The Cost of Peer Pressure

It’s everywhere. School and college, the neighborhood, the workplace….and here in the apartment building, and, yes, I’ve fallen victim to peer pressure.

We cave to peer pressure because, deep down, humans are basically herd animals with Wi‑Fi. The moment everyone else is decorating apartment doors—we feel an ancient tug in our DNA whispering, “Blend in, Judith… blend in or perish.” Our brains, ever dramatic, act like standing out will lead to exile, even though the worst that usually happens is someone raising an eyebrow and asking, “Oh. You’re not decorating your door?” 

Suddenly we’re nodding along, saying “Tomorrow, we’re going to decorate tomorrow” while wondering how we got there.

Seems almost everyone who lives in an apartment spends time and money on door decorations. Throughout the year one will find leprechauns, bunnies, flowers, crosses, flags, wreaths, art pieces, gnomes, skeletons, and Santas. Our apartment complex has a door decorating contest at Christmas-time—a contest, I assure you, my wife and I have zero chance of ever winning!

And peer pressure is sneaky. It doesn’t show up wearing a trench coat saying, “Do this.” It arrives disguised as casual comments like, “Everyone’s doing it,” or “It’ll be fun,” or “Come on, show your spirit.”

Next thing you know, we’re participating in something we swore we’d never do—spending money on chachkies to decorate a door that only a few dozen people will really see. Peer pressure is basically the universe’s way of reminding us that humans are gloriously ridiculous, and we’re all just trying to fit in without losing our dignity entirely.

Today, July 1^st, found me at the local Dollar Store. I hurried home to add to the few dollar store items we purchased LAST YEAR to celebrate our country’s independence. I added red, white and blue garland and a patriotic bow for Rusty, our bobbing-head dog greeter. And, for the outdoor barbeque we’ll attend, I bought two head bands with stars that flash red, white, and blue.

The cost of peer pressure for this July 4^th holiday was less than six dollars. With inflation I don’t want to think about the Christmas door decorating contest!

Happy July 4^th!

PRIDE

Hello Friends!

WOW! June is already here. And since it’s PRIDE month, it wouldn’t feel like me to let it pass without saying a few words.

As many of you are aware, Eileen and I have been living in Washington State since 2018. We chose Washington for several reasons: mountains nearby, the Pacific Ocean an hour’s drive west, the Canadian border to the north, and the inland waterways of Puget Sound. And then there’s the surrounding landscape—lush, green, and quietly affirming.

Mostly, however, we chose Washington because it allows us to live our marriage—and our lives—with authenticity and ease. 

Washington State—especially Olympia—is a place where visibility, safety, and celebration are part of everyday life, not just something reserved for one month a year. The state’s long‑standing commitment to LGBTQ+ rights, from comprehensive anti‑discrimination laws to inclusive healthcare protections, creates a foundation where people don’t just feel tolerated—they feel welcomed.

June’s PRIDE celebrations spill beyond the big cities of Seattle, Tacoma, and Spokane. Small towns, libraries, parks, and community groups join in, turning PRIDE into a statewide expression of belonging.

The Pacific Northwest’s culture of openness also plays a role. Washingtonians tend to value individuality, creativity, and community care, making it easier for people to show up as themselves without apology. PRIDE month here isn’t only about parades; it’s about storytelling, art, activism, and intergenerational connection. You’ll find queer‑owned bookstores hosting readings, tribal communities uplifting Two‑Spirit voices, and local organizations offering support and education.

For a lot of LGBTQ+ people, the parades and celebrations aren’t about making a big deal—they’re about finally getting to exist openly in a world that hasn’t always made room for them. PRIDE started as a protest, and for many people, it’s still the one time they feel fully safe and visible. You don’t have to love the parades, but they matter to the people who’ve spent years being told to stay quiet.

PRIDE is the one month many LGBTQ+ folk don’t have to shrink themselves. The parades might look loud, but they come from a long history of being told to be invisible.

It’s joy after survival.

Thanks for reading my postings. For more short reads: www.judykiehart.com/postings

Take advantage of Calico Lane, now on sale through Amazon! https://www.amazon.com/Calico-Lane-breaking-through-cultural/dp/B0DT9GPP9Z

Happy PRIDE!

Judy

Leaving Breadcrumbs

My wife and I drive past a facility that specializes in memory care. The sign encourages passersby to Call Today, and we joke, adding, “Before you forget.” We know, all too well, that before long, we’ll be amongst those whose memories have faded.

This week, I pulled a large plastic bin from the bottom shelf in the garage. I’ve been meaning to go through that bin for several years, and this was the week to tackle it. The bin contained photo albums from days long ago.

Some albums were automatically deemed keepers: Those of my son, those of family celebrations with aunts, uncles, cousins, and my Babas. Without a doubt, these photos will stay. I’ll never forget family, I tell myself.

The thinner albums – dated 1972 to 1998 – were marked with the names of colleges I’ve attended, places where I’ve been employed, and newspaper clippings of events and people. The more recent were the most familiar. I smiled as I turned the pages. Most of the photos did not have names written on the backs, because when they were set into those peel‑and‑stick albums, I KNEW everyone.

As I turned another page, I felt a small tug of unease. I recognized the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head, the way someone held a beer can at a party — but the names hovered just out of reach. It startled me. These were people I once laughed with, confided in, maybe even loved in the way young people love their companions in passing seasons. The faces stared up at me, patient and expectant, as though waiting for me to call them by name. I whispered an apology to the ones I couldn’t place. “I knew you once,” I said. “I promise I did.”

Maybe this is how forgetting begins — not with the big things, but with the edges softening first. The outlines blur long before the center gives way.

My wife wandered in and peered over my shoulder. “Who’s that?” she asked.

I laughed at myself — the woman who swore she’d never forget a face, now squinting at a photo of a girl wearing a sundress and a straw hat, her arm draped around my shoulders.

“No idea,” I said. “But we obviously knew each other.”

We both laughed, but it wasn’t the same kind of laugh as the one we shared when we passed the memory care sign. This one had a tremor in it, as if realizing that we noticed the changes in our memories, and acknowledging—lightly—that time is moving.

 I thought of my mother, who used to flip through her own albums, tapping a finger on faces she could no longer name. “Good people,” she would say, when the names escaped her. “All good people.”  I used to think it was sad that she had forgotten so much. But now, I realized she hadn’t lost everything. She remembered the feeling of them. The warmth. The goodness.

Maybe that’s what lasts longest — not the names, but the way someone made you feel in the brief season you shared.

I wondered who would open these albums after me. Would my son flip through them someday, trying to piece together the woman I was before he knew me? Would he recognize the girl in the bell-bottoms? Would he care?

After several hours of reminiscing, I set the plastic bin filled with photo albums back on the shelf in the garage.

Maybe that’s why we take photos — not to remember the people in them, but to leave breadcrumbs for the ones who come after us.