Month: September 2025

Categories
Nonfiction Reflection Seattle

How About Those Mariners?

In January of 2024, I made a deliberate choice to be a Baseball Fan. There were two reasons behind this:

  • My spouse is a lifelong baseball fan and I wanted to be a better spouse. We had gone to a few games when his team was in town to play the Seattle Mariners, but my appreciation was limited to “vibes” only.
  • Someone I loved very much was disintegrating. Cheering a baseball team was a socially acceptable way to shout and channel my heartache in public.

I had choices to make, though: Do I invest my enthusiasm in my spouse’s team? In their pinstripes they have won the most number of World Series (and reminds everyone of it). Or do I dedicate my ardor to the team that has never been to the World Series, the Seattle Mariners?

Dear reader, you already know who got my vote. The West Coast is the Best Coast.

A sponge for learning, I asked many questions during my 2024 baseball education. Once I understood what “starting rotation” meant, what made the Mariner pitchers so effective? Why does “Wins Above Replacement” matter? What does “On-base Plus Slugging” represent? Why did Ty France get hit by pitch so much? Teams can designate players for assignment just like that???

My spouse’s eyes never rolled out of his head, though that would have been a reasonable response to some of my questions. Every morning I read the SB Nation site for the Mariners, Lookout Landing. I announced my burgeoning interest in baseball to other Mariners fans. They all looked at me with some amount of pity.

In our 2024 Christmas card I commented that my choice to become a fan of the Seattle Mariners was a mistake. I now understood the shirt I had seen around town: A trident, to represent the Mariners, and the text, “Maybe next year!“

Before the baseball season started in 2025, the person I loved very much died. As the year unfolded, wars continued, injustice ascended, ethics eroded. Cheering a baseball team is a socially acceptable way to redirect the energies of grief and anger in public.

My investment in the Seattle Mariners grew. This culminated in the sheer amount of kilojoules I spent this week on this team, which is now the American League West champion! This hasn’t happened in 24 years.

Furthermore, our humble catcher, Cal Raleigh, made home run history, both as a catcher and as a switch hitter. (His nickname is “The Big Dumper”. Have you seen the size of his butt?)

This has prompted questions about identity:

  • I didn’t grow up in a baseball household. (Basketball came first, then football.)
  • I historically have found baseball boring.
  • Could fans of America’s pastime look like me?
  • Am I now one of those people who can spout random facts about baseball?

Dear reader, the answer to all those questions is yes. That’s super weird.

As the Seattle Mariners crested towards the end of the season, baseball became a laboratory of communication.

I previously envied the way men who did not know each other could immediately engage in energetic conversations about sports. Sometimes it seemed like they had known each other for years.

What I noticed now, though, was the increasing amount of communication — particularly in the form of text messages — solely about baseball. Practically all these people are good friends I have known for years. There are real tragedies happening in their lives: parents who are deteriorating; pets dying; friends with conditions that elude treatment; people losing their jobs.

Meanwhile, they send messages acknowledging Cal Raleigh’s 60th home run.

How are they themselves doing? No comment.

I don’t know if it’s true that, because of my professional training, it is easier for me to have in-depth conversations with people. Do I have skills to create conditions so people will be more likely to share sensitive personal information with me? I hope so, but I don’t actually know.

It’s true: Talking about baseball is easier than talking about hopes, fears, dreams, and loss. It’s natural to avoid delving into more meaningful topics. We fear how others will react to our vulnerabilities, to the soft spots we keep covered to prevent bruises from the outside world.

The thing is, we’re often our own harshest critics. Our good friends aren’t umpires. They’re not calling balls and strikes on us. They are instead in the dugout or on deck, admiring our approaches to the plate.

But let me be honest: Have I already forgotten the reasons why I chose to become a Baseball Fan? Weren’t there thoughts and emotions I sought to shun? I couldn’t escape anticipatory grief. The crying was exhausting. Wasn’t I looking for a healthy yet avoidant way to cope?

So, here’s to the 2025 Seattle Mariners. May their success continue. May they go to (and win!) the World Series. May they continue to be a bright spot amid the challenges we all have in our small lives and big communities.

Categories
Homelessness Nonfiction Policy Public health psychiatry

Who is Actually Unsafe?

Before she and I reached the gate in the chain-link fence, a man approached us from the opposite direction. A hoodie shaded his face and his hands were in his pockets.

When she and I got closer, we waved first, all smiles. This was intentional. Hello! We are harmless, but we are paying attention!

He slowed down and pulled the hoodie off of his head, revealing the AirPods in his ears and a tentative smile on his face.

He and my colleague started greeting each other at the same time. She deferred to him.

“I’m just out for a walk,” he said. The accent in his voice revealed that English was not his first language.

“So are we,” my colleague said. This was a lie.

“Oh,” he said, his face now soft and kind. “A worker, a government worker, told me yesterday to be careful when walking here. He said that there are dangerous people back there”—he pointed to the area behind the chain-link fence—“people who are homeless.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” we replied. His intentions were kind; he was looking out for us. He continued on to the parking lot. 

When we arrived at the gate in the chain-link fence, we ignored the sign posted on it: DO NOT CROSS.


Despite years of doing homeless outreach, I still feel my heart beat a little faster and my shoulders tense a bit whenever I approach an encampment. It doesn’t matter if it’s tucked in a wooded area, under a freeway, or behind a building.

Nothing dangerous has ever happened to me when I’ve outreached more remote locations. Sites where I have been at risk of injury were almost all public places with plenty of people milling about, or in spaces where people are literally locked in.

I don’t ignore my anxiety—our emotions are sources of information—but continue to wonder how much of my unease is due to stigma.

She and I followed the worn footpath through the overgrown grass and were soon under a canopy of leafy trees. On one branch hung a jacket that had been singed by fire. As we approached the underpass, the vegetation receded. A small river was on one side; on the other was a slope of rocks and loose dirt that led up to the concrete base of the road.

A small tent was closer to the river. A larger structure was tucked further away, just underneath the roadway. Old clothing, food wrappers, worn blankets, and other detritus were scattered about, evidence of people who were once there. Maybe they had moved on?

We saw no signs of life.

“Outreach!” my colleague called out. The rumbling of the cars overhead muffled her voice.

The small tent shifted back and forth; we heard rustling sounds.

“Outreach, hello?” my colleague called to the small tent.

“Yes, I’m coming out,” a tired voice responded. Within a few minutes, the person inside unzipped the door flap. A young woman wearing a soiled sweatshirt adorned with the name of a law school peered out. Her face was thin and her limbs were slender.

She didn’t need anything, but accepted some snacks and water. She wasn’t the one we were looking for. We wondered if she had seen The Person?

“Yeah, from time to time,” she replied. “She might be up there.”

After thanking her, we plodded through the soft dirt and climbed over wobbling rocks to the larger structure. A multi-gallon clear barrel in front of the tent was about half full of water. Nearby were piles of blankets and clothes.

The tent was wide open. There were no blankets, sleeping bags, or pillows inside. At the back of the tent was The Person. She was sleeping directly on a tarp.

The Person is not well, but aside from sleeping underneath a road, she breaks no laws. She mumbles and often says things that only she understands. In stores she quickly picks up what she wants and pays with cash and coins. 

As far as we know, she’s lived outdoors for years. And now she is over 60 years old.

These two women are homeless, but they do not contribute to crime and disorder on America’s streets. They are not safety threats.

Who is truly unsafe: Us, or them?

Categories
Reflection

Words Have Meaning.

Shortly after I learned of the murder of Charlie Kirk, I thought of the manifesto from People Reluctant To Kill for an Abstraction. George Saunders wrote it in 2004:

Last Thursday, my organization, People Reluctant To Kill for an Abstraction, orchestrated an overwhelming show of force around the globe.

At precisely 9 in the morning, working with focus and stealth, our entire membership succeeded in simultaneously beheading no one. At 10, Phase II began…

It’s true. Millions of people around the world, despite whatever grievances they hold, somehow refrain from killing other people. Most people go through their entire lives without murdering a single person! If only this could be true for all people.

Since the world began, we have gone about our work quietly, resisting the urge to generalize, valuing the individual over the group, the actual over the conceptual, the inherent sweetness of the present moment over the theoretically peaceful future to be obtained via murder.

Do we all agree that words have meaning? Jamelle Bouie comments:

It is sometimes considered gauche, in the world of American political commentary, to give words the weight of their meaning. As this thinking goes, there might be real belief, somewhere, in the provocations of our pundits, but much of it is just performance, and it doesn’t seem fair to condemn someone for the skill of putting on a good show.

Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) uses this triangle as a model for our minds:

(from Beacon)

We can’t read minds, but we can infer what people are thinking about through their speech. Thoughts influence feelings and behaviors—and not just in ourselves, but in those who listen to what we say.

To be clear, no one deserves to be murdered because of what they say.

It is also true, though, that the words we use have the power to unite or divide, to cultivate love or hate. don Miguel Ruiz notes, “The first and most important of The Four Agreements is be impeccable with your word” because:

The word, as a symbol, has the magic and power of creation because it can reproduce an image, an idea, a feeling, or an entire story in your imagination. Just hearing the word horse can reproduce an entire image in your mind. That’s the power of a symbol.

We can cast magical spells with our words. How do you want to use the power of your words? What emotions or behaviors might manifest from the spells you cast?

Brian Kilmeade of Fox News cast a vile spell earlier this week in advocating that mentally ill homeless people should be executed:

Jones was talking on “Fox & Friends” on Wednesday about public money spent on trying to help homeless people and suggested that those who didn’t accept services offered to them should be jailed.

“Or involuntary lethal injection, or something,” Kilmeade said. “Just kill ‘em.”

Should Kilmeade be killed for making this obscene remark? No.

If we believe words are thoughts embodied, then we must believe that these words have meaning and can manifest in behaviors. What we say can affect what we and others do.

This is why we hold Kilmeade and all others who make hateful comments accountable for what they say. We will not repeat the mistake that Kilmeade made: We will recognize the humanity of all people, including him. One of the best ways we can humanize other people is to believe they meant what they said, even if we don’t agree with it. What Kilmeade said is abhorrent.

Millions of people around the world, despite whatever grievances they hold, somehow refrain from talking about killing other people. Many people go through their entire lives without talking about murdering a single person! If only this could be true for everyone.

Categories
Homelessness Nonfiction Public health psychiatry

Opening Doors.

For our first appointment, she didn’t come downstairs. The building staff, who described her as a high-priority patient, had predicted this.

After I knocked on her door, a gruff voice shouted back, “What do you want?!”

She eventually opened her door. Inside, the room was furnished with only a bed and nightstand. The mattress still looked brand new; no linens or blankets were on it. The only item on her nightstand was a lamp, the shade still wrapped in plastic. The walls were bare; her closet was empty. Blinds kept the sunlight out.

The only personal item in her room was a flattened cardboard box. It was next to her bed. Though she had lived in that unit for almost a full year, she was still sleeping on the floor. She preferred the cardboard to the mattress.

“I don’t need anything, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she grumbled. She pointed an arthritic finger at the door before announcing, “I’m leaving now.” I stepped to the side. She hobbled past me towards the elevator, mumbling to herself. She didn’t close the door to her apartment. I did.

That first appointment was a success! Not only did she open her door, but she also spoke to me. Sure, it was a short and superficial conversation. Her primary goal, it seemed, was to get away from me. But she didn’t yell at me, despite my introduction: “Hi, my name is Dr. Yang. I work as a psychiatrist. I just wanted to introduce myself. How are you doing?”

There was a fair chance that she would talk to me again in the future. I had two goals now: Create conditions so that she would (1) talk with me again and (2) tolerate a longer conversation with me. Maybe two to three minutes next time?

Back downstairs, I tapped out a quick note:

This is a 79yo woman with a historical diagnosis of schizophrenia. She reportedly has a history of street homelessness of at least twenty years, though housing staff believe that she had been homeless for longer. She finally moved into housing about a year ago….