Three posts in one day? This is sooo worth it.

I am in love.

Dear family, if you are considering getting me a Christmas present, this one would be a good bet.
I have some of these songs already, but not nearly all of them, and not in such spectacular packaging.

Link to buy: http://www.asthmatickitty.com/music.php?releaseID=63

Shameless? Perhaps. Effective? God I hope so.

For the rest of you, head over to that link as well to stream those songs. Sufjan and Christmas are such wonderful bedfellows.

Seriously, what are the chances of this?

My dear sponsee Cathy, who I have a deep love for, informed me via the miracle that is the facebook that I have something of a doppleganger here on the old world-wide-web.

Apparently if you visit http://www.throughtincansandstring.blogpsot.com you get quite a different little website than the one you find here.

This is the actual description of the site:
"A mega-site of Bible, Christian and religious information and studies; including, audio and written KJV Bible, churches, doctrine, links, news, prayer, prophecy, sermons, spiritual warfare, statistics & tracts. Features Chronological 4 Gospels, Prayer Book, Prophecy Bible, and a photo
tour of Israel. By God's mercy, one of the largest Bible-centered sites on the web (app. 6000 pgs). If it's in the Bible, it should be on this site."

Now, based on the fact that I am a bit of a self-proclaimed Godbag already (read a few posts below) and the fact that the difference between this link and my own is the change of blogspot to blogpsot, I have a feeling that there is some sort of tomfoolery at work here. I promise a full investigation. If I have the time. Maybe.

Oh hell, I'll probably just laugh about it some more.

That's My Representative!

Via Jim Marshall over at Talking Points Memo I bring you this incredible clip of my very own Representative Marilyn Musgrave.



I didn't actually get the chance to vote against her, as they sent my absentee ballot to the wrong place and my dad had to fill it out for me (shhh...I think that's against the law), but Bryce Perica, a true gentleman and scholar has promised to send some satisfaction my way when he votes against her. Thanks Bryce.

Paz Sea

I've been having a pretty great week so far, which is a relief because last week was probably one of the most difficult since I have been here.

I spent what was a pretty relaxed weekend puttering around a book/record/organic clothing store in Bisbee, and taking a group of high school students from New Mexico out into the desert with a group of recovering drug addicts from Mexico. I would include both of these on my top 50 favorite things to do in life.

I also spent the weekend persistently harassed by various law enforcement agencies, which has become an increasingly large problem in my life. On an average day in college, where I rarely drove, or an average day in Longmont, where I drove quite often, my encounters with law enforcement were brief at best, often little more than a passing glimpse of a squad car, and a quick check to make sure I wasn't doing more than ten miles per hour over the limit. Here on the border guys with guns have become a fairly constant part of my everyday existence.

Here's a case study over the course of a weekend:

Thursday- Stopped in the desert by a patrol from the Mexican Army, complete with hummer and rifles.

Friday- Stopped by U.S. Customs and Immigration at the border for a check on my identification, citizenship, and criminal record.

Saturday- Stopped in the desert once more by the same Mexican Army patrol. Questioned more thoroughly about why we were there. Questioned by U.S. Customs and Officials at the border where my car was searched. Stopped by U.S. Border Patrol on the highway because my rear lights were not working. Asked about my citizenship.

Sunday- Stopped by U.S. Customs and Immigration at the border and questioned about my citizenship, residency, and status of my identification cards.

I suppose that a logical response to all of this law enforcement could be a feeling of overall safety and security. Outside of Baghdad this has got to be the most heavily patrolled U.S. territory in the world. The thing is, safety and security is not really the feeling that I get. Instead I find myself becoming increasingly paranoid, scared of these officials. I often feel like I am about to be arrested for something even though I have done nothing wrong.

To explain this I have to go back a little bit and say something about immigration and border policy. In order to combat the twin scourges of illegal immigration and illegal drug smuggling the U.S. government has granted a wide range of powers to a large number of law enforcement agencies. Border Patrol trucks are everywhere in Douglas, along with Customs trucks, Police cruisers, National Guard vehicles, and Cochise County Sherrif SUV's. The County Sherrif's officers are particularly intimidating because instead of shotguns they carry AK-47's. There are Blackhawk Helicopters. There are cameras. And believe it or not, they are watching.

The other day a friend crossed the border and gave his ID to the U.S. Customs and Border Official. "Mr. Bassett," he said, "Where do you work sir?" With Just Coffee, my friend replied. "I already knew that," the agent sneered, "Your name was included in a recent intelligence update." Seriously, I'm not making this stuff up.

For a while I have been comforting myself by saying that I have done nothing illegal here in the United States, that I am a citizen in good standing, and that if it comes down to it I have the money for a lawyer. I have told myself all of these things to keep the fear at bay. This is totally ridiculous. If I am this nervious/afraid/whatever of these officials, how afraid would I be if I wasn't so white/rich/educated/generally anti-authoritarian/working for people who would bail me out? Have we come to a point in America where the price of security is a state of fear?

I try to remind myself that I am not an American, I am a follower of Christ who happened to be born in America. I love some things about this country, and there are more than a few that I hate, but all of this masks a more profound and important truth in my life. I love the Gospel and everything that it stands for, and that's where my allegiance should be. This does not mean that I ignore the clear benefits I receive from citizenship, or somehow reduce my responsibility for seeking justice in the land of my birth, but it does mean that ultimately this place is not my home.

And I have begun thinking about something else as well. At the end of John's biography on the life of Jesus, after his death and resurrection, Jesus meets with his disciples in a house where they are hiding from the Jewish authorities. In this time of persecution, and among a great deal of fear, Jesus's words to his followers are simple and clear: Paz sea con ustedes. Peace be unto you. From now on I have decided to live like I believe what he said. In the presence of guns I'm going to live at peace. Peace be unto you as well.

Careful What You Ask For

Inspiration has struck in a most unexpected way.

A large part of my job here in Mexico is helping to coordinate and spending time at the Migrant Resource Center. The MRC is on the Mexican side of the border in a shopping center that you walk past just after crossing over from the United States. It was created by a colatition of organizations, including Frontera de Cristo, No More Deaths, and others, but is now run largely by Frontera and the Sagrada Familia Catholic Church in Agua Prieta. The point of the center is to assist migrants who have just been deported back to Mexico by the Border Patrol. Most of our clients are people that have been caught that day in the desert, detained, questioned, documented, and dropped back off at the border. Occasionally we get people who have been caught recently in the interior of the United States. Last week I talked with a group of men who had been stopped in Colorado for having a broken tail light and had been handed over to the Border Patrol by the local Sheriff.

The MRC is primarily an information center, a place where migrants can debrief their experiences a little bit, learn about their rights, and get a sense of where they are and what resources are available to them. Although some of the migrants have spent time in Agua Prieta before crossing, many are being deported after being caught elsewhere along the border, or never really knew where they were when they began crossing in the first place. These people are often very confused about where they are and are surprised when they learn the truth. We also document abuses that the migrants have suffered, whether by government officials, smugglers, or general thiefs. The other thing that the center does is to provide food and basic medical attention. Many people have been detained for long periods of time without eating or drinking anything, in addition to the difficult time that they spent crossing in the desert. Other people have blisters from walking, cuts from the mesquite bushes, or twisted ankles from jumping over fences.

On Monday night I was working the late shift at the Center with my friend Febe. At about midnight a group of migrants came in who had just been deported, including a very distraught man named Emmanuel. We learned that Emmanuel had come from the south of Mexico with an 11 year old boy named Jonathan, who was the grandson of his neighbor. Jonathan's parents were already living in Florida and had asked Emmanuel to bring their son with him when he crossed. Emmanuel was to bring Jonathan to Florida before meeting up with his wife and daughter, both U.S. citizens, in New York City. Both Emmanuel and Jonathan had been captured in the desert earlier that day by the Border Patrol. Emmanuel told us that Jonathan had been very scared and had sobbed as he was taken and separated from Emmanuel, who had not seen him since. At the Border Patrol station Jonathan's papers had been taken from Emmanuel and were not given back when he was deported. Likewise, the Border Patrol would not permit Emmanuel to speak with Jonathan or even find out where he was or what they were going to do with him.

On top of all this, Emmanuel now had no money, no place to go, and faced a surprisingly cold night on the streets of AP. After my initial reaction of sadness mixed with a lack of surprise and a great deal of regret about the actions of my government, I set out to find where Jonathan had gone, and how to get the papers that had been taken from Emmanuel back. Long story short, I took some swings and I struck out. An hour later Emmanuel still had nothing, and Febe and I were growing very tired. We discovered that the only migrant shelter in town that accepts men at night was locked, with no guard to be found. After a good deal of debate about what the best plan of action was, Emmanuel came back to my apartment, took a cold shower, and slept on my couch.

The next day we began the process of visiting the agencies, children's shelters, and banks necessary to find Jonathan, establish his legal standing, and get Emmanuel some money. After an hour of searching we found Jonathan at a center for migrant children where he had been sent after being deported back to Mexico. After three hours of waiting we learned that legally there was nothing Emmanuel could do for Jonathan as he was not a blood relative. After another hour of phone calls we were able to get some money sent to Emmanuel. We left him at 5 p.m., 17 hours after we had met, waiting for a bus that was going to take him to Nogales and some friends of his father. Jonathan will remain at the children's center until his parents or grandparents can come and get him.

That was a very brief, and very understated account of the events and actions that took place during my time spent with Emmanuel. It leaves out a great deal of information regarding the people, agencies, cultural realities, lack of resources, and legal procedures that we navigated in order to do the little that we were able to accomplish. My hope is not to explain all of that, although that certainly would be nice, but to give some context for my personal response to this situation.

Let me start by saying this: It is not love if it does not require you to change. I went to the MRC on Monday expecting to give out some coffee and burritos, direct migrants to the proper agencies, and come home by one or two in the morning so I could get some much needed rest. I did not expect to bring a stranger home to sleep in my house, or to give up my day off so that I could sift through bureaucracy. I did not expect for my life to be complicated. I did not think I would really have to love. And there is a sad reality that I faced about myself. Before I decided to bring Emmanuel home and involve myself in his problems, before I gave him some of my own clothes and all of my day off, after I realized what a tough spot he was in but before I really tried to fix it, I considered doing nothing at all.

My official responsibility to him ended when he left the center. It was a cold night, but I had given him a blanket and morning was fast approaching anyway. By many standards I had already come a long way to love him, already left my own country, already stayed up into the night to await his arrival, already called consulates and tried to find him a place to stay. But I had yet to love him. I had yet to change my plans, to alter my life because of his presence in order to better serve him. And I will tell you this: if Febe had not been there I might have left it at that. I am proud of the work that we were able to do, and that in some small ways I was able to help out a brother in a real time of need, but I have to be honest in saying that at the time I really didn't want to. I wanted to love, but I certainly didn't want it to be unconditional. I don't know how many times I have heard the story of the Good Samaritan and thought "how hypocritical of those 'holy' Jews to just pass him by in his time of need!" How hypocritical indeed.

Which leads me to this: the Gospel is hard, and it is not made easier when it confronts the daily indignities of life in a place like the border. What Emmanuel wanted to do might have been "criminal," but it was not unreasonable. When my own family moved to Colorado, a move instigated by the prospect of a new job, my parents left me and my sister behind while they searched for a house and began to form a new life. What makes Emmanuel's story different is that in this new global economy products, investments, information, and resources flow across borders with increasingly fewer limitations, while human beings are becoming increasingly illegal and unwanted. Each and every one of us who professes a belief in a risen Christ must answer the question "What does the Gospel mean when it is faced with this?"

When given the oppurtunity to speak the Gospel of love, I almost didn't. Thanks be to God for Febe who refused to give up when I would have. I feel blessed for the time I was given with Emmanuel and the things I learned about Jesus and about myself. And that leaves me with this: The next time I am given the oppurtunity to love, and I pray it will be soon, I intend to love abundantly, willingly, and joyfully. I expect I will have to change and I expect it to have a cost.

That's just sad and creepy.

Thanks to Ariah Fine over at http://blog.iamnotashamed.net/ for posting this video.



It's an amazing look at what advertisers to men, but mostly to women, and to our perceptions of beauty, reality, and ourselves.

One further comment is that this film was sponsored by a campaign launched by Dove Soap, a company that I would argue has been complicit in this form of advertising as well. Just something to think about.

A little musical update

One of the things that I really wish I had down here is a record store. Even a crappy one would do, but a great one would be oh so sweet. I do have Wal-Mart, but since I refuse to shop there it doesn't really help me out to much.

Enter the internet.

Through the miracle of the internet I have been spinning some pretty cool stuff recently. I wanted to highlight just one of those things, The Hold Steady.

These guys are fun and just put out a killer album. His voice takes some getting used to, but once you do you just can't stop listening.

Turn up the speakers and dance at http://www.purevolume.com/theholdsteady, but make sure you listen to Citrus before you decide they aren't for you.

"I've had kisses that made Judas seem sincere." Wow, that's killer stuff.

This IS Mexico, right?

So here's the deal:

There's a lot of heavy stuff going on around here. Heavy as in "Wow, I'm thinking a lot about death in the desert and global economics and massive drug smuggling." That kind of heavy. It's so heavy around here that I'm having a very hard time processing it, and as a result I am having a very hard time writing about it. I would really like to leave another serious post about the border here for you to read, but it's just not coming. If this dry spell lasts any longer I'll just force something, but I care about these things and I would really rather have inspiration strike.

Instead I am going to write a little bit about culture shock, adjustment, and delicious carne asada tacos.

To really explain this I have to go back to August and the strange relationship I was having with food. Knowing that I was coming to spend a year here in Agua Prieta I wanted to make sure that I got to eat all those delicious foods that I would not have access to in the next twelve months. High on my priority list were Ethiopian, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, and Chipotle. Thanks be to God, I actually got to eat all of those. The weird thing is that while I was gorging on these incredible meals the only thing I REALLY wanted to eat was Mexican food. I craved it. Nothing else tasted quite as good. At the time I thought that this strange occurrence was a good sign for the coming year. If I wanted Mexican food that badly I hoped that I wouldn't get sick of it.

Fast forward to now. Here's an unexpected truth: I don't actually eat Mexican food. Well, let me clarify that. I eat Mexican food, but not the Mexican food that I thought I was going to eat. Big difference. It turns out that the Mexican food I imagined eating was a strange combination of Los Angeles Mexican and Chipotle bastardized Mexican, neither of which really exists down here. So while I do eat a lot of rice and beans and tortillas, I have to go out of my way, sadly enough, to get some delicious carne asada.

Yesterday I was rushing around town trying to get things done, not an unusual part of my every day life around here, but made more important because I was in a particular hurry. I needed to be at my apartment by noon in order to meet the gas truck and finally end two months of no cooking and cold showers. The only thing I had left to do before heading to the apartment was grabbing some lunch. Since I don't have gas to cook, and don't really have a working fridge, I don't keep a lot of food in the house outside of some granola and a few Swiss Cake Rolls. Since this is Mexico, and time is, let's say, flexible, if I didn't eat before going to my house and they didn't show up until much later than promised then chances are I would be a very hungry Aaron. This has happened to me several times, I know to fear it happening again.

My friend Hermano Angel was driving me around town on my errands, an unusual luxury, and everything had been going great until the lunch errand arrived. He asked me what I wanted to eat and, having craved them for the better part of two weeks, I immediately answered carne asada tacos. I still hadn't found a good place in AP to get any and I was hoping to kill two birds with one stone by finding one and testing out the goods. This is when the problems started. The first problem was that I wanted carne asada tacos. There are taco stands in AP, but most of them specialize in tongue or head or chicken, really anything except for carne asada. We drove across town looking for specifically carne asada stands, which is when we encountered our second problem.

Taco stands in AP don't open until noon. AP isn't really a big business community, there aren't a ton of people supporting random restaurants, and as a result they really don't stay open all day. Lunch is also, I learned, not the traditional time for tacos here. Breakfast? Sure. Dinner? Absolutely. Lunch? No way Jose. This is when I just about lost it. All I wanted was to grab some delicious carne asada tacos and get to my house so that I could take a hot shower (you'd be surprised by how cold the nights are around here lately). Was that so much to ask? Venting my frustration I blurted out "Why can't this city just have any taco stands that sell carne asada and are open when you need them? In the U.S. you can buy pretty much whatever food you want from whatever restaurant unless it is really early or really late."

And that's when I realized how badly I was experiencing culture shock. My expectations simply did not match up with the reality of the place where I live. I expected Mexico to have carne asada in a plentiful supply whenever it was most convenient for me, and the fact that they didn't was just unexceptable. It would be so much better in America. I think I actually laughed out loud at myself. It's always good to realize that you are being unreasonable.

My happy ending is this: I got delicious carne asada at a reasonable price. I was late to my apartment because we spent an hour looking for it, but so was the gas company, and God willing I will have a hot shower tonight. Finally, I learned that what I imagined Mexico to be and what it is are different and I need to appreciate that.

It doesn't mean I'm going to stop looking for good carne asada that opens before noon though.

Just Wanted to Share

I have really liked this picture since I first saw it a few years ago. Since coming down here I have thought about it often and just thought it might be nice to share.

Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

Of the millions of tv commercials that I have seen in my lifetime few come to mind as easily as the Nike Soccer advertisement I saw several years back. The ad showed a young boy (from what was clearly a Latin American country) going to the store and buying a large piece of meat. He brought the meat home and rubbed it all over his soccer ball, proceeded to the alley behind his house, and practiced his soccer skills by running through the streets of town with dogs chasing at his heels.

After living in both Uganda and Mexico I can safely say that this advertisement is deeply, deeply, flawed. I'd use a stronger word for it but I like to think of this as a family site.

First things first, no human being in their right mind would choose to be chased by dogs in the third world. Why? That's a great question that deserves a closer look.

For starters, dogs in the third world are plentiful. Very plentiful. I personally attribute this problem as a failure of American leadership, particularly by the American media. The simple truth is that Bob Barker hasn't gotten The Price is Right syndicated in enough markets. Sure, everyone in the U.S. knows to spay and neuter those pets, but what about the poor schlub in Niger? Without spayed and neutered pets those dogs are free to roam around the city scoring with any dalmation or chow that happens to saunter by.

Which leads me to another great point. Dogs that have not been neutered tend to be more aggressive than dogs that have. Not only are there tons of dogs out there breeding and creating a whole bunch more dogs, they are all much more aggressive.

Finally, dogs tend tend to be a really great security system and an excellent deterrent against theft. Lots of people choose to keep their dogs behind fences so that they only attack people who venture inside the property line. A much more effective system is to let your dog, properly trained to hate strangers, roam around freely in the street outside your house and indiscriminately harass, attack, and bite anyone passing through.

Let's review the simple math here:

Living in the (semi-)third world + the presence of many (sometimes aggressive) street dogs + the presence of several highly aggressive guard dogs = a somewhat dangerous and scary daily bike commute.

Since coming to Aqua Prieta I have been chased by no fewer than 20 and no more than 40 dogs. I would guess that about 15 of those dogs have gotten close enough to bite me, but thankfully none of them have. I have begun carrying rocks with me in my left hand to "discourage" dogs who are chasing me from continuing to do so. Even with the rocks there have been a few dogs intrepid enough to keep up their pursuit. I keep praying that I won't end up with a rabies shot.

When I pass a dog in the street I am running a mental checklist in my mind to try and figure out whether or not it is going to chase me. The checklist looks something like this:

More likely to be chased:
The dog looks like it is well fed and has a home
The dog is sitting outside a particular building
The dog appears interested in what I am doing
The dog comes out in the street

Less likely to be chased:
The dog looks skinny
The dog appears afraid of me or avoids getting too near
The dog appears to be pregnant or to have just given birth
The dog is walking down the middle of the street

The dogs can be so bad that we have an established system for riding bikes in groups. When riding in a group it is polite to go last, as the last person is more likely to get hit by a car, and is also more likely to be chased by a dog that has been roused by the first riders. Mark's daughter Cindy tells me that if I want to be a "caballero," a gentlemen, I should always go last.

The thing that really bothers me about the dogs is that it makes my commute just a little bit less enjoyable, especially at night when I am all alone. In the ten blocks between Mark's house and my own it is not uncommon for me to see twenty or thirty dogs. I am always grateful when I arrive at my door unscathed.