Dear Ms. Yovanovitch

Institute for the Study of Diplomacy
Georgetown University
1316 36th St. NW
Washington, DC. 20007

Attention:  Marie Yovanovitch

Dear Ms. Yovanovitch,

I grew up in a rural area in southeast Massachusetts, always aware - and proud - that both my parents served in the U.S. Army with active assignments in Europe and the Pacific during WW2.  Their commissioned officer status - my mom was a first lieutenant and my dad was a major - kept me in awe, a feeling that to this day can still sweep over me. . . and remind me of the honor owed to those who both represent our national and security interests, and who put themselves out there. . . literally.

It wasn't until I was a teenager that my curiosity about the details of my parents' service "tenure" took real hold.  I asked questions, principally of my mother because she was more approachable and willing to reflect on that episode of her life.  Often using her war album as a reference point, I would study a single picture or series of related ones, and probe until I could imagine an entire scene.   My mother ultimately gifted me her album, and it remains one of my most treasured possessions, a fact made even more humbling when taking into account that I am one of seven children.  Some years ago, my sister and I collaborated on a project to contextualize the album.  Our objective was to synthesize our mom’s war experiences, impart the story (in pictorial fashion), so that all of us had a permanent record and understanding of Margaret Gildea’s ww2 service.  We scanned every photograph and provided details and back-stories to flesh out her experiences in places like Mindanao, Philippines (where she developed an abiding distaste for mangos!), and the reception hospital in Namur, Belgium, and as part of the occupation/reconstruction efforts in Japan post-war. 

Sitting one day on my mother’s living room sofa in the home she shared with her sister on Cape Cod, I once again was perusing her war album, when a loose photo slid into my lap.  I may have seen it before, but never paid close attention to it; after all, it didn’t fit with the time sequence.  It featured two brothers, one who appeared to be about eight years old, the other maybe about five or six.  They were, in fact, twins.  Her first comment was, “Look at those shorts – so French!”  Then the story’s origins spilled out.  My mother was a dietitian, so one of her assigned roles in the final days leading up to VE Day was to plan and organize meals for thousands upon thousands of severely under- and mal-nourished POW’s, who had been recently released from the Nazi camps.  One morning a Belgian woman arrived at the gates, holding her two small babies in her arms, and pleading – in French – for help.  Her distress readily made an impression on the guards, but they didn’t understand French; they sent her away.  She returned very shortly and again appealed to the guards.  My mother was immediately summoned, as she was fluent in French.  She succeeded (much against strict military protocol) in getting a doctor to examine the baby, who was extremely ill with some type of infectious disease.  As the baby was close to death, the doctor administered penicillin, which I’m sure you know was in short supply by this point in the war in Europe.  The baby survived, and photos of my mom holding a then happy baby serve as evidence.  So, what was this outlier photo, taken at a later date (perhaps in the early 1950’s) , doing in her album?  My mom explained that the Belgian mother communicated with her after the war; in one of her letters, she had included a photo of the twins, one boy much smaller and less robust than the other; in fact, he looked like a much younger brother.  Flawinne, nicknamed “Coco,” had survived his medical ordeal.  As you can imagine, the Belgian mother was deeply suffused with gratitude that one Allied soldier had opened her heart to another woman’s desperation and despair, and was willing to set aside protocol and rules.  It was a curious departure, for my mom always and strenuously maintained that she was a compliant follower of rules!  I can’t help but imagine that there is a Belgique man out there, in his mid-70’s, a slight man (perhaps accustomed to wearing tight, high-waisted shorts), who answers to the name Flawinne. . . or Coco!

As much as my parents viewed their wartime service as one of life’s distractions, nothing they could say – or not say – could undo the evident value that they placed on patriotism and service to one’s country, and the lifelong sense of caution that arises when authoritarianism threatens our very security.

I don’t wish to suggest that their experiences mirror your own.  One could say, different time, different place, different mitigating circumstances, different context.  Yet, when I consider your testimony of last week, it is not lost on me that you appreciate – more keenly than the average citizen, and evidently much more keenly than several of your questioners – the fragility of democracy.  You strike me as an extraordinarily honest foreign service careerist; that anyone would feel so emboldened as to characterize you as “bad news”, and remove you without cause must shake your faith.  I’m not expecting that you would feel it necessary to defend against such an odious and baseless accusation; you’re way better than that.  It troubles me greatly, however, that there appear to be no sensible measures that can effectively put a stop to this alarming trend.  I have scant confidence that this will resolve satisfactorily because I hear the confounding rationalizations and defenses of politicians who are most concerned with holding onto their seats.  We have a dangerous president in Donald Trump; his every action makes me want to kick and throw things.  How do you stay positive?  How do you, after being knocked down, pick yourself up and march forward with renewed conviction?  You must surely have a personal mantra that serves you in moments like these!

I am compelled to say how sorry I am that you’ve had to endure this nonsense, but I also sense how trite that must seem.  Please don’t give up the fight; we who have been following events closely believe in you and the righteous path you’re following.

I would be more than thrilled to hear back from you!  For that reason, I include a S.A.S.E. for your convenience.  (I am an inveterate writer of letters.  In fact, my first “serious” letter, at the age of seven, was to J.F.K.’s widow in December of 1963.)

With highest regard,

Joyce McKenna

November 18, 2019

P.S.  I retired from teaching in 2016, after teaching Spanish in public high schools for 27 years.  I now volunteer at a cat shelter, and serve as the secretary for our town’s Historical Commission.  I stop short of offering to volunteer to work with you, much as I hold you in high esteem, because I do love living near the ocean in my quiet corner of the country. 

I’ll get to it. . . or will I?

Most days my list of home maintenance and household tasks remains static.  Already being rather lengthy, it’s discouraging to even think of adding to it.  I just wish I were capable of crossing off more assignments than I find myself able to do these days.  Today I decided to take action.  Motivational wisdom maintains that you’re more apt to achieve your goals if you have a manageable daily list.  I like making lists.  I have lists on scraps of paper that are tucked everywhere in this house:  books to read, potential names of places to volunteer, inspirational quotes, people I want to write to or send things to, day trip ideas, and so on.  This morning I made a serious list, and it looked like this at 9:30am:

1)    Wash table on patio

2)    Cover outdoor furniture

3)    Move deck furniture down to patio under deck

4)    Plant garlic

5)    Cut down ornamental grasses in front garden

6)    Turn off outside water

7)    Put away air conditioners

Springing into action, I first switched into appropriate roll-up-your-sleeve wear, and headed to the back door.  Pleased to see that the sun was shining, I then noted that the two French doors really needed a good cleaning.  I thus veered off toward the pantry to gather window spray, paper towels and the squeegee.  Hmm, I was sure I had left the squeegee in there.  It wasn’t there.  It wasn’t in the broom closet, either, although the smell of stink bugs in there reminded me of the unwise move earlier in the week of vacuuming up all those primitive-looking, creepy bugs that somehow ultimately find their way into my baskets of clean clothes and into my bureau.*  The clutter within, in combination with the stink bug odor, caused me an involuntary shudder, so I closed the door.  (Note:  add “DIY closet project” to list.)

In short order, I found myself in my car with the objective of buying a replacement for an item that unquestionably was in my house but eluded discovery because someone (else) must have moved it.  I headed south on Route 1 to pick up another squeegee at the hardware store, where the broad array of choices was staggering, challenging me to be more contemplative in my choice; I say challenging, but a squeegee is a squeegee, after all.  I then dashed over to nearby Tendercrop Farm to buy eggs and milk.  I’m nothing if not efficient in time management.  In Tendercrop’s market I ran into Tiffany, and we caught up.  As I then hastened toward the counter my eye caught an intriguing machine, topped by a large container of peanuts.  Turns out you can make your own peanut butter at Tendercrop – I love peanut butter!  But I’m efficient in time management, y’see, so I stored that new piece of information and walked away.  I rushed, only to cool my heels in the line for the register, which is where I ran into Meghan from Triton, and we caught up.  

It occurs to me that standing in line is really a blessing.  I know it doesn’t seem that way for most of us; just the thought of waiting in line causes most of us to become anxious, all that time wasted.  We just don’t view “The Line” for all it offers us.  On occasion we find ourselves to be either directly in front of or behind someone whom we haven’t seen in ages.  (Funny how the moment tends to force our facial muscles into some distorted version of a smile, and causes us to engage in awkward banter, maybe because we realize that we’ve been negligent in tending friendships, but more likely because in those moments we only ever are dressed in the worst of our closet’s dregs, and with our hair looking very much like the before picture). Confession:  I regularly see people I know in other lines, and do my best to be invisible; I’m a horrible human being. Standing in line is like, but not too like, riding the subway; you have been presented with the opportunity to strike up a conversation with (most likely) a perfect stranger, and know that it will quickly end, and you will (most likely) never see this person again.  You can be whoever you want, and say whatever you want.  (In that way, it’s not too like meeting someone you know in a grocery or department store, but these days it’s even easier to lower the risk by ordering online and doing a curb-side pickup). 

I always feel - at the grocery store or market, that is, - that you should not waste the moment by talking about how frustrating it is to wait in line, and, excuse me, but why is that person just now beginning to dig into the deepest recesses of her satchel for her checkbook?  It is in moments like this where it’s okay to talk about the enduring appeal of PEZ candy dispensers, (they didn’t always come packaged in such a fun, child-centered way, you know; also, they were originally mint-flavored and came in an Altoids-type tin), and what a shame – and how bewildering – that NECCO, the other maker of candy of questionable value, abruptly sold the business; who really even likes those clove-flavored ones?  Oh, you do – Imagine that! (You have to hand it to NECCO; they stuck to their formula, and never changed in over 150 years.)

An hour and a half after having critically assessed the state of the glass in my French doors, I finally held all the necessary supplies to clean them.  I got down to work, and, equipped with the proper tools, quick work it was. The panes looked wonderful, or I should say that the tree line beyond looked wonderful.  So that is why I proceeded to the dining room, hoping to excite my brain’s pleasure center once more.  I was reminded, in so doing, that on one of the windows the pulley and sash cord had long parted ways.  (Note: add “Repair window sash” to list.)

I did, finally, get to one of the items on my list – the ornamental grasses in the front garden.  This time the right tool presented itself without taunting me into a game of hide-and-seek.  It was probably the most ambitious task on the list, but I was determined to get it off the list, if only for the reason that I’d like to ease the job of backing my car out of the driveway without having to inch by the overgrown grasses.  Now I barely have to tap my brakes, and I’m on my way up the street.  See, there’s my natural sense of efficiency on evidence again.

So, at the end of the day my list now reads (for use another day):

1)    Wash table on patio

2)    Find covers for outdoor furniture

3)    Cover outdoor furniture

4)    Move deck furniture down to patio under deck

5)    Weed raised bed

6)    Plant garlic

7)    Cut down ornamental grasses – front garden

8)    Turn off outside water.  Thank you, Megan

9)    Put away air conditioners

10) DIY closet project

11) Repair window sash

12) Wash windows on French doors

13) Wash dining room windows**

*Stink bugs, an invasive species from East Asia, are of particular concern to growers of corn and soybean.  It worries me that scientists have considered introducing another species from China as a natural predator; the wasp in question has no known predators.  Really?  Really?!!

**Admit it; you, too, add things to your list after the fact, just so that you can cross them off.

I think I need more motivational wisdom.  It should pull in some ideas about avoiding distractions, how to become organized and stay that way, perhaps some words on prioritizing, and, dear God, some strategies on time management.