Ladies and Gentlmen: The Dark Knight
I'm excited. Heath has some pretty awesome looking chemical burns there. It'll be interesting to see how he does crazy differently than Jack. This looks a little bit more "crazy with nothing to lose." I like that.
Blogging should be pretty light over the next, oh, month. Not that I don't have anything to say (I mean really, is that even a question?), just that I'm going to be moving around a lot.
Just a week or so more until I leave hear for good. Very sad. It's a tough place to leave. The other day I was walking down the street when a car went buy with a speaker on top. That's a pretty standard marketing tool around town. The unusual thing about this salesman was that he was pushing bundles of marijuana. By the kilo. No takers that I saw, but there are plenty of dealers standing on street corners in my neighborhood already. The competition is tough. Oh Mexico, you'll be missed.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Am I lame for wanting a "love wins" sticker?
This is pretty great. Rob Bell made it into Time Magazine, or at least the online version, and they actually did a pretty good job with the article. I really wish I had been there to see him bring a live goat on stage. I also wish that I knew what his band's name was. Guess I'll wiki it. I'm thinking Pavement style shoe-gaze. He's the right age for it. Weezer cover band maybe? I can only dream.
At any rate, it's encouraging to see two pretty sane depictions of Evangelical Christianity in less than a month. Audible sigh of relief. Especially with Mike Huckabee running around. Quick, someone get a time machine and stop him from opening his mouth between 1989 and 1994. Seriously.
While we're talking about Rob Bell, does anyone know where he stands on women in ministry? It's been a debate between some friends for a while. I'm on the "he's pro women in ministry side," but who's surprised by that? Thinking about it further, that little debate reminds me of another good reason to like Rob: Focus on the Family doesn't trust him.
update: He's been in several bands. The first one referenced in the article seems to be _ton bundle. And they sound(ed) like R.E.M. I guess. That could be good. This update has been brought to you by wikipedia. Wikipedia: Best friend to lazy bloggers around the globe.
At any rate, it's encouraging to see two pretty sane depictions of Evangelical Christianity in less than a month. Audible sigh of relief. Especially with Mike Huckabee running around. Quick, someone get a time machine and stop him from opening his mouth between 1989 and 1994. Seriously.
While we're talking about Rob Bell, does anyone know where he stands on women in ministry? It's been a debate between some friends for a while. I'm on the "he's pro women in ministry side," but who's surprised by that? Thinking about it further, that little debate reminds me of another good reason to like Rob: Focus on the Family doesn't trust him.
update: He's been in several bands. The first one referenced in the article seems to be _ton bundle. And they sound(ed) like R.E.M. I guess. That could be good. This update has been brought to you by wikipedia. Wikipedia: Best friend to lazy bloggers around the globe.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Phoenix Gets Its Selma Moment
Intense Racism? Check. Government Abuse? Check. Imploding Local Economy? Double Check.
From the New York Times:
Showdown in Arizona, Where Mariachis and Minutemen Collide
By LAWRENCE DOWNES
Published: December 10, 2007
PHOENIX — Want to see America unraveling? Come here, to Thomas Road and 35th Street, to M. D. Pruitt’s furniture store. Come on Saturday morning and stand near the eight delivery trucks barricading the parking lot, like the wall of an urban Alamo.
For the last seven weeks, a sidewalk protest here by Latino immigrants has blossomed into a feverish reality show, attracting Minutemen, mariachis, children dancing in Mexican folk costumes, white racists, United Nations observers, Phoenix police officers and Maricopa County sheriff’s deputies.
The weekly confrontation — strident and stalemated — perfectly mimics the national debate. But it’s a sideshow to something even uglier: what happens when immigration’s complexities are handed to local law enforcers sympathetic to the fury of one side.
Thomas Road has lots of Latino day laborers, or jornaleros, who hustle for work near Home Depot. A few months ago, the Phoenix police shooed them away. They dispersed to streets nearby, angering local businesses. One of the biggest, Pruitt’s, hired off-duty city police officers to keep jornaleros at bay. The city put a stop to that, so Pruitt’s turned to the county sheriff, Joe Arpaio.
Sheriff Joe, as he is known, needed no prodding: hunting undocumented immigrants is his specialty. He has arrested hundreds under a state antismuggling law (for smuggling themselves) and has had 160 officers deputized as federal immigration agents. They have made more than 50 arrests near Pruitt’s since the protests began. They’ll pull a car over for a traffic infraction, then check everyone’s papers. They say they act on reasonable suspicion only — if they see a shirt or shoes like those worn south of the border or hear Spanish. They say it isn’t profiling.
There is no doubt whose side Sheriff Joe is on. He has officers on Pruitt’s payroll, guarding the lot on protest days. Last week, he issued a news release demanding that the demonstrators stop hurting Pruitt’s and vowing to crank up the pressure until they went away. It was a naked attempt to stifle dissent and help a business ally.
People here are used to that from Sheriff Joe. He describes himself as “America’s meanest sheriff” and has recently been basking in the love of nativists like the Minuteman Chris Simcox and radio host Terry Anderson, who gushed over him at a roast in Sun City West this month.
If Arizona begins punishing companies that hire illegal workers under a state law that takes effect Jan. 1 — a lawsuit to block it was thrown out Friday — it will fall to counties to do the purge. In Maricopa, that means Sheriff Joe.
The protests at Pruitt’s are the only real opposition he has faced. Their leader is Salvador Reza, a stocky American of Mexican and Apache ancestry, an Air Force veteran who has spent years organizing jornaleros and small-business owners here.
Mr. Reza says he can’t understand why America accepts global flows of companies, money and jobs but not workers. Why faith in market forces seems to have been eclipsed by fear of immigrants. Or why the country cannot set up legal channels to let jornaleros come and go and not be hassled. “They actually are people with a work ethic that would make the Puritans proud,” he said.
Pruitt’s owner, Roger Sensing, says he needs armed officers to protect customers from jornaleros. Mr. Reza calls that ridiculous, and one informed noncombatant, the Rev. Craig Geiger, pastor of a Lutheran church across the street, agrees. He told me he had never seen a laborer enter Pruitt’s lot. He also said his Latino congregation did not drive to church anymore. Documented or not, they fear Sheriff Joe. They walk.
Pastor Geiger leaves the neighborhood on Saturdays, because it gets deafening. When I was there, a trio singing Mexican ballads strolled through the crush. A Minuteman with a bullhorn followed them. “Monkeys coming through!” he shouted. His side rushed up to drown the music out: “Born in the U.S.A.! Born in the U.S.A.! K.K.K.! Viva la Migra! January First!”
The restrictionists see Jan. 1 as the dawn of a new era, when the Mexicans disappear and everything gets pure and legal again. It is uncertain whether Arizona’s economy will survive the exodus. “Unfortunately, they’ll probably wake up when they bankrupt the state,” Mr. Reza told me.
From the New York Times:
Showdown in Arizona, Where Mariachis and Minutemen Collide
By LAWRENCE DOWNES
Published: December 10, 2007
PHOENIX — Want to see America unraveling? Come here, to Thomas Road and 35th Street, to M. D. Pruitt’s furniture store. Come on Saturday morning and stand near the eight delivery trucks barricading the parking lot, like the wall of an urban Alamo.
For the last seven weeks, a sidewalk protest here by Latino immigrants has blossomed into a feverish reality show, attracting Minutemen, mariachis, children dancing in Mexican folk costumes, white racists, United Nations observers, Phoenix police officers and Maricopa County sheriff’s deputies.
The weekly confrontation — strident and stalemated — perfectly mimics the national debate. But it’s a sideshow to something even uglier: what happens when immigration’s complexities are handed to local law enforcers sympathetic to the fury of one side.
Thomas Road has lots of Latino day laborers, or jornaleros, who hustle for work near Home Depot. A few months ago, the Phoenix police shooed them away. They dispersed to streets nearby, angering local businesses. One of the biggest, Pruitt’s, hired off-duty city police officers to keep jornaleros at bay. The city put a stop to that, so Pruitt’s turned to the county sheriff, Joe Arpaio.
Sheriff Joe, as he is known, needed no prodding: hunting undocumented immigrants is his specialty. He has arrested hundreds under a state antismuggling law (for smuggling themselves) and has had 160 officers deputized as federal immigration agents. They have made more than 50 arrests near Pruitt’s since the protests began. They’ll pull a car over for a traffic infraction, then check everyone’s papers. They say they act on reasonable suspicion only — if they see a shirt or shoes like those worn south of the border or hear Spanish. They say it isn’t profiling.
There is no doubt whose side Sheriff Joe is on. He has officers on Pruitt’s payroll, guarding the lot on protest days. Last week, he issued a news release demanding that the demonstrators stop hurting Pruitt’s and vowing to crank up the pressure until they went away. It was a naked attempt to stifle dissent and help a business ally.
People here are used to that from Sheriff Joe. He describes himself as “America’s meanest sheriff” and has recently been basking in the love of nativists like the Minuteman Chris Simcox and radio host Terry Anderson, who gushed over him at a roast in Sun City West this month.
If Arizona begins punishing companies that hire illegal workers under a state law that takes effect Jan. 1 — a lawsuit to block it was thrown out Friday — it will fall to counties to do the purge. In Maricopa, that means Sheriff Joe.
The protests at Pruitt’s are the only real opposition he has faced. Their leader is Salvador Reza, a stocky American of Mexican and Apache ancestry, an Air Force veteran who has spent years organizing jornaleros and small-business owners here.
Mr. Reza says he can’t understand why America accepts global flows of companies, money and jobs but not workers. Why faith in market forces seems to have been eclipsed by fear of immigrants. Or why the country cannot set up legal channels to let jornaleros come and go and not be hassled. “They actually are people with a work ethic that would make the Puritans proud,” he said.
Pruitt’s owner, Roger Sensing, says he needs armed officers to protect customers from jornaleros. Mr. Reza calls that ridiculous, and one informed noncombatant, the Rev. Craig Geiger, pastor of a Lutheran church across the street, agrees. He told me he had never seen a laborer enter Pruitt’s lot. He also said his Latino congregation did not drive to church anymore. Documented or not, they fear Sheriff Joe. They walk.
Pastor Geiger leaves the neighborhood on Saturdays, because it gets deafening. When I was there, a trio singing Mexican ballads strolled through the crush. A Minuteman with a bullhorn followed them. “Monkeys coming through!” he shouted. His side rushed up to drown the music out: “Born in the U.S.A.! Born in the U.S.A.! K.K.K.! Viva la Migra! January First!”
The restrictionists see Jan. 1 as the dawn of a new era, when the Mexicans disappear and everything gets pure and legal again. It is uncertain whether Arizona’s economy will survive the exodus. “Unfortunately, they’ll probably wake up when they bankrupt the state,” Mr. Reza told me.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
All I want for Christmas is a burning cross in my yard.
Dear Lou Dobbs and Joe Arpaio,
You two make me feel icky inside.
Love, Aaron
Dear voters of Maricopa County,
Please stop re-electing that man.
Warmest Wishes, Aaron
You two make me feel icky inside.
Love, Aaron
Dear voters of Maricopa County,
Please stop re-electing that man.
Warmest Wishes, Aaron
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Exile from Mainstream
Josh Marshall really knows the way to a boy's heart. Talking Points Media have a post up from Brian McLaren talking about his new book Everything Must Change: Jesus, Global Crises, and a Revolution of Hope.
The post itself isn't really life-changing, but the fact that TPM gave him the chance to promote it is encouraging news. What I sometimes forget is that the real world has no idea what Evangelicals are really like. And if the past year has taught me anything, it is that the information they do receive about us/them is not very encouraging. See: "Jesus Camp," anything James Dobson related, the Creation Museum, and President Bush. Basically, we are only known for doing bad and crazy stuff. The good stuff just doesn't penetrate. The parts of me that have stopped identifying as Evangelical really don't care that much. If they want to ruin their reputation then that's there prerogative. However, there is a part of me that will always identify with being an Evangelical. I can't walk away from that any more than I could walk away from W.N.L., or my Michael W. Smith tapes, or "true love waits." So in a roundabout way this really is important to me. Donald Miller has stated that the church needs to stop trying to do a P.R. campaign for Jesus. That's true. Love speaks for itself. But having the church shown as a destructive force isn't good either.
To have a rational, sane Evangelical preacher with rational, sane thoughts on the world is refreshing, healthy, and helpful. Even more so when that person is given a national platform. Talking Points Media is extremely influential right now and deservedly so, they do important work. Serious people take this place, well, seriously. With this post people who have heard about "Jesus Camp," but don't actually know any normal Evangelical Christians, now have some exposure to someone who both loves Jesus and speaks in a really humble way. Great, huh?
I am, by the way, really looking forward to reading this book. Especially since Just Coffee is the OFFICIAL coffee of his book tour. Seriously).
The post itself isn't really life-changing, but the fact that TPM gave him the chance to promote it is encouraging news. What I sometimes forget is that the real world has no idea what Evangelicals are really like. And if the past year has taught me anything, it is that the information they do receive about us/them is not very encouraging. See: "Jesus Camp," anything James Dobson related, the Creation Museum, and President Bush. Basically, we are only known for doing bad and crazy stuff. The good stuff just doesn't penetrate. The parts of me that have stopped identifying as Evangelical really don't care that much. If they want to ruin their reputation then that's there prerogative. However, there is a part of me that will always identify with being an Evangelical. I can't walk away from that any more than I could walk away from W.N.L., or my Michael W. Smith tapes, or "true love waits." So in a roundabout way this really is important to me. Donald Miller has stated that the church needs to stop trying to do a P.R. campaign for Jesus. That's true. Love speaks for itself. But having the church shown as a destructive force isn't good either.
To have a rational, sane Evangelical preacher with rational, sane thoughts on the world is refreshing, healthy, and helpful. Even more so when that person is given a national platform. Talking Points Media is extremely influential right now and deservedly so, they do important work. Serious people take this place, well, seriously. With this post people who have heard about "Jesus Camp," but don't actually know any normal Evangelical Christians, now have some exposure to someone who both loves Jesus and speaks in a really humble way. Great, huh?
I am, by the way, really looking forward to reading this book. Especially since Just Coffee is the OFFICIAL coffee of his book tour. Seriously).
Monday, December 03, 2007
Three birds meet one stone.
Bill Bryson blogging for Bryce, Irish blogging for Travis, and immigration blogging for myself. Does the internet get any better? I submit it does not.
From Bryson's Made in America
"If one attitude can be said to characterize America's regard for immigration over the past two hundred years it is the belief that while immigration was unquestionably a wise and prescient thing in the case of one's parents or grandparents, it really ought to stop now."
Slow clap.
But here's where it really gets good:
"From the earliest days, immigrants aroused alarm and attracted epithets. For the most part, early nicknames for foreigners were only mildly abusive, or even rather backhandedly affectionate. This was particularly the case with the Irish, whose fondness for drinking and brawling and perceived lack of acquaintance with the higher mental processes inspired a number of mostly good-natured terms of derogation, so that a police station was an Irish clubhouse, a wheelbarrow was an Irish buggy, bricks were Irish confetti, and an Irish beauty was a woman with two black eyes."
Two thoughts:
1. Those don't actually seem to be all that good-natured, but maybe that's just me.
2. The Border Patrol have a type of truck that we tend to call "dog catchers" because they resemble the type of vehicle used by animal control. I don't really like using the term because it sort of implies, by default, that migrants are the dogs, but the only other term I know for such a truck is a "paddywagon," which clearly has some pretty negative connotations for the Irish. So long after the Irish are really known for being arrested in masse, whether the stereotype was true or not, the name sticks. Language is fascinating.
From Bryson's Made in America
"If one attitude can be said to characterize America's regard for immigration over the past two hundred years it is the belief that while immigration was unquestionably a wise and prescient thing in the case of one's parents or grandparents, it really ought to stop now."
Slow clap.
But here's where it really gets good:
"From the earliest days, immigrants aroused alarm and attracted epithets. For the most part, early nicknames for foreigners were only mildly abusive, or even rather backhandedly affectionate. This was particularly the case with the Irish, whose fondness for drinking and brawling and perceived lack of acquaintance with the higher mental processes inspired a number of mostly good-natured terms of derogation, so that a police station was an Irish clubhouse, a wheelbarrow was an Irish buggy, bricks were Irish confetti, and an Irish beauty was a woman with two black eyes."
Two thoughts:
1. Those don't actually seem to be all that good-natured, but maybe that's just me.
2. The Border Patrol have a type of truck that we tend to call "dog catchers" because they resemble the type of vehicle used by animal control. I don't really like using the term because it sort of implies, by default, that migrants are the dogs, but the only other term I know for such a truck is a "paddywagon," which clearly has some pretty negative connotations for the Irish. So long after the Irish are really known for being arrested in masse, whether the stereotype was true or not, the name sticks. Language is fascinating.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Bonecrusher n00dz r so hawt right now.
So I was robbed yesterday.
It is sort of a long and complicated story, but the basic plot line is that someone tried to break into my apartment by ripping out the lock, failed, and then came back the next day to finish the job while I was out trying to get it fixed. Annoying, I know.
I didn't actually realize that I had been robbed until about 24 hours after it happened. I woke up this morning, tried to look at my old cell phone to see what time it was, and realized that it wasn't there.
Neither was the cord.
Neither was my guitar.
"Am I going crazy?" I thought. And then, as the haze cleared, "shit."
It took me a while to think about looking to see if anything else was missing. It doesn't look like I have lany fewer DVDs than I used to, but I didn't really check. The three dollars on my dresser are still there. So are my CDs. I guess it's a good thing that I keep my Daddy Yankee and Fat Joe collections in a safe under the bed.
In related news, my digital camera seems to have grown legs and walked away.
So I'm oscillating between being a little bit and very upset. Clearly I'm not happy about the idea of being robbed. It's like, "Really? Robbing people? Wow." And I'm not happy that they broke into the outside courtyard, but that I left my inside door unlocked. Because now it's partly my fault. Except that our apartments have this really neat little design flaw where it's entirely possible to be both locked in the courtyard and out of the house AT THE EXACT SAME TIME. So if I could go back, I don't know that I'd do it any differently. But of course I am second guessing myself because making the "wrong" decision has cost me about $800. Sweet.
What really bothers me is the specific stuff that I lost. For one, whoever stole my phone is going to be disappointed that it a) has no service and b) doesn't work even if it did. So they have something which is useless to them, and I no longer have the pictures that I took over the past three years.
And the camera does not make me happy either. It was only a year old, and a Christmas present from my dad. I asked him to help me buy a camera. He bought it for me. He's so generous. It had my only pictures of Deanna on it. It had the pictures of Chiapas that I take around to show people on it. So, no more camera.
But it's the guitar that kills me. I love playing that guitar. And I love that my mom bought it for me. I remember thinking of how much it meant to me. How cool I felt. I remember knowing that she saved up money to buy me that guitar. My sixteenth birthday present. I was always going to keep that guitar because of what it meant to me.
It's not the stuff, it's what that stuff means to me.
The bright side? They didn't steal my hot water heater. That's a popular little item here in Agua Prieta. Three cheers for hot showers.
It is sort of a long and complicated story, but the basic plot line is that someone tried to break into my apartment by ripping out the lock, failed, and then came back the next day to finish the job while I was out trying to get it fixed. Annoying, I know.
I didn't actually realize that I had been robbed until about 24 hours after it happened. I woke up this morning, tried to look at my old cell phone to see what time it was, and realized that it wasn't there.
Neither was the cord.
Neither was my guitar.
"Am I going crazy?" I thought. And then, as the haze cleared, "shit."
It took me a while to think about looking to see if anything else was missing. It doesn't look like I have lany fewer DVDs than I used to, but I didn't really check. The three dollars on my dresser are still there. So are my CDs. I guess it's a good thing that I keep my Daddy Yankee and Fat Joe collections in a safe under the bed.
In related news, my digital camera seems to have grown legs and walked away.
So I'm oscillating between being a little bit and very upset. Clearly I'm not happy about the idea of being robbed. It's like, "Really? Robbing people? Wow." And I'm not happy that they broke into the outside courtyard, but that I left my inside door unlocked. Because now it's partly my fault. Except that our apartments have this really neat little design flaw where it's entirely possible to be both locked in the courtyard and out of the house AT THE EXACT SAME TIME. So if I could go back, I don't know that I'd do it any differently. But of course I am second guessing myself because making the "wrong" decision has cost me about $800. Sweet.
What really bothers me is the specific stuff that I lost. For one, whoever stole my phone is going to be disappointed that it a) has no service and b) doesn't work even if it did. So they have something which is useless to them, and I no longer have the pictures that I took over the past three years.
And the camera does not make me happy either. It was only a year old, and a Christmas present from my dad. I asked him to help me buy a camera. He bought it for me. He's so generous. It had my only pictures of Deanna on it. It had the pictures of Chiapas that I take around to show people on it. So, no more camera.
But it's the guitar that kills me. I love playing that guitar. And I love that my mom bought it for me. I remember thinking of how much it meant to me. How cool I felt. I remember knowing that she saved up money to buy me that guitar. My sixteenth birthday present. I was always going to keep that guitar because of what it meant to me.
It's not the stuff, it's what that stuff means to me.
The bright side? They didn't steal my hot water heater. That's a popular little item here in Agua Prieta. Three cheers for hot showers.
Monday, November 26, 2007
The Personal is Political
I walked home the other night through the very cold streets of Agua Prieta. Everyone except for me had the good sense to be hiding inside, so all of my usual haunts were closed. No late night tacos, tortas, or burritos to be found, with the exception of "Taqueria In-n-out." It's open late, but it's also super expensive and excessively greasy. And they don't have guacamole. Definitely not my favorite choice, but a boy has to eat.
I stepped inside and made my order, chatting up the man behind the counter. I wouldn't call him a friend, but I recognize him and he calls me "guero." We talked a little bit more as my carne asada cooked on the grill. My spanish is always worse at night but I was making an effort. Eventually the conversation got around to the inevitable "where do you work and what are you doing here?" I explained a little bit about what I do, and then asked him where he was from.
"I spent 29 years living over there" he said.
"29 years?" I asked. "Wow, that's a lot. Why are you back here?"
This is where it always gets interesting.
"They banned me for life," he replied.
Which of course leaves me wondering which law he broke. They almost never ban people for life.
"What'd you do?" I asked.
"I was selling drugs."
And just like that the conversation was over. The point when they tell me that they were driving drunk/selling drugs/beating their wives is always the point when I get annoyed and sometimes stop talking. It's not that I'm judging them for what they did (although clearly I'm not crazy about any of those things). I get so annoyed because it just seems to justify the fence in some small way. If I were in charge of customs and immigration, I'd keep that guy out for sure.
/rant.
I stepped inside and made my order, chatting up the man behind the counter. I wouldn't call him a friend, but I recognize him and he calls me "guero." We talked a little bit more as my carne asada cooked on the grill. My spanish is always worse at night but I was making an effort. Eventually the conversation got around to the inevitable "where do you work and what are you doing here?" I explained a little bit about what I do, and then asked him where he was from.
"I spent 29 years living over there" he said.
"29 years?" I asked. "Wow, that's a lot. Why are you back here?"
This is where it always gets interesting.
"They banned me for life," he replied.
Which of course leaves me wondering which law he broke. They almost never ban people for life.
"What'd you do?" I asked.
"I was selling drugs."
And just like that the conversation was over. The point when they tell me that they were driving drunk/selling drugs/beating their wives is always the point when I get annoyed and sometimes stop talking. It's not that I'm judging them for what they did (although clearly I'm not crazy about any of those things). I get so annoyed because it just seems to justify the fence in some small way. If I were in charge of customs and immigration, I'd keep that guy out for sure.
/rant.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Keep Crashing This Car, Over and Over
Why are we still so afraid?
The things we do deserve their rightful names.
Swing with all you have.
Stop me if you can.
-be sensible, jimmy eat world
I think that, in a way, we all bought into the hype.
It's the trial. At last. The trial.
And of course there's so much to be said about that. Justice. A reckoning. Punishment. Confrontation. Something.
Whatever we thought it would mean, if we ever really thought about it at all, we were not prepared for what it actually was. In poetry you can never say "I love you." In life it is never enough to say "good and hard." How to describe that week? Imagine Jesus descending into hell. Grace personified. But in hell.
The trial was, both literally and metaphorically, a destination. Something that we could look forward to. Something that we could place our stock in. Something that was, I don't know, tangible. But it was also an unwanted guest, still in the house far after we tired of its company. It was the emergency surgery.
And it's understandable really. We needed this. Some of us more than others. Several of us much more than me. We all needed this. But none of us wanted it to be necessary. All we've ever really wanted was escape.
When I try to think of the last time that I sat down with a bunch of other people from Central Presbyterian to discuss Peter, for any reason, I picture his welcome party. The rest of it has sort of slipped by. I've never really talked to my parents about it. I've never gotten a card in the mail saying "we're having a meeting at the church, why don't you come join us." I've never had someone even suggest that maybe we should sit down and talk this out. What in the world would we talk about? How would we possibly begin?
Looking back, these events (the Peter years, the post-Peter years, the Peter's back!?! trial years) have all transpired with surprisingly little fanfare. Look back again and you'll be forced to realize that he has never really left us alone. A constant presence that everyone is ashamed to talk about. Scared to talk about. Confused about. The 600 pound gorilla in no uncertain terms.
I got a phone call this morning saying that Peter has been arrested. Again.
I couldn't move on even if I wanted to.
When the stone first hit the water, the disruption of our lives was just too much. Surface tension destroyed. The rotting muck underneath revealed. And when the water returned to glass, no one could intentionally throw another stone. But the wake remains, bouncing off the shore and ricocheting around us. The ripples lapping against our collars remind us that we are up to our necks. The temperature drops slowly. We alternate between bouts of confused panic and treacherous sleep.
Look out the window. The green bleeds away, leaving a sickly, jaundiced yellow in its place. The lazy breeze speeds up, and then its temperament sours. The wind grows teeth and tears at the flesh of the trees. And then one day you realize that the cover from your shade tree is gone. You look up to see a weathered oak standing naked in the sun.
At some point I realized that all of this was choking me. This recurring sliding feeling wasn't going away.
So the trial, this public spectacle, became the chance to say that the emperor has no clothes. It was a chance to come out. All is not well. Something terrible has happened here.
Something terrible has happened here.
Late in the week I was listening to an expert witness testify about trauma and its impact on adolescents. Suddenly I became alert, conscious of myself in a room full of strangers. I was nodding along, picturing my life in the scenes of escapism and guilt.
Here's a test:
Do you often assume that people in the church are full of shit? Clearly guilty of something, definite skeletons in the closet?
Do you look for cracks in the corners, sagging rafters, proof that the foundation is slipping? Are you convinced that the building will collapse? It's only a matter of time. Save yourself.
Do you feel caught between the past and the present, as if some blunt instrument has struck your history and shattered its continuum? Endangered your future?
Do pieces of your life feel fragile? At any moment a wave will come and sweep them away, like great walls of ice abandoning the glacier and drowning themselves in the sea.
Do you search desperately for something that looks like Jesus and feels like love?
The trial unlocked the hard drives and knocked over the file cabinets. Information everywhere. Bits and pieces of fear and hate and betrayal just littering the floor. Millions of pixels all distorted. An image I had not forgotten, but had very clearly lost.
The trial turned out to be a chance for the world around us to crash the party, to reach the epicenter and look for survivors in the wreckage.
Ultimately, it didn't quite go our way.
Mistrial.
A miscarriage is when you lose the baby. We didn't lose the trial. We had a trial.
In some way it was validating. It was good to hear eight voices say that was has happened was wrong. That what has happened was criminal.
Why did I need to go? Why did I feel so compelled? A physical draw, my headlights pointed towards the one thing I wanted most to avoid. Was it to support my friend? Clearly. But what does that even look like? Was it to, in some way, confront Peter. Possibly. I confess that I always stayed out of the men's room when he was at the urinal.
Mostly I think it was because someone finally gave me the chance to show up, to walk into a room. To say with my presence, "this was wrong."
I have been living my life like a sprint since the moment Peter left. Or maybe since the moment I left Peter. I've been running. From myself. From him. From the guilt. But sprints don't last. You can't live a sprint.
I've been running because the temple where I worshiped, the place where I Am dwells, burned to the ground. All that cedar and bronze. Poof.
But we've found that life goes on without the temple that Solomon built. Instead of the altar, we've had the Nicoletti's table. Instead of the burnt offerings, we've had the Wicklund's fire pit. Understanding in a car crash.
Transformation just takes so much time.
If I could make it better for the people around me. The friends and the family. Oh God. I would. But I'm not God.
And God is. God Is.
I'd be lying if I said that I don't still try to offer myself up as the ram caught in the thicket. I'd be lying if I said that I was alone in that.
The things we do deserve their rightful names.
Swing with all you have.
Stop me if you can.
-be sensible, jimmy eat world
I think that, in a way, we all bought into the hype.
It's the trial. At last. The trial.
And of course there's so much to be said about that. Justice. A reckoning. Punishment. Confrontation. Something.
Whatever we thought it would mean, if we ever really thought about it at all, we were not prepared for what it actually was. In poetry you can never say "I love you." In life it is never enough to say "good and hard." How to describe that week? Imagine Jesus descending into hell. Grace personified. But in hell.
The trial was, both literally and metaphorically, a destination. Something that we could look forward to. Something that we could place our stock in. Something that was, I don't know, tangible. But it was also an unwanted guest, still in the house far after we tired of its company. It was the emergency surgery.
And it's understandable really. We needed this. Some of us more than others. Several of us much more than me. We all needed this. But none of us wanted it to be necessary. All we've ever really wanted was escape.
When I try to think of the last time that I sat down with a bunch of other people from Central Presbyterian to discuss Peter, for any reason, I picture his welcome party. The rest of it has sort of slipped by. I've never really talked to my parents about it. I've never gotten a card in the mail saying "we're having a meeting at the church, why don't you come join us." I've never had someone even suggest that maybe we should sit down and talk this out. What in the world would we talk about? How would we possibly begin?
Looking back, these events (the Peter years, the post-Peter years, the Peter's back!?! trial years) have all transpired with surprisingly little fanfare. Look back again and you'll be forced to realize that he has never really left us alone. A constant presence that everyone is ashamed to talk about. Scared to talk about. Confused about. The 600 pound gorilla in no uncertain terms.
I got a phone call this morning saying that Peter has been arrested. Again.
I couldn't move on even if I wanted to.
When the stone first hit the water, the disruption of our lives was just too much. Surface tension destroyed. The rotting muck underneath revealed. And when the water returned to glass, no one could intentionally throw another stone. But the wake remains, bouncing off the shore and ricocheting around us. The ripples lapping against our collars remind us that we are up to our necks. The temperature drops slowly. We alternate between bouts of confused panic and treacherous sleep.
Look out the window. The green bleeds away, leaving a sickly, jaundiced yellow in its place. The lazy breeze speeds up, and then its temperament sours. The wind grows teeth and tears at the flesh of the trees. And then one day you realize that the cover from your shade tree is gone. You look up to see a weathered oak standing naked in the sun.
At some point I realized that all of this was choking me. This recurring sliding feeling wasn't going away.
So the trial, this public spectacle, became the chance to say that the emperor has no clothes. It was a chance to come out. All is not well. Something terrible has happened here.
Something terrible has happened here.
Late in the week I was listening to an expert witness testify about trauma and its impact on adolescents. Suddenly I became alert, conscious of myself in a room full of strangers. I was nodding along, picturing my life in the scenes of escapism and guilt.
Here's a test:
Do you often assume that people in the church are full of shit? Clearly guilty of something, definite skeletons in the closet?
Do you look for cracks in the corners, sagging rafters, proof that the foundation is slipping? Are you convinced that the building will collapse? It's only a matter of time. Save yourself.
Do you feel caught between the past and the present, as if some blunt instrument has struck your history and shattered its continuum? Endangered your future?
Do pieces of your life feel fragile? At any moment a wave will come and sweep them away, like great walls of ice abandoning the glacier and drowning themselves in the sea.
Do you search desperately for something that looks like Jesus and feels like love?
The trial unlocked the hard drives and knocked over the file cabinets. Information everywhere. Bits and pieces of fear and hate and betrayal just littering the floor. Millions of pixels all distorted. An image I had not forgotten, but had very clearly lost.
The trial turned out to be a chance for the world around us to crash the party, to reach the epicenter and look for survivors in the wreckage.
Ultimately, it didn't quite go our way.
Mistrial.
A miscarriage is when you lose the baby. We didn't lose the trial. We had a trial.
In some way it was validating. It was good to hear eight voices say that was has happened was wrong. That what has happened was criminal.
Why did I need to go? Why did I feel so compelled? A physical draw, my headlights pointed towards the one thing I wanted most to avoid. Was it to support my friend? Clearly. But what does that even look like? Was it to, in some way, confront Peter. Possibly. I confess that I always stayed out of the men's room when he was at the urinal.
Mostly I think it was because someone finally gave me the chance to show up, to walk into a room. To say with my presence, "this was wrong."
I have been living my life like a sprint since the moment Peter left. Or maybe since the moment I left Peter. I've been running. From myself. From him. From the guilt. But sprints don't last. You can't live a sprint.
I've been running because the temple where I worshiped, the place where I Am dwells, burned to the ground. All that cedar and bronze. Poof.
But we've found that life goes on without the temple that Solomon built. Instead of the altar, we've had the Nicoletti's table. Instead of the burnt offerings, we've had the Wicklund's fire pit. Understanding in a car crash.
Transformation just takes so much time.
If I could make it better for the people around me. The friends and the family. Oh God. I would. But I'm not God.
And God is. God Is.
I'd be lying if I said that I don't still try to offer myself up as the ram caught in the thicket. I'd be lying if I said that I was alone in that.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Understanding In A Car Crash
"these broken windows, open locks
reminders of the youth we lost"
I'll get up a post about the trial. Just not yet.
reminders of the youth we lost"
I'll get up a post about the trial. Just not yet.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
El Chile Que Me Toque Como
I've been back in Douglas for a few days, and now I'm headed off to Colorado. Deanna, friends, and, at long last, the trial of Peter Kim. What a weird, beautiful, messed up week it promises to be.
Chiapas, as always, is great. The group that I went with was both excellent and not so excellent. But as they say, free is free is free. Central to all of this is my Mexican family down there. They are the best.
I don't know when I'll be back there next but it can't come soon enough.
But be honest, what you really care about are the pics. Well, here are a few:
Chiapas, as always, is great. The group that I went with was both excellent and not so excellent. But as they say, free is free is free. Central to all of this is my Mexican family down there. They are the best.
I don't know when I'll be back there next but it can't come soon enough.
But be honest, what you really care about are the pics. Well, here are a few:
Mayan Christ in the middle of a restaurant in San Cristobal de las Casas. German tourists in San Cris are like the Japanese in Hawaii or Americans in Cancun, but still such a cool place.
Pictures were not allowed inside this church, but that's where the real action was. Sacrifices of beer, chickens, soda, etc. being made to the saints. Very moving.
A village prepares the graves for El Dia de Los Muertos (Day of the Dead). Tomorrow they will be loaded down with flowers, food, and pictures as the entire community comes out to remember and celebrate.
Early morning in San Cristobal. Did I mention that this city is gorgeous?
Clean, perfect water. I love Chiapas. And taking pictures of my feet.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Another classic
From the g-mail inbox.
Two questions still plague me. How does Optimus Prime stay so young looking/sounding? What is his secret? More importantly, how does he know that I have always used "Bonecrusher" as my secret pet name for Kyle?
And a little update: I'll be out of town/contact/the countries (both Mexico and the U.S.!) in/for the next two weeks. So I'll be running phone silent, blog silent, and...well, that's about it actually. But I'll see lots of you in Colorado when I get back.
p.s.- Apparently Deanna decided to name Kyle "Bonecrusher," which only increases my deep affection for the both of them. But Kyle is losing to Deanna. Sorry buddy.
Two questions still plague me. How does Optimus Prime stay so young looking/sounding? What is his secret? More importantly, how does he know that I have always used "Bonecrusher" as my secret pet name for Kyle?
And a little update: I'll be out of town/contact/the countries (both Mexico and the U.S.!) in/for the next two weeks. So I'll be running phone silent, blog silent, and...well, that's about it actually. But I'll see lots of you in Colorado when I get back.
p.s.- Apparently Deanna decided to name Kyle "Bonecrusher," which only increases my deep affection for the both of them. But Kyle is losing to Deanna. Sorry buddy.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Yessssssss.
Andrew (<3 huge blogger crush) can always be counted on for great links.
Today is no exception.
Did you know that feminists have better romantic relationships?
It's true.
What's crazy to me is that we are actually talking about this. Of course it's true.
But it's nice to have a little proof.
So here's a blogger question: How many of you would self-identify as feminists? That is to say, how many of you agree with basic feminist beliefs? Regardless of how you identify, how do you think it impacts your views on relationships/actual relationships?
I'm genuninely curious. I hope I get some responses. I might even write up a little response of my own.
Today is no exception.
Did you know that feminists have better romantic relationships?
It's true.
What's crazy to me is that we are actually talking about this. Of course it's true.
But it's nice to have a little proof.
So here's a blogger question: How many of you would self-identify as feminists? That is to say, how many of you agree with basic feminist beliefs? Regardless of how you identify, how do you think it impacts your views on relationships/actual relationships?
I'm genuninely curious. I hope I get some responses. I might even write up a little response of my own.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Not that there's anything wrong with that...*
This is going to be way over the heads of at least a few people who read this blog.
So this whole thing started when both Deanna and Brianne quit the facebook (which is totally fine by the way, I understand why they did it**).
I mean, it hurt a little bit that two people very close to me were just checking out of reality, but that's their choice.
But back to the issue at hand.
Being that my girlfriend had quit the facebook, and Erik's girlfriend had quit the facebook, I decided to take this once in a lifetime opportunity to marry Erik on the facebook and live happily ever after. In the "fake marriage on the internet to one of my best friends" sense of the word, of course.
So I shed a tear, changed my relationship status, and prepared to make my move on Erik. Not wanting people to rush to my side and comfort me in my fake time of need I hid the news feed story of my recent breakup.
Ok, I'll be honest. The pain was real, but it was just too soon.
Everything was going about as well as could be expected under the circumstances. But my happy life turned emotional nightmare was about to get worse. Erik was still listed as being in a relationship. (Note to Erik: She's gone man, give it up. It's time to face facts and move on. I have). This was a big problem for me, because apparently being listed as already in a relationship is enough for the staff of the facebook to deny a potential marriage request. My sense is that they are, as John McCain so eloquently put it in 2000, "agents of intolerance." Who are they to tell me that I can't marry a man already in a relationship? If there really is a war on marriage, the facebook is fighting back.***
But I digress.
I should take this time to remind you that I was still heartbroken at having just ended my relationship with Deanna,**** and was now facing the dream-crushing reality that I would not be able to marry Erik (without, you know, getting him to change his status first). In my despair, I turned for comfort to the person who I knew for certain would always give me a soft landing. I married Kyle.
And to my everlasting joy, he said yes.
The next day I opened my facebook account to find a note from a high school friend with whom I've lost touch.
"booke! whats up buddy... married now i see. is it true? congrats!"
"Uh oh," I thought, "better hide that news feed as well before this gets out of hand."
I did, and moved on with my day, comfortably certain that I had nipped that potentially embarrassing/confusing situation in the bud.
The next day I signed on again, this time to a message from a college friend.
"You look so happy together."
Look so happy together? Wait...what?
And then I scrolled up. To my profile picture. The one of Bryce and I. Smiling. Together. Where I am embracing him from behind. In tuxedos. In a church.*****
At which point I started laughing hysterically.
The end.
p.s.- Since then I have gotten two more priceless wall posts, also from an old friend:
first post: "um, did I just read on your profile you are married???? um...que paso?"
second post: "wait that is a dude, OK, so your not married... But you are in a 559 area code, i guess we have some catching up to do =)"
Hahahahahahahahahaha.
Life is great.
*Seinfeld. Still sorely missed.
**Which also doesn't make it any less fun to call them quitters.
***I'm pretty sure that's what they use the money for from selling gifts.
****Albeit only on the facebook. Hi Deanna!
*****She's right, we do look happy in that picture.
So this whole thing started when both Deanna and Brianne quit the facebook (which is totally fine by the way, I understand why they did it**).
I mean, it hurt a little bit that two people very close to me were just checking out of reality, but that's their choice.
But back to the issue at hand.
Being that my girlfriend had quit the facebook, and Erik's girlfriend had quit the facebook, I decided to take this once in a lifetime opportunity to marry Erik on the facebook and live happily ever after. In the "fake marriage on the internet to one of my best friends" sense of the word, of course.
So I shed a tear, changed my relationship status, and prepared to make my move on Erik. Not wanting people to rush to my side and comfort me in my fake time of need I hid the news feed story of my recent breakup.
Ok, I'll be honest. The pain was real, but it was just too soon.
Everything was going about as well as could be expected under the circumstances. But my happy life turned emotional nightmare was about to get worse. Erik was still listed as being in a relationship. (Note to Erik: She's gone man, give it up. It's time to face facts and move on. I have). This was a big problem for me, because apparently being listed as already in a relationship is enough for the staff of the facebook to deny a potential marriage request. My sense is that they are, as John McCain so eloquently put it in 2000, "agents of intolerance." Who are they to tell me that I can't marry a man already in a relationship? If there really is a war on marriage, the facebook is fighting back.***
But I digress.
I should take this time to remind you that I was still heartbroken at having just ended my relationship with Deanna,**** and was now facing the dream-crushing reality that I would not be able to marry Erik (without, you know, getting him to change his status first). In my despair, I turned for comfort to the person who I knew for certain would always give me a soft landing. I married Kyle.
And to my everlasting joy, he said yes.
The next day I opened my facebook account to find a note from a high school friend with whom I've lost touch.
"booke! whats up buddy... married now i see. is it true? congrats!"
"Uh oh," I thought, "better hide that news feed as well before this gets out of hand."
I did, and moved on with my day, comfortably certain that I had nipped that potentially embarrassing/confusing situation in the bud.
The next day I signed on again, this time to a message from a college friend.
"You look so happy together."
Look so happy together? Wait...what?
And then I scrolled up. To my profile picture. The one of Bryce and I. Smiling. Together. Where I am embracing him from behind. In tuxedos. In a church.*****
At which point I started laughing hysterically.
The end.
p.s.- Since then I have gotten two more priceless wall posts, also from an old friend:
first post: "um, did I just read on your profile you are married???? um...que paso?"
second post: "wait that is a dude, OK, so your not married... But you are in a 559 area code, i guess we have some catching up to do =)"
Hahahahahahahahahaha.
Life is great.
*Seinfeld. Still sorely missed.
**Which also doesn't make it any less fun to call them quitters.
***I'm pretty sure that's what they use the money for from selling gifts.
****Albeit only on the facebook. Hi Deanna!
*****She's right, we do look happy in that picture.
Monday, October 08, 2007
The Quarter Life: Careers
It's the Quarter Life! My partner in crime Bryce has his post up, along with the links to the old posts. Check it out.
On with the show.
If you want to hear a twentysomething rant, ask them about their job. Seriously, try it. I know very, very few people who are my age(ish) and absolutely love what they do. They're out there, but they are certainly elusive.
Intuitively, this makes a lot of sense. Most of my friends are working jobs that a) pay them A LOT of money but demand an incredible amount of their time and energy, b) pay them almost no money AND demand an incredible amount of their time and energy, but offer them the opportunity to participate in some greater good, or c) don't pay very well, aren't all that interesting, and are really just helping to support grad school/bumming/getting on their feet. It's exceedingly rare to find someone in this age bracket who is getting paid pretty well to do something that they love to do but that doesn't consume their life.
I'm sure it's possible that someone has this job, I just don't know who it is.
Can I get a blogger comment amen?
Conventional wisdom holds that in your 20's you are building your life. You are putting in your time, working your way up the food chain, still in school, or figuring out what you are going to do. Whatever. The point is, at this age we're not supposed to have satisfying careers. We're supposed to have jobs.
And that's the catch. A career and a job really aren't the same thing. What I have right now is a job. It's a job that I really like (most of the time), but it's still a job.
A career, as a opposed to a job, should be a vocation. A career should be one of those things where you say, on a regular basis, "They pay me to do this?!" Don't get me wrong, a job can be like that as well (see: Me eating delicious burritos while talking about global economics). A career, at its best, should be deeply satisfying because it should combine your greatest personal gifts and your greatest personal longings.
And something else. It should fulfill a genuine need.
And that's where I get myself into trouble.
I'm a pharisee (little p, I'm not actually Jewish, or a scholar of the law, or...you get the point). Thg point is that I love the law. I want it to protect me. To make me righteous. To make me loved.
My legalism touches all things, and career is no exception. I believe that my thinking goes something like this: God says to love others -> The world has many people who need love -> I believe in God -> I should find people in the world to love -> Someone will pay me to love people -> I should do that even if it isn't what I want most in the world -> God will love me more if I choose this path.
That logical progression is, I'll be the first to admit, pretty sick. It's especially gross when you realize what a horrible perversion of love it really is.
The other day my girlfriend (Hi Deanna!) was asking me about my dream job. What would I do if I could do anything? "Something in music," I said. "A producer or manager, A&R for a label maybe. I don't know if I'd actually enjoy doing that, but it seems like I really would." So will I pursue that? I don't really know. I think the reality is that I don't actually know what it is that I like to do. I don't know what it is that I'm all that good at. At this point, I can't even guarantee that I'm doing something because I want to rather than because I think that I should.
I'm not sure, at this point in time, that I'm capable of doing any sort of work that doesn't serve, in some way, as an idol.
And so I find myself with nothing to say. I like my job. I have no idea what my career might look like. For the first time in my life, that feels really nice.
On with the show.
If you want to hear a twentysomething rant, ask them about their job. Seriously, try it. I know very, very few people who are my age(ish) and absolutely love what they do. They're out there, but they are certainly elusive.
Intuitively, this makes a lot of sense. Most of my friends are working jobs that a) pay them A LOT of money but demand an incredible amount of their time and energy, b) pay them almost no money AND demand an incredible amount of their time and energy, but offer them the opportunity to participate in some greater good, or c) don't pay very well, aren't all that interesting, and are really just helping to support grad school/bumming/getting on their feet. It's exceedingly rare to find someone in this age bracket who is getting paid pretty well to do something that they love to do but that doesn't consume their life.
I'm sure it's possible that someone has this job, I just don't know who it is.
Can I get a blogger comment amen?
Conventional wisdom holds that in your 20's you are building your life. You are putting in your time, working your way up the food chain, still in school, or figuring out what you are going to do. Whatever. The point is, at this age we're not supposed to have satisfying careers. We're supposed to have jobs.
And that's the catch. A career and a job really aren't the same thing. What I have right now is a job. It's a job that I really like (most of the time), but it's still a job.
A career, as a opposed to a job, should be a vocation. A career should be one of those things where you say, on a regular basis, "They pay me to do this?!" Don't get me wrong, a job can be like that as well (see: Me eating delicious burritos while talking about global economics). A career, at its best, should be deeply satisfying because it should combine your greatest personal gifts and your greatest personal longings.
And something else. It should fulfill a genuine need.
And that's where I get myself into trouble.
I'm a pharisee (little p, I'm not actually Jewish, or a scholar of the law, or...you get the point). Thg point is that I love the law. I want it to protect me. To make me righteous. To make me loved.
My legalism touches all things, and career is no exception. I believe that my thinking goes something like this: God says to love others -> The world has many people who need love -> I believe in God -> I should find people in the world to love -> Someone will pay me to love people -> I should do that even if it isn't what I want most in the world -> God will love me more if I choose this path.
That logical progression is, I'll be the first to admit, pretty sick. It's especially gross when you realize what a horrible perversion of love it really is.
The other day my girlfriend (Hi Deanna!) was asking me about my dream job. What would I do if I could do anything? "Something in music," I said. "A producer or manager, A&R for a label maybe. I don't know if I'd actually enjoy doing that, but it seems like I really would." So will I pursue that? I don't really know. I think the reality is that I don't actually know what it is that I like to do. I don't know what it is that I'm all that good at. At this point, I can't even guarantee that I'm doing something because I want to rather than because I think that I should.
I'm not sure, at this point in time, that I'm capable of doing any sort of work that doesn't serve, in some way, as an idol.
And so I find myself with nothing to say. I like my job. I have no idea what my career might look like. For the first time in my life, that feels really nice.
I'm scared to see stats for Douglas
Matt Yglesias posts a really fun little toy: A website that allows you to see demographic information from any zip code in the country. For all of you haters, 80501 Longmont only has 9% of the population living below the poverty line. Which is still too high, but far below what some of you would say. Have fun.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Ouch.
Josh Marshall and company link to a report card of sorts for the Bush's time in office. It's worse than you think. Not that we didn't know all of these things already, but it really isn't pretty when his "accomplishments" are listed together.
It's also worth noting that this is not some sort of hatchet job. This is the Associated Press. Quoting former Bush campaign strategists and staffers. Only one more year...
It's also worth noting that this is not some sort of hatchet job. This is the Associated Press. Quoting former Bush campaign strategists and staffers. Only one more year...
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Mommy wow...
I will be showing up in another newspaper this week, albeit the decidedly less well-known Sierra Vista Herald. Still, press is press. Haha.
This morning found me getting off the phone with a friend so that I could "strongly speak with" (read: lecture) an actual adult. You know, the kind with a mortgage and kids and stuff like that.
And then later today I ended up in a meeting, a business meeting, with a minister who knows my mom.
My life, as ever, is extremely weird.
All of this to say, I think I might actually be turning into an adult. The first year out of college you really feel like a fraud. You know that you don't go to class or eat at the dining hall, but you also haven't really proven anything. When people treat you like an adult you begin to think, "I don't actually know what I'm doing here...you probably want to ask someone else." But people keep asking you to do things. And you keep doing them. And slowly you find that you are useful and competent and responsible. More or less.
Days like today make you realize that, while not there yet, you're a lot closer than you used to be.
And strangely enough, that you like it.
I still listen to Mxpx and like my skateboard more than my car though.
Think of this as the teaser blog to a "The Quarter Life: Career" post. Coming soon to an internet near you.
The blog title was too much, wasn't it? Like I said, not grown up yet...
This morning found me getting off the phone with a friend so that I could "strongly speak with" (read: lecture) an actual adult. You know, the kind with a mortgage and kids and stuff like that.
And then later today I ended up in a meeting, a business meeting, with a minister who knows my mom.
My life, as ever, is extremely weird.
All of this to say, I think I might actually be turning into an adult. The first year out of college you really feel like a fraud. You know that you don't go to class or eat at the dining hall, but you also haven't really proven anything. When people treat you like an adult you begin to think, "I don't actually know what I'm doing here...you probably want to ask someone else." But people keep asking you to do things. And you keep doing them. And slowly you find that you are useful and competent and responsible. More or less.
Days like today make you realize that, while not there yet, you're a lot closer than you used to be.
And strangely enough, that you like it.
I still listen to Mxpx and like my skateboard more than my car though.
Think of this as the teaser blog to a "The Quarter Life: Career" post. Coming soon to an internet near you.
The blog title was too much, wasn't it? Like I said, not grown up yet...
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Has this been on the nightly news much?
Please go here and sign the online petition.
Basically, it's a petition to convince China to stop supporting the Burmese Junta by making the Chinese look bad vis-a-vis the 2008 Olympics. If you don't understand why it might be important to stop the Chinese from supporting the Burmese government, google it.
And by the way, the petition is pretty serious. It's moving towards 1 million people. And the advertisements are going to run in major newspapers.
Thanks. Have a great day.
Basically, it's a petition to convince China to stop supporting the Burmese Junta by making the Chinese look bad vis-a-vis the 2008 Olympics. If you don't understand why it might be important to stop the Chinese from supporting the Burmese government, google it.
And by the way, the petition is pretty serious. It's moving towards 1 million people. And the advertisements are going to run in major newspapers.
Thanks. Have a great day.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
"Maybe I'm wrong on this one, but for me, the beast doesn't include selling out. Garth, you know what I'm talking about, right?"*
From last week's Toronto Star:
It's a good article. I don't care much for the headline though. What is an "illegal?" I was not an English major, but I do believe that illegal is an adjective, not a noun. So an illegal what? An illegal alien? An illegal worker? Try putting in "human being" and seeing how that sounds. "U.S. action on illegal human beings has a cost." Sounds strange doesn't it? Rhetoric matters. Words count.
On an unrelated note, this article makes me feel like somewhat of a fraud. None of this really impacts my life. I won't come home to find out that my dad has been deported. I won't lose my job.
That being said, I am, on a lot of levels, pleased. Proud smile. Heh.
When I was interviewed for this story I knew that it would end up in one of the largest papers in Toronto, which in turn is one of the largest cities in Canada. But actually seeing it? That's just weird.
*Wayne Campbell
"U.S. action on illegals has a cost"
Sep 10, 2007 04:30 AM
Craig and Marc Kielburger
The aging white school bus sits conspicuously in the Burger King parking lot. It's idle now but will soon make the 10-minute trek across the border from Arizona into Mexico.
There the bus will fill with Mexicans, who then cross the border on tourist visas. They won't be sightseeing though – they're going to work. "Wal-Mart" is scrawled on the windshield, leaving little doubt about where they are headed.
This is just one of countless ways that migrants from Latin America enter the United States to find jobs illegally. With upward of 12 million undocumented migrants in America, they make up a sizeable portion of the country's workforce.
Thanks to a crackdown expected this week, that may soon change.
American employers now face more than $10,000 in fines and even jail time if they hire illegal workers. Industries from restaurants and hotels to farms and construction now have 90 days to fire employees without a valid social security number.
While it's always been illegal to hire undocumented workers, most officials have turned a blind eye.
After June's failed immigration reform, the tighter regulations may appease Americans opposed to open borders – a hotbed issue in the upcoming election. But they'll have disastrous side-effects.
"It's going to be terrible for employees, terrible for businesses and terrible for customers," says Aaron Boeke, of Frontera de Cristo, a migrant rights group. "If you want to see the economy tank overnight, this is a good way to do it."
Boeke says few realize how integral illegal workers are to the economy, especially as manual labourers. Without them, businesses will lose millions of low-paid employees, causing prices to go up, he said.
"People don't realize their Chinese food is made by Mexicans," Boeke says. "They have oranges in December because of Mexicans."
Employees like Cesar, who worked illegally on a California farm for 20 years before being deported last month. The Guatemalan, who did not want to give his last name, says the American economy cannot function without illegal workers like himself.
"When we work for them, the economy is normal," he says from a migrant shelter in Mexico. "They make money because we work for almost nothing. We work for $6 an hour, but Americans won't."
Indeed, California stands to lose most from this latest crackdown, with 2.5 million illegals – more than anywhere else in the country – many employed by farmers, who rely on Latin American field hands.
All are now on the verge of unemployment. If they and other undocumented workers lose their jobs, the money they send home will dry up. Most illegal migrants support impoverished relatives, so the consequences of firing them would ripple throughout Latin America.
"People are coming because their families are hungry, their children are crying," Cesar explains. "Why doesn't the American government think about them?"
As the crackdown begins, only time will tell just what impact it will have on the economy, and millions of undocumented workers.
Boeke believes it will be impossible to enforce the tighter laws, and as prices of fruit and other goods start to rise, consumers will force the government to back down.
"Once it starts affecting business, there will be a backlash," he says.
But until then, undocumented workers like Cesar can only lay low – and keep their fingers crossed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Craig and Marc Kielburger are children's rights activists and co-founded Free The Children, which is active in the developing world. Online: Craig and Marc Kielburger discuss global issues every Monday in the World & Comment section. Take part in the discussion online at thestar.com/globalvoices.
It's a good article. I don't care much for the headline though. What is an "illegal?" I was not an English major, but I do believe that illegal is an adjective, not a noun. So an illegal what? An illegal alien? An illegal worker? Try putting in "human being" and seeing how that sounds. "U.S. action on illegal human beings has a cost." Sounds strange doesn't it? Rhetoric matters. Words count.
On an unrelated note, this article makes me feel like somewhat of a fraud. None of this really impacts my life. I won't come home to find out that my dad has been deported. I won't lose my job.
That being said, I am, on a lot of levels, pleased. Proud smile. Heh.
When I was interviewed for this story I knew that it would end up in one of the largest papers in Toronto, which in turn is one of the largest cities in Canada. But actually seeing it? That's just weird.
*Wayne Campbell
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Very, very few of you will care.
Especially since I'm pretty certain that Kyle doesn't read this blog, and Wes just seems to be MIA in general, but:
THRICE has posted two new songs online.
And they are quite good. "Firebreather" is a little bit "modern rock" heavy, which I wasn't expecting out of the band, but it really picks up towards the end of the song. "Digital Sea" sounds a lot like Kid A without sounding like they are trying to rip off Radiohead. I'm very pleased.
As always, Dustin's lyrics don't disappoint:
Firebreather
Tell me, are you free in word or thought or deed, while the gallows stand, and bullets lance the bravest lungs? We fold our hands and hold our tongues. Tell me, are you free, when the fear falls on you? Will I fold my hands or hold my tongue? Or let the flames lick at my feet, and breathe in fire and know I’m free. The flames will rise and devour me. Oh, to breathe in fire, and know I’m free.
Digital Sea
I woke, cold and alone, adrift in the open sea; caught up in regrets, and tangled in nets, instead of your arms wrapped around me. And I wept but my tears are anathema here, just more water to fill my lungs. I hear someone scream, “God what is it we have done?” I am drowning in a digital sea; I am slipping beneath the sound. Here my voice goes, to ones and zeros, I’m slipping beneath the sound. A song from somewhere below, deadly and slow begins. Both sickly and sweet, now picking up speed, and ushering in the world’s end. And the ghost of Descartes screams again in the dark, “Oh how could I have been so wrong?” But above the screams still the sirens sing their song.
October can't come soon enough.
THRICE has posted two new songs online.
And they are quite good. "Firebreather" is a little bit "modern rock" heavy, which I wasn't expecting out of the band, but it really picks up towards the end of the song. "Digital Sea" sounds a lot like Kid A without sounding like they are trying to rip off Radiohead. I'm very pleased.
As always, Dustin's lyrics don't disappoint:
Firebreather
Tell me, are you free in word or thought or deed, while the gallows stand, and bullets lance the bravest lungs? We fold our hands and hold our tongues. Tell me, are you free, when the fear falls on you? Will I fold my hands or hold my tongue? Or let the flames lick at my feet, and breathe in fire and know I’m free. The flames will rise and devour me. Oh, to breathe in fire, and know I’m free.
Digital Sea
I woke, cold and alone, adrift in the open sea; caught up in regrets, and tangled in nets, instead of your arms wrapped around me. And I wept but my tears are anathema here, just more water to fill my lungs. I hear someone scream, “God what is it we have done?” I am drowning in a digital sea; I am slipping beneath the sound. Here my voice goes, to ones and zeros, I’m slipping beneath the sound. A song from somewhere below, deadly and slow begins. Both sickly and sweet, now picking up speed, and ushering in the world’s end. And the ghost of Descartes screams again in the dark, “Oh how could I have been so wrong?” But above the screams still the sirens sing their song.
October can't come soon enough.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Happy Birthday Mexico
It's a beautiful country that Mexico. Well worth celebrating. Last Saturday night the entire country gathered together and celebrated like it was 1810. Some things to be thankful for:
Family. And friends. And dogs.
Cowboys. Real, or, er, not so real.
Kids.
And laws that let you shoot off fireworks into large crowds of people. Miguel Hidalgo would be proud.
VIVA!!!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Rest in Peace, Juan Antonio Martinez
Another body has been found in Cochise County. Arizona is on pace this year to set a record for the highest number of deaths ever.
It's getting worse.
And it's part of the strategy.
The other day when I was at the Border Patrol station I had an agent tell me that their "job is to make them earn it." That is, the Border Patrol's job is to make crossing the border difficult. If you make it, then you have earned it. Unless you die.
Later, a different agent told me that allowing people to cross in town is too risky. "If someone hops the fence, they can be gone into a house or car in two or three minutes. In the desert we have a few days to catch them."
We give people jobs when they make it to our cities. We eat the food that they pick off of the tables that they clean. And we don't really stop them from coming, we just "make them earn it." It's like an abusive relationship. We break their ribs and then tell them that we'll love them forever.
Watch this. And then imagine what it would be like to sit with your cousin as she slowly dies in the heat. And then remember that the death of Felicitas wasn't senseless. It wasn't random. We planned for it to be this way.
I can't shake the feeling that on the border, death is the punchline to a very cruel joke.
It's getting worse.
And it's part of the strategy.
The other day when I was at the Border Patrol station I had an agent tell me that their "job is to make them earn it." That is, the Border Patrol's job is to make crossing the border difficult. If you make it, then you have earned it. Unless you die.
Later, a different agent told me that allowing people to cross in town is too risky. "If someone hops the fence, they can be gone into a house or car in two or three minutes. In the desert we have a few days to catch them."
We give people jobs when they make it to our cities. We eat the food that they pick off of the tables that they clean. And we don't really stop them from coming, we just "make them earn it." It's like an abusive relationship. We break their ribs and then tell them that we'll love them forever.
Watch this. And then imagine what it would be like to sit with your cousin as she slowly dies in the heat. And then remember that the death of Felicitas wasn't senseless. It wasn't random. We planned for it to be this way.
I can't shake the feeling that on the border, death is the punchline to a very cruel joke.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The things I don't talk about.
Every time I go to the Border Patrol station in Douglas I hear or see something that makes me physically ill. I always forget that I will feel this way. I always feel this way.
I really like the way Bryce writes. I'm copying his style right now.
I am proud of every single one of my friends.
I attend a Catholic church. I don't believe that the bread is really Jesus' body, but I still love to kneel every Sunday.
I would rather be good than happy. But I'd rather be happy and good.
I go back and forth between being proud of my creativity and thinking I am not a very creative person.
I don't want to post this.
I'm going to post it anyway.
Sometimes I think that I am not very good at my job.
Sometimes I think that I am awesome at my job.
I never want to be defined by my job.
I'm going to be in Colorado in November. I am very excited.
Deanna is going to visit me. Sometimes when people say things to me I am glad that she doesn't know how to speak Spanish.
She reads this blog.
I really like to cook. I never knew that before this year.
I am very good friends with a man who works for Raytheon making missiles. I read two publications put out by Focus on the Family. I drink Coca-Cola when I am in Mexico. I don't like missiles, Dobson's theology, or corporate soda.
I was never taught to use grammar and that makes me self-conscious when I write.
I have never gotten in the habit of proof-reading my writing.
A lack of grammar skills and an aversion to proof-reading is not a promising combination.
I just got a phone call from a man who needs diapers and baby formula.
I don't give money out to people because I don't want them to use it for drugs.
I am going to the store right now to buy the diapers.
My phone number is changing. I'll call you when I know what it is.
I really like the way Bryce writes. I'm copying his style right now.
I am proud of every single one of my friends.
I attend a Catholic church. I don't believe that the bread is really Jesus' body, but I still love to kneel every Sunday.
I would rather be good than happy. But I'd rather be happy and good.
I go back and forth between being proud of my creativity and thinking I am not a very creative person.
I don't want to post this.
I'm going to post it anyway.
Sometimes I think that I am not very good at my job.
Sometimes I think that I am awesome at my job.
I never want to be defined by my job.
I'm going to be in Colorado in November. I am very excited.
Deanna is going to visit me. Sometimes when people say things to me I am glad that she doesn't know how to speak Spanish.
She reads this blog.
I really like to cook. I never knew that before this year.
I am very good friends with a man who works for Raytheon making missiles. I read two publications put out by Focus on the Family. I drink Coca-Cola when I am in Mexico. I don't like missiles, Dobson's theology, or corporate soda.
I was never taught to use grammar and that makes me self-conscious when I write.
I have never gotten in the habit of proof-reading my writing.
A lack of grammar skills and an aversion to proof-reading is not a promising combination.
I just got a phone call from a man who needs diapers and baby formula.
I don't give money out to people because I don't want them to use it for drugs.
I am going to the store right now to buy the diapers.
My phone number is changing. I'll call you when I know what it is.
Friday, September 07, 2007
It's Giuliani Time!
My new buddy Karen* (yes, the funny engineering video Karen) reminded me of my project to talk about each one of the oh-so-many 2008 candidates for POTUS. The problem with that little project, as I see it, is that so many of them are so obviously lackluster. I mean...Romney? Really? President? How am I supposed to write an entire post about that?
But I'd still like to finish it. So here is my post for "America's Mayor," Rudy Giuliani.
As a rule, trite poilitical attack names (Slick Willy, Shrub, Al Bore) are created simply because they are catchy. At times they have some sort of foundation in truth ("The Decider" comes to mind), but for the most part they are only useful for making someone look childish (although it's debatable whether the person using the name is, in fact, the childish one).
In the case of Rudy Giuliani, the label "President of 9/11" is not only catchy, but actually seems to be 100% accurate. Has anyone, any single person, actually heard him talk about something that wasn't A)Iraq, B)Iran, C)9/11, or D)Terrorism? I mean, really. I'm not saying that these aren't important issues (although I could make that argument). I'm saying that, outside of his argument that we are all going to die if we don't invade more countries(!), he really doesn't have anything going for him. And since I don't find that argument convincing...well, you get the picture.
You could say that, even though he doesn't talk about it much, running New York shows his capability for the job. But New Yorkers don't seem to like him very much.
Actually, whether it's "America's Mayor" Rudy, or "President of 9/11" Rudy, this is really going to hurt his case. Not only do these New Yorkers not like him, they also think he did a really terrible job with 9/11. Ouch.
I think I'll leave it at that. Talking about what Giuliani would do to the Constitution is a sure way to find myself in a paranoid depression.
*Karen was kind enough to send me this not at all doctored picture. My shocked face represents my fear that Giuliani is about to lecture me on how afraid I should be that anyone else might win the election.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
This one goes out to Erik and Kyle.
I can't embed this video, so just go check it out at the link. It'll make your day. Thanks to my new friend Karen for sending this to me.
Physics love.
Physics love.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Pride for the Alma Mater
Deanna, speaking to a friend of hers in Los Angeles:
Friend: "He went to Pomona? Oh, I know those kind of people."
Deanna: "What do you mean?"
Friend: "You know, the kind of people to pick up a book and walk into the mountains. They're deep."
Our fame grows.
p.s.- According to wikipedia, "alma mater" means "nourishing mother." Weird.
p.p.s- Alternate blog title: Overheard in Los Angeles.
Friend: "He went to Pomona? Oh, I know those kind of people."
Deanna: "What do you mean?"
Friend: "You know, the kind of people to pick up a book and walk into the mountains. They're deep."
Our fame grows.
p.s.- According to wikipedia, "alma mater" means "nourishing mother." Weird.
p.p.s- Alternate blog title: Overheard in Los Angeles.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
How to tank an economy:
This week's lesson brought to you by the Department of Homeland Security and our beloved POTUS.
Is he trying to make his poll numbers worse, or just create chaos for millions of people? You be the judge. Thank God for the AFL-CIO.
Meanwhile, back in Zimbabwe, President Mugabe accepts the challenge from our own Mr. Bush and seeks to regain the title of "worst leader ever" for himself. It's a race to the bottom.
Is he trying to make his poll numbers worse, or just create chaos for millions of people? You be the judge. Thank God for the AFL-CIO.
Meanwhile, back in Zimbabwe, President Mugabe accepts the challenge from our own Mr. Bush and seeks to regain the title of "worst leader ever" for himself. It's a race to the bottom.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Devastating.
From the Tucson Citizen:
"Thursday, Border Patrol agents were told by an immigrant that he and his group of 12 wanted to surrender and that a woman in the group had died in the desert near Rio Rico. A 6-year-old girl flagged down an agent sent on the call and told him it was her mother who had died. The agent drove on, and the immigrant who had called 911 with the surrender request guided the agent to the woman's body.
The 6-year-old and a 17-year-old girl in the group were turned over to the Mexican Consulate in Nogales to be returned to relatives, and the adults were taken into custody, pending their return to Mexico."
Six years old.
"Thursday, Border Patrol agents were told by an immigrant that he and his group of 12 wanted to surrender and that a woman in the group had died in the desert near Rio Rico. A 6-year-old girl flagged down an agent sent on the call and told him it was her mother who had died. The agent drove on, and the immigrant who had called 911 with the surrender request guided the agent to the woman's body.
The 6-year-old and a 17-year-old girl in the group were turned over to the Mexican Consulate in Nogales to be returned to relatives, and the adults were taken into custody, pending their return to Mexico."
Six years old.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Did you know that the EPA has 18,000 employees?
What is it that they do? And more importantly, why do we still have pollution? That's 360 people per state.
At any rate, the Gray Lady has once again shown why she is an invaluable national treasure.
The article drags a bit in places, but the subject matter is so important I just couldn't stop reading.
A taste:
"Only 1 percent of [China's] 560 million city dwellers breathe air considered safe by the European Union."
As always, there's a silver lining: "Much of the particulate pollution over Los Angeles originates in China."
Huh. And I thought it was the parking lot that they call the 405.
At any rate, the Gray Lady has once again shown why she is an invaluable national treasure.
The article drags a bit in places, but the subject matter is so important I just couldn't stop reading.
A taste:
"Only 1 percent of [China's] 560 million city dwellers breathe air considered safe by the European Union."
As always, there's a silver lining: "Much of the particulate pollution over Los Angeles originates in China."
Huh. And I thought it was the parking lot that they call the 405.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Meet Your Neighbors 2: Understanding in a Car Crash
A friend of mine asked that I follow-up my last "Meet Your Neighbors" post with a little bit of information on what happened with "Alberto" and his Mixtopek speaking friend.
Sadly, I have no idea what happened. Which is pretty common. Actually, it's the norm. Which is hard.
To avoid talking more about that, I'm going to change the subject. Stay with me.
Sometimes when I am speaking with someone in Spanish I get this sense that I must be understanding the story wrong, that my language skills just aren't cutting it and I need to ask more questions to figure out what is going on.
When I was talking to Alberto the other day I kept coming back to one thing that I thought just HAD to be a misunderstanding. Alberto had told me that his friend, a man in his late thirties or early forties, spoke some Spanish, but his son did not. "That can't be right," I thought. "If he can speak both Spanish and Mixtopek, his son should be able to as well."
And so I asked him about the situation again, trying to clear up what was, to me, a glaring inconsistency.
"No," he said. "That's right. He can speak Spanish but his son never learned how."
"Why not?" I asked.
"When my friend and I were kids, our parents had enough money to send us to school. By the time we had our own kids, everyone was worse off."
Oh God.
A third man sitting in a chair and listening to the conversation, a migrant himself, spoke up.
"The whole country is going backwards."
What do you say exactly?
Sadly, I have no idea what happened. Which is pretty common. Actually, it's the norm. Which is hard.
To avoid talking more about that, I'm going to change the subject. Stay with me.
Sometimes when I am speaking with someone in Spanish I get this sense that I must be understanding the story wrong, that my language skills just aren't cutting it and I need to ask more questions to figure out what is going on.
When I was talking to Alberto the other day I kept coming back to one thing that I thought just HAD to be a misunderstanding. Alberto had told me that his friend, a man in his late thirties or early forties, spoke some Spanish, but his son did not. "That can't be right," I thought. "If he can speak both Spanish and Mixtopek, his son should be able to as well."
And so I asked him about the situation again, trying to clear up what was, to me, a glaring inconsistency.
"No," he said. "That's right. He can speak Spanish but his son never learned how."
"Why not?" I asked.
"When my friend and I were kids, our parents had enough money to send us to school. By the time we had our own kids, everyone was worse off."
Oh God.
A third man sitting in a chair and listening to the conversation, a migrant himself, spoke up.
"The whole country is going backwards."
What do you say exactly?
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Meet Your Neighbors: I'm So Frustrated Edition
I'm annoyed.
So Mexico is a big country. A diverse country. This can be a problem as we tend to think of everyone who isn't American as pretty much being exactly the same.
Canadians? They say "eh" and have milk in a bag. I don't know, whatever Five Iron Frenzy said.
Australians? Pick from one of three funny stereotypes: The surfer guy, the outback guy, or...no, that's about it. The cute accent guy? I'm beat.
Iranians? Either ruthlessly oppressing people, or being ruthlessly oppressed. Pick your poison.
Obviously we don't all think this way, or at least not all of the time. But for the most part we do generalize people into categories and then we make assumptions about people, countries, ourselves, etc., all based on those categories.
Back to today.
Today I was at the Migrant Resource Center (something that I haven't gotten to do a lot of in the past two months or so...desk jockey/tour guide woot!). But I was there today, and I met a man who we'll call Alberto. Alberto was traveling with some friends and family from Mexico when they were arrested by the Border Patrol. Pretty typical.
But that's where the problems start. The reality (which became a problem) is that not everyone in Mexico speaks Spanish. There are, literally, hundreds of indigenous languages. And unfortunately for a guy from a small village, he's on his way back to...wait for it...El Salvador.
So what happened? Well, being that the Border Patrol agents couldn't speak his language, and he couldn't speak either Spanish or English, they assumed that he was from Central America. So they started asking him questions about that. And, being confused, he just sort of made some responses that they took to be agreement. When his dad figured out what was going on (his dad speaks a limited amount of Spanish), he tried to convince them that his son was in fact from Mexico. But that didn't work out so well because he was not carrying any identification with him.
So as of right now he's on his way to Tucson where he will be kept until they send him to El Salvador...for the first time ever...where they won't be able to understand him either.
I'm not saying that the Border Patrol is responsible for speaking every language in the known world. But this is the type of stuff that happens when you try to combine a major humanitarian crisis with a bureaucratic system.
I called the Mexican consulate but haven't heard back. I hope for his sake that they can prove he's a Mexican.
So Mexico is a big country. A diverse country. This can be a problem as we tend to think of everyone who isn't American as pretty much being exactly the same.
Canadians? They say "eh" and have milk in a bag. I don't know, whatever Five Iron Frenzy said.
Australians? Pick from one of three funny stereotypes: The surfer guy, the outback guy, or...no, that's about it. The cute accent guy? I'm beat.
Iranians? Either ruthlessly oppressing people, or being ruthlessly oppressed. Pick your poison.
Obviously we don't all think this way, or at least not all of the time. But for the most part we do generalize people into categories and then we make assumptions about people, countries, ourselves, etc., all based on those categories.
Back to today.
Today I was at the Migrant Resource Center (something that I haven't gotten to do a lot of in the past two months or so...desk jockey/tour guide woot!). But I was there today, and I met a man who we'll call Alberto. Alberto was traveling with some friends and family from Mexico when they were arrested by the Border Patrol. Pretty typical.
But that's where the problems start. The reality (which became a problem) is that not everyone in Mexico speaks Spanish. There are, literally, hundreds of indigenous languages. And unfortunately for a guy from a small village, he's on his way back to...wait for it...El Salvador.
So what happened? Well, being that the Border Patrol agents couldn't speak his language, and he couldn't speak either Spanish or English, they assumed that he was from Central America. So they started asking him questions about that. And, being confused, he just sort of made some responses that they took to be agreement. When his dad figured out what was going on (his dad speaks a limited amount of Spanish), he tried to convince them that his son was in fact from Mexico. But that didn't work out so well because he was not carrying any identification with him.
So as of right now he's on his way to Tucson where he will be kept until they send him to El Salvador...for the first time ever...where they won't be able to understand him either.
I'm not saying that the Border Patrol is responsible for speaking every language in the known world. But this is the type of stuff that happens when you try to combine a major humanitarian crisis with a bureaucratic system.
I called the Mexican consulate but haven't heard back. I hope for his sake that they can prove he's a Mexican.
Friday, August 17, 2007
"We got older, but we're still young"
So I'm back from Portland. Which was...well, I'll just say it was. Fun. Difficult. Interesting. And now I'm back.
I have had much less time this summer to blog, to reflect about my work/life/community here, and to read what other people are saying. I really miss all of that. I'm going to try and make it a part of my weekly life again in the coming months, but we'll see how that goes.
For today, I just wanted to say hello, say that I'm doing just fine in this new job of mine, and say that I think you're all swell people. More on that one later.
Perhaps one anecdote before I go. (This one's for Bryce)
When I was in the Sacramento airport (for many hours) I saw a man wearing a shirt that said "estar guars." In English that means nothing. In Spanish that means "to be guars," which is also nothing.
BUT
If you take a stereotypically Spanish accent and apply it to the words "Star Wars", then "estar guars" would be exactly what you would get. I don't know if anyone else in the airport thought it was funny, but I'm still laughing two weeks later.
I have had much less time this summer to blog, to reflect about my work/life/community here, and to read what other people are saying. I really miss all of that. I'm going to try and make it a part of my weekly life again in the coming months, but we'll see how that goes.
For today, I just wanted to say hello, say that I'm doing just fine in this new job of mine, and say that I think you're all swell people. More on that one later.
Perhaps one anecdote before I go. (This one's for Bryce)
When I was in the Sacramento airport (for many hours) I saw a man wearing a shirt that said "estar guars." In English that means nothing. In Spanish that means "to be guars," which is also nothing.
BUT
If you take a stereotypically Spanish accent and apply it to the words "Star Wars", then "estar guars" would be exactly what you would get. I don't know if anyone else in the airport thought it was funny, but I'm still laughing two weeks later.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
You make me want to be a better man.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY WESLEY BENGT WICKLUND
Here are some thoughts I wanted to share with you on this momentous occasion:
1. You've been around through a lot of stuff. I remember being in elementary school with you, hanging out, moving on to middle school, and then being really excited when you finally got there two years later. Mission trips. Praise band. Leadership teams. Mexican champagne. I love that our history goes deep. I love that our future is going to be even deeper.
2. Because I can look back for years and years, far past a decade of friendship, I have no problem saying that you have always been a really, really good guy. More than uncommonly legit. And you've become a really, really good man. One of the best I've ever met. You've always tried to do the right thing, and when you've failed, as we all do, you've tried even harder. The title says it all.
3. You are damn passionate. I've seen you get in fist fights, yelling fights, and soccer fights (the dirtiest fights of all). I can't say I've always thought it was a good idea for you to be fighting, but I've always loved and admired that spirit. You have convictions, and a belief that there are things in life worth fighting for. And there are.
4. You don't love the law for the law's sake. You want all the freedom that Jesus can give you. Let's get after it.
5. JBBP baby.
You are my brother. I love you.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Let Me Light Up the Sky
A little update about what's happening down in these parts:
I was gone last week in Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, with Tucson's very own Northminster Presbyterian Church. It was the classic high school summer mission trip: construction, vacation Bible school, and pranks. I was a little bit worried about this trip as I have more than a few reservations about teaching high school students that a week of pouring cement is what the Gospel is supposed to look like. Not surprisingly, I was wrong and God is good. The kids were great. The church that we are helping to start in Hermosillo is great. The leaders were great. And I just loved it.
The rains have come and I am unbelievably excited. Everything is green. Monsoons are beautiful to watch.
This week I am saying goodbye to our summer intern and new friend Caroline, my roommate and partner in crime Meghan, and my "boss" (he hates that word) Mark and his family. Tomorrow Mark will be gone and I'll enter a new time of service here. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't anxious. But I'm excited as well.
Next week I'll be in Portland with my sister, my brother, my mom, my dad, and my Steve. I'm looking forward to that. Oregon here I come.
I was gone last week in Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora, with Tucson's very own Northminster Presbyterian Church. It was the classic high school summer mission trip: construction, vacation Bible school, and pranks. I was a little bit worried about this trip as I have more than a few reservations about teaching high school students that a week of pouring cement is what the Gospel is supposed to look like. Not surprisingly, I was wrong and God is good. The kids were great. The church that we are helping to start in Hermosillo is great. The leaders were great. And I just loved it.
The rains have come and I am unbelievably excited. Everything is green. Monsoons are beautiful to watch.
This week I am saying goodbye to our summer intern and new friend Caroline, my roommate and partner in crime Meghan, and my "boss" (he hates that word) Mark and his family. Tomorrow Mark will be gone and I'll enter a new time of service here. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't anxious. But I'm excited as well.
Next week I'll be in Portland with my sister, my brother, my mom, my dad, and my Steve. I'm looking forward to that. Oregon here I come.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
It doesn't get any better than Colorado in the summer.
It really doesn't. A few of my favorite things:
The mountains. Oh the glory that the Lord has made.
Backpacking. And stupid pictures.
Horsehawks (it's gone now, but it was glorious while it lasted).
Chris. So classic.
The foam party. It's the place to see and be seen in AP.
That's a lot of man. Carried by some great men. I love you guys.
The mountains. Oh the glory that the Lord has made.
Backpacking. And stupid pictures.
Horsehawks (it's gone now, but it was glorious while it lasted).
Puppies
Chris. So classic.
Big B and Baby. So proud.
Family.
The dart game. A new favorite.
Mountain lakes and no shoes.
The foam party. It's the place to see and be seen in AP.
Disc golf.
Summer. YEAH!
Manfection. I suppose this blog was never G Rated. Now it's definitely not. But Travis in a bra was too good not to share.
That's a lot of man. Carried by some great men. I love you guys.Thursday, July 12, 2007
We Walk For Life
The first thing I have to say about the migrant trail is this: I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Every day that I was out in the desert a body was recovered somewhere in Arizona. Every hour, whether laughing, or sleeping, or eating Thai food (yes, Thai food) was spent in the physical and spiritual presence of people crossing, something that has come to mean so many different things to me throughout the past year. In many ways it means suffering. But it also means hope.
The view from the end. Looking back towards Mexico you can see mountain ranges on either side of the valley floor. When we started our journey those ridges were at least two days beyond our first camp. 80 miles really is a long way to walk in only a few days.
Alejandro Rangel Luna. My companion for the week. I started out in Sasabe with him strapped to the outside of my bag, but as time went on I found myself needing him closer at hand. It was very difficult to part with him. At times his presence felt like a burden. On several occasions asking for his forgiveness gave me peace.
The beauty of the natural world continues to capture me. Midway through the week I realized that death was out of place in the desert. The loss of life that was occurring all around me became a tangible symbol that, as much as we love the garden, we are living in the time after the fall. I spent many hours thinking about what it means to have grace in the desert.
I have talked fairly openly about militarization and the border this year, but it wasn't until the migrant trail that I would finally feel able to call southern Arizona a police state. Military convoys passed us every day. In the picture above there are four young men wearing flack jackets and battle helmets. Yes, helmets. We were chased by a helicopter in the dark and at one point circled by ATV's at night while we tried to sleep. We passed by the new camera towers erected by the Boeing Corp. They are inland from the border by many miles. The high powered cameras can swivel 360 degrees. The price of freedom indeed.
Standing on the side of the road as the Border Patrol arrested a family. I had very mixed feelings about our role there. I believe that observing the Border Patrol is a good way to ensure that the rights of the people being arrested are not being violated. But what about when it turns the people themselves into a spectacle?
A road spike that we found while walking down the highway. Border Patrol will get into high speed pursuits with vehicles. As a way to lessen injury to bystanders they will lay spike strips down on the highway. Sometimes the vehicle fleeing is packed with drugs. On many other occasions it is packed with people. I don't need to tell you what happens when an SUV filled beyond capacity hits a spike strip and rolls over at 80 mph.
Everything about this picture amazes me. The clouds opening up. E's beard. That weird glint on his glasses. By far the best thing about the trail was all of the unbelievable people that I met.
On the road again.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
"I let you down, forgive me. I'm a puppy for your love. Forgive me, yeah."*
Well, that just about says it. I'm sorry. I'm writing this several weeks (one month even?) after I promised a post on my migrant trail experience. I think we all know how that turned out.
So once again, I'm sorry. And I think I owe you an explanation as well.
Since I last saw all of you on the internets I have been waging a massive campaign to enjoy life in the summer. The score so far is Aaron: 1 Boredom: 0.
I spent a solid two weeks in Colorado, marrying Bryce off to the lovely Mrs. Kate Perica, climbing mountains, eating Mexican food (not sick of it yet!), and staying up until all hours of the morning (the main culprits for that being Guitar Hero:II and Erik Haagenson).
And now I'm back in the saddle at F de Cristo in good old DouglaPrieta, Sonorizona.
For the record, blogger has a great deal of explaining to do as well. I tried to post about a) the migrant trail, b) why I hadn't posted about the migrant trail, or c) my mohawk (pictures coming soon) several times, but each time it was freaking out and wouldn't let me. Don't worry we've reconciled.
One final thought before I go. Today is the first day that I have sat down to read my blog roll in about a month. In the physical presence of one another, our little bloggermunity has done almost no posting. I think that's great.
*The title comes from the one and only Dave Matthews. Dave Matthews+Colorado+Summer= Love
So once again, I'm sorry. And I think I owe you an explanation as well.
Since I last saw all of you on the internets I have been waging a massive campaign to enjoy life in the summer. The score so far is Aaron: 1 Boredom: 0.
I spent a solid two weeks in Colorado, marrying Bryce off to the lovely Mrs. Kate Perica, climbing mountains, eating Mexican food (not sick of it yet!), and staying up until all hours of the morning (the main culprits for that being Guitar Hero:II and Erik Haagenson).
And now I'm back in the saddle at F de Cristo in good old DouglaPrieta, Sonorizona.
For the record, blogger has a great deal of explaining to do as well. I tried to post about a) the migrant trail, b) why I hadn't posted about the migrant trail, or c) my mohawk (pictures coming soon) several times, but each time it was freaking out and wouldn't let me. Don't worry we've reconciled.
One final thought before I go. Today is the first day that I have sat down to read my blog roll in about a month. In the physical presence of one another, our little bloggermunity has done almost no posting. I think that's great.
*The title comes from the one and only Dave Matthews. Dave Matthews+Colorado+Summer= Love
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Feminism: Helping me to procrastinate talking about my 80 miles in the desert.
Thanks feminism!
This is yet one more fantastic present brought to you by the one and only Andrew Sullivan. I love him more and more all the time. Except for when I disagree with him completely.
It's not the shortest article ever written, but I highly recommend it if you have a few minutes to spare. Come on, you know you do. The article is a reflection piece written by Megan Stack, a writer and bureau chief for the Los Angeles Times, looking back on her time spent in Saudi Arabia and her place there as a woman.
What first caught my attention to the piece was the combination of feminism and Andrew's criticism of Starbucks:
"The multinational company acquiesces in and enforces the oppression and segregation of women."
And it is more than a valid point. Would you still shop at a company that served African Americans in the back? What about a company that wouldn't let Jews in the front door? Of course not. The greatest argument for the existence of feminism is the fact that my friends who work at Starbucks will not immediately quit their jobs, and many of you reading will still go and buy a latte there. Of course the issue is not that simple, but stop and let this sink in: we will still go to Starbucks, a company that won't serve half of the population in the same way as the other half. They still do business, and make a profit, in Saudi Arabia. The parallels to Jim Crow, apartheid, and Nazi Germany are more than uncomfortably close. It is both tremendously sad and unbelievably revolting.
And clearly my pleasure at seeing a little Starbucks bashing was anything but secret.
There is a question I must ask myself in this as well. I don't shop at Starbucks or drink their coffee, but am I blameless? If I have chided Starbucks as a company who will gladly look the other way in the face of sexism, is Just Coffee, my coffee company of choice, able to withstand the same scrutiny? Sadly, I believe that the answer is a very complicated "sort of."
Just Coffee, in all honesty, is a company of men. It is not a company of all male employees, but it is a company of all male owners. Why is that? Well, it really boils down to gender roles in Chiapas. Men are the coffee farmers, simple as that. This is not true in all parts of the world (where women farmers greatly outnumber men), but it is true in Chiapas. Women help at times, but are more likely to be found preparing food, caring for children, or working around the house. So even though these women benefit from the higher price and health benefits that come from Just Coffee, they don't really have a voice at the table in terms of voting. They don't really come to the meetings of the directors. That's not to say that they don't have a "presence" (any married person will tell you that's simply not possible), but that's sort of the same argument that is used in the article to say that women don't need to be able to vote in state elections. Not very comforting, I know.
Does this mean that I don't support Just Coffee? Well, no, not at all. I still love the people, the company, the coffee, and the model. Reality, as always, is more complicated than theory. The business of living in Chiapas requires more intentional effort than it does here. More time cooking and cleaning and all of that good stuff. Life is a partnership, and the contributions of women are tremendously important. And in the face of migration, gender lines become more than a little bit blurred. Once again, this is clearly not a simple issue. Ask any feminist about the tension between cultural sensitivity and women's rights and you'll see the blood start to quicken in their veins.
Culture, history, and economics, all embedded with some degree of sexism, have come together to make men the coffee farmers in Chiapas. Is that wrong? Not necessarily. The goal must never be to tell all people what to do, but to increase their ability to make good choices freely. But it would be better if women had more choices, and especially if they had more say. What is my repsonsibility to try and make that more of a reality? I'm not sure about that either. But I think it is important to ask these questions, and to be honest when things make us uncomfortable. I think this issue pales in comparison to Starbucks in Saudi Arabia, but it is by no means a non-issue. It is important, however, to call a good thing a good thing. Starbucks health benefits in the U.S. are a good thing. And Just Coffee is a good thing. But so is honest self-reflection.
Feminism is a great thing.
The desert post and pictures are coming. I promise.
This is yet one more fantastic present brought to you by the one and only Andrew Sullivan. I love him more and more all the time. Except for when I disagree with him completely.
It's not the shortest article ever written, but I highly recommend it if you have a few minutes to spare. Come on, you know you do. The article is a reflection piece written by Megan Stack, a writer and bureau chief for the Los Angeles Times, looking back on her time spent in Saudi Arabia and her place there as a woman.
What first caught my attention to the piece was the combination of feminism and Andrew's criticism of Starbucks:
"The multinational company acquiesces in and enforces the oppression and segregation of women."
And it is more than a valid point. Would you still shop at a company that served African Americans in the back? What about a company that wouldn't let Jews in the front door? Of course not. The greatest argument for the existence of feminism is the fact that my friends who work at Starbucks will not immediately quit their jobs, and many of you reading will still go and buy a latte there. Of course the issue is not that simple, but stop and let this sink in: we will still go to Starbucks, a company that won't serve half of the population in the same way as the other half. They still do business, and make a profit, in Saudi Arabia. The parallels to Jim Crow, apartheid, and Nazi Germany are more than uncomfortably close. It is both tremendously sad and unbelievably revolting.
And clearly my pleasure at seeing a little Starbucks bashing was anything but secret.
There is a question I must ask myself in this as well. I don't shop at Starbucks or drink their coffee, but am I blameless? If I have chided Starbucks as a company who will gladly look the other way in the face of sexism, is Just Coffee, my coffee company of choice, able to withstand the same scrutiny? Sadly, I believe that the answer is a very complicated "sort of."
Just Coffee, in all honesty, is a company of men. It is not a company of all male employees, but it is a company of all male owners. Why is that? Well, it really boils down to gender roles in Chiapas. Men are the coffee farmers, simple as that. This is not true in all parts of the world (where women farmers greatly outnumber men), but it is true in Chiapas. Women help at times, but are more likely to be found preparing food, caring for children, or working around the house. So even though these women benefit from the higher price and health benefits that come from Just Coffee, they don't really have a voice at the table in terms of voting. They don't really come to the meetings of the directors. That's not to say that they don't have a "presence" (any married person will tell you that's simply not possible), but that's sort of the same argument that is used in the article to say that women don't need to be able to vote in state elections. Not very comforting, I know.
Does this mean that I don't support Just Coffee? Well, no, not at all. I still love the people, the company, the coffee, and the model. Reality, as always, is more complicated than theory. The business of living in Chiapas requires more intentional effort than it does here. More time cooking and cleaning and all of that good stuff. Life is a partnership, and the contributions of women are tremendously important. And in the face of migration, gender lines become more than a little bit blurred. Once again, this is clearly not a simple issue. Ask any feminist about the tension between cultural sensitivity and women's rights and you'll see the blood start to quicken in their veins.
Culture, history, and economics, all embedded with some degree of sexism, have come together to make men the coffee farmers in Chiapas. Is that wrong? Not necessarily. The goal must never be to tell all people what to do, but to increase their ability to make good choices freely. But it would be better if women had more choices, and especially if they had more say. What is my repsonsibility to try and make that more of a reality? I'm not sure about that either. But I think it is important to ask these questions, and to be honest when things make us uncomfortable. I think this issue pales in comparison to Starbucks in Saudi Arabia, but it is by no means a non-issue. It is important, however, to call a good thing a good thing. Starbucks health benefits in the U.S. are a good thing. And Just Coffee is a good thing. But so is honest self-reflection.
Feminism is a great thing.
The desert post and pictures are coming. I promise.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Here I am again, back where I began.
Try as I may I can't get away from you.
And all of these roads lead me to roam, bring me back home.
Here I am again, right where I began.
-Caedmon's Call
I won't be posting here for more than a week. I had hoped to get a big post up about Michael Pollan before I left but I don't think it's going to happen.
Tomorrow I will be participating in a Christian Peacemaker Team action at the U.S./Mexican border. We are going to pray, paint the fence with crosses for people who have died, and be "present" with God. I'm looking forward to it.
After that I am heading up to Tucson for a house warming party, to pick up supplies for the Migrant Resource Center, and to prepare for next week. On Monday I start a seven day, seventy-five mile trip from the Mexican town of Sasabe back up to Tucson. Walking. About 50 people are coming together to participate in the Migrant Trail. We'll walk between ten and twenty miles every day, mostly in the early morning, and hide from the sun all afternoon long.
The point is not to actually experience the life of a migrant, but to remind people that this is a trip that thousands of people start every single day.
I'm excited for everything but the blisters.
I hope to have pictures of it to post when I get back.
And all of these roads lead me to roam, bring me back home.
Here I am again, right where I began.
-Caedmon's Call
I won't be posting here for more than a week. I had hoped to get a big post up about Michael Pollan before I left but I don't think it's going to happen.
Tomorrow I will be participating in a Christian Peacemaker Team action at the U.S./Mexican border. We are going to pray, paint the fence with crosses for people who have died, and be "present" with God. I'm looking forward to it.
After that I am heading up to Tucson for a house warming party, to pick up supplies for the Migrant Resource Center, and to prepare for next week. On Monday I start a seven day, seventy-five mile trip from the Mexican town of Sasabe back up to Tucson. Walking. About 50 people are coming together to participate in the Migrant Trail. We'll walk between ten and twenty miles every day, mostly in the early morning, and hide from the sun all afternoon long.
The point is not to actually experience the life of a migrant, but to remind people that this is a trip that thousands of people start every single day.
I'm excited for everything but the blisters.
I hope to have pictures of it to post when I get back.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
What say you, and all your friends, meet all of my friends in the alley tonight?
A week ago today a team of hit men and enforcers from a drug cartel here in Mexico attacked a police armory in Cananea, a city in Sonora about 50 miles from Agua Prieta. After overwhelming (and killing) some of the officers on duty, the group left the armory with an unspecified amount of stolen weaponry and fled the city. On the way out of town they encountered and murdered four more police officers. They were chased, and eventually cornered, at a ranch in Sonora by members of the Mexican police and the Mexican military. All told, 22 people died.
There are many things that I could say about this event. It is clearly a tragic loss of human life. It is quite shocking that it took place in the state of Sonora. Violence like this is, unfortunately, not unheard of and in some cases quite common. States like Sinaloa and cities like Tijuana might as well be in Iraq. But Sonora has never really seen all out war between the drug cartels and the police. It is just one more sign that the long history of drug violence in Mexico is spiraling out of control.
On Friday a rumor was circulating the borderlands that another team of cartel members was headed to the town of Naco, Sonora. Naco is the next town over from Agua Prieta, a little pueblo that doesn't even have a gas station but does have an incredible amount of drug smuggling. The response to that rumor in Agua Prieta was, understandably, widespread panic. Schools were closed, the border was shut down temporarily, and people stayed off the streets well into the night.
All of this has left me feeling deeply unsettled.
In the midst of this violence my thoughts have been primarily selfish. I have thought little of the families that lost loved ones, or of the places in Mexico (and around the world) where violence like this is so common. Instead I have spent a great deal of time dwelling on a feeling that I have been unable to shake, a voice in the back of my head that refuses to go away. Even in Tucson, away from the border and doing more "normal things," I could not take my mind off the killings. And all of this navel gazing has left me chasing tangents through my mind, searching for the thought that might pull all of these strands together. I remembered my pothead high school friends and our ignorance about the true cost of getting stoned. I thought about the war on drugs and the morality of allowing legal drug use. I thought about the violence that profitable smuggling has unleashed. I thought about friends who are addicts, and all of my time spent in Skid Row. And I thought about the cost of securing our borders from drugs, in money and in human life.
I spent almost a week wandering in the cloudiness of my thoughts before dawn finally broke. The thing that has made me so deeply unsettled by these killings is not the loss of human life, although that is clearly tragic. What was so unsettling, and what continues to trouble me, was how quickly and easily my relationship to violence changed when I was confronted with the possibility that I might not be safe. Let me explain.
Since I have been in Agua Prieta, many people have been killed. The police chief, a reporter, a migrant, and an untold number of lesser "thugs," have all fallen victim to the violence that is laced into the fabric of the borderlands. In spite of these murders, I have never felt truly afraid. A man was beaten to death in a remote place that I visit every single week, but I do not hesitate to continue my trips there. I have almost no fear that I might meet the same fate.
This sense of security is a luxury afforded to me by my secret love of violence. I know in my heart of hearts that it will keep me safe. In the past I have justified my sense of security by saying that I am safe because I stay away from trouble. And it's true, I do stay away from trouble. I don't smuggle drugs, or spend time with people who do. But there is another, greater truth that I have protectecd myself from. I am convinced that I will be safe because I believe that violence has the power to protect me. I believe that, as a U.S. citizen, I can cross the border and be protected. I can depend upon the literally thousands of U.S. government employees running around in the desert to keep the "bad people" from me. I can trust their guns.
When I am in the desert, or in Agua Prieta for that matter, I can trust my whiteness to keep violence at bay. I know that killing me is bad for business. Kill a Mexican? Happens all the time. Kill a white kid doing humanitarian work? Doesn't look good for you. Whether it is the Mexicans or the Americans, I know that the threat of violence from the government keeps me safe.
So I complain about all of the Border Patrol agents here, not because I want just anyone to be able to walk into the U.S. anytime they want to, but because I hate the migrant deaths. I complain about all the guns on the border, not because I love the drug smuggling, but because sometimes those guns are used to kill innocent people. But when it comes down to it, I love my own safety, and the violence that protects it, more than I love the lives of other people.
And I trust violence more than I trust God. When it came down to my own safety, I gave up my belief that God is powerful, and I worshipped violence instead. "Thank God," I thought, "for all of those men with guns."
Violence is my golden calf. Is it yours?
There are many things that I could say about this event. It is clearly a tragic loss of human life. It is quite shocking that it took place in the state of Sonora. Violence like this is, unfortunately, not unheard of and in some cases quite common. States like Sinaloa and cities like Tijuana might as well be in Iraq. But Sonora has never really seen all out war between the drug cartels and the police. It is just one more sign that the long history of drug violence in Mexico is spiraling out of control.
On Friday a rumor was circulating the borderlands that another team of cartel members was headed to the town of Naco, Sonora. Naco is the next town over from Agua Prieta, a little pueblo that doesn't even have a gas station but does have an incredible amount of drug smuggling. The response to that rumor in Agua Prieta was, understandably, widespread panic. Schools were closed, the border was shut down temporarily, and people stayed off the streets well into the night.
All of this has left me feeling deeply unsettled.
In the midst of this violence my thoughts have been primarily selfish. I have thought little of the families that lost loved ones, or of the places in Mexico (and around the world) where violence like this is so common. Instead I have spent a great deal of time dwelling on a feeling that I have been unable to shake, a voice in the back of my head that refuses to go away. Even in Tucson, away from the border and doing more "normal things," I could not take my mind off the killings. And all of this navel gazing has left me chasing tangents through my mind, searching for the thought that might pull all of these strands together. I remembered my pothead high school friends and our ignorance about the true cost of getting stoned. I thought about the war on drugs and the morality of allowing legal drug use. I thought about the violence that profitable smuggling has unleashed. I thought about friends who are addicts, and all of my time spent in Skid Row. And I thought about the cost of securing our borders from drugs, in money and in human life.
I spent almost a week wandering in the cloudiness of my thoughts before dawn finally broke. The thing that has made me so deeply unsettled by these killings is not the loss of human life, although that is clearly tragic. What was so unsettling, and what continues to trouble me, was how quickly and easily my relationship to violence changed when I was confronted with the possibility that I might not be safe. Let me explain.
Since I have been in Agua Prieta, many people have been killed. The police chief, a reporter, a migrant, and an untold number of lesser "thugs," have all fallen victim to the violence that is laced into the fabric of the borderlands. In spite of these murders, I have never felt truly afraid. A man was beaten to death in a remote place that I visit every single week, but I do not hesitate to continue my trips there. I have almost no fear that I might meet the same fate.
This sense of security is a luxury afforded to me by my secret love of violence. I know in my heart of hearts that it will keep me safe. In the past I have justified my sense of security by saying that I am safe because I stay away from trouble. And it's true, I do stay away from trouble. I don't smuggle drugs, or spend time with people who do. But there is another, greater truth that I have protectecd myself from. I am convinced that I will be safe because I believe that violence has the power to protect me. I believe that, as a U.S. citizen, I can cross the border and be protected. I can depend upon the literally thousands of U.S. government employees running around in the desert to keep the "bad people" from me. I can trust their guns.
When I am in the desert, or in Agua Prieta for that matter, I can trust my whiteness to keep violence at bay. I know that killing me is bad for business. Kill a Mexican? Happens all the time. Kill a white kid doing humanitarian work? Doesn't look good for you. Whether it is the Mexicans or the Americans, I know that the threat of violence from the government keeps me safe.
So I complain about all of the Border Patrol agents here, not because I want just anyone to be able to walk into the U.S. anytime they want to, but because I hate the migrant deaths. I complain about all the guns on the border, not because I love the drug smuggling, but because sometimes those guns are used to kill innocent people. But when it comes down to it, I love my own safety, and the violence that protects it, more than I love the lives of other people.
And I trust violence more than I trust God. When it came down to my own safety, I gave up my belief that God is powerful, and I worshipped violence instead. "Thank God," I thought, "for all of those men with guns."
Violence is my golden calf. Is it yours?
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