Sharing Email from a Federal Worker

Today, I wanted to share a letter posted by Allison Gill. This isn’t about politics—it’s about seeing the humanity in one of the thousands of federal employees whose jobs are at risk. It’s easy to criticize federal workers from a distance, but there’s more to their stories.

Forwarded this email? Subscribe here for more EXCLUSIVE: Email from a Federal Worker at EPA to Lee Zeldin I have obtained a copy of - and permission to publish - an email sent from Jason Poe to the EPA Administrator Lee Zeldin. Jason has asked me to share this email, along with his name, with the public. Allison Gill Feb 20   READ IN APP   Dear Administrator Zeldin and EPA leadership, I wanted to welcome you to the EPA as Administrator. I hope you transition is going well. I wanted to write to you today to introduce myself. As a leader, I know you appreciate the people you lead taking time to introduce themselves. I also Cc'd my coworkers. I thought it would be good for them to be included. I apologize for the long email. Please take the time to read it. My name is Jason Poe, and I am a remedial project manager. In my role, I help oversee the ongoing cleanup work at the Department of Energy Oak Ridge Reservation. I grew up in the industrial Midwest, more specifically, the South Side of Columbus, Ohio. My childhood was deeply intertwined with the warmth and love found at my grandparents’ house—a house my grandpa built with his own hands. It wasn’t much, just 3 bedrooms and 1 bath, barely 1,300 square feet. Yet, it was the heart and soul of our family. I marveled at how 10 people, my grandparents and their 8 children, once lived within those walls, sharing both their joys and struggles. My grandpa’s garden was a magical place to me, filled with fruit trees, a grape arbor, and my all-time favorite—raspberry bushes. I fondly remember daring my little brother to eat the tangy rhubarb that grew near the Virgin Mary statue in the yard. We’d both take bites, our faces scrunching up at the taste, but laughing all the same. For most of my life, I lived within smelling distance of Buckeye Steel. Also known as Buckeye Steel Casting, this massive company was the cornerstone employer for my neighborhood for over a century. Buckeye Steel also served as a steppingstone for one of the U.S.'s most powerful political families, the Bushes. Samuel Prescott Bush, father of President George H.W. Bush and grandfather of President George W. Bush, served as general manager of Buckeye Steel during the early part of the twentieth century, where he mingled with the likes of the Rockefellers while gaining valuable political influence. The Breakdown is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Upgrade to paid Buckeye Steel’s fate as a doomed company was all but sealed when I was growing up in the 1980’s and 1990’s. With that followed a decline in the overall quality of life in my neighborhood, with few opportunities, no investments, and little hope. To be honest, I never saw my neighborhood as a prosperous place. But my family, with 5 aunts and uncles on my mom’s side and 7 aunts and uncles on my dad’s side, would tell tales of the neighborhood where we all grew up—a place with strong blue-collar roots. This was a place where everyone carried a thermos to work and grabbed a six-pack on the way home after. To them, the neighborhood and a job were intrinsically bound together, their identities welded to the fabric of each. Growing up in this neighborhood taught me a lot. Resilience is probably the most important lesson I learned. However, I knew there wasn’t a future for me there. I dreamed of going to college so that I could take vacations, get a big TV, and maybe, someday, buy a home in Bexley, a nice neighborhood in Columbus. No matter what, though, I value where I come from. It is undeniably interwoven into my perspective. It is a part of who I am. I am immensely proud of calling this place my home. Before I was born, my father worked at Buckeye Steel. Later, he worked in construction, like many dads in our neighborhood. Unfortunately, my dad was an addict as was my mom. Before I go any further, I want to emphasize how much I love my mom. My compassion, my sensitivity, my love for people came from her. She wasn’t perfect, but, when she was healthy, I felt her love profoundly. My childhood was marked by turmoil and a pervasive sense of instability. I divide my early years into phases defined by the drugs my father was abusing. From my earliest memories up until age 12, my father was addicted to marijuana and pills, particularly Fiorinal, a sedative that my mother also abused. I have vivid memories of both my parents passing out on the couch while we watched TV, leaving me to fend for myself. One time, my dad fell asleep and set the couch on fire. I was only four years old and utterly terrified, unable to wake them up. I don't remember how, but we managed to avoid a disaster. However, a few months later, a grill caught the apartment below ours on fire, burning multiple units to the ground. We lost everything. The only constant in my life back then was the fire, chaos, and the overwhelming feeling of being alone and scared. As I progressed through these “stages,” life only grew more challenging. The second stage, from age 12 to 16, was marred by my father's battle with cocaine and crack addiction. Those teenage years were a torrent of trauma. At age 12, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. My health deteriorated for months, and my father's doctor, who ran a pill farm, misdiagnosed me with the flu and handed me a doughnut. The situation worsened until I ended up in the hospital, where a nurse detected the telltale scent of ketoacidosis on my breath—a life-threatening condition. I spent three agonizing weeks in the hospital, with eight days in intensive care. During this harrowing time, I witnessed my father cry for the first time. That moment etched itself into my memory, the image of his tears forever intertwined with my own suffering. Through these teenage years, we moved from house to house as my dad worked less and less. Despite the chaos, I was determined to carve out a path for myself. I played football, basketball, and tennis in high school, all while maintaining a spot on the honor roll. My first job came at the age of 14, making bagels with Sammy in an alley on Saturday and Sunday mornings. After making the bagels, I would then load them up into a truck and Sammy (the owner) would drive to the mall kiosk where I ran the register. This early experience instilled a strong work ethic in me, one that I carried forward into every aspect of my life. I always enjoyed working and took pride in being reliable and diligent. At age 16, I came home from school one day to find my mom gone. Her own struggles with addiction had pulled her away, but my dad’s downward spiral was the likely tipping point. She left without taking me, and I still don't understand why. My younger brother had already found refuge with a friend, leaving me alone with a father who was always high. Those few weeks felt like an eternity. The house was a void, empty of any warmth or safety. One evening, with my blood sugar dangerously low and my stomach aching with hunger, I mustered the courage to ask my dad if we could find something to eat. He stumbled to the kitchen, rummaging through the sparse contents of our fridge, and finally, with a hollow look in his eyes, slapped a spoon and an old jar of grape jelly in front of me. "Dinner is served," he said, his voice void of any trace of concern or care. That was the breaking point. That night, with a heart heavy full of despair and a soul yearning for something more, I left. I had nowhere to go, no safety net to catch me. I was homeless, adrift in a world that seemed indifferent to my existence. I spent several nights bouncing around, staying in various friends’ homes. At this time, I owned a pair of shoes, two pairs of socks, one pair of jeans and three shirts. I also had a vial of insulin and a bag of 10 syringes. However, I did work so I could buy some essentials. I was also able to secure my Medicaid card so that I could keep my diabetes under control. I wasn’t very successful. For the next two years I bounced around quite a bit. For a while I stayed at my grandparents’ home (mentioned above). After a few months they kicked me out. I am not sure why, but I always thought it was because my dad would break into their house to steal my syringes for drug use. We are now at the final stage, stage three, the heroin/opioid stage. At that time, my grandpa wanted nothing to do with my father. Neither did I. I don’t know why they took it out on me. Share The most comfortable place I stayed at during this time was with a very dear friend. She was the grandmother of my best friend, and she embraced me with open arms when I had nowhere else to go. She was a Ph.D. psychologist, and she generously allowed me to stay in her office/apartment. She did not live there as she only used it as an office, but she made it feel like a warm, welcoming home for me. All I had to do was complete some chores and maintenance around the place, which felt like a small token of appreciation for her kindness. Her compassion and generosity left an indelible mark on my heart. She is a saint, and I would do anything for her. I graduated 6th in my high school class. This was good enough to get me into THE Ohio State University (go Bucks!). As I stated before, during this time in my life my mother and father were absent. I later discovered that my mother was in jail. My father, in and out of jail, was gripped by an opioid addiction. Neither of them was present during my high school graduation. While in college, I rarely spoke to them. I might have talked to my mom once during those years. At age 22, I came home to my apartment, only to find the electricity had been disconnected. It turned out that my father had stolen my Social Security number and, among other things, put an electric bill in my name, which he didn't pay, resulting in the power being shut off. I had to pay $600 to get the power restored. It was at this point that I learned I had a new baby brother. My dad had met a woman, and they were living together. To get these charges removed from my credit, I had to file charges against him. Given his long arrest record and a new baby, I couldn’t bring myself to put him away. I carried that debt for seven years, a burden that weighed heavily on my heart. To this day, I am unsure if I made the right decision. I ended up graduating, albeit it took me a while. By age 27, I had proudly earned a B.S. in environmental science, and I was moving to Georgia with a sense of accomplishment and hope. I was overjoyed to secure a job with Georgia’s Department of Natural Resources, marking the beginning of a new chapter where I could make a real difference. A year later, my hard work paid off, and I was offered a prestigious position at the EPA. Without hesitation, I accepted, realizing a lifelong dream to work for the premier environmental protection organization in the world. An organization that mission was to protect the people like me, who used to play on the slag mounds behind Buckeye Steel. Standing amongst the best, I felt an immense pride in my achievements. To this day, joining the EPA remains one of my proudest moments. I have endured many traumatic moments during my life, but none can compare to the devastating loss of my youngest brother. My father ended up having two boys brining my brother count to three. In 2013, my wife and I decided to move my younger brothers in with my family. A few years earlier, their mother was tragically killed during a domestic dispute with her brother. She fell off her mother’s front porch, hit her head, and died. My dad was still ensnared in the grip of fentanyl addiction. I had no interest in moving him with us. However, since we were out of state and my dad had a way to manipulate the courts, I agreed to move my father under one condition: He had to quit. I knew he would not be able to, and we agreed that if he did, he would move back to Columbus, and I could keep my brothers. Well, against all expectations, my dad quit opioids, cold turkey. He suffered through the agonizing withdrawals and refused any help. Eventually, he was completely clean. For a time, it seemed like things were finally falling into place. On November 13, 2020, my 16-year-old brother was spending the night at a friend’s house. Late in the evening, he was invited to another friend’s house where a girl he liked was present. Being a 16- year-old boy, he eagerly decided to ride his bike the two miles to his friend's house. No one quite knows what happened, but not even a quarter mile away from where he departed, he was struck by a car. The driver didn’t stop; it was a hit-and-run. He lay on the cold, unforgiving road for several minutes until a passerby found him and called for an ambulance. Being only 16, he didn’t have an ID. He was taken to the hospital and listed as a John Doe (ironically, his name was John Poe). The next day, my dad reported him missing. The police treated it as a runaway case. We canvassed the neighborhood, our hearts heavy with dread. We did this for about 36 agonizing hours. Late in the day, three days after he was hit, the police contacted my dad. He was asked to identify the body of his 16- year-old boy, my baby brother. He had survived in the hospital for six hours but never woke up, never had any brain activity. That was the second time I saw my dad cry, and his tears echoed the deep sorrow and heartbreak that now defined our lives. Why am I telling you this? Well, for starters, we are people. Federal workers are people. However, this administration treats us in a way that I would not treat anyone, like we are the American people's enemy. I appreciate your words during your introduction on Wednesday, however, in my world, words don't matter actions do. Your actions don't match your words, and I wanted to let you know of this discrepancy. Again, being in a leadership position, I think you will appreciate this feedback. At the end of the day, we are mission driven. We protect human health and the environment. My background isn't a sad story, it is an American story. I wanted to share it with you today so that you understand I am rooted in my principals, and I won't compromise them for anything. I do this without fear. Happy Black History Month. Jason P. Poe he/him/his Federal Facilities Remedial Project Manager, Oak Ridge Reservation U.S. EPA Region 4