Editor's note
The sweet little Northern California town where I live is nestled on the edge of a red canyon forested by manzanita with rusty silk branches, wide oaks, gray pines, and wild figs, overlooking a mighty river, clear and cold. People come from all over the world to witness its beauty. When asked if I’m happy living here, I tell folks this would be the perfect town if it hadn’t been the place where I grew up. But I did grow up here, which means that lurking around every historic Gold Rush building is my memory of some humiliation or regret, and when, as a 20-year-old, I transferred to a university 80 miles away, I promised myself to never again live in my hometown.
Well, here I am. Many people don’t have a choice about where they live, but I do, and more than 10 years ago my husband and I moved here with our children to be closer to my mom and stepdad, and I reasoned I could be happy in this place because I would join the local Unitarian Universalist congregation where I knew I would find my people and feel safe. I realize now that this is a lot of pressure to put on a single group of people, and maybe I went in with unrealistic expectations, but as it turns out, it has been mostly true. When I hang with my UUs—in a building across the street from the high school where I spent four long years making bad decisions in an effort to mask my depression and pain—I take off my armor. I know I’m with folks who believe in my inherent worth and dignity.
This is why it was particularly jarring to find myself in the foyer of the UU building on a recent Sunday having a conversation with a straight, white, cis man who explained patiently that fair-skinned, blonde, blue-eyed women like me should really wear mascara if they want to get ahead in the workplace.
Reader, I had thoughts.
My words tend to marble in my mouth when I’m flustered, but I did manage a few.
“Is this something you would ever say to a man?” I asked.
“Men don’t usually wear makeup,” he said.
“Right,” I said. “They shouldn’t have to wear makeup.”
He began to explain the history of women in the workplace. I interrupted him.
“I have a degree in Women’s Studies,” I said.
This is not technically accurate. I’m one class short of a minor in Women’s Studies, but I didn’t then feel the need to get in the weeds.
“Oh, so you know!” he said.
Yes, I know.
I then mentioned that if women want to be hired or promoted they are expected to be attractive, but not too attractive (in STEM fields), to be intelligent but not in a way that’s intimidating to men. I may have mumbled something about Hillary Clinton’s feelings about makeup and dropped the word “bullshit.” I wish I had reminded him that the income disparity is even greater for BIPOC women than it is for white women. I wish I had said: Have you seen the Epstein files? Because among all of the ugliness is the way these very rich men dismissed the idea that women are smart enough to belong in STEM careers, and this might be one instance of trickle-down that actually had an effect. Why is the message that women should conform to patriarchal expectations rather than asking how we burn down the patriarchal expectations?
This man did apologize for his comment a few days later, and I appreciate his apology.
I told myself this conversation was too minor to write about in my editor’s note as the U.S. is taken over by a fascist regime that’s kidnapping our neighbors, starting wars willy-nilly, and destroying, well, everything, but here I am writing about it anyway because, as it turns out, it’s all related.
Where we are as a nation is a direct result of good people in places of privilege saying—sometimes with their silence—why can’t everybody just get along? You know, why can’t women wear a little makeup? Why can’t people conform their gender, sexuality, religion? Why are all these people so angry? Why do they have to be so loud? Is it that bad? I don’t see the problem.
I have been guilty of this. There was a period when my teen son corrected me each time I accidentally misgendered his friends. “Is it a big deal if the person isn’t in the room?” I did not ask aloud. Yep, it is a big deal to deny a person the dignity of their own gender whether that person is in another room or another country. I have learned, and there is definitely more for me to learn. I hope others in places of privilege are learning, too, and that it’s not too late for the lessons to take hold.
Some of my friends have moved or are planning to move to other countries. They have their reasons, and I fully support that decision. It’s something I think about often as I am very concerned about the government’s use of AI to troll social media for “negative ICE sentiment.”
Where would my husband and I go, and would our grown children join us? I don’t know.
Last week I woke up to fat, fluffy snowflakes falling outside my bedroom window. The neighborhood glittered. It snows here infrequently enough that most residents find it delightful. The local newspaper asked locals to post their snow photos on social media, and they did—photo after photo of dogs frolicking in snow, cats peering through windows at snow, children bundled and poised to throw snowballs, frosted gardens and white-capped gnomes. I scrolled through every image marveling that no one hurled political epithets in the comments as is so common these days, even in posts as seemingly innocuous as “What kind of peanut butter do you prefer?”
I posted a photo of our oak tree sparkling in the sunlight.
This broken country and this imperfect town are my home, damn it, and this is still a place where beauty brings people together. So here I am, with the help of the WTR team, making something beautiful.
The spring 2026 issue of West Trestle Review features poetry by Ivy Smith, Mekhala Chaubal, Lauren Camp, Ashley Mo, Emily Patterson, Shikha Valsalan, Kathryn Reese, Kelly R. Samuels, Sumitra Singam, Jen Karetnick, Brandel France de Bravo, J.L. Chen, Heather Jessen, Gloria Ogo, Merie Kirby, Wasima Khan, Penny Wei, and art by Pamela Hobart Carter.
In the wise words of Malala Yousafzai, “I raise up my voice—not so that I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard.” I hope you’ll read WTR cover to cover, and if you admire our contributors’ work as much as we do, please raise up their voices by giving them a little shout on the socials.
In solidarity,
Patricia Caspers
Editor-in-Chief
Well, here I am. Many people don’t have a choice about where they live, but I do, and more than 10 years ago my husband and I moved here with our children to be closer to my mom and stepdad, and I reasoned I could be happy in this place because I would join the local Unitarian Universalist congregation where I knew I would find my people and feel safe. I realize now that this is a lot of pressure to put on a single group of people, and maybe I went in with unrealistic expectations, but as it turns out, it has been mostly true. When I hang with my UUs—in a building across the street from the high school where I spent four long years making bad decisions in an effort to mask my depression and pain—I take off my armor. I know I’m with folks who believe in my inherent worth and dignity.
This is why it was particularly jarring to find myself in the foyer of the UU building on a recent Sunday having a conversation with a straight, white, cis man who explained patiently that fair-skinned, blonde, blue-eyed women like me should really wear mascara if they want to get ahead in the workplace.
Reader, I had thoughts.
My words tend to marble in my mouth when I’m flustered, but I did manage a few.
“Is this something you would ever say to a man?” I asked.
“Men don’t usually wear makeup,” he said.
“Right,” I said. “They shouldn’t have to wear makeup.”
He began to explain the history of women in the workplace. I interrupted him.
“I have a degree in Women’s Studies,” I said.
This is not technically accurate. I’m one class short of a minor in Women’s Studies, but I didn’t then feel the need to get in the weeds.
“Oh, so you know!” he said.
Yes, I know.
I then mentioned that if women want to be hired or promoted they are expected to be attractive, but not too attractive (in STEM fields), to be intelligent but not in a way that’s intimidating to men. I may have mumbled something about Hillary Clinton’s feelings about makeup and dropped the word “bullshit.” I wish I had reminded him that the income disparity is even greater for BIPOC women than it is for white women. I wish I had said: Have you seen the Epstein files? Because among all of the ugliness is the way these very rich men dismissed the idea that women are smart enough to belong in STEM careers, and this might be one instance of trickle-down that actually had an effect. Why is the message that women should conform to patriarchal expectations rather than asking how we burn down the patriarchal expectations?
This man did apologize for his comment a few days later, and I appreciate his apology.
I told myself this conversation was too minor to write about in my editor’s note as the U.S. is taken over by a fascist regime that’s kidnapping our neighbors, starting wars willy-nilly, and destroying, well, everything, but here I am writing about it anyway because, as it turns out, it’s all related.
Where we are as a nation is a direct result of good people in places of privilege saying—sometimes with their silence—why can’t everybody just get along? You know, why can’t women wear a little makeup? Why can’t people conform their gender, sexuality, religion? Why are all these people so angry? Why do they have to be so loud? Is it that bad? I don’t see the problem.
I have been guilty of this. There was a period when my teen son corrected me each time I accidentally misgendered his friends. “Is it a big deal if the person isn’t in the room?” I did not ask aloud. Yep, it is a big deal to deny a person the dignity of their own gender whether that person is in another room or another country. I have learned, and there is definitely more for me to learn. I hope others in places of privilege are learning, too, and that it’s not too late for the lessons to take hold.
Some of my friends have moved or are planning to move to other countries. They have their reasons, and I fully support that decision. It’s something I think about often as I am very concerned about the government’s use of AI to troll social media for “negative ICE sentiment.”
Where would my husband and I go, and would our grown children join us? I don’t know.
Last week I woke up to fat, fluffy snowflakes falling outside my bedroom window. The neighborhood glittered. It snows here infrequently enough that most residents find it delightful. The local newspaper asked locals to post their snow photos on social media, and they did—photo after photo of dogs frolicking in snow, cats peering through windows at snow, children bundled and poised to throw snowballs, frosted gardens and white-capped gnomes. I scrolled through every image marveling that no one hurled political epithets in the comments as is so common these days, even in posts as seemingly innocuous as “What kind of peanut butter do you prefer?”
I posted a photo of our oak tree sparkling in the sunlight.
This broken country and this imperfect town are my home, damn it, and this is still a place where beauty brings people together. So here I am, with the help of the WTR team, making something beautiful.
The spring 2026 issue of West Trestle Review features poetry by Ivy Smith, Mekhala Chaubal, Lauren Camp, Ashley Mo, Emily Patterson, Shikha Valsalan, Kathryn Reese, Kelly R. Samuels, Sumitra Singam, Jen Karetnick, Brandel France de Bravo, J.L. Chen, Heather Jessen, Gloria Ogo, Merie Kirby, Wasima Khan, Penny Wei, and art by Pamela Hobart Carter.
In the wise words of Malala Yousafzai, “I raise up my voice—not so that I can shout, but so that those without a voice can be heard.” I hope you’ll read WTR cover to cover, and if you admire our contributors’ work as much as we do, please raise up their voices by giving them a little shout on the socials.
In solidarity,
Patricia Caspers
Editor-in-Chief
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