Zoe's blog

Sounds of Brighton

2011-11-06T04:16:00.001-08:00

I've been in Brighton for a little over a month now, and I produced this audio slide show just to give folks a sense of what it's like here. Just click on the link below. Cheers.

Sounds of Brighton

Cross-Country

2011-07-11T12:19:00.001-07:00

Friday morning started early, the way many Fridays have recently, so that I could get to WTUL for the 8am News & Views show. This time, however, I was going in a car packed to the gills with stuff instead of on my bicycle, sweating up Baronne from the Bywater. As I pulled away from Tulane after the show, I pointed the car North towards St. Francisville, LA. I'm working on a story about prison gerrymandering for New America Media, so I wanted to go check out the town that I would be talking about in this piece. The whole population of the place is about 1500 people, and it's not far from an enormous prison, Angola, which raises questions about representation for the prisoners as well as the distribution of state and federal resources.
I decided to interview the woman who runs the town's Main Street organization, that is, the entity that works to promote business and economic development. It was a good conversation that went on for a fair bit after the interview ended. She understood the implications of the questions, and this prompted a talk about larger economic and political issues.
Prior to leaving the house in the morning, I'd finished packing up the car, and I'd taken 2 strands of glass mardi gras beads off a peg in the wall where they'd been hanging since I caught them at Krewe de Vieux last year. It was sunny and hot in St. Francisville, and I didn't want to wear the beads since they just felt heavy, so they are now dangling from my car's rearview mirror.
From St. Francisville, I followed the town's tourist map and my own common sense to Tunica Falls or The Clark Creek Natural Area, passing on my way the "World Famous Pond Store," named for the town of Pond, MS. In the store I asked how to get to Tuscaloosa, AL, and the woman I presume to be the owner laughed at how I could manage to get so lost. Still, one of the guys who was fixing her refrigerated display case gave me good directions, and got me on my way again.
As I sped towards Tuscaloosa, my goal stopping place for the first night, I realized as I left the Bienville Forest that I was on empty, and I pulled into the next town, Lake, MS. Hard as this may be to believe, I was not actually trying to hop scotch my way across Mississippi from one water-named town to another.
Anyway, I pulled over as soon as I got off the highway hoping that I would be able to get directions to the closest gas station. A white pickup truck was pulling up to a gate, and a little, blonde girl rolled down the passenger window when I walked up. The family in the truck went above the call of duty to help me find it by leading the way for me. And in the gas station, people were helpful again when I asked how far it was to Tuscaloosa.
In Tuscaloosa, my journey introduced me to another good person. I had dinner in a chain restaurant, and the manager happened to bring out my main course. We ended up striking up a conversation, and Harvey sat down to join me. The topics ranged from the existential issues that prevent people from finding love to the lack of African-American history taught in school. I feel like I made another friend, and it was another pleasant meeting in an unexpected situation.

My second day of driving took me from Alabama and to the Northeastern edge of Tennessee, and let me just say that, at least from the highway, Chattanooga is gorgeous. The highlight of this day was meeting my friend, Ben Varadi, for lunch in a little town called Loudon, TN. Ben is running his own law practice, so we haven't seen much of each other in New Orleans, and it's funny that we were able to meet for a leisurely lunch as we drove in opposite directions between NOLA and DC. Loudon was intriguing to me because it very clearly had a Latino population, and while I know that there are immigrant communities across the country, it was still interesting to me to see that in this tiny Tennessee town.
Ben lent me his tent so that I could camp out that second night, and sent me off up highway 75.
Yesterday morning, after a reasonable night in a state park, I was on the road before 8:30am. Shortly after crossing the border into Virginia, Smooth by Carlos Santana came on the radio and had me rocking out. Not so much that I didn't notice the pale blue cornflowers lining the road, though. And when I finally arrived in Annapolis much later that day, I was just in time to help my brother and sister-in-law move some of the last stuff out of their old house and into their new one.

Happy Mardi Gras!

2011-03-06T09:31:00.000-08:00

It's Mardi Gras season, so it's hard to get much done around here right now. Most people are working on their costumes for the big day or hanging out with friends diving for beads at parades. It's amazing to me what a family and community-oriented event Mardi Gras is. Before living here, I thought that Mardi Gras was that gross thing of drunks and women flashing their breasts on Bourbon Street. That happens, too, trust me, but only on Bourbon Street. The parades that roll down St. Charles Avenue and along Canal Street are attended by families and children of all ages.
One of the devices I particularly like are wide viewing ladders that people set up so that the kids can sit above the crowd and see the floats --- and be strategically positioned to catch "throws." These ladders are generally about 3 feet wide, and they have a board across the top (between side railings) for sitting. The structures are positioned along the neutral ground, and they're an excellent tool for parade watching.
Yesterday, my friend Liz Lew and I went to see the NOMTOC parade, New Orleans Most Talked About Club, in Algiers. It was fun, although truly long and slow. We were fortunate to have a rooftop spot, so we had a pretty good view of all the bands and floats, but the power lines did deflect a large number of the beads and other throws hurled our way.
It started to rain during the parade, so we moved inside. At a certain point, since Liz wanted to get a printer cartridge, and I wanted to go to another friend's pre-parade brunch, we headed off on our bikes for the ferry. The rain, however, hadn't actually stopped.
So, we got to the ferry and hid under the walkway until it arrived. Unfortunately, at the same time, the rain grew more intense, turning the Mississippi River into a mist-covered, swirling expanse with more droplet-induced freckles than a tub in a shower.
When we reached the other side, I gave up on the idea of going to Liz's to do some porch sitting and have dinner, and I decided to strike out for home.
My glasses, which were covered with rain drops, were not particularly helpful, and the fact that the streets were flooded was also not encouraging. A clanging noise frightened me as a I approached St. Peters from Canal Street. It was a manhole cover that had come out of its rim and was bouncing up and down as water gushed out from the sewer. This was the first time I saw one of these on the way home, but not the last. This scary thing, however, was juxtaposed with the brassy call of a marching band that continued to wind it's way along Canal Street, in spite of the torrential rain.
Although the rain was pretty warm, I thought about what it must be like to go through a hurricane. No fun. I pedaled along at a pretty steady pace, but the water on the edge of the street would come up to the middle of my tire. Clearly the road sloped down from the middle, so I tried to stay as close to the high part as possible while leaving room for the cars that were also trying to get through.
One advantage to being on a bike in this, I have to say, was the knowledge that the water wasn't going to flood my engine.
Oh, I should mention that the garlands of Mardi Gras beads that I had collected at NOMTOC added an oddly cute clinking sound to this whole scene.
While I did manage to stay up long enough to peel off the beads and water-logged clothes to take a hot shower, I did completely crash into a long, afternoon nap, which, I guess, is part of what this whole Mardi Gras thing is supposed to be about.

Multi-Sensorial

2011-01-04T09:44:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I went to Chioggia, a small fishing village on the edge of Venice's lagoon. As I walked around, I wished that there were a way to share the smell. Everyone is familiar with pictures of Venice. The canals and gondolas are famous. People have even seen what it looks like in winter: gray, foggy, damp. But Venice smells. More in summer than in winter, but still, it has a smell. Chioggia does, too. Chioggia smelled like salt water and fish, which, given its main industry, isn't really surprising.
Maybe I'll write more about this at some point, but it has been on my mind lately that even with multi-media presentations, we still don't have a way to share the way a place smells.

Thinking About Options

2010-11-28T17:25:00.000-08:00

I've been reading lately about the fiscal crises in Europe: Greece, Ireland, Portugal. I've also been reading about the austerity packages that the European Central Bank and the International Monetary Fund have been putting together for these counties. Dean Baker, an economist, gives a great explanation of what is happening to Ireland here. The short version is: bankers fucked things up and now regular working people have to pay.
Sound familiar? The Irish, like the Greeks, have mounted tremendous protests. The thing I'm thinking about, though, is that street protests aren't going to change anything. At this point, I'm not sure that even a new election in Ireland will change things since the agreement will be in force before a new government can come to power. Although one can hope that they would do something like refuse to pay high interest rates on IMF loans.
The thing is, these multilateral financial institutions have tremendous power. In the US we don't see it so much because we have our own private banking sector that runs everything. And so the question on my mind is: what can be done to really effectively protest and create change?
Sure, creating more credit unions is one thing. Real strikes would be another. When the Sarkozy government recently proposed an increase in the retirement age, people of all ages across France shut the country down for days putting a real wrench into the economic machine. Could something like that happen here in the US? I'd like to see it, but I'm not holding my breath. Much as it disappoints me, I'm not sure how far people are willing to go even when it comes to being groped by TSA officers at airports. Yet, really, it is only through organized action and civil disobedience, as well as implementing real alternatives, that we can expect any change here in the US.

What a Weekend

2010-09-11T19:10:00.001-07:00

This morning I realized that it was September 11th, and for the first time since 2001, I was not in New York. It was a bit odd, really.
Thursday night was the Saints' opening game against the Vikings. For those of you who don't pay attention to football, this was a re-match of the NFC championship game. Basically, the only thing to do Thursday was to go watch the Saints game since the entire city shuts down when they play. Businesses started closing early in the afternoon so that people could go to the pre-game parade. I went to the Central Business District at that time, and I felt sorely out of place since I was wearing a brown dress and nothing black or gold.
Last fall I appreciated this complete focus on the game. If I was out somewhere and riding my bike home, the experience was wonderful because I would generally be the only vehicle on the street. Everyone else was watching the game. Now I realize I've become more local, so I too went to a neighborhood bar where there was barbecue and mac & cheese for everyone.
Friday I went to see Swimming Upstream, a collaboration between Eve Ensler and several New Orleans women. It's a play about the experiences of these women during and after Katrina. It'll be showing in New York in a week or so, and I wonder how it will be received since so many of the issues referenced are really local. For example, there's a dig at the Times-Picayune, and a scene about contractors who cheat a woman who's trying to rebuild her home. Being there, though, also made me feel more connected to the city because I know what they're talking about, even if I didn't live through it.
Today I briefly sat in on a strategy session for some national organizing around racial justice. Being present for that was also moving. One participant reminded us of the legacy of oppression in the South and the institutions that have disenfranchised and exploited Black people for centuries, institutions now being focused on Latinos. I couldn't help but think of Howard Zinn and how racial lines have been used to divide poor folks for centuries. So, yeah, it is inspiring to see some of the work happening to create a just and welcoming world.
I also heard an interesting story on the BBC today about how some Greeks are using new strategies to protest the government's austerity plan. Marching in the streets isn't changing things, so one group is targeting businesses and, en masse, asking for discounts since the government is cutting wages and social services. I like this creative approach.

This is Not the Northeast

2010-09-06T11:45:00.001-07:00

My friend Ivana invited me to the Black Men of Labor Second Line parade yesterday. The group is a centuries old Social Aid and Pleasure Club, one of the mutual aid societies formed by African-Americans. The day was sunny and, as always, humid. The parade started in front of Sweet Lorraine's, a renowned jazz club. The street was packed, and the music was hot. After following the procession along up and down St. Claude Avenue, running into a variety of people I know along the way, I peeled off as it wound through Treme' and headed home.
These parades are one of the traditions that make clear the distinct cultural history in New Orleans. For anyone interested in how African, French and Spanish influences came together to create a very different culture from the rest of the Eastern US, check out Ned Sublette's, The World that Made New Orleans: From Spanish Silver to Congo Square. I read it earlier this summer, and I can't recommend it enough.
You all know that this is a different world in many ways, and I continue to get an education about that. One of the things that I am encountering here that really gets under my skin is the sexist and conservative attitude towards women's reproductive issues. A couple of months ago I had a heated discussion with a group of tween boys who were in a public square trying to proselytize support for anti-abortion measures. The fact that I identified as an agnostic and not as a believer in God was probably a wrench in their script. As was the fact that I mentioned to them something they had probably never heard: that one reason abortion was legalized in this country was to stop the death and serious injury to women having backroom abortions.
So, one of the things that I have learned is that anesthesia is not allowed during abortions performed in Louisiana. Knowing this, when I found this article at the start of the weekend, I was disgusted. What the article does not make clear is that the reason this clinic's license was revoked is that, presumably, someone chose to permit the use of anesthesia during an abortion. To me, this seems only humane. Clearly, to the lawmakers of the state, most of whom will never run the risk of being pregnant, the choice of terminating a pregnancy must be accompanied with pain. This strikes me not only as misogynistic, but also in line with the sort of backward religious views that see the pain associated with menstruation and childbirth as God's punishment to women for Eve's desire for knowledge, and, consequently, as pain that should be left unmedicated.
For those interested in this topic, I learned fairly recently that the Catholic Church, and others, generally accepted that pregnancy did not begin until "quickening," the point when the fetus begins to make itself felt moving. If this doctrine were brought back, what a revolution it would be.

Finally Made It to the Gulf

2010-07-28T20:02:00.000-07:00

This morning at just after 5 am, I climbed into a car with Andy and Marilyn and headed to Slidell. Slidell is a small town on the other side of Lake Ponchartrain, and it's where the boat belonging to the Lake Ponchartrain Institute was moored. Our mission was to travel from Slidell up to Cat Island and back through Lake Borgne stopping at least 16 times to see what oil contamination situation was. It was my first time getting really out of New Orleans and into the wetlands, and it was breathtaking.
Dawn just about anywhere is lovely, and heading out in our Evinrude-powered boat watching that huge, orange orb come up over the marsh made me understand why my roommate Chris talks about living outside of New Orleans. Honestly, after that early morning boat ride across Lake Ponchartrain and into Lake Borgne, I also started thinking about how I might be able to organize my life to be out in this area more.
The previous day, a ship hit an old well head in Jefferson Parish, sending a spout of oil and natural gas pluming up out of the water. It was a reminder that while the Deepwater Horizon disaster is disproportionately large, there are wells all over the region, and accidents like the one that re-opened this well head happen with relative frequency. So shutting down and cleaning up the BP disaster is important, but it's only one piece of a much bigger and more complicated. Only yesterday I learned that that New Orleans Saints owe their black & gold color scheme to the oil industry. It makes sense, but I didn't know it.
Unlike other inspection missions earlier this summer, this one was uneventful. The engine worked throughout the day, and the weather was crystal clear. The biggest hazard we faced was sunburn from the reflection off the glass-like water. And believe me, it was a hazard. Although I was pretty much entirely covered by a hat, bandana, long shirt, and jeans, my neck still managed to get burned. Amazing, I know.
It was interesting to take this tour of the area and see all of the boom that has been laid out, some of it now crumpled up into useless circles on the water, some of it washed up onto shore. As we went through an area where pylons had been planted in the bottom of the lake so that boom could be strung between them, I noticed that there were some super solid inflated black booms and some less solid orange ones. The black ones looked like a string of sausages or bombs strung together. The orange ones looked like squishy bricks kids might play with in the water. Marilyn noted that the black boom belonged to the Navy whereas the orange stuff came from the Coast Guard. She pointed out that the quality of the equipment makes it easy to see who's getting more money.
On the way back, heading from Oyster Bay to Elephant Pass, we passed a pod of dolphins and stopped to play for a bit. It was an incredible experience. There was at least one mother dolphin swimming closely to her young one. And another dolphin kept swimming right up at the prow of the boat, thwarting basically all my attempts to get a picture of it by popping up and then submerging again. At a certain point, I got smart and put the camera on the video function so that these moments wouldn't be lost.

Life Goes On

2010-07-11T19:31:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I was in Wisconsin. It was great. The weather was perfect, although clearly my time in an un-air conditioned house in New Orleans has changed my perspective on what that means. Flying back Wednesday morning, there were large dark masses lurking in the waters of Lake Ponchartrain and Lake Borgne. I figured, however, that they weren't oil since I hadn't heard reports of such large amounts of oil sneaking underwater all the way up to New Orleans. What I learned later that day, however, is that while those masses probably weren't oil, 1,000 pounds of tar balls had been pulled out of the lake in the preceding days.
So as this catastrophe continues and people start to really have anxiety about what will happen to them, life in New Orleans does go on. This evening I went to a fundraising benefit for The Mother-n-Law Lounge. The owner of the Lounge had announced that it was going to close several weeks ago, prompting an outcry from aficionados across the land. Indeed, friends of mine traveled from North Carolina to be at this event. OK. They do have ulterior motives: they are making an audio documentary about blues musicians in Southern Louisiana, and this piece will become a segment in that project.
In any case, the point is that, in spite of the ongoing train wreck that threatens everyone in the region, parts of life do continue as before. One woman even told me yesterday that since the situation is ongoing, she deals with all the issues facing her Native American tribe with less urgency now than she did two months ago. If you're in it for the long haul, you have to be able to survive the haul.
It is also hurricane season, and so, even as life goes on, people ask themselves very seriously whether they will be able to continue living here if, for example, there is a storm surge that raises water levels 10-20 feet and carries all the oil and crap from the Gulf to our roofs and front doors. Rebuilding a house that the wind has knocked around is one thing, rebuilding a house that has been soaked in oil AND knocked around is another.
Has anyone mentioned the "firecane" scenario to y'all? Y'know, where a spark during a hurricane lights all the oil in the Gulf and fire and sucks all the air out of the surrounding area while scorching it? New Orleanians definitely have an affinity for dark humor, but given the circumstances, it doesn't seem like such a bad coping mechanism.
Having spent months working on a story about the issues facing homeowners who applied for help from the Road Home program, I doubt that any real changes will be made to the way that emergencies are handled. The Road Home was a program created to help homeowners rebuild after hurricanes Katrina & Rita. It is a well-known disaster of its own. What I mean about doubting changes is that the state of Louisiana outsourced a lot of work to private companies who had a profit motive in their rebuilding assistance. I cringe at the thought of seeing a repeat, perhaps around different issues and not homeownership, with this spill.
Anyway, as all of this goes on, I'm actually doing well. There's a market for my journalism all of a sudden, and, twisted as it is, that means that I am getting to do work that I enjoy and hopefully sharing some important information.

A Prolific Time

2010-05-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

Over the past two weeks, I've had 3 different pieces aired on different radio programs. The first was on WWOZ, a community station dedicated to New Orleans music and culture. This evening a story of mine will air on the local NPR affiliate, WWNO. And FSRN led with a piece that I did on Monday. Unfortunately, two out of three of these stories focus on the impact of the oil spill that is already hitting the Louisiana coast.

Sunday, one of my neighbors had a dog shaving party. She put posters up all over the neighborhood, and, like a good reporter, I went all the way around the corner to see what was going on. The clippers were buzzing away and there were several buckets full of fur and hair around. It was a really local effort to do something about what is happening on the coast, a catastrophe that is ongoing and that most of us here have no sense of power over.

Yesterday, as I came out of a house where I had been doing a census interview, it smelled like diesel. The neighborhoods where I live -- and where I'm doing census work -- are called the Bywater and the Marigny. The are some of the oldest communities in the city, and they face the Mississippi River. Or at least they face the levee which stands about 8 concrete feet high on the top of a little ridge. We're not particularly close to the Gulf, but it's not the first time people in New Orleans have reported smelling the fumes from the spill.

One good thing is that yesterday Obama proposed increases to the 2010 and 2011 budgets in a range of areas that will have to deal with the spill and its aftermath: the EPA, Health and Human Services, the Department of Justice, the Department of Labor, and others. What really needs to happen is a war on erosion. I have to admit, though, that seeing people like Patti, my neighbor, doing what they can to make a difference is heartening. Sometimes I get stuck criticizing and not doing enough to create something different. This is especially easy to do as a journalist. Thanks, Patti. The future is in OUR hands.

Being a public defender in New Orleans

2010-05-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

Not long ago, I met a cool woman in a bar in my neighborhood. She didn't want her name used in this posting, so I'll call her Jane. Jane is a public defender here in New Orleans. She grew up in nearby Lafayette, but she'd been living in New York for the past few years, and actually moved down here around the same time I did. Although, as she puts it, she moved into the bosom of her family, which I did not.
Anyway, Jane called me around 10 tonight to ask if she could come over for a quick visit. As we sat on my stoop, she told me that a judge here, Karen Herman, had issued an arrest warrant for her today. The reason was that Jane was unwilling to go to trial today because she hadn't gotten discovery from the DA's office. That is, the DA hadn't shared with Jane the information they had related to the case that could affect the outcome.
The case was about a purse snatching on Bourbon Street, and the DA's office had a surveillance video. The video was given to Jane today when she arrived in court, and the judge insisted that Jane and her client watch it in the judge's chambers immediately. The honorable judge Herman insisted that jury selection begin as soon as the viewing had ended. Jane protested. She also had other motions in other court rooms, and so, after the video screening, she went to attend to those other matters. While she was in another court room with a motion, a bailiff approached and told Jane that she was subject to an arrest warrant. At that point, Jane burst into tears.
When she returned to courtroom I and Judge Herman, Jane's bosses were there to help negotiate with the judge. This isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened. In fact, one of Jane's colleagues had his ribs broken by bailiffs last fall when a judge had him arrested for contempt of court. It is clearly a way for the judges to show who's the boss. The thing is that people's lives hang in the balance.
Jane is diligent and prepares for her trials. She also is a seasoned veteran with 15 years of experience as a criminal lawyer. Yet the judge can push when she or he wants to, as happened today, potentially putting someone behind bars wrongfully.
I haven't been here long, and I'm not a lawyer, so I don't know what happens around these things in other parts of the country, but it does seem to me like the courts here are fiefdoms where judges and clerks make and break people's cases. And ribs. I think that threatening to jail a public defender for trying to do her job faithfully is too much.

Thoughts on Development

2010-03-04T15:20:00.000-08:00

This morning I had a conversation with one of my roommates about the refusal to change that one encounters in Louisiana. What I realize is that this place is different from most of the rest of the country. It has its own culture. And, having done my training in development, I was clearly reminded of the usual development paradigm in which some relatively well-off person from the West arrives with a plan to solve local problems. The genocide in Rwanda is one result of this kind of approach. The riots in Kenya in late 2007/early 2008 were a legacy of British colonial rule, which passed power on to an anointed "independent" leader of Kenya, Jomo Kenyatta.
Down here, people talk about carpetbaggers. I have found this term, applied to me, offensive. But thinking about the conversation this morning, I can see a similar dynamic.
At the same time, the truth is that this place is incredibly corrupt. The Danziger Bridge cover-up scandal that was revealed in the national press last week is not unusual in this part of the woods. What is unusual is that the federal government has gotten involved and is actually doing something to bring justice. Yet, on the other hand, the federal government (HUD) also approved Louisiana's plan to distribute grant money to homeowners for rebuilding post-Katrina in a way that fundamentally discriminated against African-Americans. So having the feds involved doesn't seem to guarantee anything.
Yesterday I found out a job that an acquaintance had told me about will only be open to candidates who were referred by the local arts council. It was another moment of seeing how this city works for those who are part of the inside, and I am definitely not (yet). Even though these things make me angry when I experience them on my own skin, this morning's conversation was helpful to making me see that New Orleans is like the developing world, and, as such, or just like any place else, arriving with all the answers doesn't mean that people are going to want what you're selling.

Human Rights Review Story from New Orleans

2010-02-03T14:40:00.000-08:00

http://www.fsrn.org/audio/us-reviews-human-rights-record-new-orleans/6134

Sometimes it's rough

2010-01-28T10:33:00.001-08:00

Tuesday afternoon I got an e-mail from my editor at Free Speech Radio News asking if I could cover the Gulf Region Human Rights Consultation that was taking place here in New Orleans. That evening, a reception and media briefing was scheduled, and the following day the consultation was to be held at Xavier University.

I was psyched to have some paying work to do and to connect with people working for social justice in the region. Unfortunately, after the introductory remarks on Tuesday, I was asked to leave. I was told that it was because I was a journalist and some people were not comfortable with being observed. Another journalist was there, a guy who is well-known in New Orleans and is a prominent lefty writer. He wasn't asked to leave, and when I asked whether he would be, I was told that he was "part of the group."

I left. Furious.

The next morning, as soon as I arrived at Xavier University, I found the woman who had asked me to leave, and I told her how upset I was. I stated that, as a newcomer to New Orleans, I could understand that some people may not feel comfortable with my presence. However, I pointed out, the event had been billed as a reception, with no time limit given for media presence. Additionally, I had been singled out as a member of the media, which seemed inconsistent to me.

Another one of the organizers was standing by as I had this conversation. She was clearly surprised that this had happened, and she said that she had written the press release herself. The woman who had asked me to leave walked away at a certain point, but her co-organizer said that I had done the right thing by raising the issue.

Just now I sent an e-mail to the organizers of the conference asking that they have a discussion of their media policy because the press can't support the work for the enforcement of human rights if we aren't given access.

This may not make me any new friends here in New Orleans, but I guess I'll live.

I have to say that the two other event organizers to whom I spoke yesterday morning also were surprised by what had happened. In the afernoon, I talked with a woman from Gulf Coast Women for Change, Sharon. She had been at the event on Tuesday and, before I left, I had told her that I wanted to talk to her the following day. We had a long talk, and she was very supportive. So, overall, I feel more at peace.

That's the news from down here.

From one low-lying, flood-prone city to another

2010-01-10T06:27:00.000-08:00

I spent the last couple weeks of December with my Dad in Mestre, which is technically part of Venice, Italy. As I boarded my plane, the symmetry of leaving one city in danger of disappearing under water for another one in the same situation wasn´t lost on me.
Although I lived in Italy for 7 years in my 20s, I was struck by how many people were looking at me on the street. There are a few possible explanations for this: 1) my stunning good looks, 2) my lime-colored jacket, which stood out amongst all the conservative navy blue, gray and black coats, or 3) my typically American fashion which combines sneakers with everything, regardless of how poorly matched. It also occurred to me that I could just no longer be used to the kind of eye contact and checking out that goes on in a Latin country.
Venice had its most significant snow fall in probably 20 years while I was there, so I got to experience a winter wonderland, even if it wasn´t the typical setting for that. Now that I´m back here in New Orleans, we are getting the coldest weather the area has had for 14 years, and I´m thinking about all the hats, mittens and long underwear that I foolishly left in storage in New York. Oh well.
January 6th was the Epiphany, or, as people here call it, 12th night. The first Mardi Gras parade was held by the Krewe St. Joan of Arc. It was fun with people carrying candles in a parade and a couple of women dressed in medieval garb on horseback. The woman in the photo on the left is wearing a hat that says: heretic, relapsed, apostate, idolater.
Let´s just say that I can see how people could get hooked on this place.

Building Wetlands

2009-12-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

Last night President Obama called for 30,000 more troops to be sent to Afghanistan. Apparently, Obama hasn´t read his history. Everywhere in this country there are clear signs that we need to invest our money at home, but given the calamity of Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans is once place where everyone is clear on the correlation between defense spending and failing domestic infrastructure.

This weekend the BBC Worldservice carried a piece that talked about the disappearing wetlands here on the Gulf Coast. It´s estimated that it would cost around $1.5 billion dollars to rebuild the wetlands, thus ensuring that the local fishing industry can continue to operate, and that cities such as New Orleans, Mobile and Biloxi have some protection from tropical storms. The wetlands provide a buffer between the Gulf and the mainland, and they help to suck the energy out of a storm, slowing it down and lessening its impact. If there are no wetlands, though, well.....

This afternoon I went to the Federal Building to participate in a protest of Obama´s decision. There were 5 of us, and all the other people there were men who looked like they had been through the Vietnam era as adults. We did get some honks as we held placards towards the street (honk to end war), but the small turnout also made me wonder about more effective ways to be changing policy.

On a more personal note, I would like to get out and do some photography, but I don´t have any real community connections yet to do the kind of snapping that I´d like. I´m working on it, though. In the meantime, here´s a photo of a pretty typical home in the neighborhood next to mine. Truth be told, even the color scheme doesn´t come across as all that outrageous here, which I love.

First Impressions

2009-11-19T10:59:00.001-08:00

I arrived in New Orleans on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Adrienne, who I know from the Neighborhood Economic Development Advocacy Project (NEDAP) http://www.nedap.org/, picked me up from the airport, and we drove into the French Quarter to meet her boyfriend in a bar where he was watching the Saints game. There was basically no traffic on the streets, and Adrienne explained that the city shuts down for the Saints. Even the courts schedule times around games. When I explained to her that the Packers have a similar cultish following, Adrienne couldn´t believe it. This is something I have now seen in other people: it seems that New Orleanians have difficulty accepting that any other team can inspire a similar level of fanaticism. Even though I´m really not a sports fan, it is sort of annoying to be constantly told that your beliefs or fandom are of inferior quality. I guess that New Yorkers also often have this attitude, whether about the city or the Yankees (who suck, by the way), but the narrow-mindedness behind this attitude annoys me.

For the first day or so, my feelings swung back and forth between the aesthetic pleasure of New Orleans and resistance to abandoning my whole life. In some moments, I felt the door to return to New York was closed because returning would mean failure. In others, I just allowed myself to be in a sunny, warmer place. Now that a week has gone by, I am more comfortable, and those swings have disappeared.

Chris, a high school friend of my New York roommate, Sarah, has been letting me couchsurf. He has two roommates, David and Maura. But Chris mentioned almost as soon as we entered his home that David was like the secretary on Murphy Brown: every episode someone new was in that spot. Not surprisingly, on Saturday night David told Chris that he would be moving out, and Chris offered that room to me. So now I have an actual home and not just a couch to surf.

Maura lent me her bicycle. It´s an old beater, and the seat doesn´t actually stay attached to the springs, which means that I have to pay attention to more than the usual number of elements when riding, otherwise I risk getting the flesh of my upper leg caught between the two. In spite of this challenge, having a bike to ride has been fabulous. It has allowed me to get all over the city independently, not to mention getting a little exercise, and it is a great way to get to know the city and to take in its amazing architecture.

In New York, riding a bike often felt intimidating. Here, although of course I still pay attention to opening car doors and drivers who blow through stop signs, it just feels safer. Considering that New Orleans has only about 350,000 people compared to New York´s 8 million, that is probably not really too surprising.

Before coming down here, I kept telling everybody that I would be volunteering with an organization called the Kid Camera Project. http://www.kidcameraproject.org/ Last Monday I met with the two founders to talk about their work and what I could do for them. My idea was to help them raise money and to do some volunteering with the kids. I came out of that meeting feeling disappointed. The organization only has one group of kids that they are working with right now, and there wasn´t any room for me to observe it during their final session of the year this week. Additionally, since KCP began in response to Katrina, they are in the process of re-thinking their focus.

The following evening, I was in the supermarket and ran into one of the two women. Here was a tangible introduction to how small a community New Orleans really is. She confirmed that my misgivings were appropriate, which was not really what I wanted to hear. I´m hoping to help KCP publish a book with photos and writing by the children who documented the impact of Katrina on their neighborhoods, but it also looks like I´m going to have to find another place to volunteer with kids.

As I returned to Chris and Maura´s from this grocery run, I heard an ad on the radio for a fundraiser for a program called Art Docs. http://www.artdocs.com/ Art Docs provides healthcare (preventative treatment, chronic condition management, and emergency services) to artists and musicians in the New Orleans community who earn less than $20,000/year. It is a private organization that started because people recognized that art and music are a big part of what makes New Orleans special. Listening to this ad, I asked myself why this kind of program isn´t national, since healthcare is something that is so clearly important to everyone. Beyond that, though, I was really struck at the practical effort being made to create a supportive environment for artists. Although Bloomberg touts the "creative class" and its economic impact, I frankly don´t see him doing much to make it easier for creative people to make a life in New York.

One of the silly things about the home where I´m living now is that Maura has two cats and a dog. The cats are just cats who do their own thing, but the dog, Lily, is really a dog. Although she´s about a year old, Lily, who looks like a golden beagle, has all the energy of a pup. She is constantly climbing on our laps when we sit at the kitchen table, and she pees with excitement when someone comes home. I´m sleeping in the living room, and so when Maura comes back from an early morning walk, Lily will jump onto the futon (and me), walk all over me, and stick her cold, wet nose in my face as she tries to lick me good morning. Actually, it´s kind of amusing. It´s clear that nothing can tone that energy down, so, while I do try to get Lily to behave sometimes, at others all I can do is laugh and give in to the tail-wagging excitement.

There is certainly more to tell about this first week, but suffice it to say that I am settling in and appreciating the environment. While I think that New Orleans is not as international as New York (which, I admit, is a tough act to follow), I did hear people speaking Arabic in a neighborhood café last week, and I have met some other people from outside the US who aren´t here as tourists.

Thus endeth week one.

Kermit Impressions at ReBuilders´ Source

2009-09-30T16:11:00.000-07:00

http://www.mediafire.com/download.php?mqzdjntzynw

Photos from Mark Winston Griffith´s Campaign

2009-09-22T07:22:00.001-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com/zoesull/MWGCampaign#

Campaigning in Brooklyn

2009-09-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

For the first couple weeks of September, I worked on Mark Winston Griffith´s campaign for city council in Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights, Brooklyn. It was an amazing experience, and while Mark didn´t win the primary this past Tuesday, he only lost by about 600 votes. The incumbent, who was running against 7 other people, including Mark, squeaked by with only 30% of the vote.

Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights are really more one community than two. They share amazingly beautiful brownstones and a population that is almost entirely African-American and West Indian. Sometimes during my campaign work, I would have to ask an older person to repeat themselves because I am not accustomed to West Indian accents.

While the neighborhood has more than its share of problems, there is much to love about it, too. As I would head into the campaign office in the morning, I would walk up Nostrand Avenue and say hello to the people I met, who would actually return my greeting and my smile. The same would happen in the afternoons as I would head past the brownstones on my way to knock on doors: the families or Seniors working in the front yards or chatting on the stoops would return my pleasantries with real openness and friendliness.

Two Sundays ago, I went to a church to campaign for Mark. Unfortunately, I wasn´t allowed to make an announcement during that part of the service, but since I was there, I participated in the entire 3-hour ritual. It was amazing. Everyone looked good. Everyone was dressed up, everyone except me, although fortunately I had chosen a decent t-shirt instead of a tank top or a t-shirt with a snarky phrase on it. There were an abundance of ladies with big hats. One woman even had a silver dress that was cut in triangles and had tassles hanging from it. She had a hat to match, too.

The sermon was about recognizing old enemies in new situations, and the pastor made it clear that, even if we have a Black President, racism is alive and well. I wondered if this kind of sermon would be given to a more mixed audience. I was the only white person in the church. I also considered that all of the energy, hope and faith, that people expressed through songs, was probably one of the things that has kept African-Americans going in this country with its history of slavery and racism. The power of the music and the congregation´s response to it also made me wonder if this wasn´t a connection to a truly African heritage, in spite of the centuries that have passed since Black folk were first brought to this continent.

At a certain point, the Pastor asked those who were attending the church for the first time to stand, so I stood, along with a handful of other people. In the same way that people in the community offered smiles as I went about my canvassing, so again did people in the church come to extend handshakes and to say hello to me.

On the other side of this, there are many problems. The foreclosure rate in this neighborhood is one of the highest in the city, and one out of five families has lost their home because of unscrupulous lending. Jay-Z, the rap artist, is from an infamous housing project in this area, the Marcy Projects, and fellow campaign workers noticed gang signs around the projects. Just a few days before the election, three people were shot in a housing project, and some of the canvassers who had been brought on for the final push were terrified because they ended up walking by the bodies.

One older woman I spoke with told me that she wanted to return to her youthful home of Virginia because she was tired of everything in Bed Stuy. A day or so earlier she had seen a police office punch a woman in the face because she was asking about something that was happening to another man.

Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights are beautiful, and while there is crime and violence, there is also a substantial educated, middle class. A couple of the young men from the neighborhood who were working on the campaign attend the University of Chicago and Carnegie Mellon.

I hope that Mark wins in November. The community needs someone who is going to put himself out there and do. It needs someone who is going to care, and Mark cares.

Link to my photos from Brazil

2009-06-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

http://picasaweb.google.com.br/zoesull/Brazil#

Se la

2009-06-13T14:42:00.001-07:00

"Se la" is an expression in Portuguese that means "whatever" or "I dunno." It's just one of those things that I have learned to use as an interjection here, although, admittedly, my fluency with this is nowhere near a native Brazilian.

Anyway, this morning I went to the swimming beach near the hostel where I'm staying. For those of you who have been following this blog for a while, it's the same beach where I spent the day with a Frenchwoman when I was here in Salvador in March. It's the same beach where people applaud the sunset.

So, today I was swimming, and I thought I would share with you all some thoughts about the water. It was clean and clear and a greenish-blue color. The water is so clear that as I swam, I could see schools of fish swimming beneath me. The bottom was also clearly visible, with big, black rocks occasionally breaking the taupe-colored sandy floor.

About a week ago, Talia, the American writer, and I came to this beach at dusk because I wanted to swim at that time of day. There were fluffy, steel-gray clouds in the sky that the sunset highlighted with rose and orange. The container ships that dotted the horizon faded gradually into the blackness of the evening as the last rays of light disappeared. But the water below me seemed illuminated. Granted, it was the super-powerful floodlights pointed at the beach that kept the water looking like it was almost daytime, and that allowed me to continue seeing my feet as I floated around. Se la, I thought it was cool that the sky and everything else had become an oily black, and I could still see my feet under water.

A couple of days ago I tried to change my ticket to come back in mid-July, but Northwest told me that they didn't have anything available, even checking up to July 19th. Obviously I'll keep you all posted, but I'm starting to think that at least this segment of my Brazilian adventures is coming to a close. As a result, I've decided to start really acting like a tourist. Hence the beach today. And tomorrow a day trip to a nearby island. And more photos at the local market, which, once again, makes it clear that Salvador is the developing world.

Oh, if any of you have suggestions for temporary work that would let me save some money to come back here, please let me know. While I would consider things in New Orleans and maybe Madison, New York is the most likely landing place for me. Plus, I miss pub quiz. And all you people who make life so good. Love you all.

Americans from Both Ends of the Spectrum

2009-05-28T15:42:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday I flew to Salvador. Salvador is Brazil's second largest tourist destination, after Rio. Arriving here, I felt like I was in Africa. That feeling has faded somewhat now, but not much. I certainly feel more like I'm in a developing country here than I did in Rio or in Belo Horizonte. The scene around the hostel where I'm staying is really pretty similar to Nairobi in terms of run-down buildings, tropical weather, and a population that is around 80% Afro-Brazilian. Salvador marks one of the boundary lines between the wealthy and whiter Southeast of Brazil and the much poorer Northeast.

Here at the hostel in Salvador, I've met some really annoying Americans. The fact that they are in their early 20s and totally unaware of other people is what makes them annoying. One woman is an acrobat and just got a job with the local circus. She seems to have no sense that speaking louder to people doesn't make one more accepted or loved. She also ate an entire pineapple that my friends and I bought without asking if it was OK. Being in a hostel does not mean we are living in a commune.

On the other end of the spectrum is another woman, also from the US, Thalia. We went out Sunday night with 3 Brazilian women who are all anthropologists. We had a great time talking about racism in the US and Brazil, the African culture in the State of Bahia, and othe shunning of groundbreaking anthropologits, and other juicy subjects. Sheila is the name of the woman who introduced me and Thalia to her friends. Sheila and I connected through couch surfing. She works with the Public Prosecutor's office as an advocate for minorities. One of the things that she mentioned is a program to train indigenous teachers so that they can teach in their own communities. This is part of a government initiative to make sure that the indigenous people in Brazil have some basic rights and are not completely marginalized. One positive thing I see here, although I admit that my knowledge is superficial, is that some indigenous communities have retained their cultures. Sheila pointed out that here in the Northeast, the indigenous languages have essentially disappeared, but she also said that there are efforts to preserve what is left.

This education initiative is something that I'm hoping to do a story about for FSRN and maybe some other places. In fact, tomorrow I'm going to visit a training session for indigenous teachers. The only downside is that I'll have to spend 12 hours on a bus to get there and back....

Rocinha

2009-05-23T12:14:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Cantagalo, a favela that lies on a hill between Copacabana and Ipanema. I'd been there before, but this time, in order to get to the Residents' Association office, I got a ride on the back of a moto taxi. There was a squadron of young guys with motorcycles at the bottom of the hill, on the street leading up to the favela, and the mini-van that makes the trip wasn't ready to go yet, so it was an easy choice.
Having seen this, that people ride as passengers on motorcycles for short hops in the favelas, I wasn't surprised when I went to Rocinha today and saw probably 3 or 4 different moto taxi companies waiting near the entrance.
Rocinha is the largest favela in Latin America. The census calculated the population in 2000 at 68,000, but the President of the Residents' Association estimated today that there are around 160,000 people living there now. While the City of Rio estimates that approximately 1,000,000 people live in favelas in the city, the Rocinha Residents' Association President put that number as more realistically around 2,000,000, which is one-third of the city's total population. I was there to talk with him about the compromise that the Association had reached with the State of Rio de Janeiro around building a 3-meter-high, concrete wall to stop the favela from spreading further into the forest bordering Rocinha and other favelas.
As I waited for someone to come get me near the entrance to the favela, I regretted not having my audio recorder. There was music blasting from a stand across the street where the latest hip hop and other tunes were available. Moto taxis cut this with their buzzing, up and down the street, with and without passengers.
And I noticed the electrical towers just on the other side of the row of shops in front of me. And when I settled a bit more into waiting, I also noticed the skein of electrical cables hanging practically in front of my face and criscrossing the street all the way into the favela.
At one point, a guy drove by on a motorcycle with a big smile on his face (no helmet, of course. No one wears helmets.), waving to someone on my side of the street. He also had some sort of machine gun slung across his chest. What surprised me was not so much seeing this, as I know that the drug traffickers in the favelas are armed, but the fact that I was totally unfazed. Maybe it's because he himself was relaxed and jovial. I dunno. But I did find it striking how we really can get accustomed to pretty much anything.
For the past few weeks, I've been debating whether to stay here in Rio or head back to Belo Horizonte. For the moment, I'm going to stay here. My plan is to try and live more in the moment and just enjoy whatever the hell I'm doing. It is also to make choices to do more of those things that seem like fun.

Sao Paulo Is Not So Bad

2009-05-07T13:21:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I was in Sao Paulo. Sao Paulo has about 16 million people. My friend Ana used to live there, and the first time that I came to Brazil, I stayed with her in her apartment in Sampa, the Brazilian nickname for Sao Paulo. This time, I stayed with Natalia, who, like me, is also a reporter for Free Speech Radio News. Natalia has great energy and is very upbeat, and it was really a pleasure to stay with her.
My perspective on Sao Paulo has been that it's not a place where I care to spend any time. This visit made a dent in that. My purpose for being there was to do some interviews with people about Lula's plan to build 1,000,000 homes and with other folks about the elections coming up in Lebanon on June 7th. There is a pretty substantial Arab community in Brazil. About 8% of the population has Arab origins, so the election in Lebanon is relevant. Unfortunately, so far I haven't found anybody interested in paying me to get this story together. But still, it's one of the things that took me to SP.
On Saturday night, Natalia, her boyfriend Alé, and I went to the Virada Cultural: 24 hours of music and performances on 16 different stages around the city. There were 800 shows altogether during the 24-hour period. On Sunday afternoon, we saw a man dancing with a tractor. That was pretty impressive.
Saturday night, my favorite piece was a series of metal sculptures with clay pots of fire, appropriately positioned throughout the Jardim da Luz, the Garden of Light. There's a tiny picture here: http://viradacultural.org/programacao/centro
Tuesday morning I got on a bus, again, and came back to Rio. So that's where I am now, finishing up the story about Lula's housing plan. Yesterday was my birthday, and I went out with some folks from the hostel for a low-key evening of pizza and the Brazilian version of pool, sinuca.

Swine Flu

2009-04-30T04:08:00.000-07:00

This morning, almost at the crack of dawn, I was sitting in a little bar in a working class neighborhood in Sao Paulo. My bus got in from Belo Horizonte before the sun came up, and I didn't want to knock on my host and colleague's door before 8am. (That seems basic, right?) Anyway, so as I knocked back one café con leite after another, the news was on. A reporter from Mexico talked about the fact that public services will be suspended between May 1st (a major holiday for working people) and May 5th (the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla). So, while the hospitals will be open, there will be no public transportation to get there. The President of Mexico was on TV telling people that the safest place for them to be was at home. Safe, that is, in terms of avoiding swine flu.
Frankly, in my opinion, there may indeed be a threat of a nasty flu, but when I see governments impeding people's free movement, particularly on a holiday commemorating workers' rights, I can't help but think that there is some manipulation going on here. "Be afraid. Be very afraid". That is what we have been told in the US since 9/11. Generally, we should be afraid of terrorists, even when there aren't any. Now we should be afraid of the possibility of contagion, too. So, please, reduce your interaction with other people. Make yourself as isolated as possible. That is what will keep you safe. They say. Too bad you can't really fight the power single-handedly.

Ah, a momento of crisis

2009-04-29T15:34:00.000-07:00

So, I've been in the lovely, mountain city of Belo Horizonte for about 10 days. My friend Ana Maria and her son Thomaz picked me up at the bus station and whisked me off to hear a friend's brother singing and playing guitar in a local café. For whatever reason, I basically liked the city from the start.
Belo Horizonte is in the mountains. It is the capital of the state of Minas Gerais. Ouro Preto, one of Brazil's historic cities, is about an hour and a half from here. Ouro Preto was the gold rush capital of Brazil back in the day. Walking around in both places is sort of like trying to navigate a roller coaster because there are so many hills and they are soooo steep.
Radio Favela is located here. It's a community radio station in a favela that has a fabulous view of Belo Horizonte because it clings to the side of one of the mountains. (I mentioned those climbs, right?)
Given the title of this entry, I should probably explain. Yesterday I cried. I had gotten out of bed knowing that I was planning on heading to Sao Paulo to do some interviews for some radio pieces that I am working on, and I really just didn't feel like doing it. Really, the issue was that I was leaving without having anyplace to come back to, and, frankly, after almost 3 months on the road, I've had enough of that. I want to have some friends who I can see for a while and develop relationships with. Even renewing my tourist visa for another 3 months made me feel like my time here is limited, and pushed me to do something about that.
Most likely, after I take this trip to collect interviews for my stories, I'll come back to Belo Horizonte. Hopefully, Radio Favela will let me volunteer with them, and I can get a room somewhere and start to have a somewhat more normal life.

ch-ch-ch-changes

2009-04-15T14:21:00.000-07:00

On Saturday it'll be a month since I arrived in Rio. It's kind of amazing because in some ways I feel like I have been reconstructing my life in New York, just on the other side of the world. One of the things that made me feel this way was when I was supposed to interview an MC for a radio piece on funk music. He was a totally disorganized guy, so instead of doing the interview right away, I ended up tagging along with him to the offices of a couple of elected officials. While I haven't spent LOTS of time in the city council members' offices in New York, or in the State representatives offices, I've certainly been there, and I do know some of those folks. So it felt like in a very short time here I was in Rio making the same kinds of connections.

So why am I leaving, you may be asking. That is a worthwhile question. The short answer is that I'm going to run off in pursuit of a story. But maybe I'll come back to Rio. Most likely. It may not be the ideal city in some ways, but I'm feeling good here. It is good, after all, to have friends, as all of you know.

I feel alright about running off on journalistic pursuits, but I realize that having this kind of social connection is really important to me, and I know that I don't want to be a gypsy my whole time here in Brazil.

So, that's one part of things. In other news, the police came last week to remove a guest from the hostel where I've been staying. I think that she had some kind of mental illness. In any case, she would talk to herself, and hovered around, staring me and other people in a menacing way. For me it's a big relief that she is no longer here. I was starting to think that I should take self-defense classes. Really.

Friday I'm wrapping up my work with Catalytic Communities. It has been a lot of fun, and I'll have to think about what I would do if I came back to Rio because, really, I have really enjoyed visiting different communities here in the city and taking photographs. Above, in fact, is a picture of me getting my hair done in little braids. The women in the photo are participating in a capacity building workshop for hair braiders. Over a 3-month period, they will learn about health issues, labor law, self-esteem, and planning, among other things. They will also discuss racism and the politics of natural Black hair, straightening, etc. After the course is over, the participants will share their knowledge with people in the community. Basically, as they work, they'll disseminate information and share their strength. Pretty awesome.

What other stuff can I tell you? Life is good.

Of Cell Phones and Other things

2009-03-31T11:13:00.000-07:00

This is Maria Cristina. She lives in a neighorhood of Rio de Janeiro called Jardim de América, which is about a one-hour bus ride from the city center. She made the dress that she is wearing for a woman in her 50s to wear to a special event. Maria Cristina has been teaching sewing to women living in the favela near her since 1999. Some of the women who have participated in her classes have even had their clothes shown in the annual "Fashion Rio" event. Sewing is not the only skill that she shares with her community. In addition to this project, she teaches people how to use materials like old circulars, plastic bottles and flour sacks to make party decorations, hand bags, and other items. Having taken a class on nutrition, she also shares ways of using things that are often considered garbage, such as banana skins, to make healthy food. This is one way that she shows the women in the favela that they have resources around them, and it helps the women to feed their families.

For some time, there was a person who gave Maria Cristina 1,000 Reais each month to pay the rent on a space where she taught these courses. About a year ago, though, the donations stopped and Maria Cristina was forced to re-locate everything to her home. This has not prevented her from moving forward, however.

Mercado livre is a web site that commercializes some of the products that Maria Cristina and her friends make. Distribution is actually the biggest challenge facing these ladies. Since they have limited resources, to sell their products they must approach stores directly or pay fees to have stands at the local artisans' markets.

On my way back from this visit, which was really fabulous, I lost my cell phone. This is the second one that I have lost in a month, and I had only bought it last week. It should come as no surprise, then, that I won't be running out to buy another one. I'll just rely on e-mail.

Rio is a beautiful city. I probably said that in my last blog entry, but, y'know, certain things can be repeated. I love the downtown area with its 18th century Portuguese architecture. There is also just a fabulous flow of people there. One section of it, Uruguiana, reminds me of Canal Street and Chinatown, although there aren't really any Chinese here. But it's the knock-off and cheap merchandise center of Rio, and that's what brings me to Canal Street.

Needless to say, Rio is also chaotic. Monday morning I tried to go for a walk along the beach in the Botafogo neighborhood where I am staying. To get to the promenade, I had to cross, literally, 12 lanes of traffic. And it was morning rush hour. After making it across 9 lanes, I got stuck on a median strip. Fortunately, an understanding Brazilian man with a potbelly helped me time the crossing right, and we both dashed across to an underpass.

It looks like I'll be here in Rio until mid-April, when I'll start wandering Northeast again. In the meantime, I've made a resolution to get out and explore the downtown more.

In Rio

2009-03-25T16:47:00.000-07:00

My Mom went back to the US on Sunday, and I stayed in Rio. I´ve started working with an organization called Catalytic Communities, which is actually going through a transition of its own. Cat Comm has done a tremendous amount of work with local communities here in Rio, and now it is moving to a virtual format. It will have a web site that houses a database of projects all over the world. The database will describe what issues the projects address, how they work, and what they need. My role here is to help produce a promotional video. Really, I´m more comfortable as a photographer, but I´m going to give this a shot, and we´ll see what comes out of it.
Today I went with Rose, Cat Comm´s project coordinator, to a favela called Acarí. We met with some local leaders who will hopefully be featured in the video. Among the people we met were some men who are involved with the local Escola (school) do Samba. These are the organizations in Rio that put together the big groups that parade through the "sambodromo" at carnaval, competing for the best costumes, music, dances, etc.
The school built an auditorium for screening videos and films, since there is another group in the community that is teaching these production skills. The escola also opened up a game room with fussball, pool, and other games. The local police, however, broke the games, ripping the felt on the pool table, and forced the escola to close the auditorium down. Some of the people with me and Rose hypothesized that the police were acting in conjunction with other community leaders who saw these facilities as a threat to their power base.
Something that I found interesting in this regard was a newspaper dedicated to the issues of the favelas that featured a front-page photo of a protest of Israel´s attacks on Gaza. One placard in the photo compared the tanks in Gaza to police armored vehicles in Rio.
There is clearly an opportunity for me to work with CatComm for as long as my visa is good here in Brazil. However, I think that when the video project is done, hopefully in a few weeks, I´m going to go back to Salvador. And maybe I´ll see about working as a crew member on a sailboat so that I can learn how to sail....

On the Road

2009-03-14T05:49:00.001-07:00

I left Florianopolis heading towards Salvador by bus two weeks ago. The distance is roughly equivalent to following the coast from New York to New Orleans, so I stopped in several places along the way to keep from going stir crazy on the bus.
After a night in Rio de Janeiro, I headed out to Vitoria, in the state of Espiritu Santu. At the bus station, I got into a conversation with a retired Afro-Brazilian guy, Diogo, who had played professional soccer in the US and had raised his children in Indiana. We took the same bus, and I ended up staying ith him and his wife in the city of Vila Velha, just across the river from Vitoria.
When Diogo and his wife came back to Brazil in 2002, Diogo started a soccer league for children from about 7 to 17 years old. The league operated successfully for a few years until a local politician who owned the field where they practiced told Diogo that they couldn't use it any more. The politician felt threatened by Diogo's connection to the community. Diogo, on the other hand, is confident that he will find a way to start again.

Vitoria is becoming an oil boomtown, sort of like Houston in the 1980s. Oil and natural gas have recently been discovered off the Brazilian coast, and you can even see an oil rig in Rio de Janeiro's harbor. Vitoria is the epicenter of the exploration and operations related to all of this, and I counted at least 9 different skyscrapers going up in the city when I was there. Diogo and his wife said that one of the unfortunate aspects of this boom is that the population of Espiritu Santu doesn't have the kind of educational preparation to take advantage of all of the jobs that are being created. As a result, the buildings that are going up will house people from other countries and other parts of Brazil, instead of providing new jobs for the local people.
As Ligia prepared lunch, I read part of a magazine commemorating Barack Obama's election. Some of his speeches were printed there, and as I read what Obama had to say about race, I cried and asked myself what I was doing in Brazil when I could be working on Mark Winston Griffith's city council campaign or doing something in New Orleans. Still, for now I am where I am, and there is value in this, too. In fact, an acquaintance of mine in Rio, who started an organization called Catalytic Communities, offered me the possibility of doing some video and photography work in exchange for room and board in a hostel, so I'm going to do that.
From Vitoria, I traveled to a small town on the coast called Itacare'. Sometime during the trip, I got super sick, and I spent the 13-hour ride throwing up in the bus' bathroom. No fun. It took some time to recover, but I did, and then moved on to Salvador, finally. The three days that I spent there didn't feel like enough, so I may just have to go back at some point.
On Thursday, a Frenchwoman, Lena, and I spent the day together. Most of it on the beach. At sunset, I was swimming, and there was a burst of applause and cheers from the shore. The people were cheering for the sunset, as Salvador is perhaps the only place in Brazil where it looks like the sun sets over the ocean.
My Mom has arrived from the US for 10 days, so after she goes back, I'll start working with Cat Comm.

And now for something completely different

2009-02-22T10:32:00.000-08:00

DISCLAIMER: I didn't take this photo. Sigh. It is, however, an image of one of the beaches within walking distance of my friend Ana's house.

It's summer here in South America, and all of the kids are out of school. Or at least they will be until about Wednesday. Carnival will be over, and people get to work.

When I was in Buenos Aires, I kept thinking something looked different to me about the folks there and their kids. Finally, it dawned on me that there were no strollers. Everyone carried their children in their arms, on the street, on the bus, in the car, everywhere. Coming from New York, where you almost never see anyone with a child in their arms, this was actually a big change. It made me wonder: is it better for the kids to be held all the time? Certainly it's not safer for them in cars, but I did wonder about everything else. If nothing else, I guess that it would build upper body strength in the parents.

On a different note, I've been in Florianopolis, Brazil for almost a week. Although Floripa doesn't have a Carnaval like Rio or Salvador, it is still a big deal here, and I've gone to a few events (complete with drums and dancing) in the neighborhood where I'm staying with my friend Ana.

Today I got a late start to the beach, and, unfortunately, my skin is letting me know that it does not approve of such sloth. I'll just have to postpone my afternoon swimming and body boarding session until the sun is a bit less intense.

While I noticed the thing about carrying children in Argentina, here I've noticed women who are probably in their 60s wearing thong bikinis, or at least bikinis. Gut and all. I love it. I love it that regardless of age, women here are fine with showing their bodies. Since I've been doing a lot of water sports, I went shopping for a new, more robust suit, and I realized that I didn't want a one-piece because it really would make me look soooo old and prudish. Note to self: must find one of those beach volley-type things.

Brazil apparently is the country with the most plastic surgery operations in the world, and I hear that eating disorders are an issue, too. So, clearly, this is not body image paradise. However, comparing this to the taboo on physicality in the US, particularly if one doesn't have a movie star's body, I have to say that I appreciate the fact that people with "normal" physiques show their stuff at the beach, too.

En la Pampa Argentina

2009-02-17T07:06:00.001-08:00

Last weekend I traveled to Irazusta, a tiny town in the Province of Entrerios, about 3 hours North of Buenos Aires. It was like traveling back in time. The roads leading to Irazusta are dirt, and when it rains, they turn into mud. In fact, one of the problems that we had navigating them, although it was dry, were the deep furrows that had been created by trucks traveling on these roads when they were muddy. The bottom of the car was definitely not happy about those ridges of hardened mud.
The train travels through Irazusta twice a week. Only about 300 people live there, and, as you can imagine, everyone knows everyone.
Irazusta is one of the places where the train still travels after Menem privatized the Argentinean railroad in the 1990s. The country went from having 40,000 Km of rail lines to having about 8,000. One of the results was that many small towns like Irazusta simply disappeared because once their connection to the outside world was gone, the railway, they couldn´t survive.
It´s hard to imagine what people in Irazusta do for a living, but there is a local butcher who slaughters cattle that graze in the surrounding fields. There are also people who do light construction work. A few people have factory-style chicken farms, which are a stark contrast to the area´s old-fashioned pastoral scene. I saw a rooster and a couple of hens taking refuge from the sun in the shade of a bush by the side of the road on Saturday morning. What a different life from that of the chickens who never got to walk freely and who are pumped up with antibiotics and hormones.
Making a living is a big issue in the area, and not just for people from Irazusta. As a result, many people who own tracts of farm land are renting those tracts to large companies that use them to plant soybeans. The last census reported that 17 million hectares in Argentina are being cultivated for soy beans. The majority of this is shipped abroad for use as animal fodder or other products.
While farming soy allows smaller landholders to earn something from their property, the cultivation requires immense areas without trees or other vegetation. It´s no surprise then that flooding and landslides have become an issue in different parts of the country. Last week, in fact, one of the main news stories in Argentina were the flooding and mudslides that had taken out a large chunk of an area called Tartagal, in the Northern province of Salta, which borders Paraguay and Bolivia. Roughly 60 people died, not to mention all the destruction to the land, like the loss of topsoil. The same thing happened in this province last year, so people aren´t holding their breathes for "La Presidenta", Christina Kirchner, to do something that will produce a substantial change.
Again, the issue comes down to money. Soy creates a cash crop for Argentina, and people need the money. Renting 6 hectares of land for soy cultivation will bring in the equivalent of the minimum government pension. Obviously, the more land someone has to rent, the more money they can make, with no capital investment.
What will happen to Argentineans, though, if the soy market crashes, or if the crops are destroyed? The country no longer produces the food that it needs to be self-sufficient, an irony for a country known for its gauchos and rural life.

Che!

2009-02-11T10:06:00.001-08:00

Many people in Latin America consider Argentineans to be stuck up. The other night, Hector, Luisa's boyfriend told a joke about how an Argentinean commits suicide: he climbs to the top of his ego and hurls himself off.

Here I am in a Southern suburb of Buenos Aires called Avellaneda. It's been 6 years since I've been here, and I'd forgotten how much of a developing country Argentina really is. On Saturday night, some people broke into the factory downstairs from my friends' apartment and stole whatever money was there. They pulled up some of the tin roof tiles and got in that way.
Another reminder of "development" is dysfunctionality. There are protests going on right now because the taxes on gas, water and electricity have gone up tremendously, but the increase depends on how much you use. So, if you have a family with a couple of kids, you could be looking at a 200% increase in your payment, whereas if you are just one person, the increase would probably only be around 8 or 9%.
My friend, Luisa, has been an activist here since she was a teenager. In fact, her father sent her away from home at one point so that she wouldn´t be taken away by the dictatorship because of her organizing in school. These days, she is working in one of the slums on the edge of Buenos Aires, in addition to teaching disabled children and organizing with indigenous communities in the North of the country. (For those of you who read
Spanish, see: http://indoafroamerica.blogspot.com/) The good news today is that one of the indigenous leaders that Luisa is working with has managed to get the money for 4 tickets to Cuba. These tickets will go to 4 young people from the indigenous community so that they can study medicine. Once they arrive in Cuba, all their needs will be taken care of, but they have to get themselves there. Over the last 5 years, Luisa and her group have sent 16 young men and women. Once they finish their studies they'll return to help their communities, which are poor and marginalized, often not even having the rights to their own land.

Personally, I'm fine. I finished reading "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," and I'm on to "Motherless Brooklyn". I think that I'm going to look for work that allows me to combine social issues with the arts. Another thing that I'm consider is spending just a few weeks in Brazil and going to New Orleans for a couple of months to do community/arts activities there.
This weekend, Luisa, her partner, Hector, and I will go to visit Luisa's family in a region of Argentina called Entre Rios. We'll go hang out on the beach at the river there (it is summer here, after all), and maybe I'll get to ride some of the families horses. That's something I haven't done in eons.

Ticket to Bollywood

2009-02-11T09:48:00.000-08:00

Here is the link to my latest video, a silly one about 5 minutes long about a white woman who discovers Bollywood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyriAuwQfU0

Morocco

2008-04-26T10:06:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Casablanca on the afternoon of April 22nd. Somehow, just saying that I arrived in Casablanca sounds romantic. I was very excited. The weather was perfect: sunny, warm and dry. My friend Fatima had her sister and brother-in-law come to get me at the airport, which definitely made my life a lot easier. The fact that her brother-in-law, Mohammad, speaks English, too, was also a big help. Within just a few minutes of arriving, I found myself creating a linguistic hodge podge, trying to communicate with the 5 words of French I speak, the 2 of Arabic, and sometimes throwing in English, Spanish and Italian just because they come out of my mouth first.
My first night here, I stayed with Nadia (Fatima's sister) and Mohammad's family in their home just outside of Rabat. They live with Mohammad's parents, his two sisters and their daughter, Rita. I was introduced to the Moroccan custom of having tea before dinner. It was the Pennsylvania primary, so they very kindly had the TV on CNN most of the time. Given that we are 5 hours ahead, though, I went to bed before finding out what happened. Al Jazeera (in Arabic) was our other source of entertainment.
The past couple of days I've been enjoying myself, again with Fatima's family, in Fes. Fes is a fantastic city. One view of it from what used to be a fortification made me think that Jerusalem probably looks very similar, given the dry, hilly landscape and the old, walled medina.
Fatima's younger brother, Chafiq, was pretty much my tireless guide for the visit to Fes. He is on vacation from his job in the military, so he had time to show me around. Plus, he also speaks pretty good English. After picking me up at the train station on Wednesday morning, we went to a cafe' in the center of the city. I announced that that was pretty much my plan for my vacation: to sit in cafes and do nothing. Needless to say, we did a reasonable amount of that in Fes, although I did take some pictures, too.
Right now I'm in the coastal, tourist city of Essaouira. It was one helluva a long trip from Fes. I caught a train to Marrakesch that left Fes at 2am. In Marrakesch, I got on a bus (and didn't look at the city at all, believe it or not) and schlepped another few hours here. Essaouira is a beach place, and I've already been into the chilly Atlantic waters. Tomorrow I'll probably go visit a hammam and explore the city a bit. I hear that there is great fish to be had, and this is one of Morocco's main ports, so that's my plan for dinner tongiht.
One thing that I felt before leaving Fes is that I would be absolutely fine spending another month here. Oh well.
Anyway, the other thing that may happen before I leave is that I may interview someone in Rabat, the capital, about the negotiations going on about the fate of Western Sahara. Western Sahara used to be a Spanish colony, and Morocco took it over in 1975. It is also wanted by Algeria, and there is a Saharawi independence movement called Polisario. This week there was also the first Western Sahara film festival, where Ken Loach won first prize. So, if I can swing that, I'll leave this lovely resort spot a bit earlier than I otherwise would....

Si Se Puede Coop Story

2008-02-08T16:34:00.000-08:00

This is my latest radio effort. It's about a worker-run coop in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, called Si Se Puede/Yes We Can. It was organized by the Center for Family Life, a settlement house like the one that I work for. Please leave comments, if you have any.

http://www.mediafire.com/?7exdfzz1tfw

Emma Clarke's Spoof Tube announcements

2008-01-29T08:15:00.001-08:00

http://www.emmaclarke.com/fun/mind-the-gap/spoof-london-underground-announcements

Nothing to Lose: Undocumented Immigrants in New York City

2008-01-23T17:11:00.000-08:00

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=2422919335063953811

My radio work

2008-01-23T07:45:00.000-08:00

These are the majority of the radio pieces that I did last year, most of them for Free Speech Radio News. The Oromo Story was really the first one that I did. The second was the Western Union protest. Neither of these aired on FSRN, but the Western Union one is carried, along with photos, on the web site of The Transnational Institute for Grassroots Research and Action.

Western Union: http://www.mediafire.com/?0tsgwki3dmu

Terror Watch List: http://www.mediafire.com/?bh0ioxwlk1a

Oromo Story: http://www.mediafire.com/?7il0yvmtevp

A Question of Impeachment: http://www.mediafire.com/?44zjyuhylly

Khalil Gibran International Academy: http://www.mediafire.com/?3bezkzb5yg2

REAL ID: http://www.mediafire.com/?bjztjawlnzi

UN Plan for Kosovo: http://www.mediafire.com/?6vzo0by19ny

Social Security No-Match: http://www.mediafire.com/?9dhrqpnwjjk

Teaching in the Bronx

2008-01-08T12:16:00.000-08:00

Last night I was lucky enough to hang out with my friend and former colleague after work. She'd had a rough day. She works with a special education class of 9-year olds in the Bronx. She told me that she thinks that there is a conspiracy to keep people poor and stuck on a 9-to-5, keep-your-head-down track. One of her students casually told her not so long ago about how his friend's cousin was killed. It wasn't clear if his throat was cut or if he was beheaded. And we're not in Iraq. In another story, she described locking one of the kids out of class because he was going to beat another boy. My friend got a 6-inch bruise on her arm from trying to close the door.

She's working for an organization that is national in scope now and that puts teachers into public schools as a way of bolstering the educational system. My friend is frustrated because everything that that program is about stays within the school. When the boy told her about the killing, instead of being able to take time in class to talk about what happened, or even to pull him aside, she had to keep on target with the curriculum. But life happens in the Bronx. Just as it does everywhere else. It's just that those life events don't fit with the testing regimen set up to hold everyone accountable.

I work with fantastic teachers in an adult English as a Second Language program. They don't mind (too much) when I interrupt their classes to talk about things like the minimum wage because they see it as a teachable moment. What a difference from the rigidity of No Child Left Behind. I don't envy her, but as the product of a public school system, it also infuriates me that kids come out of school without knowing how to read. My friend has a point, though, when she says that the issues facing her kids and their families hit her like waves relentlessly pounding a shore.

I want to have hope because there's no point to anything if you let go of that, but it's true that the level of change that is needed is truly massive.

Ode to James, The Cute Farmer

2007-11-17T16:29:00.000-08:00

With eyes as green as unripe wheat,

and disposition gentle and sweet.

A baseball cap your head does top.

Surely now my heart will stop!

Sprouting from boots, your calves so firm

Ripened by the sun, your skin unburned.

Driving on those city streets,

The earth missing below your feet.

Boxes and crates go to and fro

Your arms, divine, do they stow.

Sweat and dirt nestled in your hands

Discouraging not a one of your fans.

Too bold was I, alas it’s true.

But what woman could resist you?

China's Hot Stock: Orwell Inc.

2007-09-19T19:14:00.000-07:00

By Harold Meyerson

Wednesday, September 19, 2007; Page A23

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/09/18/AR2007091801571.html?hpid=opinionsbox1

The American economy may be teetering on the brink of a recession, but there's an industry our hedge fund gurus believe has an almost limitless future: the Chinese police state.

In a stunning report in the New York Times last week, correspondent Keith Bradsher documented the rise of China's electronic surveillance industry, whose leading companies have incorporated themselves in the United States and obtained the lion's share of their capital from U.S. hedge funds. Though ostensibly private, these companies are a for-profit adjunct of the Chinese government.

Li Runsen, technology director of the government's ministry of public security and the top cop policing China's Internet usage against the occasional appearance of a dangerous idea, now also moonlights as a director of China Security and Surveillance Technology, a company soon to be listed on the New York Stock Exchange.

CSST, according to Terence Yap, its chief financial officer, produces security cameras and computer software that can monitor crosswalks -- to ensure that demonstrations aren't forming -- and cross-check the faces of Internet cafe users against photos of known troublemakers. Thus will China protect itself against potential terrorists.

China isn't really prey to terrorists. It is, however, subject to strikes of workers who don't get paid; to revolts over deadly environmental conditions; to religious activists who worship gods other than mammon and the state (the two that are officially sanctioned); to Web surfers enamored of a free exchange of ideas; to Tibetans seeking autonomy; and maybe, someday, to another outburst of Tiananmen Square-like, pro-democracy agitation.

An authoritarian government can never be sure how many of its citizens would relish its demise, which means the Chinese Communist Party has 1.3 billion potential targets for surveillance. Bradsher reports that 660 Chinese cities have begun installing high-tech surveillance systems. By one estimate, high-end surveillance will expand from a $500 million industry in 2003 to a $43 billion industry by 2010.

These numbers have drawn Wall Street's notice. CSST has received $110 million in convertible loans from the Citadel Group, a Chicago-based hedge fund, which it has used to buy up smaller Chinese surveillance companies. Some Wall Street executives have even defended their investments by equating the Chinese surveillance system with the surveillance cameras of London and New York.

To be sure, leading American companies have a long and sordid record of investing in totalitarian states, including Hitler's Germany, Stalin's Russia and axis-of-evil Iran (hello, Halliburton). But, distinguish as we must among the various levels of hell, at least those American companies did not invest in the Gestapo, the Stasi, the KGB, the Revolutionary Guard. Maybe that was only because it was hard to turn a buck on the Stasi. Once China turned communist repression into an investment opportunity, however, capitalism responded as capitalism is supposed to respond: It wanted in. There are mega-bucks to be made, the hedge funds concluded, in hedging against democracy.

Capitalism is global now; democracy is not. We are moving toward one unified world market that is home to democratic and authoritarian systems alike. The Chinese model of Leninist capitalism poses a systemic challenge to the democratic capitalism that the West espouses. It promises continuing power and greatly increased wealth to the ruling elites of developing nations. Which means that America must disenthrall itself from one of its most cherished myths: that capitalism and democracy go hand in hand, that the spread of markets inevitably means the coming of democracy. That was a key argument that proponents of extending permanent favored trade status to China made during the 1990s. In fact, the creation of the Chinese-American economic entity that followed -- in effect, moving our manufacturing belt from the Midwest to Shenzhen -- has demonstrated the opposite. Leading American companies such as Microsoft, Google and Yahoo have acquiesced in Chinese Internet censorship. China's nonexistent standards of product safety -- the direct consequence of its absence of democracy -- became our standards, too.

And now, some of Wall Street's smoothest operators are investing directly in China's suppression of speech, worship and the right to assemble. It would be nice if the United States developed some regulations or enacted some laws that discouraged our financial institutions from promoting a Leninist mega-state. House Foreign Affairs Committee Chairman Tom Lantos (D-Calif.) is looking into the matter, but he hasn't received any encouragement from the White House. Asked about the hedge funds' activities, White House spokesman Tony Fratto said, "It's not appropriate to interfere in the private decisions of Americans to invest in legally incorporated firms."

If it comes down to a choice in the Bush White House between capitalism and democracy, or even capitalism and our national interest, the smart money's on capitalism.

meyersonh@washpost.com

2007-08-09T20:17:00.000-07:00

This is a photo from Koch FM in a Nairobi slum, Korogocho. I was there for the World Social Forum in January, 2007.

2007-08-09T17:15:00.001-07:00

These are some of the kids, in their school uniforms, who attend the Mathiwa Primary School. This school is affiliated with the Center for International Voluntary Service, and they have a Bengi Investment Group, which is a micro-finance initiative.

2007-08-09T17:12:00.001-07:00

My friend Patrick is wearing the yellow shirt. He is standing next to a box of books that we bought when I was in Nairobi in January. After my trip in August '06, I organized a fundraising campaign to buy books for this school near Kisumu.

Cooking

2007-07-15T18:52:00.001-07:00

I like to cook. It relaxes me. So this week I've made hoummous, pesto, peach crisp and sookha keema. Yum. The pesto and hoummous were a bit trial and error: I forgot to add the tahini to the hoummous initially, and I left the garlic out of the pesto, too. But I soon remedied these things, and now I'm enjoying the fruits of my labor.

Brazil in the 'hood

2007-07-15T18:49:00.000-07:00

Brazil and Argentina played the final of the America's Cup today. Brazil won, 3-0. The avenue near where I live is a big Brazilian center, so there were people all over the place. After the game, the revelry partially blocked the street under the subway, which runs above ground here. At one point, I was watching from the platform of the subway station, looking down on the crowd gathered at a Brazilian bar on the corner. It was a lot of fun to see so many happy people.

radio reporting

2007-06-08T12:25:00.000-07:00

I'm just tickled because I'm tracking down people at the UN for a radio story that a friend asked me to work on. It's that organizing thing, but with a creative twist....

Fatima's letting her chances go by

2007-06-07T20:58:00.000-07:00

Fatima is a woman who graduated from the English as a Second Language program where I work. She is originally from Morocco where she trained as a lawyer and worked with a women's group. We communicate in English because I don't speak either French or Arabic. In spite of this, she insists that she doesn't speak good English and that she has to continue going to school. We got to know each other because she participated in a training program that I set up on workers' rights. She completed the training and has volunteered her time to help people who are being cheated out of their wages.

About a month ago, Fatima took a job as a babysitter with a Moroccan family that wanted someone who could speak French with their children. To say that Fatima is over-qualified for this job (as are many nannys) would be an understatement.

Yesterday, she came into my office to talk because her new job has changed her schedule, and she is no longer regularly available to volunteer. When she came in, she told me that she was sick of the job and that she wouldn't work as a babysitter again. But she has a one-year contract to fulfill, and that is what she is planning on doing -- while she looks for another English program.

Unlike many people, Fatima has all of her immigration papers, so in many senses, the world is her oyster. Yet she is not seeing the pearl in front of her, and so she isn't reaching for it. I offered to put her in touch with someone I know who teaches law at the CUNY Law school, but she demurred. Hoping that she would be more comfortable speaking with another Arab (who would encourage her, as I am, to use her talents), I gave her the number for an Arab community organization here in New York. I'm afraid, though, that she won't.

When Fatima left, my colleague, Rachid, who is also Moroccan, said that it is the culture that is keeping her down, and she has to realize that. He said that the opportunities are passing her by. He is right, and it's frustrating. I would really like to help Fatima get a better job and use her skills, but she is afraid to try although she already has everything that she needs. She just doesn't believe it.

Back to the US

2006-08-28T14:11:00.000-07:00

I found it ironic as I walked through the corridors of Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi, that the music accompanying me was Kenny Rogers' The Gambler. Nonetheless, country music was the background to my last hour or so before boarding my flight to Amsterdam.
Something that I noticed when I returned to Nairobi, in addition to just being happy about being there, was that the hostel that I had found dirty during my first stay, before going to Mombasa, had become much cleaner. At least that is how is appeared to me. After two weeks with no electricity, it was amazing to be able to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night (armed with a bucket of water), and to be able to flip a switch to get light.
I left the hostel shortly before 7am on my last day and headed to the bus stop to catch a City Hoppa to the airport. My backpack was a pain in the ass for all the commuters crowded on the bus, but no one made nasty comments, even when I had to take it off as I stood in the aisle and it kept bumping the woman sitting near me.
Amsterdam revealed itself again as a lovely city, and I got a place in a hostel dorm for my overnight stay there. I love the smell of salt water.
At the airport the next morning, I sat meditating, waiting for my flight after downing a second cup of coffee. I was sitting in the smoking section of the airport cafe' because it was more comfortable and there were little tables where I could perch my cup.
As I sat there, a group of people came out of a nearby jet way. They were mostly working class men from the US. They looked like the kind of guys who I grew up around in McFarland. They're the kind of guys who would be sitting at the Green Lantern knocking back a few beers on a Wednesday night. One of them mentioned "hitting Dubai", so I thought that they may be military, although there were no fatigues anywhere in sight.
I asked an African-American woman who was with the group where they were going, and it turns out that I was right: they were headed to Iraq and Afghanistan and they were working for Halliburton. It made me sad. She was from Texas, and I imagined that the job prospects for her in Texas were probably not very good. These were all working-class people and I suspect that none of them had much to look forward to in terms of employment in their home areas. The hope that I chose to settle on as I observed this group was that maybe some of them would have a transformational experience overseas. Maybe some of them would see the Afghanis and the Iraqis as human beings, just like them. That is what I hope because I believe that that realization is the key to changing the attitudes that are being used to justify kiling Muslims (and others) around the Middle East and elsewhere.

The Challenges of a Working Vacation

2006-08-21T06:47:00.000-07:00

The past week has definitely had its ups and downs. Last week, our matutu (minivan) driver was arrested by the police for driving us around without a tourist license. We had just left the supermarket, and a gang of young cops dressed in blue came up and had us all get out of the van. Then they hauled the driver and his companion off. Zac, the local volunteer leader, engaged another matutu, but just as he was doing that, our regular driver was calling another group leader to let us know that he had paid his bribe and was coming to get us. After a couple of hours negotiating with the "new" driver, at dusk, we finally had to pay the guy off to leave us alone before we could take our regular matutu back to the camp.
I've been irritated with one of the local volunteer leaders, Mariam, because since our arrival, she has been asking me to help, to come back, and to get money for the projects. Since we had barely met when this started, I was quite put off. This morning, after I told her about an older man in the village who keeps harassing me for my e-mail address, I was really angry with her because she told me not to make a problem out of it. I told her that if she is interested in "protecting" the group members (because she insisted last night that two women from the group who will spend Saturday in Mombasa on their own have a local companion to keep them safe), then the same thing should apply to the place where we live.
Additionally, last night Mary, who I mentioned in my previous posting, asked me: "What are you going to do for me?" Literally. My response was that I don't have any money and that I don't have an easy answer for her. All of these things had me asking myself when you can tell the difference between someone who just wants to use you and when someone is sincere.
These things had me really down this morning. My spirits picked up, though, as soon as I started exploring the school buildings where we were going to give a training this morning on market analysis and business plan preparation for the local, nascent credit union group. It also helped that after the workshop, I talked with Patrick, one of the CIVS co-leaders, and he told me that he also had problems with Mariam and her attitude. Actually, that conversation really restored my hope. While earlier in the morning I had been asking myself what sense it would have for me to come back to Kenya, this conversation put everything back into perspective.
I've been helping Zac with this proposal that he started to write. I think that it is much improved from where we started, but I realize that this is definitely an area where someone with real experience in fundraising would make a tremendous difference.
Saturday afternoon, after an aborted safari, a group of us went to the beach. I can't say enough about how wonderful it was. What warm, clear, blue water, and white sand! Complete with palm trees. The two German women, Clarissa and Anna, and I swam for half an hour without noticing the time at all. Anna is interested in spending some time abroad, so I'm going to put her in touch with some of my colleagues to see if she can do an internship at the Community House.
Anyway, tomorrow I'm catching the train for Nairobi. I'm used to trains from Europe, and I took them a couple of times in India, too, so I'm looking forward to the experience, even if it will take twice as long as the bus.

I've been to the Indian Ocean...

2006-08-12T04:56:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone,

Yesterday the whole group of folks from the work camp went to the Indian Ocean to go swimming at Diani Beach, which is apparently pretty famous. The water was not only warm, but blue and beautiful. We went after spending the morning hiding from the rain inside the community school house where we were supposed to be working. One part of the work that we are supposed to do here during our stay is to build an additional building to house the more than 70 children who are enrolled in "pre-units". I think that that is the British term for pre-K, kindergarten and maybe 1st grade.
Unfortunately, however, since our work involved construction activities, we weren't able to do anything because of the rain, making the work day a wash (so to speak).
It's pretty amazing how much time it takes just to do basic domestic work like cooking and laundry. There is no running water, so the abundant rain has been helpful because it has allowed all 12 (now 13) volunteers to have a supply of water for our laundry and our "showers". The water collects in a barrel and various other containers placed strategically around the courtyard to catch the rain. We then take smaller containers or buckets out of there that we use to wash with.
The toilet is a hole in the ground with two blocks on either side of it so that one can stand over it at a reasonable distance. And, of course, there is no electricity.
So the women, who take care of everything in their homes, not only have to wash laundry by hand, and cook without any pre-made or frozen ingredients, but they also often have side projects to help them make money.
One woman in the community group, Mary, is a volunteer teacher in the school. Actually, all three teachers are volunteers. I went to her house the other day to borrow a hammer, and while we were there, she showed me her new economic project. She has built a small pool in her kitchen courtyard area where she is raising fish that she will sell.
Mary left her husband a while back when she was offered a teaching job in Tanzania, and he refused to let her take it. He was unemployed, so it apparently threatened his masculinity to have her earning an income while he did not. Now she is raising their four children on her own and teaching in the school.
Today I helped Zacaria, Zac for short, one of the local coordinators, to revise a proposal. When we had finished, we had lunch in a little place across the street from his book shop where we were served beans and chapati, a flat bread similar to a tortilla. He mentioned that there are 20 NGOs in the area where we are working, which is called Kwale, but the only one that seems to be producing visible results is a Dutch organization called Vikat (I think I've got that right) that has built many primary schools for girls around the area.
I'm enjoying my stay here, and I realize that coming as part of a group means that I have the option of spending more time with my young counterparts from the wealthy parts of the world, or with the local people. I'm trying to balance both.
Swahili is really different. There are certainly some words from Arabic, and I haven't tried learning the grammar at this point, but it just sounds completely unlike anything I'm accustomed to hearing, and it is kind of strange to have absolutely no linguistic points of reference when people are talking, although I suppose that my experience in Turkey a couple of years ago was similar.
Mombasa is an interesting place both because of its history as a trading center, and, consequently, as a place where different cultures came together and mixed, as well as because it is also a European tourist destination now. There is a strong Muslim influence, which is obvious in the pieces of the Koran that decorate the matatus (the mini-vans that serve as public transportation) as well as in the fact that women are supposed to be covered. In some cases, that means wearing veils that only show the eyes and wearing long, black robes. In other cases, it means just a hijab, a headscarf, and robes. Or it can also be a couple of very brightly colored congas (sarongs or wraps) that look SO African.
I wish that I had my camera since I feel that the disposable ones that I brought with me aren't going to do justice to everything I'm seeing.
By the way, have I mentioned that I totally get a kick out of trying to read the Arabic writing on packages in the grocery store and in other places? Today in the book shop I was looking at charts for children that showed different fruits, birds, etc. and had the names in both English and Arabic. I may have to get one of those....

In Mombasa

2006-08-09T05:52:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Mombasa last night after a long bus ride from Nairobi. There are 10 people in the volunteer group, plus a couple of staff people from the organization. We are from the US, Germany, Japan and South Korea. The road outside of Mombasa was terrible. It was dirt and filled with potholes, and it went on for about an hour on the outskirts of the city.
After arriving, we all piled into a minivan with all of our luggage and took a ferry across the Indian Ocean (not actually a long trip at this point) from Mombasa, which is an island, to the mainland. From there, it was another hour to the village where we are staying.
At a police check point, the police wanted a bribe because there were so many of us in the van, but the local volunteers told them no.
The welcome when we arrived was pretty amazing. After saying 'jambo' - hello - to everyone, the group of us work camp people schlepped our bags into the home where we are staying. A group of towns people followed us, singing, dancing, and playing music on a flat instrument that is kind of like a washboard, but it's filled with seeds. The women dancers gave us little choice but to jump into the mix and shake our shoulders and dance with them. It was quite an experience, and it was really welcoming.
Last night, it rained heavily through the opening in the roof through in the courtyard through which I had recently admired the palm trees. Fortunately, though, someone got up and put out some buckets to catch the leak in the drain pipe outside of the room where two other women and I are sleeping.
Kenya so far is very welcoming and beautiful. I didn't see the wildebeasts yesterday that some of my companions saw from the bus, probably because I was sleeping.
Locally, there is a big titanium deposit, which the government is haggling over with the landowners. Undoubtedly, the mining will destroy the land, and I wonder what other consequences it will have on the environment.
AIDS is a big problem. We visited a volunteer-run school today, and there are many orphans. I presume that many of them have lost their parents to AIDS. The news in Nairobi also carried a story the other day about a toddler being raped and killed, most likely because of the myth that started in South Africa that having sex with a virgin is a cure for AIDS.
Anyway, that's my update for the moment. More later.

Kisses Aren't Contracts

2006-07-10T12:03:00.000-07:00

"Kisses aren't contracts"
He said to me after we had kissed.
We were young, in college.
We had been in high school together,
But had never spoken.
He had been cool,
And I had not.

On a cold, gray winter's day,
He called me.
He was there, at my school,
Visiting an ex.
It had gone badly.
I didn't understand then that
Kisses aren't enough to create
A relationship, a friendship.
Sometimes, they are just enough
To stop pain from somewhere else.
But now, when things don't work out,
I remember that kisses aren't contracts.

Child in My Window

2006-07-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

In the morning, I sit at my kitchen table,
Writing.
My window peers into the kitchen across the alley.
Inside the refrigerator door,
A child stands,
Looking.
Snuggled in the refrigerator's embrace,
Her blond hair catching the morning sun.
The image makes me think of home.
I imagine my own childhood
And wish that both my parents had been there.
The kitchen across the alley is quiet,
It feels safe.
The child stands,
Looking,
Letting the refrigerator's offerings fill her eyes
While the warmth and security of the kitchen
Surround her,
Even as the cold air escapes into a summer's morning.

Generosity

2006-07-05T19:38:00.000-07:00

Generosity is in your name,
your nature.
Before you were born,
People knew, telling your father your name.
Today, your patience belies the essence,
Answering the same question again and again.
Will you be generous with your heart?
Would you share it with me?
Like a game at a picnic,
Little nibbles of intimacy,
Small entreés into you, your soul.
Can you be generous with this?

Generosity means so many things.
It is a way of treating people, and oneself.
Playing frisbee in the park,
Making a pie on your table,
We were at home,
Sharing a moment in time.

When I asked you to talk about the Conflict,
You were generous with me.
I can't imagine the pain of being segregated and discriminated
In my own home, in my country.
Disbelieved, feared.
We lay in the park until they told us to leave,
And you told the man that I had been telling you a story.
You were generous even with him.
Yet that abyss of experience and pain still separates us.

Symbolism

2006-07-05T19:35:00.000-07:00

My skin is what it is:
Mozzarella.
But it could be gold
in some places.
Just the color is enough
to scream "wealth", "power",
but I didn't choose this.
How can I represent what
I didn't choose?
Don't believe?
Don't want?

Lam

2006-06-27T10:10:00.000-07:00

Lam is like ni in Italian.
It is neither yes nor no.
Perhaps that is why I understand you.

Noor ayuni, your heart is as great as the struggle of your people.
Hayati, your patience touched my trembling soul and soothed it.
Karam, this wasn’t enough to bridge the conflict around us.

Lam is like silence.
It has its own weight and meaning.
Shokran, uztaz. You opened a window for me,
Even with your lam.

Me ofreciste tu campera

2006-06-27T07:34:00.000-07:00

Me ofreciste tu campera
caundo tenia frio
Dijiste que tendrás que visitar mi estado natal
Expressaste un interés en mi amado italiano
Pero no me explicaste de la nakba.

O, zalamé
Porqué te escribo en un tercer idioma que nos acomuna?
Es que no sé como comunicarte en mi cultura?

Me quedé enamorada

2005-10-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

Un día apareció un hombre bonito.
Cuando se fue, empezé a respirar.

Se acercó despacio.
Tomó su tiempo, suavecito.

Y me quedé afligida.

El corazon me dolía.
No querría comer por los nervios.

Los musculos no tenían fuerza.
Y casi la voluntad misma se huyó.

Casi.

Here There Be Dragons

2005-10-10T12:33:00.000-07:00

Here there be dragons.
The world ends.
You could sail right over the edge.

That is new territory.
It is the alpha.
Unfamiliar earth under your feet.

Fire-breathing dragons inhabit these waters.
Fear, helplessness, loneliness, ridicule.

Who has the courage to face the unknown?
Perhaps not the strong man.

Fall off the map.
What faces you on the other side,
Would find you the same on this one.

Que dulzura

2005-09-07T12:17:00.000-07:00

Que dulzura

Que dulzura, cuando me besaste en la esquina
aquella noche de verano
Y cuando bromeaste conmigo para desterrar las lagrimas.

La seda de tu cara en mi cuello.

Que dulzura, cuando corrimos juntos para llegar a tiempo,
Y quando me dijiste que, aun en un colectivo, querrias estar conmigo.

La caricia del afecto en tu voz.

Que dulzura que eres, hombre.

Grandma Chen - A Tall Tale

2005-09-07T12:15:00.000-07:00

This is a tall tale that I wrote for a writing class that I took this summer. Hope you enjoy!

Grandma Chen and the Military Recruiters

Grandma Chen was an unassuming Chinese grandmother living in Elmhurst, Queens. She had come to the United States with her husband and small children to escape the chaos of Chiang Kai Shek’s clashes with Mao Tse Tung. They had ended up in New York the way so many people did: other villagers coming back from the markets in the city had brought stories of a big city in a far away land. So, when the Nationalists and the Communists approached the little village, Shiu Lau Chen took her children and followed her husband.
Many many years had passed since that journey, and Grandma Chen’s children had now grown and had children of their own. China was no longer the poorest country in the world: it was now a military and economic powerhouse. How different from Grandma Chen’s days when the Japanese were invading.
One thing that somehow connected that part of her past life with the present, though, was war. Grandma Chen’s adopted country was fighting a seemingly meaningless war in the Middle East, and the strain of that was once again touching her and her family. Now, though, instead of seeing the soldiers wading through rice paddies near her house, there were soldiers in her grandchildren’s school, luring the youngsters into the service with promises of travel and future job opportunities. Of course, they didn’t mention the possibility of dying or losing a limb. This time around, though, Grandma Chen was not going to run away. She was going to take action to get those recruiters out of the school.
Being a spry old lady, Grandma Chen did what she had seen people doing back in the 60s: she sat in front of the school’s door with a sign saying: “Recruiters Out of School.” Most people, though, took her more as a curiosity than as anything serious. The students looked down at her (literally) as they filed into school.
“Hey Grandma, aren’t you a little old for this?” The kids would ask, laughing.
“Come on. What’s the big deal?”
“This must be some nut case” said the young Asian man who was pushing into the school building with his friends. He was wearing those typical low-crotch pants and a baggy shirt. He could have been her grandson. Maybe that was why his comment hurt the most.
When the police politely asked her to move because she was creating a fire hazard, Grandma Chen politely said “no.”
Well, the police tried to get her out of there without causing a disturbance, but eventually they carried her out as a group of teenagers looked on, fascinated by the spectacle of this little, gray haired Chinese woman standing up to the police.
Later, back at her apartment, Shiu Lau realized that desperate situations called for desperate measures. In her kitchen, with the herbs on her counter, Shiu Lau looked out the window and saw an enormous moon. It’s beams were filling the kitchen with light. Shiu Lau saw the sign: it was time to make moon cakes.
She went into the living room and hoisted the window and then stuck her upper body through it and out onto the fire escape. “Young people make this look so easy!” Shiu Lau thought as she struggled to get her knee through the window and to turn herself around.
The iron rods that made up the floor were uncomfortable to Shiu Lau’s bare feet. But as she soaked up the moonbeams with her arms held out to her sides, an amazing thing happened: Shiu Lau began to levitate. Her nightgown took on a silvery sheen, and her arms seemed like wings in their drapey sleeves.
Grandma Chen approached the Moon, moving away from the rooftops of Queens. When she got close enough for the moon to take up almost the entire sky, the Moon turned towards her. The face painted on her surface focused on this woman in the air, and the moon’s eyes fixed Shiu Lau’s.
“What do you want, Shiu Lau?” The moon asked Grandma Chen (in Cantonese, of course) as she hovered like a silver bird amidst the clouds and stars.
“I need your help, O Moon. The army is trying to seduce my grandchildren into leaving home and fighting, and I must do something to stop this.”
“Hmmm. I see.” Replied the Moon. If she had been attached to a body, the Moon would have moved her head backwards to consider the petitioner with greater clarity. Instead, her eyes rounded a bit, and she raised her eyebrows as she asked: “And how can I help you?”
“Well, great Moon, you could give me some of your light to mix into my moon cakes. That would surely give anyone who ate one the ability to wax and wane, as you have, and, as a result, to avoid the conflicts that arise for them.”
“Hmmmm. You are very wise, Shiu Lau, but you realize that no one can avoid conflict forever, don’t you?”
“Yes, O Moon. That is why I came to you. I tried to solve this problem by facing it directly, but it didn’t work. The people just laughed at me and carted me away. I think that if I give other people the ability to step aside, they will be able to avoid the thing that I can’t stop.”
“Well, Shiu Lau, I don’t know if this will solve the real problem, but I am willing to help you to try. Here” said the moon, shaking herself in the silvery woman’s direction, “take some of my beams for your moon cakes. And good luck.”
Grandma Chen opened her Ball canning jar that she had tucked into her robe for just this purpose, and scooped up all the moonbeams that would fit into her jar. When it was full, she resealed it, bowed deeply to the Moon, and turned back towards her apartment in Elmhurst.
When she returned to her fire escape, the neighborhood was quiet, and no one, not even the cats, saw her wedge her body through her window again and back into her dark apartment. No sooner was Shiu Lau in her kitchen than she set about to preparing the moon cakes with the magical moon beams.

“Hong Li,” Grandma Chen addressed her granddaughter. “These for your bake sale. They special. I made last night.”
“Oh, thank you Grandma. You’re the best.” Hong Li, like the responsible grandchild that she was, took the cakes and stowed them in her backpack to take to school. Little did she know that it would be these moon cakes, disseminated amongst the students at Newtown High School, that would lead to a hip-hop festival there with music focusing on alternatives to violence.

Drop Cash box

2005-08-13T16:45:00.000-07:00

I just set up a dropcash box to collect donations to copy my video, "Nothing to Lose". I think that everybody knows what it is about, but if not, it is a 12-minute video that looks at the experiences of undocumented immigrants in New York City. It also includes excerpts from an interview with people who were arrested by immigration officials in October 2003 when they were cleaning a Wal-Mart store in New Jersey. If you would like to help, or pass this along to others, the link is:

http://www.dropcash.com/campaign/moebiusbean/nothing_to_lose_duplication_fund/

Mom's Escapades

2005-06-07T13:48:00.000-07:00

Checking the Map

Wisconsin in February can have a bleak look to it, especially in the country. The farmland that in the summer is green and lush with the promise of life lies stubbornly resisting the temptation to become tundra. Since most of the state doesn’t get the benefit of winds coming off the Great Lakes to move the air, clouds are stranded in the sky and cast dull gray shadows over the land, and the slate color of the clouds themselves doesn’t add anything to cheer the mood.
My mother grew up in Northern Michigan and has lived almost her entire life in this environment. She is a small woman, standing 5’2”, with a slight frame to match her stature. Her straight hair is cut to around chin-length in a conservative style, and her wire-frame glasses only contribute to the delicate and harmless image that her body implies.
There is something, however, in those green eyes which could give away the rebellion in her soul.
A few years ago, my grandfather died, and my Mom and her sister and brother-in-law made the trip from Madison up to his place in Northern Michigan to clean out the house and shut it down. At the time, my Mom was 59 and not yet a grandparent. She drove an Acura Legend, which she has always praised for its responsiveness and power, as if it were a thoroughbred horse.
It was on just such one of these February days that my Mom was cruising along Highway 51 on her way back home after the trip north. Not being one to tarry on the highway, and with her trusty fuzz buster on, Mom claims that she was pushing around 80.
Unfortunately, a state trooper passed her on the other side of the highway, heading the opposite direction. His radar was on because Mom’s fuzz buster buzzed, and Mom saw him turn his lights on after their cars had passed each other. I can’t really tell you what instinct took hold of her at that point, maybe it was a dormant reflex that she had developed as a young driver in Upper Michigan drag racing with the boys. Whatever the case, Mom knew that she would be nailed to the wall if the cop caught her, and, since she had already had her license suspended in the past for having too many speeding tickets, the instinct told her to get the hell out of there. And so my petite mother put the pedal to the metal.
I’m not sure how fast she made that car go, but I do know that as soon as she spotted a farmer’s driveway, Mom pulled in. She took the car down so that it would be hidden from the highway by the farmer’s house, and she stopped. In order to look inconspicuous, she pulled a map out of her glove compartment and started to consult it.
The farmer, curious about why someone had driven into his driveway and was now looking at a map, approached my Mom in the car. She asked him if he knew how to get onto Highway 51, which was, of course, the highway that she had just left. I can only imagine the flush in her cheeks as her heart palpitated with the thrill.
However long it was that my Mom hung out in the driveway there waiting for the police to give up on her, it worked. When she returned to the road and started back towards Madison, she had slipped their grip.

Proper Role Modeling

Jessie was about 14 while Beth Anne was around 20 and lived in Milwaukee at the time. The two of them were driving from Milwaukee to Madison on one of those perfectly wonderful summer nights, as Jessie says. It was one of those quiet and cool evenings after the flypaper humidity of a hot day. They were getting in late, around 3am. Madison’s streets were pretty much empty, and that is when Beth Anne and Jessie came roaring into town.
The two of them were tooling along down East Wash, goin’ real fast, y’know, when all of sudden this cop light comes on behind them. Beth Anne said: “Oh shit. Hold on.” And she tromped it.
Beth Anne turned down that little street that goes by Ella’s Deli on the East Side, but the cop continued behind them. Beth Anne veered onto 3rd St., pulled into a driveway, turned off the lights and the car, and took her foot off the brake pedal. The two sisters slid down the seats to hide, but, fortunately, the cop didn’t come down that street. So Beth Anne and Jessie escaped, and Jessie found a surprising role model in her older sister.

BMWs Suck

One night, not so long ago, Jessie was at home, and Beth Anne called. She was laughing, and saying: “Oh, I love my car, I just love my car.” So Jessie knew that it was a driving story.
Beth Anne had just come home from MATC. At a light, a young man was next to her in a new BMW. He roared away as soon as the light turned green. Beth Anne followed along at a more decorous pace, of course.
At the next light, the young male driver again zipped away with his hotrod BMW as soon as the light changed to green.
This was getting to be a bit much for a former drag racing queen. At the following light, Beth Anne, decided that she had had enough. Casting a glare out of her window at the upstart, as soon as the light switched, Beth Anne hammered it. That youngster was left behind with his fancy car to eat her dust.
The phone call that followed to Jessie included such phrases as: “I love my car. It’s so fast. We beat a BMW!”
At the time, Beth Anne was just around 60.

Used to Be You Could Leave Your Door Open….

As family memory has it, the first time that Beth escaped the fuzz was shortly after she had gotten her driver’s license. She was speeding and alone in her car one day in Menominee, when, sure enough, a police officer turned up on her tail, lights flashing, sirens blaring, motioning to her to pull over. Most folks would do that, figuring that if the cop was already there, they really had no other choice. I’m not sure if it was youthful inexperience that caused Mom to respond differently, but whatever it was, instead of stopping, she ran.
A high speed chase in Menominee, Michigan is probably the most excitement that that town gets in a couple of years, and I can just imagine the families on the street pausing to watch the sedan being pursued by the police. Beth was a new driver, but she already had some drag racing experience under her belt. This, coupled with her quick wits, allowed her to avoid capture by dodging amongst the town’s streets. Instinctively, Beth must have known that that she was going to have to take cover in order to really beat the rap. So when she saw a driveway with an open garage door and no car inside, she seized the moment, drove in, got out and shut the door.
In case you hadn’t guessed, the cop didn’t find her. And thus began a lifetime of high-speed adventure.

*****

I’m not sure if there are any unreported cop evasion stories, but I suspect somehow that these are just a small sample of a long career of driving escapades. After all, we know that Mom had her license suspended at one point, but we don’t know how many times she didn’t get caught.

Giuliana Sgrena

2005-03-07T11:06:00.000-08:00

For those of you who are interested in reading the news in Il Manifesto, the Communist-line newspaper that Giuliana Sgrena works for, the link is: http://www.ilmanifesto.it/oggi/

The Essence of Cool

2005-03-07T07:55:00.000-08:00

The Essence of Cool

Many years ago, when I was living in Italy, I had a terrible and longstanding crush on a beautiful man from Rome named Fulvio. Fulvio is tall and lean, he has wavy light brown hair, a long nose, and attentive eyes, and he wears glasses. He doesn’t look like a Don Giovanni, but he has his charm, and I was a sucker for it.
A friend of mine told me recently that I embody the essence of cool. I admit that living in Italy for the better part of a decade did probably improve my fashion sense. For one thing, I no longer consider a big, bulky sweatshirt and jeans to be the height of my sexy approachability. Be that as it may, I contested my friend’s assertion pointing out my muteness whenever faced with a man to whom I am attracted, and I gave an experience with Fulvio as the example.
Here’s how you can tell if I like someone: if I avoid them and don’t talk to them, chances are pretty good that something is up. An even better signal is failure to make eye contact: even in my mid-thirties, I feel like a dorky adolescent who blushes and won’t look her heartthrob in the eyes.
So, what makes the story funny is that in spite of all my embarrassed shyness, I did manage to flirt with Fulvio once. God knows how I managed. It probably came from that part of my soul that just takes over when the situation has reached crisis levels and something absolutely must be done. This makes it sound like I managed to kiss him or something. Reader, please, rein in that imagination. I am not so brazen as to leave aside the blushing thing so easily.
What happened was more like this. One Saturday evening in May, Fulvio had come to Milan for a meeting and was hanging out where everyone in our circle congregated on a Saturday: the bowling alley. It was late in the evening, and Fulvio and I somehow managed to end up at the bar talking. I have absolutely no idea what the conversation was about. What I do remember is that at a certain point, I started to play with the buttons on his oxford. Now that is daring. Here I am, a woman who hides at the first hint of attraction, actually fondling my beloved’s clothing…while he is wearing it! Maybe it’s just me who feels the sexual tension in this situation, but trust me, it was there.
The evening came to a close, and we said good night and went off to our respective abodes. The following day, a close friend invited me to that very same meeting that Fulvio had traveled north to attend. He never said so explicitly, but it was a birthday present, and I knew it. For months I had talked about wanting a Humanist boyfriend, but in reality, I wanted Fulvio. And there he was. It was my birthday (or thereabouts), and the night before I had really flirted with him.
So what did I do? I hid, of course. Fulvio arrived after I did at the gathering, and I barely acknowledged him. The evening passed as I nervously busied myself with “important” matters related to national politics or whatever. In the end, I got a ride home, and I knew that I had really fucked up this time. Regardless of how Fulvio would have reacted, I didn’t even try, even though my friend had gone to the trouble to create the situation.
Looking back on it all, what I realize is how much my friend really loved me.

The Four Basic Food Groups

2005-03-07T07:53:00.000-08:00

The Four Basic Food Groups

Melissa’s recipe for effective weight loss is really very simple: she does, after all include the four food groups. The thing that tends to throw the casual bystander off, though, is that those food groups are: coffee, chocolate, cake, and nicotine. And one must be sure to have an adequate intake of each component or risk throwing off the entire plan.
In today’s world, Atkin’s is what rules the market. So, we are seeing oxymoronic things like low-carb pasta and low-carb bread. As someone who grew up in Italy, where people, amazingly enough, are not generally obese like they are here in the US, I think that making carbs a pariah is really stupid. But, then again, look who we have actually running the country.
That being said, let me go back to the essential tenets of Melissa’s four-pronged approach to weight-loss. Since we live in New York City, the peripheral element of exercise is considered to be part of the four-food group lifestyle. But let me explain what exercise is. Melissa lives about 250 yards from the place where we work. And the supermarket is on the next short block. Both her apartment building as well as our office are equipped with elevators, so no need to worry about climbing stairs. Let’s just say that the have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too diet has an exercise component that is roughly equivalent to that of any suburbanite who leaves the house and gets into a car whenever an errand is needed. So everyone in the US has an equal shot on this plan.
Another factor to consider is sex, which, when performed correctly, can burn a whole lot of calories. There is no limit on the amount of sex, or the kind of it, that a dieter on this plan may indulge in. On the contrary. More is better. Just don’t overdo it.
So, I would say that the real underlying principle of the coffee-chocolate-cake-nicotine diet is that one must obey one’s appetites. Just indulge, for God’s sake. Whaddya think? A little piece of cake is going to hurt you? NO WAY!!! In fact, if you want to eat that entire Entemann’s golden cake with chocolate frosting over the course of your Wednesday, go right ahead. You certainly won’t be one of those crazy people pulling out a big gun in a post office and hurting anyone. Nope. You will be feeling fine as those wonderful sugar and chocolate endorphins pump through your system and discourage you from eating something that might not be good for you, like carrots. God knows you could be allergic.
I have to say that while I am poking fun at this whole thing, it really works. I’ve known Melissa for almost two years, and when we first met, she weighed somewhere over 300 lbs. Melissa told me that she wasn’t really sure how much her maximum was because it didn’t register on the scale, but it was over 400 lbs. She also admitted that she did gain weight during her first year on the plan, but after that, it has been all down hill.
Being a wise woman, Melissa still can’t tell me how much she weighs, but she can fit into a size 18. And this is not one of those expensive designer size 18s that really corresponds to about a 26. No Sir. This is a real, honest-to-goodness size that is proud of what it represents: more than 200 lbs melted away like butter.
You may feel that it is too risky to attempt something like this on yourself. If that is the case, well, I understand. After all, we have had it hammered into our heads now for decades that skinny is what’s really attractive and that luxury and self-indulgence are pure evil. Hmmm. Maybe that’s what the real point is: let your hair down a bit. What would you do if you didn’t care about the consequences? Melissa has chosen to open the door to the little thrill that smoking a cigarette gives her. She has made chocolate a welcome visitor in her life. And, y’know, something I’ve noticed is that Melissa is always willing to share whatever she has, and not just from the four food categories either. A “chill” woman, Melissa isn’t into drinking or taking mind-altering drugs. She just eats chocolate and cake regularly. What a concept. Follow your bliss, feed your cravings, and forget about drugs. Not a bad idea.

Distributing a documentary

2004-12-30T11:11:00.000-08:00

I'm almost finished with my documentary on immigrants in New York City with no papers, and I am looking for people and organizations who are interested in using it. It should be about 12 minutes long when it's done. I'll get it into VHS format, also, so that it's easy for most people to use. If you're interested, please contact me at moebiusbean@yahoo.com
Thanks.
Zoe