicely.

And why, as a humble designer, would I already be so well-versed in Seattle recycling/compost/landfill law, you ask?

I thought I already thoroughly answered that question in my post coincident one year precisely prior to our lease signing. Maybe you could recruit and hire case and program managers with reading comprehension, basic math, and 21st century technology skills?

Another experience since returning to Seattle further underscores the global market value of Unplay:

In September 2015, I dropped into a panel presentation at Seattle Public Library. Another gathering of some of Seattle’s elite designers, architects, and city planners who have given such little thought to communications design that they neglected to consider how their poster was going to attach to a telephone pole – and is that the best way to attract an external audience interested in solving Seattle’s ever-deepening gap between wealth and poverty, by hosting a design festival? – and yet these are the folks responsible for designing the future of Seattle:

seattle design for equity

After having spent a month of my life locked up by a judge who described just one of my job-seeking efforts at a similar conference as a “grandiose delusion” and accused me of “talking nonstop” after I briefly summarized the event where one of Boeing’s engineers wondered what do you do when management says “collaboration” but then sends the design team back to working in their individual cubicles, I took great pride in taking up the least amount of verbal space in the room when the Design for Equity group rearranged their chairs into a circle, taking turns describing our efforts toward a more equitable, sustainable society.

When the time came for my turn, I courageously asked, “Show of hands, how many of you have been locked up without access to competent counsel or fair trial for the strength of your design portfolio? How many of you do not know where you’re going to sleep tonight?”

More of Seattle’s elite designers and their hastily averted gazes. No hands in the air other than mine. No offers of a room at the inn.

“So then you are all here to design for me,” I finished my contribution before ceding the floor to the next participant, “While I’m here, do you have any questions for your client?”

How many more billions do you suppose Seattle will pour into the misidentified “homelessness problem” before Seattle’s designers figure out how to conduct direct design research of their target audience instead of chasing around Seattle’s city streets in search of preconceived, stereotypical homeless personas?

Shortly after the turn-taking monologues proceeded around the circle, a woman arrived late to the workshop. Let’s call her Julie.* I scooted my chair over, widening the circle, so she could fit in next to me. After the circular introductions and workshop concluded, I learned she was not a designer herself, but worked for a city department, and was interested in how design could improve her workplace. She missed my contribution to the group, so I handed her my business card, explaining it is also a healthy communication model based on the structure of trauma.

Julie gasped as if a lightbulb had turned on for her, “Ohh, this makes so much sense.”

I further explained that trauma is the reason we communicate in passive aggressive ways.

Her eyes opened wide, “But nobody in my department communicates in healthy ways!”

Based on what you have read so far, would you like to make an educated guess which city department employs Julie?

Yes, I could already see the passive aggressive communications in Julie’s department, simply by visually analyzing the graphic design of their print and web collateral, and knowing as I already know the correlation between visual illiteracy and abuse, failing in their “customer outreach” attempts to communicate changes in Seattle law to their intended audience ranging from Delores to your case and program management team to Bill Gates.

Design research, done.

preamble 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 remedy

Resetting Your Moral Compass

preamble 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 remedy

cha june mtg minutesOnward to your Restful Peace Cottage 16 June 2016 meeting with my analysis below matching the numbers I have added to Charlotte’s meeting minutes above:

1. As I complimented Charlotte to kick off our first and last case management meeting, she is at least one step more professional than both “At” and her immediate supervisor in that she first introduced herself by arriving at the house prepared with printed business cards with full contact information to encourage direct communications with each of your tenant-clients. Here she forgoes Compass Housing Alliance’s letterhead, but at least she remembers the month and day of the meeting, though by 2017 and beyond it may be somewhat more challenging for you to investigate the sequential stream of criminal behavior perpetrated by your staff. I could be wrong, but I suspect their ever-revolving door of digital files are not better organized than their analogue efforts.

At our 22 June 2016 case management meeting, I asked Charlotte to retrieve copies of both your Anti-Harassment Policy and April’s meeting minutes, and she only responded vaguely, “I know they’re around here somewhere…” before refusing to debrief the events that transpired at the second April-run house meeting, snarling, “I already posted my meeting minutes.”

2. Based on what you’ve read so far, do you feel ready to identify the necessary assumption inferred in her argument that meeting with Charlotte will result in getting the support I need to continue working toward my goals?

May I recommend one tiny shift that might sound nit-picky, but without visual literacy, written and spoken language are our next best bet for better communicating, and I noticed in her emails Charlotte repeats that “one on one,” precisely how she interprets her job description as case manager, abusing her position of power over her better-educated clients? Once she decides to Unplay the Shame and Blame Game, she might change that language to one-to-one to indicate her readiness to shift from ignorance to knowledge, from passive aggressive communications to healthy communications, from power-over to power-with.

From Unplay, here’s the structure of Charlotte’s one-on-one understanding of our relationship, with the case manager on top, the economically vulnerable client on bottom, and the communications between two represented by the dot in the middle:

Unplay one-on-one

Unplay: passive aggressive communications.

Notice how the arrangement of the three dots, with the intense red dot on top, somewhat evokes a stoplight? Here’s what a healthy one-to-one relationship looks like:

unplay one-to-one

Unplay: healthy communications between two healthy human beings.

From the mark for Unplay alone, even sans typography or written communication, do you see what it will take for Charlotte to learn healthy communications?

unplay mark only

Unplay mark without typography.

Not much at all. Just a 90-degree shift in her present form, or style.

For my first and last one-to-one meeting with Charlotte, she drove one of your fleet of corporate vehicles to pick me up like a package and delivered us both to your downtown office, rather than multitasking that meeting time with picking up and delivering a roadside desk to better assist her client with accomplishing my educational and employment goals. At your office on Dexter, she shamed and blamed me for the better part of an hour, expressed zero interest in me or my goals, openly expressed hostility toward me and my accomplishments, offered zero knowledge of the resources available within Seattle’s convoluted poverty industrial complex, and talked over and down to me numerous times before finally proffering, not our previously agreed-upon budget of six bus passes per week, but only five. That’s over a 16 percent reduction in my transportation budget for that week alone, even if you do not calculate all the months that your staff have been revolving too rapidly through their jobs to provide any transportation budget at all. Those she carefully meted out as if withdrawing gold bullion from Fort Knox, once again avoiding my recommended digital solution of ORCA cards for better managing your time and transportation budgets.

Because Charlotte had chauffeured me to our meeting, she reasoned, that left me with one bus pass to return to your suburban crime scene, plus three bus passes to go apply for those “three little jobs,” she chided nasally, “Not your dream job.” As well as one bus pass to return to your office on Dexter one week later for my weekly dose of shaming and blaming, 10-year-old Charlotte’s interpretation of the grown-up job of social worker, further role-modeled for her by her immediate supervisor.

From her email belatedly explaining her transportation budget decisions that actively hinder my ability to address the issues that have led to this period of homelessness, access healthcare or other resources necessary for brute survival, and pursue my educational and employment goals, I learned why my questions about grant funding and transportation budgets must have thoroughly confused young Charlotte. As you can see, Charlotte has not graduated to percentages yet. She is still working on simple addition and subtraction:

charlotte control intentionUnprepared to meet my needs as I identified them when I entered your program in November 2015, let alone the level I attained by July 2016 as I patiently work my way toward my goals despite enduring the criminal environment encouraged by your staff, Charlotte aspires to jettison me back to February 2015 in battling my way through Seattle’s poverty industrial complex for access to resources for brute survival, if I try her recommendations, and hope for a different result:

dshs hen funds

Sure, Idaho’s mental health professionals have assigned me innumerable labels whereby I could spend my time and energies trying to collect disability and defrauding the government, but as I explained in my email to both you and Charlotte, no one on your staff arises to the level of my abilities.

Again, Charlotte may not want to hear that judgment, but healthy egos do not shatter when encountering judgments or perspectives that disagree with their own. All of your staff have blithely shared judgments with which I disagree. My ego remains intact, not shattered as revealed by your staff’s abuse of their positions of power over me. And notice that sharing my judgment with both of you follows your grievance procedure that Charlotte had been unwilling to resolve in our meeting, while simultaneously bringing the long-running grievance to your next level of management, where all the staff beneath you have so far failed to do their jobs.

Charlotte’s anal retentive math, or shaming and blaming approach to dispensing nominal resources also displays further ignorance about the real needs of trafficking survivors, travel time, bus route changes since light rail reached the University of Washington, and poverty transportation. Bus tickets do not provide fare for light rail. Metro’s bus ticket transfers expire after 90 minutes, and travel time between Seattle’s far-flung ‘burbs and resources in the downtown core is at least an hour, on a good day, not counting walking time on both ends of my journey, leaving me with a whopping 30 minutes, max, to network my way into a job paying at least enough to live on in the city in which I happen to live. From scratch.

Or find employers, clients, or colleagues healthier than the folks filling positions throughout much of Seattle’s design and education communities.

And that’s if I ignore, rather than address, the criminal abuses that led to this period of homelessness, to again reference the verbiage of your Case Management Plan Addendum to our contractual agreement.

I meet lots of strangers happy, desperate even, for me to listen to their trauma monologues in our first half hour of meeting. Have yet to meet the magic boss offering me a reliable paycheck within our first 30 minutes of dialogue, however.

No shortage of folks happy to benefit from my skills; a dearth of employers, clients, or colleagues healthy enough to respect my educated expertise with a living wage.

From my experiences attempting to work with the racist, schizophrenic retired math teacher that Seattle voters decided to elect to their school board in 2011, I could better understand Charlotte’s struggles with math if she were a product of Seattle Public Schools, but she told me she finished high school in Oregon-? Until I remembered that Oregon cut its school year to the shortest in the nation during the 2002–03 recession when I first moved to the Pacific Northwest with that “delusional” son of “delusional” ex-FBI parents – according to the Mississippi of the PNW – fresh out of law school, and looking for his first real job. Charlotte’s math skills are not her fault. Math and critical thinking skills are a gap that America legislated for its No Child Left Behind generation.

Of course, Charlotte is a chronological adult now. That means she could choose to increase her math and critical thinking abilities beyond her No Child Left Behind education. As her employer, you may choose to require both skill sets in your hiring decisions.

As demonstrated by this above-the-fold image on the 15 September 2015 print edition of the local paper, four years after they failed to listen to my visually educated expertise, Seattle’s public school teachers are still unable to communicate their message to, and have yet to even identify, their external audience, while the headlines editor at the Times readily recognizes K–12 as little more than a giant babysitting service for working class parents:

seattle times teachers strike

Above the fold, front page, The Seattle Times, 15 September 2015.

From my perspective, if Seattle’s union teachers were visually educated, they would have readily identified their chosen 2011 school board candidate, by her visual communications collateral alone, as ill-equipped to help them resolve conflicts between administration and educators. Instead, they backed a retired school teacher who later recommended the board sue the union for their strike.

Also note the side column reporting Boeing’s loss of sales to their global competitor; I’ll return to that topic momentarily.

So much for my efforts to recommend better time management for your case manager, suggesting that Compass Housing Alliance deploy 21st century technology to help us both achieve our goals within a realistic timeframe, “Since you’re not hiring, and you’re not in a position to help me network into a community healthy enough to respect my educated skills in exchange for a living wage, why would Compass waste 33.33 percent of my transportation budget on internal communications when you’re not even caught up with my online communications?”

Worse, when my direct, healthy communications foiled Charlotte’s attempts to transfer her deeply repressed anger against her mother onto me by controlling my body movements and insisting that I watch her spin around her volvelle for an hour in exchange for only five bus passes that week, Charlotte became even more controlling, driving out to the suburbs to distribute just one bus pass the following week, narcissistically demanding that my highest transportation priority must be to attend yet another of her hour-long shame and blame sessions:

charlotte bus ticket

If shaming and blaming the job candidate were effective tactics for attracting employers, I would have competitive, lucrative offers vying for me to deliberate between them. My genetic mother and my genetic siblings and their spouses have been using those tactics for decades. While he was still alive, my genetic father also used that passive aggressive communications style to rule his roost, may he have found his way to forgiveness and self-awareness in his current iteration. My family are global historic experts in the Shame and Blame Game. If I valued shaming and blaming limited to just hour-long weekly sessions, I would figure out a way to call my genetic mother on a weekly basis, before pressing end call after the first timed hour.

But why listen to still more negative energy?

From my in-depth knowledge of human psychology, I anticipate that Charlotte will rigorously deny she feels any anger whatsoever toward her own mother.

So would you like to offer a logical explanation for her behavior talking over and down to her better-educated client?

In my opinion, Charlotte will not be prepared to respect her clients until she learns to respect herself, as any psychologist familiar with cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) should be able to confirm, identifying her talking down to me as, more deeply, Charlotte’s negative self-talk. Only incompetent CBT practitioners, such as those I observed throughout Idaho’s mental health system, recommend balancing that negative self-talk with Pollyanna happy-talk, oblivious that gathering their patients in a room and shaming them for describing unresolved conflicts only replicates the adverse family environment from which “mental illness” begins, eschewing any in-depth psychoanalysis to better identify beneath the negative “self-talk” is really abusive parent-talk, quite firmly etched into the child’s psyche by age five.

As I pointed out the inconsistencies in Charlotte’s math and logic in my subsequent email to you both, becoming arguably the global expert in the psychology of serial killers was never my dream job. And going to law school is definitely not my dream education, merely my sacrifice to my country, where from my experiences I can see that this nation most needs my help. As well as a good way of protecting myself from further criminal abuses.

While locked up in Idaho’s psychiatric facilities, I learned there is no point in pursuing a Ph.D. in psychology, as I would not learn anything new. Any code I would like to add to the coding skills I first began learning in the mid- to late-nineties is already available online and for free, so why enroll in a coding school? Thus, law school it is, devising my educational and employment plan via a process of elimination.

Thinking ahead, I am already envisioning setting the type in lead for my next business cards, which of course I will letterpress print:

jana brubaker, mfa, jd
the reluctant lawyer

Maybe Compass Housing Alliance staffers agree with my abusive family, and think I should just give up on finding employers, clients, or colleagues healthy enough to respect my educated skills with a living wage, and accept the fact that I was born into slavery and abuse, and slavery is simply my lot in life?

Except if poorly educated folks are dictating the priorities of better educated folks, doesn’t that mean that education no longer provides a pathway out of slavery, and the American dream is systemically broken, not my personal responsibility?

Why blame our society’s system failure on the only woman healthy enough to place boundaries on the abusive men either born or married into the Bundy clan, when even the United States government isn’t capable of maintaining those boundaries without someone getting killed?

From my perspective, in my first pass through Seattle, I began job-seeking as a painter who would have been perfectly happy with a telephone answering day job and returning home and painting at night – as long as that little job paid me enough to live on in the city in which I happen to live – and I wouldn’t have cared if my painting career ever brought me fame or fortune, to just three short years later, a Gates Foundation consultant was bullying me for my visually educated design expertise to help him solve the problem of poverty. Without my help, Joe Brewer’s very best recommendation was for the Gates Foundation to go chasing after London cash. As you may read from the links I have helpfully provided within my earlier writing that your staff refuse to read to better educate themselves to better perform their job descriptions, Joe also expresses poorly educated, illogical opinions on psychopathy, hoping to prompt more fear-driven public policy, perhaps? Or you may see the value of his consulting expertise at a glance by visually analyzing the identity he uses to visually communicate his business to the world:

screenshot cognitive policy works

Screenshot, Cognitive Policy Works, 2016.

A tremendous circular churn of energy and ideas, hemmed in by the grid, unable to imagine solutions beyond money or patriarchal authority, the same old “solutions” we’ve been hearing for longer than my lifetime. Rigid separation between word and image. Compare against my identity for my studio6other portfolio on Cargo Collective: responsive to feedback from my audience, able to listen to multiple perspectives and envision a variety of solutions to any problem, offering a wealth of experience across 500 years of technology.

Four years after Joe tried to bully me into helping solve the problem of poverty in the Gates Foundation’s own headquarters city without offering a professional wage for my visually educated expertise while I subsisted out of cheap motels on the opposite side of our nation until my plastic ran out, how well did his money solution work for solving the communications problems underlying poverty or any other problem? Even if your junior staffers struggle with addition and subtraction, you should have the numbers at your fingertips. Compass collects that data. On analogue forms. On clipboards. Prior to your volunteers faxing those human-beings-reduced-to-hash-marks to the same building that houses your office:

In January 2016, the city’s poverty industrial complex volunteers braved the bitter cold for one night, noting a 19 percent increase in dire poverty in Seattle since 2015, and last year’s numbers increased from 2014 by 21 percent, over 10,000 human beings without homes in King County, Washington, once again home to the world’s wealthiest man.

In June 2016, a member of British Parliament was assassinated, yet even that horrific act did not stop Britain’s subsequent fear vote to leave the European Union, wiping 200 billion pounds off the London Stock Market in the process, which reverberated to $2 trillion around the world, amply demonstrating both money’s failure to solve communication problems and its abstract value:

one night count

One Night Count, 2015, before.

“Being up in the middle of the night with flashlights evokes thoughts of campouts and summer excursions…” waxes nostalgic one middle-class administrator earning her paycheck on the backs of poorest of the poor.

Being awakened in the middle of the night with flashlights shining across my face evokes for me memories of couch-surfing in the public health nuisance of a shack belonging to a young mother of an ex-convict and grandmother of gang-affiliated drug addicts, after earlier begging Idaho’s sadistic psychiatric “hospital” employees for just one night’s sleep without flashlight disruption.

“The One Night Count brings us back to the simple humanity of… that one person I stopped and watched, who was trying to get some shut eye on the ground,” another administrator bleeds his experience observing homelessness as an object for his arrogant and spiritually bankrupt gaze.

Even the photography is generic, images of the volunteers as heroic troupers through the night gazing upon impoverished human beings without empathy, Seattle’s altruistic set seeing exactly what they expect to see. Before backing away in horror, and reducing the dire poor to statistics.

Does poverty feel safer that way?

On the reverse, more numbers, more stereotypical assumptions:

“Transitional Housing: These programs offer time-limited housing and services to help people address things that make it hard to secure, afford, or maintain stable housing: medical or behavioral health problems, poor credit history, limited education, un- or underemployment.”

Not that I don’t appreciate the roof overhead and wifi, but other than that, by “services,” did you mean weekly, hour-long, one-on-one shaming and blaming sessions on top of monthly hour-long sessions vigorously encouraging criminal behavior?

More closely, notice how all of the causes leading to homelessness on your poster implicitly or explicitly blame the poor? Where are the Wall Street, familial, or publicly elected abusers on this list?

Keep on telling an audience of yourselves what you want to hear. Got the results you wanted a decade ago, right?

Too intellectually challenging for Seattle’s poverty industrial complex administrators to better identify the problem as narcissistic aggression, to self-reflect, to change systemic bad behaviors, instead of blaming the poorest of the poor?

Mary Anne Mercer, a Huffington Post writer, gets slightly closer to genuine empathy by juxtaposing the condition of abject poverty against obscene wealth, and finding commonality with the poor.

Here’s the same poster, showing the space your “graphic designer” allotted to hearing the experience of homelessness from the perspective of the dire poor, minus the perspectives of Seattle’s well-heeled organizations staffed with middle-class administrators talking about themselves to an audience of themselves:

one night count revised

One Night Count, 2015, after.

And those are responses to a survey question so generic, so drained of narrative, that the middle-class folks have nearly presupposed the answers to your own questions.

No poster yet for 2016?

What’s your budget? What’s your timeframe? What are you hoping to accomplish?

Your poster “designer” appears to have some access to software. She just defines “great design experiences” differently than I do, site parked since 2014, a generic web template devoid of written or visual content:

bonelli screenshotCute little bird with library glasses at the core of her design business, her mental gears busily churning in circles?

Or maybe she’s locked up in the state mental hospital because her family denied child abuse, elder abuse, trafficking, rape, homicide, and their own genealogy in an effort to force her to their will, leaving her unable to access the internet to continue seeking colleagues healthy enough to reciprocate her respect or update her portfolio?

Probably not. She defines graphic design differently than I do. To me, graphic design is not about making cute of numerical data, but about first correctly identifying a communications problem, then providing better solutions than currently envisioned. With her portfolio devoid of problem-solving solutions available for review, you might as well stare at a screenshot of my last build from 2014, just one sample of my skill across a wider and deeper range of communications media.

The One Night Count “solution” also evokes for me memories of observing the “design thinking” of our nation’s premiere designers in 2012 chasing after their preconceived stereotypes to avoid solving the correlative problems of obesity and poverty.

In that same four-year timeframe, I’ve criss-crossed the continent; become the world’s expert on psychopathy; confirmed my theory linking obesity and poverty with a lack of nurturing by interviewing real, live human beings who happen to be both poor and obese, rather than chasing through Seattle’s city streets after imaginary “personas” neither poor nor obese; and designed an identity critical for resolving any communications problem, fail-proof because I first conducted design research to correctly identify the root of the problem as trauma. On zero budget.

After being held without due process of law for a month of my life for describing just one example of the value of my healthy communications or collaborative working skills in terms of real-world, capitalist dollars, I was not at all surprised to note, while patiently waiting for my turn for personal hygiene at the downtown women-only public showers shortly before my acceptance into your program, that Boeing’s top-down, dictatorial executive management style also lost the bid for an $80 billion federal defense contract, and are now desperately pitching their product to Iran, guaranteeing all sorts of interesting conflicts for their sixth-great-grandchildren to work at resolving:

boeing 80bn federal contract

Above-the-fold front page, print edition, The Seattle Times, 28 October 2015.

It turns out that even designing and building war machines requires healthy communications, the collaborative working skills that none of Seattle’s engineering, design, or business consultants who attended the Designers Accord with me in 2010 were prepared to provide examples from their workplaces, hastily averting their eyes and waiting for someone with the courage to go first.

In his lengthy memoir of his experiences working with my adopted eighth cousin, twice removed to better understand the psychology of the Green River Killer whose career of rage against women so closely followed Ted Bundy’s movements throughout the Pacific Northwest, former King County homicide detective and FBI consultant who helped develop their Violent Criminal Apprehension Program (ViCAP) database, Bob Keppel notes, “Someday, a criminologist thinking out of the box will take the high-risk step of looking at the world from the serial killer’s point of view.”

Or a survivor from the same clan as the serial killer who defined the term for the 20th century will put herself through a BFA and an MFA despite her family’s very best attempts to deny her education, much as they will later deny our shared genealogy to mental juridical health authorities, leaving me better acquainted with his psychology than the killer himself:

wild child gatefold detail

Wild Child, 2008, 26.5×28.5×6.5 cm (gatefold detail). Title refers to le jeune fille sauvage, the creature that philosopher Giorgio Agamben describes at the border of difference between man [sic] and animal. My MFA thesis explored critical theories of difference, sexual difference, desire, trauma, and taboo. Pigment ink jet and letterpress on Magnani Pescia, paste paper covers on museum boards, linen thread, exposed hemp cords, variable edition 6 signed and numbered, included in the collection at the University of Idaho Library, Moscow, close detail of letterpress printed gatefold with debossed type beneath layers of “laundry printing,” technique I coined to describe printing while cleaning the press.

Homicide detective was definitely never this humble painter’s “dream job,” though I am grateful, while so many in our culture continue to abuse, to rape, to torture, to enslave, and to kill – to force their will over any other – that there are folks willing to tackle those ugly, stressful investigations as their careers. If homicide detective had been this humble painter’s dream job, then I would have earned a degree in criminal justice before applying to the police academy.

As I have discussed with my psychologist, my professional references, and art and design and psychology faculty at the region’s institutions of higher education, post-incarceration and upon my return to Seattle, listening to their feedback, while at the same time, making my own choices like any freed woman has a right to do, I think my skills, experiences, and time are now best focused at the cross-disciplinary intersection of design, psychology, technology, and law.

Which means if I can persuade Stanford to insert a lens for human psychology into their cross-disciplinary focus on design, technology, and law, their program might be intellectually rigorous enough for me, forming mutually beneficial relationships as we work toward designing better solutions for legal problems that began as communication problems:

stanford law homepage

Pace Charlotte’s confusion about marital relationships and reality, I have already paid law school tuition to the director of their Constitutional Law Center. My experiences also include design work contracted through an online global sweatshop for Stanford University’s Graduate School of Business, noting in my design research that, at that time, the institution’s in-house design team had failed to proof hexadecimal color selections or provide online brand assets to the specifications included in their brand guidelines. I managed to restrain myself from recommending that the administrator dredge up an Apple somewhere on their campus prior to troubleshooting font files with underpaid design labor, never mind their severe internal contradictions contracting labor at slave wages while promoting cultural change:

stanford graduate school of business design confirmation

Through my volunteer experiences designing the site for the inaugural Pacific Northwest Chapter of the 100-year-old Guild of Book Workers back in the day when the left coast ivy league used to care about history, hosting that national organization’s web presence, I’ve previously enjoyed the privilege of uploading files to Stanford University’s secure servers:

northwest chapter guild of book workers

Screenshot, inaugural Northwest Chapter of the Guild of Book Workers.

Shortly after my telephone interview with the Capital One “talent” recruiter while fleeing human trafficking on foot through Oregon’s heavy snows, I discovered that Stanford parents pay for degrees that leave their weak-willed sons and daughters unable to compete on a level playing field:


It’s not your knowledge or skills that matter at Capital One, it’s where your daddy owns property, and that Bundy ranch in Arizona is a little far removed both along the branches of my family tree and from Silicon Valley.

Which means that Stanford Law School will need to include housing in addition to full tuition waiver along with a competitive legal design research stipend if the institution hopes to attract someone with my expertise in technology and human psychology.

Or carry on with designing ever new technologies that accomplish nothing more than the centuries’ old tradition of human bondage.

During our initial interview, Hilary responded to my query about her experience working with traumatized clients by widening her blue eyes still further, if possible, and assuring me, oh, yes, she had lots of experience working with sexually abused clients. But she also visibly flinched past the corresponding page from my MFA thesis that I included in that 2010 analogue design portfolio forbidden from a court of law by one corrupt Idaho sheriff’s deputy, though useful as a last-minute mousepad for reviewing my digital portfolio while I interviewed with Hornall Anderson – by another curiously Jungian coincidence, in their offices located on the 13th floor of the Dexter Horton building where Dr. Keppel recalls working in the 1980s – the same firm that failed to better visually communicate the vision and goals of Seattle Public Library in 2015, asked no questions, and hastily flipped through the remainder without acquainting herself with my digital technology skills, leaving her ill-equipped to offer employment or educational recommendations.

Hilary also neglected to click on any of the social media links in the signature file or the body text of my emails within our subsequent screen-to-screen communications to better acquaint herself with my accomplishments between 2010–2015 or learn how to better do her job before nevertheless offering her very best career recommendations limited to her range of knowledge of Seattle’s poverty industrial complex.

During one face-to-face meeting I briefly outlined my past experiences through Seattle’s design and education communities, explaining that job acquisition is about networking, but I had not been able to find in Seattle a community healthy enough to respect my educated expertise with a living wage. From my experiences through Idaho’s mental juridical health system and beyond, I realized I am not likely to find healthy community in the post-Columbine, post-9/11, post-War-on-Terror, post-No Child Left Behind, post-Great Recession postmodern United States, so perhaps it is my job to help heal a severely traumatized culture.

“Oh, so you need help networking,” Hilary once again demonstrated her cognitive disconnect or poor listening skills, eager to check her checkboxes, much as she had dismissively summarized my concerns about rebuilding my physical strength after enduring the better part of a year cycling through Seattle’s severely dysfunctional homeless shelter system.

She suggested a state-funded, community college-based Program ostensibly designed for the long-term unemployed.

“That would be great to have an assistant who could weed through all of the available job possibilities for someone with my depth and breadth of skills, and bring me only the positions where I’ve decided to focus my energies, like a head-hunter,” I responded enthusiastically.

“Not a headhunter exactly,” she said at our next case management meeting.

“You’re remembering that I have a graduate degree, right?” I prompted, getting the sense that Hilary might be confusing me with another of her clients, “So why would you send me back to a community college?”

I waited patiently for Hilary to better explain her logic, having already published a full year earlier my analysis of the available jobs and inexhaustible databases for folks who struggle with time management, statistics, and trauma that keeps them blaming victims and prevents them from finding realistic solutions by first of all correctly identifying the underlying problem.

Instead, Hilary assured me, “I think it’s worth a phone call.”

What Hilary never seemed to understand about judgment-sharing is that a recommendation is only as valuable as the recommender, and she had already impressed me as being someone whose personal time management skills are so poor that she required me to make a weekly phone call reminding her to accomplish her weekly task of six bus passes per week, again wide-eyed and narcissistic, “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Despite my gentle encouragement, explaining the reason I have been able to accomplish so much on so little is because I eliminate those redundant phone calls and emails or anything that does not seem like it will help me reach my goals.

To her credit, Hilary at least remembered to follow up that conversation with an email communicating that she had shared some considerable judgments about me via email to her friend Calvin, but did not feel comfortable sharing those judgments with me. Nor did she feel comfortable simply forwarding Calvin’s response. My 21st century Employment Specialist would not permit me to communicate with him via 21st century media-? As I anticipated, Calvin’s program-think did not extend beyond his community college:

cha job networking

What Hilary maybe also did not notice is the RISE program already communicates the limits of its capacities via the vernacular graphic design that clutters the bulletin board in the entryway of Restful Peace Cottage: more case management.

I am an educated adult.

I do not need case management.

I need employers or clients healthy enough to reciprocate my respect in exchange for a living wage. It’s nothing personal. It’s just capitalism.

While I feel happy the state has been able to scramble up paychecks for folks who would otherwise be unemployed themselves, what I wonder is why cash-strapped states like Idaho and Washington cover the cost of human labor for knowledge that is already available online and for free, but can’t come up with adequate professional wage jobs for all of the educated professionals churned through their schools-? After all the billions that the Gates Foundation and the U.S. Department of Education have invested to end class segregation in the schools, still class segregation continues in the jobs marketplace-?

Meanwhile, those schools generated 194 198 199 shootings since 2013 as of this writing. Moscow’s 2015 mass shooting event does not factor into those statistics, as the shootings technically occurred off-campus, albeit in a town dominated by the university that educated the shooter.

As should be visibly abundant by the graphic design of his program’s print and web collateral, Calvin at Seattle North is no better qualified to evaluate the design of my résumé – or anything else I design – than his cohort at Seattle Central, which protects its state-funded WorkSource computers from the unemployed with a snarling, sneering work study student unprepared for receptionist duties! Believe it! Or! Not:

seattle central college résumé advice

Their psychology faculty might do well to pay tuition to me instead of their students paying tuition to them, as one of the first vernacular graphic design examples I noticed after my return to Seattle included my cousin Ted’s media-saturated visage above a label that read eating disorder to advertise one of their courses. Umm. Okay. That’s one way of describing crimes for which he was executed, although after reading successful Florida prosecutor George Dekle’s own description of bite mark evidence presented at trial, I’m beginning to wonder if he was truthfully guilty of the crimes for which he was executed, or just severely narcissistic, as symptomatic of trauma as the product of incest rape further reared by the multi-generationally abusive Bundy clan, with an enormously fragile ego that pushed away any hope of competent counsel and reveled in the media attention…

In comparison, I would have been happy in 2014 if I had been assigned any rookie public defender who’d passed the bar and had access to wifi, as long as he could maintain his own calendar and shut up long enough to respect my educated expertise, as those minimum qualifications could’ve spared me a month of my life locked up with homicidal maniacs.

By respect I mean listen.

Our attorney/client privileged conversation might have gone: “Here, do you know how to type in a URL? No? Okay, let me do that for you.”

The computers made possible by the Paul G. Allen Charitable Foundation and state-contracted technicians at Seattle’s downtown Employment Resource Center web surveillance blocks prohibit impoverished jobseekers from communicating our 21st century job skills to potential employers:

worksource ywca allen foundation

Seattle Belltown WorkSource hardware, software, and time limitations.

Seattle’s downtown public library employees who ban impoverished jobseekers from internet access need my help with not just customer service skills but also trouble-shooting their typewriters (“Word machines,” according to the Mixing Chamber manager) disconnected from the internet:

spl typewriter

Screenshot of “Word machine” for job application cover-letter-writing disconnected from the internet. Redundant error windows and rampaging WorkSource library staff disrupted my application to a fellowship position with the Supreme Court.

Or just connect your typewriters to the internet-?

The WorkSource technicians unable to migrate their data from the state’s jobs database to Monster in 2015 are not qualified to offer design criticism of my résumé or any other work in my portfolio:

worksource migration email screenshot

Washington State’s WorkSource IT support unable to migrate job seekers’ résumés to Monster! in 2016.

This potential employer could benefit from my help designing forms for the 21st century, replacing mid-20th century bubble-sheet tests:

doj victim witness specialist app

Screenshot of DOJ Victim Witness Specialist application open in the professional version of Acrobat. Individual form fields for each. And. Every. Letter. Of. The. Job. Candidate’s. Names.

As well as its user interface design, if Congress hopes to achieve its stated goals of equal opportunity, upheld by the Supreme Court in a narrow 5–4 ruling 26 June 2015, and reemphasized again jointly by the Departments of Education and Justice on 13 May 2016, coincidentally one day after the first “monthly” house meeting your staff ever attempted to schedule during my tenancy at Restful Peace Cottage, across the full spectrum of gender and sexuality:

screenshot user interface.

Screenshot user interface.

Does your right hand know what your left hand is doing?

There’s six examples of my knowledge vastly exceeding the skills of the folks paid to do those jobs. As a Brubaker’s half-dozen, as my genetic U.S. Navy and Internal Revenue Service (IRS) veteran father used to call me, I’ll include one more. As of the week following the 20th anniversary of her death, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children still needs my help both redesigning its identity and updating its database to include the cold case homicide of little Amber Hagerman, for whom the DOJ-supported AMBER Alert system was named:

amber data alert

Screenshot, National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, AMBER Alert page, meta-dated 13 January 2016, showing no results found for Amber Hagerman 20 years after her death.

The DOJ still needs my help redesigning the identity for the program and overhauling their 1990s-era Amber Alert site, beginning from the perspective of the audience the department hopes to attract: how do I report information possibly relevant to that cold case homicide?

Another Jungian coincidence, I had designed a healthier identity for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children to add to my portfolio sometime prior to 2010, communicating to potential employers that my problem-solving skills in charcoal drawing or oil paint readily adapt to computer media solutions. Page spread from my analogue Look Book forbidden from Idaho’s Kangaroo Court and that Hilary flinched quickly through, asking no questions to better educate herself about design, trauma, or her client’s experiences and education applicable to the job market:

missing kids rebrand

studio6other, Lookbook 2010, page spread.

My description for my thinking behind my identity redesign references inaugural news coverage harking back to an informal debate between then-President-Elect Obama and Arizona’s Senator John McCain well worth digging through the paper’s archives and rereading – or reading, for mental juridical health professionals or case, program, and clinical managers unaccustomed to that activity – alongside philosopher Hannah Arendt’s treatise on the problem of evil, in light of subsequent global historic events:

According to the editor, Mr. McCain vowed to go to the gates of hell to track down Osama bin Laden, describing radical Islamists using mentally disabled women as suicide bombers to persuade his campaign audience to agree with his definition of evil.

During his presidency, Mr. Obama followed in the footsteps left by former President George W. Bush, and the nation descended to those gates. Back in 2008, Mr. Obama’s campaign rhetoric recommended a more balanced, self-aware approach, acknowledging that evil needs to be confronted, but humbly. “Just because we think our intentions are good doesn’t always means [sic] that we’re going to be doing good,” he said. Under his leadership, the White House taught the next generation of schoolchildren to label themselves as (good) victims or (evil) bullies, instead of the more nuanced judgment required of self-awareness: recognizing abusive behavior as abusive, and everyone committing to keeping their behaviors within the parameters of civility as mutually agreed by your lease, policies, addenda, and local, state, and international law.

Further, maybe Mr. McCain was as unfamiliar in 2008 as I was with Rosemary Kennedy’s story?

Not until recently did I learn more eerily fascinating Jungian coincidences: according to journalist Rebecca Morris’s self-published writing about my adopted eighth cousin, twice removed Ted, he resided for a time on Florida’s death row with Ottis Elwood Toole, still posthumously only a prime suspect in the unsolved brutal homicide of six-year-old Adam Walsh, according to a Florida newspaper, and the victim’s own father’s two-page downloadable press kit, a murder that prompted his parents to organize the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and his father to host America’s Most Wanted, the popular television show dramatizing similar crimes.

Not until last summer, again patiently awaiting my turn at the downtown women-only public showers, reading another article – yes, sometimes I read the business section! – from the print edition of the local paper – coincidentally published on my eldest sister’s 14 July birthday – did it occur to me that my family’s trafficking activities might be a problem not just for me but also for national security.

If Senator McCain is concerned about a Chinese firm’s bid for the purchase of Micron, and his wife Cindy concerns herself with anti-trafficking, then how might he feel about a senior electrical engineer at Micron denying crimes as serious as child abuse, elder abuse, trafficking, rape, a homicide in Senator McCain’s own state, and even our shared Arizona genealogy to Idaho’s mental juridical health authorities in his frenzied, coercive effort to force me to perform household labor at his immediate, ever-changing command, while supplying me with not so much as toilet paper or cat litter, and this level of control over my career choices began only after I shared my concerns that their youngest son seemed to be openly identifying with rapists and killers at their dinner table? The fella who tried to prevent me from applying for jobs with global firms, national public art projects, or any jobs applying my educated skills to the job marketplace, himself works for a global firm, applying one set of rules for mankind, another set for the women fetching and serving in his household.

Does this nation only concern itself with the evil without, or should the Committee on Foreign Investments in the United States (CFIUS), a panel of representatives from more than a dozen departments and agencies across the U.S. government, according to the Wall Street Journal, more self-reflectively pay at least as much attention to the evil within this nation’s borders? I guess that depends, according to Anne Salladin, former senior counsel at the U.S. Treasury, as cited by Reuters, on whether or not the product Micron makes is still strategically relevant to national security.

More curiously Jungian coincidences, as King County residents old enough may remember, on my sister’s birthday in 1974, two women disappeared from the shores of Lake Sammamish, but for then-King County homicide detective Bob Keppel and his partner, “the Ted case officially started on the following Tuesday, July 16,” my birthday that year.

Gauging from Micron’s stock prices that plummeted to barely more than $12 per share by June of this year, down from nearly $36 per share at the height of my brother-in-law’s household labor trafficking in late 2013 when his employer sent him to Japan to train the engineers at Elpida, maybe memory is finding more agile, innovative, and cost-effective design from engineers less apt to stomp their feet and insist on their rightness over their relatives better-educated in the field of human psychology and communications design than the hog-slop-funded father of an adolescent boy who stomped his foot, jeered at his suicidal peers, complained about the ignorance of his public high school web design teacher, and disrespectfully insisted to his aunt more experienced in both technologies dating prior to his short-pants-in-the-sandbox-days that kerning means something different in code than it meant in lead?

For the lay audience, a quick demonstration from my last build of my portfolio site, with the kerning on my drop-up menu in the lower right-hand corner – the only spot of bright color against an otherwise neutral grey ground – as I designed it, with the width of the box set to 12 em and the spacing, or kerning, between the letters left at 0, or as intended by the type designers who designed their faces:

6other screenshot

Screenshot of last build of my former portfolio site,

Here’s the same site build with the kerning between the letters changed to one em:

6other kerning

Screenshot of last build of my former portfolio site,, demonstrating the meaning of kerning is the same in digital type that it meant in lead.

In this era of 3D printing human skin cells, maybe soon the world either won’t need a memory chip in every device like this desktop on which I am typing, or mobile, digital appliance, automobile, drone, aircraft, and weapon, because a younger, more innovative and collaborative team of engineers has figured out a more agile design for memory, or manufacturing memory will no longer require the staggering base startup cost of $3 billion with 18-month cyclical upgrades ranging between $3–100 million, according to an article published 21 July 2015 on Quartz?

If it helps Charlotte feel better about my priorities, design is a “little job.” Graphic designers pay attention to all the little details to solve communication problems that continue to baffle administrators, scientists, technologists, engineers, and mental juridical health professionals.

Curiously, just three days prior to the global press reporting the impending purchase of Micron by a Chinese firm, my genetic sister emailed to announce they had acquired some of my possessions stolen by the first of my post-carceral traffickers who tried to extort money from a destitute woman, while raging at me to both, paradoxically, clean her property still further, and to vacate her property, her lit cigarette inches from my face, “YOU BITCH,” after I followed through on her earlier command for me to accomplish the task that she herself failed to do: place boundaries on her grandchildren smoking methamphetamine on her property by alerting the police to the adolescents’ conjoined crimes of petty theft and illicit drug use.

Only that isn’t how my genetic sister worded her email, of course. Her perspective differs from mine. From two states away, the wife of a senior electrical engineer at Micron ordered a destitute woman to return to retrieve some of my things under threat of still more (albeit redundant) losses, issuing a deadline that might seem reasonable from the perspective of a white, male property-owner, but from my perspective, irrational travel and lodging expectations in this era of toxic capitalism.

And it’s not as if I am keeping secret my general geographic location, as transparent as I am reporting egregious state’s abuses. Perhaps she or they just assumed that, because a senior electrical engineer at Micron had forbid me from accessing the internet under threat of rooflessness, thus, I would continue to obey his irrational commands-?

My inquiry for further clarification of which of my stolen property they had received revealed more of my abusive family’s unquenchable urge for control, as well as perhaps the most honest critique of my painting oeuvre that I will ever receive from my family: they had prioritized a used cat litter box and a damaged IKEA bookshelf over an antique mahogany dresser with dove-tailed joints, the pillow-topped, queen-sized bed I purchased prior to our wedding but shared with that “delusional” state prosecutor son of “delusional” ex-FBI parents, and my entire body of work, including bespoke furniture, frames, original paintings, drawings, original prints, hand-bound letterpress-printed books, my birth certificate, analogue evidence pertaining to a cold case homicide, and so on.

Asking for still further clarification, a senior electrical engineer at Micron, who had raged at me for hours about how WRONG I am about the sheer quantity of abused children, now abusive adults whom I have encountered throughout my post-Great Recession job-seeking experiences, emailed back to essentially confess the crime of trafficking his own sister-in-law by lying to authorities about child abuse, elder abuse, rape, homicide, and our shared genealogy, gloating his revenge for placing boundaries on the quantity of hours I could devote to his household labor each week, offering 10 hours per week, which totals to 40 hours per month, or one full workweek detracted from my full-time job of job-seeking, or what he calls “biting the hand that feeds you,” readily identifying with the martyr narrative of a drug addict and a 13-year mental health patient diagnosed by Idaho’s mental health professionals with schizo-affective disorder, an abusive mother and grandmother who suffered incest abuse in her own childhood and had become personally responsible for adding at least three more generations of criminals to the planet, without even once asking for my perspective before offering his judgments, identical in the structure of his communications as April and Charlotte and Delores and Ted Bundy, each spinning around the passive aggressive volvelle I designed as a more effective visual model for communication than any I’ve been able to find through my intensive market research.

As long as you learn how to Unplay the volvelle.

First, deny. “Nothing was stolen,” further reiterated with, “You know it,” as if a senior electrical engineer at Micron is in any position to stamp his oversized two-year-old foot and tell me what I know about human psychology or dictate at me what my educated experiences have been, hence the harm of a state system that rewarded his criminal behavior by carrying out and accelerating his abusive threats:

micron deny

Unplay, deny station of the passive aggressive volvelle in email communications from a senior electrical engineer at Micron.

Second, avoid owning his criminal behavior. In a Micron senior electrical engineer’s mind, being held for a month of my life without arrest or access to competent counsel while he described me as “psychotic” and “delusional” to Idaho’s mental juridical health professionals inadequately educated to perform their taxpayer-funded jobs and further investigate my reports of trafficking, child abuse, elder abuse, and information withheld from a cold case homicide beyond the judgments of my criminally abusive family means I had earlier “abandoned” my property:

micron avoid

Unplay, avoid station of the passive aggressive volvelle in email communications from a senior electrical engineer at Micron.

Third, what any child abuser, rapist, trafficker, or killer does best: blame the victim of his criminal behavior. Two years after he raged at me, “IF ANYONE IS GOING TO BE A VICTIM IN MY HOUSE,” it was going to be him, a senior electrical engineer at Micron, still dissatisfied with his codependent relationship with his wife, still sought a m/other-substitute-object to vie for who gets to be biggest victim in his suburban housing compound from hell, urging me to again seek police assistance, because that accomplished exactly the revenge he sought against me the first time, blithely obtuse that Rebecca’s* position in relation to her local police is significantly different than the relationship between a white, male property-owning engineer employed by Micron and his neighborhood undereducated, white, male police force:

micron blame

Unplay, blame station of the passive aggressive volvelle in email communications from a senior electrical engineer at Micron.

Finally, the biggest martyr in the greater metropolitan Boise area, beating stiff competition, whined at me to solve the problem he had created for himself, urging me to “demonstrate selflessness” by letting him know which of my stolen property I might want to keep, and which he could get rid of, as if I might actually be in any position to control his decisions, sooner than his deadline of the end of 2015 if at all possible, because two empty-nesters in two separate houses, garage parking for four automobiles if they resolved their long-running marital conflicts and hoarding issues, seven bedrooms, two kitchens, one equipped with walk-in food pantry that my genetic sister managed to clean of seven years of collected cobwebs and mouse droppings after reclaiming that windowless corner of her husband’s property from her elderly abusive and abused smother-in-law, provides inadequate space for storing three boxes of journals that I never asked them to retrieve:

micron martyr

Unplay, martyr station of the passive aggressive volvelle in email communications from a senior electrical engineer at Micron.

But perhaps they were downsizing in anticipation of relocating to Shanghai, and have since evaded the jurisdiction of U.S. prosecution?

Analyzed through the lenses of legal logic that I learned from studying for the LSAT, the circular illogic of a senior electrical engineer at Micron is even more fascinating, but I will save that analysis for my direct pitch to law schools in lieu of LSAC’s superfluous bubble sheets. Suffice to say I wholeheartedly agree with his main point, that I may well be the only member of the entire extended Bundy clan behaving responsibly, despite my dire poverty. Possibly the only responsible human being who twice sojourned in the entire state of Idaho.

Here’s what Dr. Keppel had to say about Idaho’s homicide detectives while speaking to my adopted eighth cousin, twice removed on the eve of his January 1989 execution in Florida:

“I really pushed Ted to the limits by suggesting that he and his advisors planned poorly because they invited Idaho authorities, who had no idea to which murders Ted was referring. So I asked, ‘What are you going to tell the guy from Idaho that comes in? He wasn’t even aware that there was a murder…

“When I called him first to tell him to come, I said, you know this might be a surprise to you, but he wants you down there. The guy from Idaho was totally unaware. You’re going to have to tell him. He doesn’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

Soo… in the same 25 years spanning the computing revolution, not much has changed in Idaho homicide investigations, in other words?

If it helps Mr. McCain feel better, it looks like Tsinghua found a work-around for U.S. federal investigation by October of last year, acquiring Western Digital within its corporate portfolio, and adding to its payroll the chairman of a joint venture between the Boise potato chip manufacturer and another of its subsidiaries.

Just addressing the issues that led to this period of homelessness, I’m still wishing I hadn’t missed the opportunity to ask Hilary, “Do you mean Calvin as in Klein, or Calvin more like a Bible-thumpin’ Calvinist minister, or Calvin and Hobbes?”

Better email communications design: Calvin, meet Jana. Her qualifications, education, past experiences, and career goals may be reviewed by following any of the social media links in the sig file of her response. Could you sift through your available jobs and see if you have any employers to match her goals?” Whereupon I might have responded to both, “Nice to meet you, Calvin. If you have any questions, please feel free to comment my social media. Thank you for your help connecting me to employers working at the cross-disciplinary intersection of design, technology, psychology, and law.”

In conversation two weeks into my tenure at Restful Peace Cottage, Hilary shrugged off my assessment of Delores suffering multigenerational early childhood sexual abuse with a pouty moue marring her otherwise lovely features, defensively, “It’s a little soon to say that.”

Too soon for a young woman two years out of a Texas social work program, and suffering deep personal denial, perhaps, but remember, by then I’d had a chance to observe Delores for easily an hour per day for two weeks in her natural habitat. In comparison, a competent therapist seeing a client in her office should be able to assess early childhood sexual abuse long before the equivalent of 14 sessions, but I’ve got a decade of trauma-educated, post-graduate experience on Hilary, not to mention offering my opinion as arguably the global expert in the psychology of serial killers-?

Yet even during our case management meeting after I had confirmed that genealogical connection, analyzing datasets from multiple sources, both addressing the issues that led to this period of homelessness, and preparing for law school, significantly adding to my job market qualifications, still Hilary expressed zero comprehension, or an inability to connect the dots, about the social relevance of my combination of family background, education, trauma recovery, and healthy communication skills. Repression was likely an important coping mechanism for her own experiences of trauma, but worse than useless as a strategy for assisting her social work clients, where twirling around the volvelle starting from denial actively causes harm.

“Soo, what do you need to do to apply for law school?” she asked in a sing-songy, little-girl voice, as if she had already forgotten her own experiences applying to graduate programs, followed by interrupting me mid-explanation, and offering the time management advice of procrastinators worldwide, “Okay, okay, but that’s next year. What about now?”

“Now is when I am working on all the steps to get to next year,” I explained. Slowly.

Poverty doesn’t make it faster to accomplish goals; quite the opposite.

And here we are, at next fall, whirling rapidly through another round of academic deadlines, just as I could guesstimate based on maximizing my computer hours to the best of my ability based on the time and pedestrian transportation limitations of publicly accessible computers, your staff’s inability to place boundaries on Delores’s rampaging control over your “house” computer, and their inability (or refusal?) to assist with the out-of-state return of the desktop of a trafficking survivor of the extended Bundy clan. And here I am, setting aside 1) psychoanalytic expert witness testimony on a triple murderer; 2) further research on a cold case homicide I reported to Idaho authorities, who responded without investigating, locking up a witness and victim of violent crime without due process of law; and 3) design analysis of LSAC’s global communications plan, for 4) felonies, misdemeanors, and violations of landlord tenant law.

Right on schedule.

Describing the structure of Delores’s communications as identical to the individual behaviors of the extended Bundy clan, as well as her level of rage identical to my post-carceral Idaho traffickers, both unrecovered victims of early childhood sexual abuse, Hilary’s next response, rather than express concern for her clients’ well-being, shifted like analogue clockworks, from denial, through avoidance, to attempting to blame me for Delores’s criminal behavior, more of that sing-songy little-girl voice that inevitably reveals unrecovered trauma from sexual abuse, “Oh. So she’s triggering you?”

Healthy, adult human beings do not blame their feelings or their behaviors on other human beings. Healthy social workers do not blame the criminal behavior of one of their clients on their other clients, pace the opinions of the millennial generation with respect to “trigger warnings,” another example of how even higher education has failed the conflict resolution and critical thinking abilities of at least one generation.

Hilary’s consternation or confusion presaged April’s identical facial expression in response to homeless women providing our own furniture where your staff had failed, when I observed, as I paraphrased again in my grievance to Jenn after Hilary coasted onward to her next job within Compass Housing Alliance, “That would be true if I were responding to Delores’s rage with rage. Unplay means to hop outside that vicious circle of the trauma narrative, neither victim nor abuser, but survivor.”

While Hilary might like to think of herself as a social worker with lots of experience working with trauma – and I super-appreciate her sharing that self-judgment with me – she repeatedly revealed her naïveté during that interview, our subsequent conversations, and through her failure to place healthy boundaries on Delores’s criminally violent behavior, require competent psychotherapeutic care for her client desperately flailing out for help from anyone capable of hearing her trauma, or uphold the terms of your lease, not to mention Washington laws.

Maybe the Gates Foundation is ready to consider innovative solutions to global communication problems visibly evident in its own headquarters city? Sure, you can keep working with amateur consultants for solutions to global problems, but when you’re the richest guy in the world, why would you settle for less than the global best?

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