Notes

Trump also needs a pull-back guy—I should be hired, by the way—to help him pause before hitting send on Twitter, to take ten deep breaths in front of any microphone, etc. (Ol’ Slick Willy from Arkansas needed a pull-back guy too, especially for that body part that always got him in trouble, you know?)

Seriously though, I think the all noise over the executive orders and the appointments and the nominees have been shrill. I have tuned out, I’ll admit it. Elizabeth Warren reading Coretta Scott King makes her a warrior princess?  The same woman who ridiculously claimed Native American heritage? Really? I’m supposed to pay attention to that? Nah, we’re still celebrating our win over ‘Bama!

Time will tell with Trump, but it hasn’t told yet. I am not ready to start a fire in Berkeley because they invited a guest speaker I don’t like, but I’m not ready to cast a ballot for Trump’s second term yet either. Damn man, I know we are all for instant gratification these days, but holy shit, let’s all get over the election hangover before we start impeaching, re-electing, calling the damn game against Tommy Brady with most of the game still to play. Let things play out, let those elected to govern try to govern—it’s harder than it looks.

The loyal opposition is important and needs to be robust and constructive and play a role, but screaming drowns out conversations—and conversations are still what we need more of in this country.

He continued the conversation yesterday—and it seems like he’s slowly turning against Trump:

My take on the president about 60 days in? Not much: He is the same blowhard, thin-skinned, egomaniacal maniac I voted for in November. Do I regret my vote? Not yet. Might I down the road? Sure.

The foreign Russian influence in our democratic process troubles me, and if it’s determined to be true, I will not stand for it. Can’t have it. Still smells eerily like Whitewater to me right now, though. The vast left-wing conspiracy maybe!

Throwing out Obamacare? I’m all for it if a workable alternative replaces it. I wouldn’t support getting rid of it just to get rid of it. Just like so much of it all, Obamacare has some things I like and some things I do not. Make it better, call it whatever you want, let’s just make the problem less of a problem for less people and move forward.

Less regulation? I’m for less regulation. I’m not John Stossel yet, but in general I do think we have a million stupid regulations we could get rid of and be better off for it.  

Sanctuary cities? We already solved the nullification crisis some 150 years ago, didn’t we? No state, not even California or New York, can stand on solid ground defying the federal government on matters of immigration. Weed, maybe, immigration and enforcement, no. I’m ok with strangling the shit out of sanctuary cities.

Expanding military spending? I’ll defer on that one; I have a brother in the Army, so I’ll follow his lead. I want them equipped, capable, and ready— but not fighting other people’s wars. Can we afford it? I don’t know.

His Supreme Court nominee?  Seems like a man of the law, serious and studied. I have no problem with his nomination. The Court should always be around 5-4.  It keeps us all in the same sane lane.

Overall, Trump has not been the wrecking ball or the middle finger I anticipated. He’s a dumpster fire in a lot of ways, but mostly harmlessly so, in my opinion.

Should he comment on an NFL player not standing during the anthem? No, it is his right and he should protect that even if he hates it. Should he tweet about Ivanka’s fashion brand? No. Should he claim wiretapping without proving it? No.

It’s all ridiculous reality TV that we should expect from Trump—and frankly expect from ourselves. Like it or not, that is who we are. We are not “all Berliners” anymore; we are all Kardashians, and our president proves it—as does our collective “we” every day. We know who is in the Sweet 16 or what happened on The Walking Dead, but we don’t know shit about Mike Pence or the governor of our own state.

I’m guilty, I promise—hell, this email proves it. My opinion on Trump so far is as worthless as anyone’s, maybe more so than most. I wake up every day, take kids to school, work my ass off for 10 hours a day, get to baseball or soccer practice, listen to the news on the radio, help with homework, pay some bills, do my taxes, change out a light bulb, do some laundry, seduce the wife and go to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Oh shit, it’s the weekend? Soccer tournament, cut the grass, wash the car, plant some flowers, go to church, check Monday’s work calendar, get back to it.

Notice that I left out bitching and complaining, committing a crime, tweeting, screwing my neighbor’s wife, expecting something for nothing, asking for a handout, stealing someone else’s pension, polluting the land, harming any animals, swearing to destroy another country, beating up someone who looks different from me, worrying about who is in the stall next to me at Target ...

So I voted for Kanye’s better half. He hasn’t jumped the shark just yet. Give him time.

Josh White offered a slightly more light-hearted question for the judge: “In New Mexico, there is a state question: red or green?”

John Consentino would ask Gorsuch if he believes “freedom of religion includes imposing your religious tenets on public policy?”—a question Vicki Bliss echoed: “In ruling on religious legal issues that differ from your own, would you be able to judge fairly and truly separate church from state?”

Mitchell Kaplan thinks understanding Gorsuch’s thoughts on science and religion would offer insight into how he might rule on future cases:

How old is Earth? How old is the universe? When did homo sapiens first arrive on earth? Do you believe in adaptation as defined by Darwin? Do you take the Bible literally or metaphorically? Do you believe in creationism?

John Geerken would want to know if Gorsuch, an originalist, would “hold that corporations are people and, as people, have First Amendment religious protections?” Another John would ask whether Gorsuch can think of any errors made by strict conservatives in the  past few years.

From Karen Bottemanne, a question about the world’s changing media landscape:

In view of the 21st-century invention of social media, how would you apply the First Amendment’s freedom of speech to the increasing volume of fake, false, manipulative, hate-filled “speech” carried out by computer bots on well-known media platforms? Many crimes have been committed because of this type of “speech” and events have been altered due to this type of “speech.” How can it be halted? What will be the responsibility of the platform (business) to take down this “speech” in the future? How can the government intervene?

Finally, reader Taylor Jarnagin would ask just one question: “Is your name Merrick Garland?”

If he answers no, Sara would ask:

In as much as the Republicans prevented President Obama from nominating a candidate to the Supreme Court when he had ample time to do so, do you think your nomination is even legitimate? How do you think we should proceed, in view of the controversy over the so-called stolen nomination?

Being a token mascot isn’t a respectable job. In my experience, the women who vocally wave the “I’m a woman in tech!” banner have shitty or non-existent technical skills. I could tell numerous stories about women who are using that banner yet they can’t write a basic if-then-else statement, let alone spell A-P-I. It makes it harder for the rest of us.

One topic that wasn’t covered in the article is the additional pressure that successful senior women leaders have to inherit sometimes. Their male colleagues dump the gender gap on them to fix, and ask them to make the culture more inclusive. This places further burden on women leaders to carry the load for the up-and-coming females.

I have to say, true male champions and advocates are the key to fixing this quagmire. Many men say the right supportive things, but the decisions they make on who they promote or hire say otherwise. The male champions, who stand up for their female peers, who consistently demonstrate creating an environment that is conducive for women—they should be promoted into senior leadership.

One last ah-ha: I’ve never been hired or promoted by a woman—only men. I don’t know if that’s because there aren’t many women senior enough to make those decisions, or if I just was pulled towards male-dominated roles. But in 15 years of my tech career, the woman manager who had every reason to promote me did not. One month into her maternity leave, her male colleague promoted me because he figured out who was totally killing it.

Please don’t publish my name, but I’m happy to discuss further if you’re writing a follow-up. I’m knee deep into AI apps for holographic data conversion and don’t have time for another “get more women in tech” side project. Plus I need to stay employed. Bills, yo! :)

If you have a different experience than hers or Sally’s, or disagree with their views on gender in hiring, please drop us a note: hello@theatlantic.com.

Every face that turned my way that day was a male face. At this late-stage start-up, the engineering office had never had a woman in a technical role work. I know, because at the end of my interview I asked: “There is no right or wrong answer, but I was curious. Are there any women who work here?” No—aside from the office admin—but they sincerely hoped to hire more women.

I accepted the job because I was desperate. The start-up I had previously worked for had failed to “start up” and they stopped paying their employees. I hoped, during my tenure at the new start-up, that I could push for more women to be hired and that I could make the office a better place for them to work.

Being the only woman at the whiteboard isn’t an entirely new experience for me. Earning my Ph.D. in Physics, the field wasn’t exactly overrun with women, but at least there were women. I learned in graduate school how to be everyone’s little sister—how I need to repeat myself over and over again, and then send an email, to get my point or idea across. I learned to let the guys yell themselves hoarse over a problem, take notes, and come back with the answer. Even when you have the answer, they still might not listen to you. But I learned not to take it personally.

At one research internship, I was put at a desk at the opposite side of the building from the rest of the all-male research group. I was given three pages of handwritten notes and told to get to it. The other intern, male of course, was placed with the group and worked side-by-side with the others on projects.

Towards the end of the internship, my adviser, who was only a few years older than me, took me out to lunch, and proceeded to proposition me, even though I had only been married a few weeks earlier. I learned that, perhaps, I dressed too nicely. Wore too many skirts and dresses. I learned that men early in their careers don’t necessarily know how to communicate with their female colleagues. It is a skill you have to learn.

So at my new job, I had a bit more experience under my belt (since I now generally only wore pants to work). I had learned what to expect, and how to better navigate the workplace. I had learned that you will be expected to open the door when the doorbell rings, to wash the office dishes and clean up the office kitchen. (Not that others won’t, but that obviously you, the woman, will do these things.) I learned that if a man comes in and shakes everyone’s hand, he will not shake yours; that you will be expected to answer the phones so that it “seems like we have a receptionist.”

When I recount my workplace adventures, I find myself saying “Everyone is very nice, but …”. And to give my boss credit, he is fantastic mentor, who knows how to communicate with everyone on his team. He is observant and approachable. When, for some unfathomable reason, the topic of discussion in our company chat room was “Should Pregnant Women Be Allowed To Make Their Own Decisions,” he put a stop to it and reprimanded the instigators of the conversation.

I, as Everyone’s Little Sister, am able to selectively dish it back to everyone. But not all the time. I have to pick and choose my moments. And it’s exhausting. And maddening.

My blood is still boiling about comment a colleague made a few weeks ago, saying “I fully support paid maternity leave, but you have to admit, pregnant women are a huge inconvenience to businesses.” And even though my company offers four months of paid maternity leave, I know I can’t stay here if I want to have a baby with my husband. I cannot be pregnant here—I know, because one morning, a coworker mimed to us what happens in a miscarriage, saying “miscarriages only happen to certain types of women.” I know, because if my shirt is a little too thin, and it’s cold, and my nipples peak through, people will stare at my breasts. (Now I add extra padding to my bras to prevent this from happening.) I can only imagine how they would handle a pregnant woman. I know, because there is no closed-off room in this open-concept, glass office to nurse a baby. I know, because in the two years I’ve worked there, they haven’t hired any women in the office.

Diversity is not important to them. So I need to go. To someplace bigger, where there are more women around. Where I have some more protections and some more anonymity. Because it is pretty damn hard to be Everyone’s Little Sister when you are just wanting to be yourself.

The same year, Brian Patrick Eha also noted the changing nature of solitude—particularly the kind of solitude achieved by wearing headphones in public. “We are each of us cocooned in noise,” he wrote, “and can escape from one another’s only when immersed in our own.” For both Marche and Eha, the problem with technology is not its tendency to isolate people so much as the way it works to prevent us—through a sense of connection or simply through distraction—from fully experiencing that isolation and all it entails.

And as the author Dorthe Nors explained in 2014 for our By Heart series of writer interviews, a full experience of isolation has serious benefits:

The artistic process unfolds in the lonely hours. That’s when the work happens. You have to control the creative energy that you’ve got. You have to discipline yourself to fulfill it. And that work only happens alone.

Solitude, I think, heightens artistic receptivity in a way that can be challenging and painful. When you sit there, alone and working, you get thrown back on yourself. Your life and your emotions, what you think and what you feel, are constantly being thrown back on you. And then the “too much humanity” feeling is even stronger: you can’t run away from yourself. You can’t run away from your emotions and your memory and the material you’re working on. Artistic solitude is a decision to turn and face these feelings, to sit with them for long periods of time.

For Nors, like for Hawthorne, solitude not only enables personal reflection, but also grants access to some deeper, more universal strain of human feeling. That’s the same lesson that Nathaniel Rich, writing in our latest issue, took from the story of Christopher Knight, who spent 27 years living utterly alone in the woods of Maine:

Since his arrest in April 2013, Knight has agreed to be interviewed by a single journalist. Michael Finkel published an article about him in GQ in 2014 and has now written a book, The Stranger in the Woods, that combines an account of Knight’s story with an absorbing exploration of solitude and man’s eroding relationship with the natural world. Though the “stranger” in the title is Knight, one closes the book with the sense that Knight, like all seers, is the only sane person in a world gone insane—that modern civilization has made us strangers to ourselves.

Yet a total withdrawal from civilization can’t be the answer—nor, at a political moment when empathy and understanding seem ever-more-urgently needed, can walling yourself off from other people’s ideas be wise. In February, Emma Green offered this critique of a new book by Rod Dreher, a conservative Christian thinker who calls for like-minded members of his faith to withdraw from public life into communities of their own:

Dreher wrote The Benedict Option for people like him—those who share his faith, convictions, and feelings of cultural alienation. But even those who might wish to join Dreher’s radical critique of American culture, people who also feel pushed out and marginalized by shallowness of modern life, may feel unable to do so. Many people, including some Christians, feel that knowing, befriending, playing with, and learning alongside people who are different from them adds to their faith, not that it threatens it. For all their power and appeal, Dreher’s monastery walls may be too high, and his mountain pass too narrow.

So, tell us about your experience: How do you incorporate solitary reflection into a 21st-century lifestyle? Can you see communitarian benefits in spending more time on your own—or, on the other hand, point to what society loses when more people spend more time alone? Please send your answers (and your questions) to hello@theatlantic.com.

Exactly the same thing happened with my fourth pregnancy: Initially we saw (identical) twins, with one of them being less well developed than the other. I had read enough about twin pregnancies to know that one of the twins being less developed may be a liability for the pregnancy as a whole. When one of the twins dies in utero, it may “poison” the other one, so to speak, resulting in a miscarriage of both.

I have never considered—not for one second—the losses early on in my pregnancies (the miscarriages, the vanishing twins) as “children lost.” Rather, I was happy to have the totality of my attempts resulting in two healthy, beautiful children. I feel very blessed.

I think it’s because of my fertility treatments that I could witness up close some of the varieties that nature has up its sleeve. If I hadn’t had the many early check-ups that come as part of the treatments, I would’ve probably thought my period was late that one month, and I would never have known about the twins.

Here’s some basic information on vanishing twin syndrome, which usually goes undetected because one of the fetuses disappears so early in the pregnancy, absorbing into the mother’s body or even the other fetus:

Vanishing twin syndrome has been diagnosed more frequently since the use of ultrasonography in early pregnancy [especially when fertility treatments are involved, as in the case of our reader]. Estimates indicate that vanishing twin syndrome occurs in 21-30 percentof multifetal pregnancies. … Analysis of the placenta and/or fetal tissue frequently reveals chromosomal abnormalities in the vanishing twin, while the surviving twin is usually healthy. Improper cord implantation may also be a cause.

In rare cases of vanishing twin syndrome:

The fetus becomes “mummified” in the uterine membranes and is discovered during delivery. This is called a “fetus papyraceus,” and it’s exceedingly rare. In other cases, the surviving baby takes on some of the lost twin’s cells and becomes a chimera—one person with two sets of DNA.

Microchimerism—when cells from a fetus remain in the mother, sometimes for decades—was covered in The Atlantic by Vanessa Hua:

In research published [in 2014], epidemiologists analyzed the data from a previous longitudinal study of 272 elderly Danish women. Out of that group, 70 percent had Y sex chromosomes in their blood, a sign of the presence of male cells.

Although cardiovascular disease was slightly elevated among women with male microchimerism, their overall mortality rate was a whopping 60 percent lower, primarily because of a lower incidence of cancer. Eight-five percent of these women made it to age 80, compared to 67 percent of women without the presence of these cells.

Scientists don’t know for certain what biological mechanisms cause these findings, but past research suggests microchimerism may boost immune surveillance—that is, the body’s ability to recognize and destroy pathogens and cells that might become cancerous—and also play a role in the repair of damaged tissue, helping form new blood vessels to heal wounds. Microchimerism is also associated with a lower risk of Alzheimer’s disease and breast cancer.

Read the rest here. In the comments section of that piece, Kelly Kittel offers a poignant passage:

I wrote about this fascinating topic in the prologue of my memoir, Breathe, which is about motherhood, grief, and family conflict. To quote, “Recently, I learned about microchimerism, which is the presence of cells in one person’s bloodstream that originated from a different person and are therefore genetically distinct from the other cells swimming around them. In humans, the most common form of this is called fetomaternal microchimerism. This occurs when cells from a fetus pass through the placenta and establish cell families within the mother. As far as we know, these fetal cells remain and multiply for several decades, perhaps even forever. This means that swimming around in my body could be cells from thirteen different babies. I am the embodiment of my children, most of whom are otherwise dead. And as I’m carrying them, they, too, are carrying me. This also means that when my children died, a part of me died, too. I knew this. I felt this. I just didn’t know exactly why. And now I do.”

Another woman provides some further reading:

After losing two babies, this subject is not only fascinating to me but also important on a deep level. We’re all connected in ways we cannot imagine, ways science is only beginning to understand. I first read about microchimerism in an article titled “Mother & Child Are Linked at the Cellular Level,” which has a little more on the subject. I haven’t entirely gotten it out of my head since.

I was 18 and turned down an Ivy League school and, using my own money, moved to Italy to live with my 25-year-old girlfriend. I think my parents would say I became an adult when, at 26, I handed them a copy of my will and let them know I had been chosen to deploy in a war zone as a civilian alongside a joint counter-terrorism/counter-insurgency military unit. Strangely enough, they weren’t happy with either bit of news.

Rachael was 18 and had just started college:

I received an offer for health insurance in the mail. It went to my home address, and my mom was absolutely thrilled at the notion that I would be off her employer-supplied (but expensive) health insurance. I began paying for my own health insurance at that time, but I also let her know that I wouldn’t allow her to claim me as a dependent on her income taxes anymore. I paid my own expenses (insurance, college, etc). I laugh now when I think of “kids” still being on their parents’ insurance until they’re 26.

This next reader is almost 26:

I became an adult in the past year or so, when my dad learned how much was in my savings account and I mentioned my credit score in the context of considering new car costs. I think my parents assumed up to that point that I was just scraping by and blowing my money irresponsibly, and they were impressed with the degree to which I was caring for myself.

I think calling my dad and asking for advice has helped him to see me differently as well. There’s something about discussing investments and trying to decide on insurance plans that I would assume makes it hard to keep seeing your kid as a kid.

Another reader also nods to financial independence: “I became an adult when I began to pick up the check for my parents by surreptitiously passing plastic to the maître d’ early in the meal.” This next reader entered adulthood in a brutal fashion:

I was 20 and began working at the same factory as my father did. He was in maintenance as an industrial electrician. There had been a summer program for employees’ children and I worked out well enough that I was hired at the end of the summer. He was proud that I carried my weight.

However, three years into it and just after my 23rd birthday, my hand got caught in a take-up roll for a large paper machine and I was flung around like a rag doll. With both femurs and my left ulna, left radius, and left humerus broken, I spent months recovering.

But I kept a good attitude, believing falsely that I would be back to my normal self. My dad told me that he could never have had such a good attitude having gone through what I did.

This next reader also defined his adulthood alongside his dad’s admiration:

I became an adult when I joined the ROTC program my freshman year of college to appease my dad. He got a glimmer of pride in his eyes, saw it as me taking initiative, and was proud that I seemed interested in serving my country. I wasn’t really; I only did it to get him off my back so I could do drugs and other hedonistic things in college. But it was good to have his approval for once and no stress.

The first moment of adulthood was rather mundane for this reader: “Probably the day Mom asked if she could come to my apartment 45 minutes away to use my washing machine because hers was broken.” For another reader, the moment was different for each of his parents:

For my dad, I’d say the writing was on the wall around the time I was 16 and it became apparent that I was physically stronger than he was. He maintained the power of the purse for a few years after, but, considering that it was at about the same time when he’d occasionally offer me a beer, I’m inclined to accept that I was an adult in his eyes.

Mom? Damn, who knows what she really thinks about anything, but I’m guessing she first fully acknowledged my adulthood not through any of the accomplishments or milestones, but when, in 2003, I bought her a car and she therefore had a tangible symbol that could be seen and acknowledged by others.

This next reader’s parents need grandkids before truly considering her an adult:

I’m a 31-year-old married attorney homeowner with no kids. I don’t think my parents look at me like an adult. I don’t think they will until I have kids. This is most obviously manifested in my parents’ constant amnesia of me being a lawyer. They will be having discussions about some legal consideration, I’ll weigh in, yet my opinion is given no weight whatsoever. Though maybe I’m just being whiny that they aren’t taking me seriously. Is that the same thing as not seeing me as an adult? They seem very proud of me, but that doesn’t seem akin to viewing me as an adult either.

Jason might never become an adult in his parents’ eyes:

In some ways, my sister and I will always be “kids.” My mom will randomly start doing things to my hair or bring over something like saucepans that we already have and don’t need. My dad critiques my yard and is always convinced something is wrong with my car (there isn’t, Dad, it’s fine!) I just laugh at this stuff, though; it doesn’t really bother me.

It bothers Doug, though; he finds the topic a “sore spot”:

I’m not convinced my parents believe I’m an adult. I’m 32, the youngest of three, the second most-educated (sister has multiple grad degrees), and the highest earner. I’m constantly getting asked if I’m saving enough or if I need help with anything. Meanwhile, I never ask for help, but both of my older sisters constantly need help. I’m the one who made sure my dad got power of attorney for my grandmother before she totally lost it, and who opened college accounts for my nieces and nephews.

But I’m the youngest, so I’m a kid forever.

Another suggestion for Warren—plus some notable support staff—comes from Barbara:

Warren is feisty, and would have high expectations of her team players as well as her assistant coaches. Everyone would know they needed to play their best game, both on the court and off. As a player, you would know Coach Warren would be fair and have your back. You would know not to cross her or be dishonest with her lest you incur her “come-to-Jesus” and get benched.

Her players and assistant coaches (Hillary Clinton, teaching community-building skills by listening and bringing together players, parents, community, and fans; Tammy Baldwin, teaching loyalty and team building skills; Michelle Obama, teaching healthy-eating and exercise-training skills; Barack Obama, team adviser) would be dedicated to helping each player be their best as a student athlete, in their coursework, and as a global citizen.

Tricia picks 84-year-old Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg to take her NCAA team to the final four. Here’s why:

She’s tougher than nails, smarter than a whip, she does her homework, and she perseveres to the end. She’d have a few tricks up her sleeve and our team would be the winner against unimaginable odds. It would be my—and her—thrill of a lifetime.

Dirk of Holland, Michigan, chooses a congressman from his home state to bring his team to victory—Republican Representative Bill Huizenga:

He’s got the spine, imagination, and drive to get ’er done. He’s also Dutch-American, which means he’s hard-headed, a great coach to those alongside him, and knows his people well.

Kennedy recommends South Carolina Senator Lindsey Graham, “because Lindsey Graham.” And finally, Bruce has a joke about the popular vote:

Come on! It would have to be Trump. Even if the other team scored more points, you’d somehow still win.

While the women were taking their case through court, the Radium Dial Company, where they worked, went out of business. Its owner opened up another radium-dial factory nearby, called Luminous Processes, which operated until 1978. The old Radium Dial Company building became a meatpacking plant and then a farmer’s co-op. It was finally demolished in 1968, when its radium-contaminated rubble was used as landfill around Ottawa. The Luminous Processes building was later used a meat locker after that company closed. These buildings were full of radium particles from the days of dial-painting.

Today, 16 sites in and around the city comprise the Ottawa Radiation Areas Superfund site. Moore recalled driving to the cleanup site with the niece of one of the dial-painters, a hundred years after her aunt was first poisoned. According to the Environmental Protection Agency, the sites still pose a hazard to human health, but groundwater contamination should be under control. Concerns remain.

After publishing my interview with Moore about the dial painters, I received a letter from a reader who lived in the area:

I have just completed reading your article, “The Girls With Radioactive Bones,” and I want to share an incident in Ottawa in the late 1990s. My wife and I were there looking for an apartment for her. She was to begin her postdoctoral work at an Illinois state prison nearby. Unbeknownst to us, the Radium Dial Company (1918-1936) and Luminous Processes, Inc. (1937-1978) had been manufacturing radium-based luminous dials in Ottawa.

After a morning of unsuccessful apartment hunting, we broke for lunch. As we were entering the restaurant, I saw a passenger in a car driving by with the physical manifestations of a rare birth defect. During lunch we decided to find a realtor to help in our search. As she drove us to rental properties, I observed a second individual with the same birth defect as the first.

Now alarm bells were ringing in the back of my head.

Our last stop was to see the realtor’s husband, who owned a rental unit. He was recovering from brain cancer surgery. When he asked what I did for a living, I said I was a cancer researcher. His chilling reply was, “You’ve come to the right place.”

When we finally returned to the realtor’s office, she shut off her car, turned to us and said, “I have to tell you something.” She revealed a closely guarded secret in Ottawa. The Radium Dial company had come to Ottawa during the First World War and, after a few years, dial painters began to suffer cancers. Her grandmother worked at the factory and died from cancer. (The realtor told us that the EPA disinterred her grandmother’s body and it was so radioactive she was reburied in a lead-lined casket.) When the old factory was torn down and replaced, some of the rubble was used as fill for public buildings—schools, municipal buildings, Section 8 housing, etc. There are currently 16 radioactive EPA Superfund sites in Ottawa. Some of these sites are fenced off with warning signs and some are completely accessible to the public.

After all of this, we drove to DeKalb and found an apartment.

Has the radium from the Superfund sites migrated into the groundwater? Is it airborne? If yes, how is it affecting the reproductive activity of the town’s population and the growth of its children? The realtor revealed that, after the new factory was opened, cancer clusters developed in the nearby residential neighborhoods. Are these neighborhoods still contaminated?