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The articles below are highlights from the newsletters Jamie has created for the Independent Living Resource Center, a private non-profit organization providing disability advocacy in Santa Barbara, California and Historic Lewes, a historical society in Lewes, Delaware.  For access to the full version of all the newsletters Jamie has created for these organizations, click the links section below the following samples of work.

Honoring the Life of Judith Lesner
Mother, Advocate, Activist, Change Maker, Friend

An Interview with Jacob Lesner-Buxton

By Jamie Zimmerman, Newsletter Content Developer/ Writer

​

On August 30, 2023, the world lost Judith Lesner, the mother of Jacob Lesner-Buxton, ILRC’s System Change Coordinator. Judith passed away at age 80 surrounded by what most of us would call family and friends, but if you knew Judith, the word family would successfully cover both categories.
 
It wasn’t long after her death that ILRC’s Program Director, Alexa Martin, reached out to me about the exact thing I had planned on reaching out to her about—to write a story honoring Jacob’s mother for the Newsletter.
 
On Thursday, September 21st, 2023, I had the privilege to sit down with Jacob in my home to talk about the woman who shaped him to be the independent thinker and changemaker he is in our community today. Jacob hopped off the MTD bus and arrived at my apartment around 6:00 pm in dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt with the words “Teach Peace” printed across the chest in white. Jacob’s tall stance is one I often don’t get to see, as our conversations primarily take place over email or via Zoom. His lanky frame and nurturing presence remind me of the type of tree that you want to place a blanket at its roots and read a book underneath. He possesses a sort of hopeful sadness in his grief.
 
Prior to Jacob arriving for the interview, I ordered a BBQ chicken pizza for him and a salad for me so we could sit, talk, eat, and really get into conversation. I do not do every interview this way. Looking back, I see my pre-interview research on Judith may have subconsciously influenced this decision. As I scrolled through Judith’s Facebook page, now a page to honor and thank her for the impact she has had on so many lives, I saw photographs of her in her kitchen, sitting around a rectangle table with friends and food and what I imagine was lively thought-stretching conversation.
 
The smell of barbecue sauce and chicken, and the setting of a well-loved table at home seemed to be the perfect place to have a conversation about a woman who so generously herself was the source of nonjudgment and freedom to everyone whose lives she touched. I imagine this dining room table interview is the way Judith would have done this project herself.

Jacob and I started at the beginning. I wanted to know how Judith’s childhood may have shaped the person she became. I learned Judith was born in Brooklyn, New York and at age seven, she, her younger sister, Joanne, and her parents moved to the Bronx, where her parents remained for the rest of their lives. Jacob described the community his mother grew up in to be “close-knit” explaining further that “everybody was everybody’s parent.”  From a young age Judith learned and bought into the concept that family is not strictly fused by the traditional blood bond. Family is your neighbor, the person on the street, the stranger you haven’t met yet because after all, stranger is simply another word for future friend.
 
Judith kept New York City as her home through her college years studying Speech and Theater at Hunter College and got her first glimpse of working in stride with people with disabilities while on a college summer break, working at Camp Jened, a summer camp in the Catskill Mountains of New York for children, teenagers, and adults with disabilities. After graduating from college, she went on to join the Peace Corps, where she served for three years in the Philippines then travelled to places such as Israel, India, Vietnam, and Afghanistan. She met Walter Buxton, her future husband and Jacob’s father while donating blood in Israel. An interesting coming together to say the least. One where Walter came from England to San Francisco with a plan to stay for six months. A plan that got disrupted by airport officials, as they wouldn’t let him into the country with only $300 in his pocket. This one moment could have dismantled the trajectory of Walter’s life had Judith not come to the airport and told the necessary authorities that she and Walter had plans to marry. A sentence uttered with the full intention of helping him be granted entry into the USA. Judith and Walter married one month later and stayed married until Walter passed away in 2015. They were married for 42 years.

When I asked Jacob about how his mother got involved with Disability Rights, I already knew that she was involved in both the Disability Movement and the Women’s Rights Movement in the 1970’s from listening to an interview a college student did with her in 2020. I also knew that Judith was involved in protests including the 1977 Section 504 sit in alongside the Mother of the Disability Movement, Judy Huemann. What I didn’t know was the impetus for Judith to find herself fighting side-by-side as an ally for people with disabilities before Jacob, her child with disabilities, was born.
 
He went on to tell me she got a job in the Bay Area working for the California school for the Blind in 1972 and that her first day of work was actually the evening before her wedding. Little did she know, she would get married in the most traditional sense that week, but also, she would marry herself to a movement. A movement she spent the rest of her life advocating for.
 
As I learned about Judith, I also learned about my friend, Jacob. Jacob grew up in a house in Oakland with his mother, father, and about a half-a-dozen other people. “Tons of people had keys to my house. It was so funny—we were so used to people coming in without keys.”
 
Jacob laughed and smiled the kind of smile that only a pivotal memory can bring you as he recalled stories of the past—the footprints of eccentric people who “didn’t really fit into society” finding a haven at chez Lesner-Buxton.
 
When the time came for Jacob to move out of his childhood home to pursue his own goals, Judith’s home remained a place of solace for those down on their luck, marginalized, and vulnerable. Even as the time Judith had on this planet grew thin, she made sure to make plans for those she had been caring for, plans which included her son Jacob.
 
“My mom gave me a list of people who I have to make sure still have housing after she is gone. Only one person left on the list is alive. The rest have passed on.”
 
While there was understandably some relief in Jacob’s voice that there is only one person left to look out for as he carries quite the responsibility load in his own advocacy pursuits, there was also pride lining the edges of his tone—pride in his mother’s hugely compassionate heart, and I’d like to think a sense of pride in knowing that he will follow through with his mother’s wish.  
 
Jacob spent the next few minutes summing up his upbringing as “really unique”—and for sure, to many, it was. So many people don’t know what it is like to have a rotating door for charitable action as the front door of their home. However, this way of life was not so unique to Judith. Her mother, Jacob’s grandmother, did the same thing. Judith was raised with a literal open-door policy to caring for her community and chose to lead her family the same way. Before Judith had her own family and home, she would give out her mother’s address in New York on her travels to people she met, letting them know if they were ever in the area, they had a safe and free place to sleep. Did they take her up on her offer? Sure did! Jacob smiled again as he told me, “They would show up on my grandma’s doorstep and my grandma would tell my grandpa, we have to sleep on the couch tonight, one of Judith’s friends is here. And they never complained or said anything to my mom at all.”
 
After hearing about the supportive role Judith played in other people’s lives, I wondered more about the role she played in Jacob’s life specifically, and so I asked, “Who was your mom to you when you were a child?”
 
His voice clear and unfaltering, “She was my advocate.”
 
Jacob then told me a story about a dilemma when he was in elementary school.

“When I was in 3rd grade I was in a program for visually impaired students. They were going to move the program to another elementary school on the opposite side of town. My mom would not have that though. She spoke out. “You cannot move my kid; he has friendships here…” Finally, a week before school started – on a Sunday afternoon, a representative from the school left a message saying, “Jacob can stay at the school.”
 
This is just one example of the many times Judith fought against an ableist system to assure Jacob had the same opportunities as other kids. In the years beyond Jacob’s schooling, she used what she learned while advocating for and with Jacob to teach thousands of parents how to advocate for their children’s rights in school settings.
 
As the sun set on my time with Jacob, I thought it would be best to ask one of my favorite questions, a question my best friend always asks me on my birthday, “what are you most proud of this year?” but instead of year, I asked Jacob, “what do you think your mom was most proud of in her life?” Without a moment of hesitation or even a breath, he said, “Me." The sincerity in his voice lingered in my heart.
 
While it was clear talking to Jacob, that his mother had high expectations for him, and like any parent, she didn’t always fully understand his choices, it was always exceedingly clear that the mutual love and respect they had for one another created a 2-way street of reverence and adoration.
 
Jacob and I closed the door to our time together by talking about what his mother wished most deeply for this country moving forward. Because I couldn’t summarize it better myself, I will tell you exactly word for word what Jacob told me.
 
“Her biggest desire was to see the disability movement working in coalition with other movements for social justice. She would often ask while attending an anti-war or women’s rights protest, “Where are the people with disabilities?” She’d email countless lefty activists to ask them why they didn’t mention disability in their book or speech at a rally. She noticed that every other group under the sun got mentioned except people with disabilities.”
 
To close this article, and open a new chapter to Judith’s life’s work, I’d like to propose something to you. I propose that we take the time to address Judith’s desires. I propose we talk about disability issues around the kitchen table with our families, write to our local politicians, ask the why’s Judith has so vigilantly pointed out to us, and insist on answers. Let’s keep the fire that burned so brightly in Judith burning bright for years to come by finishing the work she so bravely got started for us.
 
Let’s start now.
 
A deep-seated thank you to Jacob Lesner-Buxton for sharing his mother’s story with me. May we all find a table to sit at that is as welcoming and loving as Judith’s was, and if we cannot find that table, may we provide it ourselves.

Gen Z in an 18th Century World—An interview with our Newest Intern, Breanna

 

By Jamie Reese Zimmerman

 

When talking to Breanna, LHS’s newest intern, you can’t help but be mesmerized by her anything-but-ordinary disposition. A romantic at heart and only 21 years old, Breanna would maybe be best described as an old soul in a Generation Z body.

 

After an unexpected game of two women passing like ships in the night, ironically in the middle of a wildly sunny 90-degree day, Breanna and I finally found ourselves at the right place at the right time sitting down for a meal in air conditioning at Olive & Oats, a beloved coffee shop in downtown Lewes. I laugh to myself as I think about how this very cute and quaint coffee shop used to be the town jail. I imagine we would be having a very different conversation if that were the case now! Lucky for us though, it’s a coffee shop today, and a darn good one. The perfect setting to learn about LHS’s newest intern.

 

My intention when talking to Breanna was to learn about what landed her at Lewes Historical Society. To have her answer the basic questions like “why here?” and “what have you learned in your experience at LHS that you will take with you into the next phase of your life?” And while the basics were covered, it was the antithesis of basics that made our time together so noteworthy.

 

Unlike many of her peers in her age range, Breanna is most at ease when partaking in face-to-face interactions with no phone in sight to snap an obligatory selfie. She’d much rather have a picnic and conversation than step foot into a fraternity party or have her head tilted southbound staring at her phone.

 

As we wait at the corner table by the sunlit window for our sandwiches, she shares about how being a young adult drawn to uncovering the fragments of the past that made us an interdependent people, rather than AI-dependent, can be lonely.

 

I wonder if she can see in my eyes that I know that loneliness, too. To be a person of the present, trying to find a way to put History’s oxygen mask on and keep it alive. But I don't say anything. I listen instead.

 

Through talking with Breanna, even for just a few minutes, it is clear to me that she is not broken by the lonely bouts of time. Instead, she radiates a cool confident wisdom far beyond the overly abundant cliche narratives placed on youth today. She understands the value of what once was and feels compelled to make sure the traditions of the past that have fostered authentic connection are not lost in this technology-dominant age.

 

When I asked Breanna if she had always felt a gravitational pull to the past, she said, “Growing up I was always watching shows like Gilligan's Island and Murder She Wrote, old black and white movies, too. I spent a lot of time with my grandmother; I’ve always been close to her. I think she has been one of my biggest influences. I have learned in some ways there is a warmth to the past. There's something romantic about taking things slow, making things with our hands.”

 

While technological advances have made our world more accessible and contributed to improving wellness and quality of life, people like Breanna prove that there is room, and maybe even urgency, for both innovation and a mindful slowing down. This paradoxical concept may be the exact recipe we need to preserve the roots of our common humanity while also diving into the endless potential of an ever-evolving future.

Photo of Breanna, a young lady with long brown hair, holding a basket.

A Modern Woman Falling for History

By Jamie Zimmerman

 

As a modern woman who has spent the majority of my life trying to keep up with the latest trends, news, health tips, and advocacy strategies, stepping into a past that cannot be captured by my thirty-seven years on this planet has, for the most part, always been uncharted territory for me. Yes, I’ve attended the school field trips to Colonial Williamsburg as a kid and read the signs in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, about our history when I go there to hike. I’ve read the assigned books in school reflecting American History and watched the sensationalized blockbuster hits, but everyday first-hand exposure to our country’s past has been overall absent in my modern woman world. That is, up until I started my job as Marketing & Communications Director at Historic Lewes on May 13th, 2024.

 

At first, it was the view from the second-floor window of my office that enthralled me. Each morning, I’d wrap my fingers around my warm mug of coffee, set my gaze out the windowpane, and without fail see volunteers and staff members dressed head-to-toe in colonial garb simply going about their day. I’d smile and think to myself, “What a thing to be able to be in two places, and really, two time periods, at one time. There and here. Then and now.” Then I would go about my workday claiming my spot as the contemporary oddball in an organization full of history buffs.

 

Since my history-curious beginning in May, I have attended almost all of our events. I have watched the Night at the Museum Speaker Series and experienced the magnetism of Tavern Talks; I’ve attended First Fridays and I’ve taken walking tours and gone to exhibit openings… you name it, I’ve been there. And quietly without even noticing it, I started to sponge in our local history.

 

It wasn’t until the weekend of October 18th and 19th that something huge shifted in me though. It was the weekend of our Fall Harvest Fair, an immersive event transforming the grounds of the campus to reflect what it would be like in the autumn of 1774. I had just enough time that Saturday to walk around Historic Lewes Town with a friend and experience the event as a spectator rather than an employee. I had my silhouette drawn, bought a historical vase, and witnessed soldiers drill and fire colonial muskets. I ate ginger snap cookies and drank apple cider, and by the end of the day, I found myself sitting at a long rectangular table in the Sussex Tavern surrounded by what I would normally call my co-workers, but at that moment, they were something else entirely. They were my friends from 1774. Their faces aglow in the candlelight, not a cell phone in sight. Songbooks decorating the table. Voices good, bad, average (no one cared!) singing chanty songs with all their might. It was on that day I got to feel some real-life magic. I no longer felt one of my feet in the modern world and one in the bygone world. Instead, I felt my whole body aligned in one place in time, and it wasn’t fall 2024. It was autumn 1774.

 

I had done it. Fully immersed. But really, they had done it. The whole Historic Lewes’ team: staff, volunteers, and guest interpreters had done it. They had created a world so vivid that there was no other choice but to fall right into it. And it was better than I could have ever imagined.

Photo of Jamie Reese Zimmerman, a woman with blonde hair and a long flannel jacket, smiling while walking through a colonial festival.

Undiagnosed

By Jamie Zimmerman


It was a normal day the first time I got sick. So normal that I don’t remember it. The sun was surely shining, the California sky without a spec of clouds. With Covid seemingly still a sneeze away along with coming out of two years unexposed to the usual load of people, I figured my immune system was simply a bit rusty and that getting sick was normal. People told me it was normal. Doctors told me it was normal. And so, I decided it was normal and I was normal too. Then I wrote it off as a box of leftovers from covid season and went on with my life.

The first time I got sick, I had headaches, body aches, exhaustion, weakness, and vomiting. I was sick for fourteen days.

The first time I noticed something was wrong with my gut wasn’t so normal. I remember the weather. It was exactly as I described above. I remember the day. It was a Tuesday. I remember where I was. I was in my hallway between the living room and the bathroom.

I remember the pain gutting me like a fish. A cutting. But there was no blood. No proof of my pain. Nothing to paint my doctor’s note with.

I remember placing myself on the floor, gently, like an heirloom Christmas bulb you mustn’t shatter. I remember sweeping my knees toward my chest as the world around me went black then waking up on my floor, possibly minutes later, I can’t be sure. I remember that day not just because of the pain and the awakening as a lump on the ground and the rays of sunlight peeking through my door’s square window welcoming me back to life but also because it was a landmark day. After that, my stomach never functioned the same again.

I’d start a new relationship soon after that. One where instead of cuddling at night I’d have to lay my body down in the most “just right” position, so I wasn’t in pain while I slept. I remember the man I was with being understanding at first. But at first faded as it does. And eventually, my inability to be restful in a way that made him feel important wore on him.

During my time with this man there wasn’t a day my stomach felt comfortable, but I learned to not talk about it unless it was approaching what felt like the danger zone. He didn’t tell me not to talk about it. I chose not to talk about it. I saw how it affected him when he knew I was in pain. How it stole the air from this throat at first, and how it frustrated him later when he’d forget I was in pain or forget to care because his needs weren’t being met.

The thing is this man wasn’t unkind. He simply was a human not in chronic pain. He just didn’t get it. The relationship didn’t work out for many reasons. To say my health wasn’t a factor would be foolish. However, I will say, as someone who he had to come “rescue” multiple times, once while I was traveling across the country by myself, where he actually had to hop in a plane to get me because I was so sick that I was scared for my safety. And knowing the way sickness not only weighs on the ill but also their loved ones, he did as well as any person could do who had his own bag of issues clawing at him (that he wasn’t dealing with). 

Since the gut pain started, my body changed. My once flat tummy took the shape of the swell of a bad sprain. Bloated wasn’t an occasion, it was my everyday dress code. Soon, I couldn’t fit into any of my pants, and so, I bought new pants. Baggy pants that fit about as well as my diminishing confidence. I went to doctors only to be told “it sounds like stress” and “It’s probably IBS, eat more fiber”. I ate more fiber. I removed as many stress triggers as I could. I meditated. I did yoga. Nothing changed. I learned to live with the discomfort. I told myself I was beautiful despite my body’s changes. I told my body I loved it, even though I felt like it hated me. And I went on with my life.

But going on with my life would only last about three weeks to a month at a time. Starting in January of 2023 I started to get sick once a month (at least that’s when I started tracking, it may have started earlier). For a minimum of ten days per month the headaches, body aches, vomiting, and exhaustion would return. On a good month I’d have 22 healthy days. On a bad month, I’d have 12.

While this was always inconvenient; because I worked freelance when this started and was finishing graduate school, I had the flexibility in my schedule to figure things out work wise. I’d get subs for my yoga classes. I’d spend an entire day on a healthy day working on newsletters. I’d binge write essays, and then, when the sickness came, and it always did, I would retire into my bedroom under my soft pink covers with nothing to do but heal until it was over. Not an ideal situation, but it worked.

It wasn’t until I finished graduate school and got my first job in the field of my new degree that making it work became implausible. Two days before I started my 40 plus hours a week job, I got sick again, delaying my start date a full week.

When I finally started my job, I was giddy, like a kid at a carnival who just won a prize. There was electricity in every step I took that first day. My whole body seemed to smile. From head to toe I felt it. I had made it. I was there in this new role, doing a job I had worked for years to be qualified to do. And I didn’t just believe I could do great things; I knew I could. I knew I could do great things for the company, for my resume, for my future, right there in that building.

My office had floor to ceiling arch windows, and I had floor to ceiling sized dreams. Two weeks went by, and I felt in the flow. Rolling my shoulders down my back as I walked in the building, leading with my heart, using all the parts of my brain I pride myself in being good with, but also very quietly hoping to God I wouldn’t get sick again. Two and a half weeks went by, and I started to feel a tiredness. The kind of tiredness that didn’t feel normal. The kind of tiredness I had grown accustomed to the past six months. The kind of tiredness that sinks its teeth into my flesh and snaps its jaw shut right before I get sick. My arms and legs felt like barbells. My eyelids like trap doors, too heavy to open after they shut. After two days of tiredness, I was sick for 10 days.

I have been to four doctors in the last month. I will be seeing a fifth doctor next month. I have had blood tests, an MRI, a late-night visit to the Emergency Room, and no answers. I have been prescribed medications for migraines and nausea and I’m still sick. I have heard, “You look normal to me” from a doctor. I have felt unbelieved, uncomfortable, and unwell in every sense of the word. And I have gone to every appointment alone.

It took only a month for me to realize alone wouldn’t work. I didn’t feel strong enough to do all these hard things by myself. But as a single woman with a family who lives basically an entire country away and doctor appointments at the same time my friends work, alone in the common sense of the word was my only option. I had to go with a plan b. An inventive un-alone.

I started to pretend my mom was there holding my thirty-six-year-old hand at each appointment. I’d bring her with me. I’d close my eyes, take a deep breath, and feel her weave her fingers into mine. It’s still, the only way, at this point, I can advocate for myself without my tears choking out my words. The essence of my mom holds my shaky hand and I tell the doctors as much as I can, and I fight when I need to fight, and I re-word and try again when I get thought-tied.

I don’t have answers yet. I can’t tell my work my health restrictions or anticipate when I’ll be better because I don’t know what is wrong with me. I can’t guarantee those giddy knowing's I had gazing out my office window will come true, even though some little piece of me still believes they will. I can, however, choose un-alone despite the fact that I am and will in the common sense of the word remain alone; alone scheduling the doctors’ appointments, alone documenting my symptoms, alone attending my doctors’ appointments, alone getting my doctors’ notes for work, alone holding my hair back when the toilet is the necessary device to lean into. But also, I am not alone. I am doing this with everyone else who is in the messy middle of illness or disability who knows what it feels like to sit in a lobby with a blinking ceiling light in which you can’t understand why they won’t fix it, waiting for your name to be called.

To all of you who have been here or will be here or are in a very similar position at this exact moment. If you don’t have a person to conjure in your mind’s eye to hold your hand, you do now. I’m here.

Imagine my hand. It’s small and my fingers are what I like to call chubby. My nails are short and painted brown and there’s an off-center heart tattoo the size of a quarter on my right wrist. My palms are warm and full of the sweetness of a melt-into-me hug. I am holding your hand, and I won’t let go, not until you are ready for me to.

Photo of Jamie Reese Zimmerman standing next to her brown car smiling with a big black hat on her head, sunglasses, and a peace sign with her fingers.

Interview with Petra Lowen, Disability Advocate

A Lion Named Lowen,
Petra's Story: 29 Years of Advocacy

By Jamie Zimmerman, Story Contributor & Newsletter Content Developer


If we are lucky, there comes a time in all our careers when we close the door of the office, an office that’s four walls have served as a second home for us on both the days that felt like they would never end and the days that flew faster than the wind and are able to say my work here is done. If we are even luckier, we are not only able to say my work here is done, but also, my work here has mattered.

After sitting down with Petra, I wonder how much of it really is luck though? Petra’s tenacious spirit, humble presence, and refusal to give up after facing barrier after barrier may be a better indicator of a successful life’s work than anything else.

On a sunny day last week, I had the privilege of meeting with Petra at her home in Santa Barbara, a sky-blue house with deep purple trim, to talk to her about her 29-year career at ILRC, life, retirement, and her hopes for the future.

Upon arrival, Petra, who stands with a small frame a few inches shorter than my 5’2”, opened the door with a smile, and invited me in. We have known each other for a few years now but have never spent more than fifteen minutes talking to one another one-on-one—such is the nature of a busy nonprofit mission driven environment, and a colleague like Petra, whose schedule was always booked with back-to-back appointments with consumers. I was excited about what I might learn about Petra in this concentrated time together. The next hour-and-a-half made me want to stay planted on her royal blue living room couch for as long as I could. It was very clear early in our conversation that I was in the presence of resilience in human form, that this couch sit would be something profound, and it was.

Petra, who worked at ILRC for 29 years and just retired in December of 2022, was born in Germany. To this day, her family still resides in Germany. Her story of getting here to Santa Barbara is a compelling one: brave, scary (at times), and bursting with determination for her right to health and independence.

Early in life, Petra had no intention of leaving her home country. It wasn’t until she got diagnosed with scleroderma at age twenty-four that her life’s compass started to point down a new, unpaved path.

Scleroderma is a rare disease that involves hardening and tightening of the skin. It can, and for Petra does, cause problems in the blood vessels, internal organs, and digestive tract. When she got diagnosed, the year was 1975. Petra had been studying social work and was close to completing her master’s degree. She had been doing an internship at a Youth Center. At the time, Germany had no regulations for smoking—kids as young as twelve were smoking at the Youth Center and that smoke roamed from wall-to-wall. Unbeknownst to her, the smokey environment was far worse for her than any typical secondhand smoke warnings would say today. While Petra doesn’t believe the smoke-filled Youth Center started her development of scleroderma, she does believe it probably triggered it to escalate in intensity. With scleroderma your blood vessels restrict, smoking does the same. The combination of the two would be unsustainable and a dangerous health risk.

There is no cure for scleroderma. Doctors don’t even for sure have an answer for what causes it to begin. The best guess is that scleroderma is caused by a combination of factors: immune system problems, genetics, and/or environmental triggers. What doctors did know was the factors that would exacerbate the condition, like smoke-filled environments, and cold weather. So, it wasn’t only Petra’s work environment that needed to change, her actual place on the world map would need to change, too. It took just one frigid winter in Germany for Petra to realize moving to a warmer climate was a necessity, not an option.

This is the point in our conversation where I imagined her in a dark night of the soul moment—confusion, chaos, grief…spiraling. And I imagine flakes of those feelings did emerge but what stepped into her life next sounded a lot more like fate, or something like it. Petra’s younger sister’s boyfriend was a student and had been in Germany for four years. He happened to be going back to California to finish his degree at UCSB during Petra’s time of need. In a conversation with Petra, he told her about the winters in Santa Barbara. Everything he said about them sounded perfect to her. And just like that, they agreed to be roommates. Petra said goodbye to the life she knew in Germany, moved across the world, only knowing one person, in search of a place where she could live her most sustainable life.

After the first winter in Santa Barbara, she noticed that while the warmer climate wasn’t a cure, it really was helpful. This good news didn’t come without the aching feeling of loss though. Petra missed her family, and yet, she knew she needed to stay in this new place… Luckily, she fell in love with Santa Barbara’s beauty, had she landed anywhere else, somewhere less formidable than the American Riviera, she remains unsure if she would have stayed.

We discussed some of the challenges she faced coming to a new country: getting accustomed to using her second language as her first, the perks and downfalls of being a naturally shy person in a new place, managing her diagnosis, finishing her master's degree (in which she successfully did), building community, jumping through hoop after hoop to meet the United States Immigration standards so she could eventually get her green card (a journey that took her until 1987 to finally complete), and finding purpose in her work. Each segment of this discussion showed me how much of a problem solver Petra is and from what I can tell, always has been. She told me one story about needing to find work but noticing her bilingual skills included the wrong language here. Businesses were looking for Spanish speakers, not German speakers. So, in true Petra fashion, she acted, signed up for Spanish classes at City College, learned Spanish, and got a job using her new skill.

It was 1983 when Petra first heard of ILRC from someone at her church. It wasn’t long after that, that she interviewed for a job at ILRC and successfully attained residency in our organization as an Independent Living Skills Trainer. She spent her first years at ILRC teaching people with developmental disabilities independent living skills so they could meet their goals of leaving institutional settings and living independently in the community.

In 1991, Petra got laid off from ILRC. Funding had been cut, an unfortunate disruptor for nonprofit organizations in achieving the important work they set out to accomplish. Onward to the next journey she went, but not without keeping an affection for ILRC in her heart. Petra and I spoke about those in-between ILRC years. (Spoiler: She was hired back at ILRC in 2000! The affection for Petra from ILRC was mutual!) Those ‘in-between’ years though, were hard years to say the least, but she never let the frost of the world numb her ability to turn surviving into thriving.

Petra spent from the year 2000 to 2022 working in various positions for ILRC. A ‘Jill of all Trades’ would properly describe her work capacities but surely wouldn’t adequately capture the essence that is Petra—a woman who has spent much of her life fighting for equal opportunities, rights, and access for the Disability community.

In her 29 years at ILRC, Petra is projected to have helped approximately 3,000 members in our community, and that does not include the family members and friends of those community members who benefited from Petra’s relentless advocacy work. While Petra has worn many titles, she is probably best known around town for the work she has done helping consumers accrue the skills to apply for housing and find safe and suitable homes for their individual needs. And I mean, best known as in I have never been to a networking event in Santa Barbara where someone doesn’t mention how Petra helped them or their friend! I am proud to say that my friend Petra, is in many homes, a beloved household name.

Petra credits her ability to serve so many people to her efforts in becoming visible in the community. She joined committees, networked, led support groups…she knew early on that doing the groundwork was essential to invoke change and trusted this knowing to guide her. While she didn’t note this next part that I am about to mention as a reason for her success, I, in respect and admiration, would like to. Petra’s work ethic and willingness to ask herself, “How would I want to be treated?” and “How can I improve their life?” then acting upon the answers to those questions are also major contributing factors for her irrefutable positive impact on so many people in our community, not to mention her incessant grit and omnipresent commitment to justice.

As our conversation made its way to an endpoint, I could tell retirement for Petra is bittersweet. She wished to work another year, however, her body and health had other plans, and so, she made the decision to retire and catch up on some very much deserved rest. She misses the people, the conversations, the work, but is appreciative to have this time to take care of herself and her health. Yet, Petra wouldn’t be Petra without new goals. She is hopeful for another adventure! The circumference of her face filled with light when she told me of her hopes to volunteer or work part-time in the future, “maybe in a different field,” she said, “who knows!” Showing us, yet again, her willingness to embrace the uncomfortable so she can continue to achieve her highest and best independent life.

I learned a lot sitting on Petra’s living room couch last week. I learned that her last name, Lowen, means lion, an undeniably fitting name. I learned that she’s a proud Leo. I learned about the big love she has for her family. And I was reminded that one life can change the lives of many.

From all of us at the ILRC, in the Santa Barbara Community, and beyond, thank you Petra “Lion” Lowen. Your work has changed our world for the better.

Photo of Petra Lowen, a white woman with gray shoulder length hair smiling. She is wearing a black blazer with a purple shirt.
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Jamie has designed, edited, and launched all the Newsletters below for the Independent Living Resource Center and Historic Lewes (Lewes Historical Society). Browse through the links below to take a look at her work.

Independent Living Resource Center Newsletters

 

03/18/2024 - ILRC March Newsletter

02/16/2024 - ILRC February Newsletter

01/19/2024 - ILRC January 2024 Newsletter

12/14/2023 - ILRC December Newsletter

​11/06/2023 - ILRC November Newsletter

10/05/2023 - ILRC's October Newsletter

09/05/2023 - ILRC's After Labor Day Newsletter!

07/31/2023 - ILRC July Newsletter

06/30/2023 - ILRC June Newsletter

05/31/2023 - ILRC's May Newsletter

04/28/2023 - ILRC's April Newsletter

03/31/2023 - ILRC March Newsletter

02/28/2023 - ILRC's February Newsletter

12/30/2022 - ILRC's December Newsletter

11/29/2022 - ILRC November Newsletter

10/31/2022 - ILRC October Newsletter

09/30/2022 - ILRC September Newsletter

08/29/2022 - ILRC August Newsletter

07/29/2022 - ILRC July Newsletter

06/30/2022 - ILRC June Newsletter!

05/31/2022 - ILRC May Newsletter

04/29/2022 - ILRC April Newsletter

03/31/2022 - ILRC's March Newsletter

Stay Posted for Jamie's Latest Work! 

Coming soon! 

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