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Current Curiosities [Reading] How to Lose Your Mother by Molly Jong-Fast [Listening] "The Trial of Tommy Manzo" Parts I-III on The Bravo Docket [Watching] Final Destination: Bloodlines Diego Brown | 5 May 2014 - 10 June 2025 Yesterday, I picked up Diego's ashes. Diego died suddenly one week ago today. During the last ten years together, Diego and I bonded over long walks and sharing french fries. We soulmated harder than I expected. I'm heartbroken, yet happy and grateful to have known Diego.  Diego during his first afternoon at his new LFK home When I finished my doctoral coursework and prepared to read for my exams, I decided adopting a dog may be helpful to break up long periods of study and get me out of my apartment regularly. I was newly diagnosed with anxiety and PTSD after experiencing some truly bizarre and unexpected workplace mobbing from fellow graduate students and a few faculty members in my department. (For what it's worth, my PTSD manifests mostly as sleeplessness. I hate I feel the need to clarify my symptoms, but folks often assume you're dangerous with this diagnosis.) Breaking up study sessions with regular walks would not only help me process and make connections among the texts I was reading, but also walking would (hopefully) improve my sleep. While attending a Kentucky Derby party, I learned the Lawrence Humane Society was hosting a Clear the Shelter day because they were overflowing with recently rescued dogs and cats. The next day, I drove to the edge of town, took a deep breath, and entered the shelter. I wandered about the crowded kennels, seeing so many surrendered bully breeds, one after another. Then I turned a corner and saw two dogs sitting calmly together in their own kennel in the midst of all the excited, agitated chaos. One was an overweight Chocolate Lab; the other was a black and tan terrier of some unknown variety. They were a real George and Lenny. (Until last week, whenever anyone asked what breed Diego was, I'd say Humane Society Terrier.) Immediately, I fell in love with both dogs. I asked a staff member what their story was. She told me the boys were picked up the day before wandering together on the streets of Kansas City, MO. And they'd only been at the shelter for about eight hours. Even though I was apartment living, as underpaid graduate students are wont to do, I was prepared to adopt both dogs. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the Chocolate Lab, whose name I cannot remember, was adopted by a family with small children. This left the terrier, Pauly D, a name given to him by the staff. I rushed to fill out the paperwork. Pauly D, named after a Jersey Shore character, hopped onto the leather backseat of my silver Jeep Grand Cherokee, looking a little anxious. We drove to PetCo to pick up the essentials: kennel, collar, lead, food, snacks, and a Chewbacca stuffed toy. We also bought a new tag for his collar. Do I stick with Pauly D even though it was a name new to him and I'd never watched the show? Or do I choose something else? Previously, I'd had a dog named Frida (after Kahlo), so I decided Diego was the perfect name to pay homage to his predecessor.  Diego snoozing with his Chewbacca stuffy (we went through six of the furry guys) On June 6, 2015, Diego, joined Watson the Cat and me in the apartment. Watson immediately took to Diego and cuddled him, showing Diego he was home. That night it became apparent Diego had trauma of his own. I will never know what happened to him and his Lab buddy on the streets of KCMO, but whatever Diego experience had a lasting impact. Watson and I tucked Diego into his new kennel, complete with new memory foam pad and blankets that smelled like me and his new cat friend. I climbed into bed and turned out the lights. Diego started panicking and crying. His kennel was in my bedroom, and Watson and I were close. But the kennel must've reminded him of being trapped earlier in his life. I let him out and Diego slept next to Watson on the bed. After that night, we never used the kennel again. And Diego slept in my bed (whether or not I had a manfriend) for the next ten years. Slowly, Diego found his happy places around the apartment — the bed, couch, cold tile floors (kitchen and bathroom). But his most favorite place to sleep was under my bed. Overtime, it became his little bear cave, his wolf den. If ever I could not find Diego, I knew to look under my bed. Under my bed became Diego's safe place. For example, when that drunk frat guy tried to break down my front door in the middle of the night (and the Lawrence cops refused to do anything about it), Watson the Cat stood with me by the door ready to fuck up this straight man, but Diego was nowhere to be found. Once the dust of night's events settled, I found Diego shaking, hiding under the bed.  Diego snuggling with his best buddy Watson in Northfield As I mentioned earlier, Diego had trauma of his own. This might be why he and I bonded so completely. Diego was sensitive to loud noises, such as the sounds of a drunk frat guy trying to break and enter. I learned to keep my tone even around Diego, especially when talking about challenging topics — queerphobia, police brutality, the 2016 election — with friends and family. Diego was also wary of UPS trucks, not other delivery trucks, only UPS trucks. On walks, he would lose his mind when one drove by, even more so if one stopped near us on our route to deliver a package. I've always wondered why UPS trucks are such a specific trigger for my little walking buddy. Diego also panicked whenever he heard fire alarms or other warning systems. This not only included every time I set off our fire alarm frying green tomatoes, but also anytime a klaxon sounded on the TV. My reaction times became faster than a sprinter at hitting mute on the clicker as quickly as possible when sirens blared. (Curiously, thunderstorms and fireworks did not affect him.) His reaction to his triggers followed the same pattern. He'd start shaking from nose to tail and then either run under the bed (his safe place) or sit next to me and Watson. I'd give him tight hugs and act as a kind of human weighted blanket. Over time, I'd feel Diego's shaking subside and his muscles relax. Then he'd be ready to play or walk or (more typically) snack. One of Diego's cutest peculiarities was nursing on throw pillows when he was feeling anxious. Sometimes Diego would feel overwhelmed when friends and family visited. He'd greet them and then find his current favorite pillow and begin sucking and nibbling on a corner while watching them out of the corner of his eye. Honestly, it was so sweet and adorable. Though, we did go through too many throw pillows to count. So every time I visited Target, I'd pick up a few discounted pillows from an end cap. (I love Target end caps; they're such a mishmash of sale items that I don't yet know I need.) Until last weekend, Diego had a fully stocked stable of throw pillows at his disposal. I learned so much about how to care for Diego. I restructured my life to support my buddy and his trauma. And I would happily do it again.  Diego posing in the fall leaves in Northfield On our walks, Diego paid little attention to other dogs (except a Great Pyrenees named Denver in our LFK neighborhood) or other animals — except rabbits. On sight, Diego would morph from my sweet, sensitive 25-pound terrier into a gun-toting Elmer Fudd. Over time, I became adept at spying bunnies before Diego, so I could redirect or distract him or tighten my grip on his lead. (Years of Where's Waldo and Find Freddy came in clutch.) One time, as Diego and I walked through the park, he started sniffing a spot near a large oak. I wasn't paying attention to what he was investigating because I was distracted by the Queer Eye team filming at a house in our neighborhood. When I realized what he was up to, I screamed with horror. Diego had the decaying tail of a gray squirrel hanging out of his mouth. Dry-heaving, I used a two poop baggies like latex gloves to pry it out of his mouth and wrap up the tail. The rest of the day, Diego only ate Greenies. To paraphrase The League, Diego was now forever unclean. You can take the dog off the street, but you can never take the street out of the dog. Indeed, while Diego was pampered, he remained a street dog at heart. On walks, he'd find chicken bones, which we wrestled over and which were curiously scattered all around LFK. Were they from dead backyard chickens? LFK had many backyard coups and a healthy fox community. Regardless of where the bones came from, Diego would find them. He was such a silly boy. In addition to our LFK neighborhood walks, Diego and I walked through Oak Hill Cemetery, which is a sprawling historic graveyard on the east side of town. It's hilly and filled with gorgeous landscaping, stunning memorials and mausoleums, and labyrinthine paths. Several times per week, Diego and I would hike through the cemetery exploring new smells and processing theoretical texts. Walking with Diego through this graveyard are some of my best memories of living in Lawrence, KS.  Diego in our LFK happy place — Oak Hill Cemetery After leaving the academic side of Higher Education, Diego moved with me back to Fargo, ND, to lead LGBTQ+ Programs and Inclusion Initiatives on a one-year contract at a hella conservative land-grant university, and then to Northfield, MN, during the early days of the pandemic to coach private college students on how to write grants and collaborate with community partners. Finally, we moved to Moorhead, MN, to be nearer my nieces and nephews and aging family members. Diego adapted to every move. As long was he was with Watson and me (and had snacks), Diego was happy and relatively (for him) relaxed. And in each of these new homes, Diego helped this introvert engage with neighbors along our walking routes. Walking with Diego provided low-stakes opportunities for conversation with folks living in my different neighborhoods. (What a cute dog! He looks like Benji! What breed is he?) And Diego must have a thing for Great Pyrenees because he immediately made friends with another one in Moorhead named Bowie. I haven't had the heart to tell Bowie's mom that Diego is no longer with us. Every conversation about Diego feels like I'm losing him all over again. I need to remind myself it's only been a week since we visited the emergency vet and things fell apart. I hope it becomes easier with time.  Diego and Watson always cuddled (usually imitated by Watson, rarely by Diego) This past week, I've struggled to understand what my life looks like without Diego. He was my organizing principle, the cadence to my day. He's why I woke up every morning ready to walk and explore the world. He's why I took breaks throughout the day to go for walks. He's why I could sneak out of social gatherings early to go home and snuggle with him. He's why I've become softer, calmer, more open with my love. I miss his breath, snaggletooth, and soft belly. I miss the way Diego used to silently bark for the first few years of his life with me before eventually finding his voice. (But man, do I miss his barking lip syncs!) I miss how much Diego hated bananas and cucumbers, but loved whipped cream and an occasional coffee bean. I miss Diego's anger at shower time. (He'd get so mad about being clean that he'd jump up on my bed, lock eyes with me, and pee.) He was such a goofy and very particular little man. I miss sharing french fries with him. I miss walking with him. I miss him. Every day, I catch myself still peeking under the bed to see if he's sleeping in his safe place. This might be a sign that the best place to put Diego's little urn is under my bed. Diego was indeed the puppy love of my life. Thank you very much for your time. If you have recommendations or curiosities, please fill out this nifty contact form.
Sending y’all supportive, well-caffeinated vibes, Creighton Today’s Pen(cil): Platinum Preppy [Fountain Pen] | Noodler's Borealis Black [Ink]
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Current Curiosities
[Reading] Hola Papi: How to Come Out in a Walmart Parking Lot and Other Life Lessons by John Paul Brammer [Listening] Britney Spears Greatest Hits: My Prerogative [Watching] Shōgun Selections From My Bookshelf
If you're a Fargo-Moorhead local, be sure to check out More Than Words Bookshop in person or support them online via their Bookshop.org storefront. Thank you very much for your time. If you have recommendations or curiosities, please fill out this nifty contact form. Sending y’all supportive, well-caffeinated vibes, Creighton Today’s Pen(cil): TWSBI Go [Fountain Pen] | Noodler's Firefly [Ink] If you're curious about my former life as an academic and teacher, check out "On Common Books, Civic Engagement, and Claudia Rankine's Citizen," published by the brilliant Assay: A Journal of Nonfiction Studies. Current Curiosities
[Reading] The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion [Listening] The Essential (Dixie) Chicks [Watching] Carnival of Souls Gyro to Hero: Grandma Gum I grew up without grandfathers, which may have been a blessing as both were abusive alcoholics. And after the age of six, I had one grandma. My paternal grandmother, an exceptionally mean Norwegian woman, died from Parkinson's disease when I was in first grade. She lived four houses away from my maternal Greek grandmother, Grandma Gum, in Moorhead, MN. Her name is actually Caroline, but she always had chewing gum in her pockets ready to share with her grandchildren. I believe my older sister, prior to my birth, coined this nickname, which has stuck for more than 40 years, and which my nieces and nephews, her great grandchildren, still call her today. Grandma Gum was born in 1929 in the Little Italy neighborhood of Dilworth, MN. Her father, Nikolas, immigrated alone from Corfu as a teenager. He was a short man with a bushy mustache. Great Grandpa Nick, my middle namesake, worked in the icehouse for the Great Northern Railroad. When not working he cultivated a large vegetable garden in the plot next door and grew carnations in coffee cans placed in every window of the house. He smoked a pipe and imported olive oil from Italy before it was fashionable. (The chair he rested on under a tree where he smoked his pipe currently sits in my living room.) Grandma Gum's mother, Susie, whose family immigrated a generation or two earlier, grew up on a farm and often pulled the plow when there were no animals around to help. She quilted and canned and served as a bonded mail carrier. Great Grandma Susie was a tough, yet deeply caring woman. (She died shortly before I was born.) Grandma Gum was one of nine surviving children. Susie and Nick had a set of twins who died soon after birth and were buried in the same cemetery their parents eventually would be. The twins were separated, one on the Protestant and one on the Catholic side of the graveyard. Susie was a Lutheran and Nick a lapsed Greek Orthodox. I believe Susie married Nick to escape her life on the farm. That is not to say their marriage wasn't a happy one. Honestly, I do not know. Only they knew for sure. During our weekly Sunday morning telephone calls, Grandma Gum often remarks to this day how strict her father was. Nick ruled the house with a leather belt or wooden spoon, whichever was closer at hand. In high school, Grandma Gum and her older sisters were not allowed to date, but her brothers and younger sister were. Isn't that the way it goes? Parents lighten up over time with their younger children (writes the baby of my own family). Theirs was a tough house in which to grow up. Anyway, Grandma Gum graduated from Dilworth High School and took a job at Herbst Department Store in Downtown Fargo, ND. She married her husband in order to leave her parent's home, much like Great Grandma Susie had done. Her new husband served in the Army during and shortly after the Korean War. Together, they had four children. My mom, their third child, was born on a base in Nuremberg, Germany. Their family moved from base to base, from Germany to Kansas and back to Minnesota. He was an abusive alcoholic, and eventually, Grandma Gum divorced him to protect herself and her children. Now, she was a single mom, raising four kids in the 1960s. In order to provide for her family, Grandma Gum matriculated into Dakota Business College. (Now defunct, you can still see the school's ghost sign on the corner of 8th Street and Main Avenue in Fargo.) She could not afford the tuition on her department store salary, so she cleaned the administrator's home in exchange for classes. She worked full-time, attended school, and raised four children without help. Grandma Gum is the reason I went to college (well, that and my parent's Boomer logic that you needed a college degree in order to be successful). She was the only one of her siblings to attend college. Grandma Gum's grit, problem solving, and hustle have had a significant impact on my life. As I mentioned earlier, I grew up without grandfathers — both dying from complications of their respective alcoholisms long before I was born. In her own way, Grandma Gum was both grandma and grandpa. Some of my favorite memories are of her picking me up from Packerland Preschool or South Elementary in West Fargo, ND, driving across the Red River into Moorhead to craft or project — and bond. She had a large backyard with apple and plum trees, lilac hedges, lily of the valley transplanted from her mother's house, and a substantial vegetable garden like her father. She and I would weed and push-mow, prune trees and bushes. We'd work on home projects together with me handing her specific tools from the metal toolbox. Many of the tools belonged to Great Grandpa Nick and had been modified for his small, arthritic hands. We'd paint siding and trim and once installed carpet. I learned how to jerry-rig furniture and other household items with what she calls MacGyver tape. Grandma Gum filled the void left by addiction and abuse and instilled in me a kind of gentle, determined masculinity. She was the one family member I did not worry about coming out to when I finally chose to more fully, more openly be myself at age 25. To paraphrase Miley Cyrus, with Grandma Gum I got the best of both worlds. She is a grandmother after all. She taught me how to sew and knit. Together we made a quilt out of old bluejeans that I still keep in my car (at her advising) in case I ever get stuck on the road during Minnesota's frigid winters. We baked — peanut butter blossoms, fudge, zucchini bread (one loaf with chocolate chips for me and one without for her). We built furniture for my Barbies and Ninja Turtles. We spent a lot of time in her craft room, my favorite room in her house, which had thick orange and brown shag carpet. I cannot tell you how many times a lost sewing needle lying in wait among the tufts slid into the side of my bare foot. To this day, I avoid high-pile carpeting at all costs. While we baked or worked on projects, Grandma Gum would put a tape into the VCR (after The Young and the Restless finished, of course). It would be one of two movies: Sister Act or Fried Green Tomatoes. We'd sing along with Whoopi and her gang of white nuns while crafting. But of the two movies, we'd return more often to Fried Green Tomatoes and cook. She loves to fry food in olive oil, just like her father. We'd fry green tomatoes when in season or zucchini, which was more abundant throughout the summer. While I didn't realize it as a child, this movie is hella queer and also shaped my way of being in the world. Fried Green Tomatoes tells the story of two stealth queer women, who after much hardship finally end up together, opening the Whistle Stop Cafe, where they cook and bake for their community — and barbecue an occasional Klansman. The secret's in the sauce! (My sincere apologies if that spoils an over thirty-year-old movie and an even older novel for you.) I do not know if Grandma Gum realized how queer our favorite movie was. I could ask her during our next telephone call or visit because at 96, even with fading eyesight, she's still feisty and living on her own kitty-corner from my parents' house in West Fargo. I like to think Grandma Gum knew I was different as a child, maybe not queer per se, but she actively supported me and my curiosities. I like to think we rewatched Fried Green Tomatoes because she saw something in the movie that she also saw in me, even if she didn't have the words for it. I like to think that when the inevitable happens, I will always be able to find her among Smokey Lonesome and Sipsey and Big George and Ruth and Idgie in the frames of our favorite movie. It's vital for queer and trans children to have at least one adult in their lives who sees them, who listens to what's being said and left unsaid, who supports them as they navigate their emerging identities. And at nearly forty years old, Grandma Gum continues to be that person for me, as I navigate the precariousness of being a queer professional in the Upper Midwest. Sometimes her advice feels wildly dated, but she means well and relies on her own experiences as a woman surviving the workplace at a time when workplaces weren't built for women, especially women with children. (Workplaces still aren't equipped to support women — or queer and trans people.) Her intention has always been to support and protect me. And for that I am forever grateful. Grandma Gum is my hero — or gyro if you're feeling feisty. Thank you very much for your time. If you have recommendations or curiosities, please fill out this nifty contact form. Sending y’all supportive, well-caffeinated vibes, Creighton Today’s Pen(cil): Moonman Wancai Mini 2.0 [Fountain Pen] | Monteverde Capri Blue [Ink] |