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.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Thursday, November 29, 2007
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, 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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.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, 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?
Friday, May 18, 2007
Double-Double (Animal Style), Fries, and A Chocolate Shake
I'm in Tucson right now to drop off one of our volunteers at the airport. I'm staying for the weekend because:
A) Saves the Day is playing a show here tomorrow, my first show since last summer's The Format/Anathallo tour. Saves is one of my top ten favorite bands ever. Here's a classic from Through Being Cool, "Shoulder to the Wheel."
and
B) In-N-Out Burger opened a restaurant in Tucson. Apparently the line is over an hour long. I'm going right now, and bringing a book.
Mmmm. It's been far too long.
A) Saves the Day is playing a show here tomorrow, my first show since last summer's The Format/Anathallo tour. Saves is one of my top ten favorite bands ever. Here's a classic from Through Being Cool, "Shoulder to the Wheel."
and
B) In-N-Out Burger opened a restaurant in Tucson. Apparently the line is over an hour long. I'm going right now, and bringing a book.
Mmmm. It's been far too long.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
PG-13 Blogging: Some Mild Sexual Content
"Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol plays on MTV Mexico in the background of the restaurant.
Friend: Ugh. Why do people like this song?
Me: Sabe. (Spanish for "who knows?")
Friend: It's on all of the time.
Me: Yeah, I just don't get it. It's not even catchy. Just...long and boring.
Friend: I have a theory about this actually, but it's very Freudian.
Me: Freudian?
Friend: Yeah, I developed it after Death Cab's "Transatlanticism" became really popular.
Me: I like that album. And I really like that song.
Friend: Me too, but it's very Freudian.
Me: Ok, explain.
Friend: People like things that are very repetitive and then climax.
Me: Hahahahahahaha
Friend: Ugh. Why do people like this song?
Me: Sabe. (Spanish for "who knows?")
Friend: It's on all of the time.
Me: Yeah, I just don't get it. It's not even catchy. Just...long and boring.
Friend: I have a theory about this actually, but it's very Freudian.
Me: Freudian?
Friend: Yeah, I developed it after Death Cab's "Transatlanticism" became really popular.
Me: I like that album. And I really like that song.
Friend: Me too, but it's very Freudian.
Me: Ok, explain.
Friend: People like things that are very repetitive and then climax.
Me: Hahahahahahaha
Monday, May 14, 2007
"It sounds prettier in Spanish"
Spanish is really the only language that I've ever tried to learn. I suppose that I learned a little bit of German over the years, and a passable amount of Lugandan considering how many people around me could speak English, but Spanish is the language that has been with me for more than a decade. And I'm finally becoming pretty decent at it.
I am still far from fluent, but I have gotten to the point that I can understand, more or less, more than 90% of what is said to me. More importantly, I can joke around with people and figure out what's supposed to be funny when people are joking around with me.
And I can finally appreciate what a fun and beautiful language that it is. I find myself so intrigued and entertained by the way different words translate, the phrases that I have learned, and the rhythm of speaking in a tongue that flows much more smoothly than the one I grew up with.
Here's a little Spanish lesson for you.
Try this one: "taco de ojo," (ta-ko deh o-ho)which, translated literally, means "eye taco." In the U.S. we would use the expression "eye candy." An "eye taco." I love it.
ex: Who him? Nah, no brains, he's just an eye taco.
Or how about my new favorite verb, "enchilarse?" Enchilarse means, literally, "to chile one's self."
ex: Waiter, please bring me some hot sauce, I'd like to chili myself.
It's a very intimate language as well. For example, if you want to say "my son" in Spanish the exact translation is "mi hijo," (me e-ho) but the version that everyone uses in Agua Prieta is the shortened "mijo" (me-ho). My favorite part is that it can be used for people who are not your children. Lots of people call me mijo, and I call lots of little kids mijo/mija.
ex: Did you hurt yourself mijo?
My favorite linguistic moments in Spanish usually have to do with God, though. Take the word pastor for example. In Spanish, "pastor" (paz-stor) is exactly the same as it is in English(albeit with a different pronunciation), but unlike in English its literal meaning is "shepard." So Pastor Glenn is literally Shepard Glenn. I think that's so cool.
Another really great one is the verb "amor." In English, love gets used for everything (my car, my sister, my vacation), but in Spanish "amor" is only possible between people or with God.
And then there is the concept of Grace. In Spanish, asking God to forgive you means saying "perdoname," literally, pardon me. Think about what we use pardon for in English. And the word for mercy, "misericordia," literally has the root of the word misery in it. Perfect.
I am still far from fluent, but I have gotten to the point that I can understand, more or less, more than 90% of what is said to me. More importantly, I can joke around with people and figure out what's supposed to be funny when people are joking around with me.
And I can finally appreciate what a fun and beautiful language that it is. I find myself so intrigued and entertained by the way different words translate, the phrases that I have learned, and the rhythm of speaking in a tongue that flows much more smoothly than the one I grew up with.
Here's a little Spanish lesson for you.
Try this one: "taco de ojo," (ta-ko deh o-ho)which, translated literally, means "eye taco." In the U.S. we would use the expression "eye candy." An "eye taco." I love it.
ex: Who him? Nah, no brains, he's just an eye taco.
Or how about my new favorite verb, "enchilarse?" Enchilarse means, literally, "to chile one's self."
ex: Waiter, please bring me some hot sauce, I'd like to chili myself.
It's a very intimate language as well. For example, if you want to say "my son" in Spanish the exact translation is "mi hijo," (me e-ho) but the version that everyone uses in Agua Prieta is the shortened "mijo" (me-ho). My favorite part is that it can be used for people who are not your children. Lots of people call me mijo, and I call lots of little kids mijo/mija.
ex: Did you hurt yourself mijo?
My favorite linguistic moments in Spanish usually have to do with God, though. Take the word pastor for example. In Spanish, "pastor" (paz-stor) is exactly the same as it is in English(albeit with a different pronunciation), but unlike in English its literal meaning is "shepard." So Pastor Glenn is literally Shepard Glenn. I think that's so cool.
Another really great one is the verb "amor." In English, love gets used for everything (my car, my sister, my vacation), but in Spanish "amor" is only possible between people or with God.
And then there is the concept of Grace. In Spanish, asking God to forgive you means saying "perdoname," literally, pardon me. Think about what we use pardon for in English. And the word for mercy, "misericordia," literally has the root of the word misery in it. Perfect.
Friday, May 11, 2007
High Fructose Corn Syrup Will Never Taste As Sweet to Me Again
So this is a little hat tip to something that I've been obsessing over lately and even discussing with some of my friends (hello Evangelical Environmental Network!). While working down here on the border I have become (even more) fascinated by the interconnectedness of our world. I have spent so much time this year thinking about the ways in which migration, economics, agriculture, the environment, etc. are all linked to one another. And this great article, written by Michael Pollan, talks about just that.
To try and cut down on the length of this post (and therefore increase your likelihood of reading it) I'm going to do this in two parts. I'm pasting the article below for your reading pleasure (it can also be found right here in a more legal setting). A few days from now (give or take) I'm going to be writing a little follow-up piece with some further thoughts and a few more links to make this conversation more interesting.
By MICHAEL POLLAN
Published: April 22, 2007
The New York Times Magazine
A few years ago, an obesity researcher at the University of Washington named Adam Drewnowski ventured into the supermarket to solve a mystery. He wanted to figure out why it is that the most reliable predictor of obesity in America today is a person's wealth. For most of history, after all, the poor have typically suffered from a shortage of calories, not a surfeit. So how is it that today the people with the least amount of money to spend on food are the ones most likely to be overweight?
Drewnowski gave himself a hypothetical dollar to spend, using it to purchase as many calories as he possibly could. He discovered that he could buy the most calories per dollar in the middle aisles of the supermarket, among the towering canyons of processed food and soft drink. (In the typical American supermarket, the fresh foods — dairy, meat, fish and produce — line the perimeter walls, while the imperishable packaged goods dominate the center.) Drewnowski found that a dollar could buy 1,200 calories of cookies or potato chips but only 250 calories of carrots. Looking for something to wash down those chips, he discovered that his dollar bought 875 calories of soda but only 170 calories of orange juice.
As a rule, processed foods are more "energy dense" than fresh foods: they contain less water and fiber but more added fat and sugar, which makes them both less filling and more fattening. These particular calories also happen to be the least healthful ones in the marketplace, which is why we call the foods that contain them "junk." Drewnowski concluded that the rules of the food game in America are organized in such a way that if you are eating on a budget, the most rational economic strategy is to eat badly — and get fat.
This perverse state of affairs is not, as you might think, the inevitable result of the free market. Compared with a bunch of carrots, a package of Twinkies, to take one iconic processed foodlike substance as an example, is a highly complicated, high-tech piece of manufacture, involving no fewer than 39 ingredients, many themselves elaborately manufactured, as well as the packaging and a hefty marketing budget. So how can the supermarket possibly sell a pair of these synthetic cream-filled pseudocakes for less than a bunch of roots?
For the answer, you need look no farther than the farm bill. This resolutely unglamorous and head-hurtingly complicated piece of legislation, which comes around roughly every five years and is about to do so again, sets the rules for the American food system — indeed, to a considerable extent, for the world's food system. Among other things, it determines which crops will be subsidized and which will not, and in the case of the carrot and the Twinkie, the farm bill as currently written offers a lot more support to the cake than to the root. Like most processed foods, the Twinkie is basically a clever arrangement of carbohydrates and fats teased out of corn, soybeans and wheat — three of the five commodity crops that the farm bill supports, to the tune of some $25 billion a year. (Rice and cotton are the others.) For the last several decades — indeed, for about as long as the American waistline has been ballooning — U.S. agricultural policy has been designed in such a way as to promote the overproduction of these five commodities, especially corn and soy.
That's because the current farm bill helps commodity farmers by cutting them a check based on how many bushels they can grow, rather than, say, by supporting prices and limiting production, as farm bills once did. The result? A food system awash in added sugars (derived from corn) and added fats (derived mainly from soy), as well as dirt-cheap meat and milk (derived from both). By comparison, the farm bill does almost nothing to support farmers growing fresh produce. A result of these policy choices is on stark display in your supermarket, where the real price of fruits and vegetables between 1985 and 2000 increased by nearly 40 percent while the real price of soft drinks (a k a liquid corn) declined by 23 percent. The reason the least healthful calories in the supermarket are the cheapest is that those are the ones the farm bill encourages farmers to grow.
A public-health researcher from Mars might legitimately wonder why a nation faced with what its surgeon general has called "an epidemic" of obesity would at the same time be in the business of subsidizing the production of high-fructose corn syrup. But such is the perversity of the farm bill: the nation's agricultural policies operate at cross-purposes with its public-health objectives. And the subsidies are only part of the problem. The farm bill helps determine what sort of food your children will have for lunch in school tomorrow. The school-lunch program began at a time when the public-health problem of America's children was undernourishment, so feeding surplus agricultural commodities to kids seemed like a win-win strategy. Today the problem is overnutrition, but a school lunch lady trying to prepare healthful fresh food is apt to get dinged by U.S.D.A. inspectors for failing to serve enough calories; if she dishes up a lunch that includes chicken nuggets and Tater Tots, however, the inspector smiles and the reimbursements flow. The farm bill essentially treats our children as a human Disposall for all the unhealthful calories that the farm bill has encouraged American farmers to overproduce.
To speak of the farm bill's influence on the American food system does not begin to describe its full impact — on the environment, on global poverty, even on immigration. By making it possible for American farmers to sell their crops abroad for considerably less than it costs to grow them, the farm bill helps determine the price of corn in Mexico and the price of cotton in Nigeria and therefore whether farmers in those places will survive or be forced off the land, to migrate to the cities — or to the United States. The flow of immigrants north from Mexico since Nafta is inextricably linked to the flow of American corn in the opposite direction, a flood of subsidized grain that the Mexican government estimates has thrown two million Mexican farmers and other agricultural workers off the land since the mid-90s. (More recently, the ethanol boom has led to a spike in corn prices that has left that country reeling from soaring tortilla prices; linking its corn economy to ours has been an unalloyed disaster for Mexico's eaters as well as its farmers.) You can't fully comprehend the pressures driving immigration without comprehending what U.S. agricultural policy is doing to rural agriculture in Mexico.
And though we don't ordinarily think of the farm bill in these terms, few pieces of legislation have as profound an impact on the American landscape and environment. Americans may tell themselves they don't have a national land-use policy, that the market by and large decides what happens on private property in America, but that's not exactly true. The smorgasbord of incentives and disincentives built into the farm bill helps decide what happens on nearly half of the private land in America: whether it will be farmed or left wild, whether it will be managed to maximize productivity (and therefore doused with chemicals) or to promote environmental stewardship. The health of the American soil, the purity of its water, the biodiversity and the very look of its landscape owe in no small part to impenetrable titles, programs and formulae buried deep in the farm bill.
Given all this, you would think the farm-bill debate would engage the nation's political passions every five years, but that hasn't been the case. If the quintennial antidrama of the "farm bill debate" holds true to form this year, a handful of farm-state legislators will thrash out the mind-numbing details behind closed doors, with virtually nobody else, either in Congress or in the media, paying much attention. Why? Because most of us assume that, true to its name, the farm bill is about "farming," an increasingly quaint activity that involves no one we know and in which few of us think we have a stake. This leaves our own representatives free to ignore the farm bill, to treat it as a parochial piece of legislation affecting a handful of their Midwestern colleagues. Since we aren't paying attention, they pay no political price for trading, or even selling, their farm-bill votes. The fact that the bill is deeply encrusted with incomprehensible jargon and prehensile programs dating back to the 1930s makes it almost impossible for the average legislator to understand the bill should he or she try to, much less the average citizen. It's doubtful this is an accident.
But there are signs this year will be different. The public-health community has come to recognize it can't hope to address obesity and diabetes without addressing the farm bill. The environmental community recognizes that as long as we have a farm bill that promotes chemical and feedlot agriculture, clean water will remain a pipe dream. The development community has woken up to the fact that global poverty can't be fought without confronting the ways the farm bill depresses world crop prices. They got a boost from a 2004 ruling by the World Trade Organization that U.S. cotton subsidies are illegal; most observers think that challenges to similar subsidies for corn, soy, wheat or rice would also prevail.
And then there are the eaters, people like you and me, increasingly concerned, if not restive, about the quality of the food on offer in America. A grass-roots social movement is gathering around food issues today, and while it is still somewhat inchoate, the manifestations are everywhere: in local efforts to get vending machines out of the schools and to improve school lunch; in local campaigns to fight feedlots and to force food companies to better the lives of animals in agriculture; in the spectacular growth of the market for organic food and the revival of local food systems. In great and growing numbers, people are voting with their forks for a different sort of food system. But as powerful as the food consumer is — it was that consumer, after all, who built a $15 billion organic-food industry and more than doubled the number of farmer's markets in the last few years — voting with our forks can advance reform only so far. It can't, for example, change the fact that the system is rigged to make the most unhealthful calories in the marketplace the only ones the poor can afford. To change that, people will have to vote with their votes as well — which is to say, they will have to wade into the muddy political waters of agricultural policy.
Doing so starts with the recognition that the "farm bill" is a misnomer; in truth, it is a food bill and so needs to be rewritten with the interests of eaters placed first. Yes, there are eaters who think it in their interest that food just be as cheap as possible, no matter how poor the quality. But there are many more who recognize the real cost of artificially cheap food — to their health, to the land, to the animals, to the public purse. At a minimum, these eaters want a bill that aligns agricultural policy with our public-health and environmental values, one with incentives to produce food cleanly, sustainably and humanely. Eaters want a bill that makes the most healthful calories in the supermarket competitive with the least healthful ones. Eaters want a bill that feeds schoolchildren fresh food from local farms rather than processed surplus commodities from far away. Enlightened eaters also recognize their dependence on farmers, which is why they would support a bill that guarantees the people who raise our food not subsidies but fair prices. Why? Because they prefer to live in a country that can still produce its own food and doesn't hurt the world's farmers by dumping its surplus crops on their markets.
The devil is in the details, no doubt. Simply eliminating support for farmers won't solve these problems; overproduction has afflicted agriculture since long before modern subsidies. It will take some imaginative policy making to figure out how to encourage farmers to focus on taking care of the land rather than all-out production, on growing real food for eaters rather than industrial raw materials for food processors and on rebuilding local food economies, which the current farm bill hobbles. But the guiding principle behind an eater's farm bill could not be more straightforward: it's one that changes the rules of the game so as to promote the quality of our food (and farming) over and above its quantity.
Such changes are radical only by the standards of past farm bills, which have faithfully reflected the priorities of the agribusiness interests that wrote them. One of these years, the eaters of America are going to demand a place at the table, and we will have the political debate over food policy we need and deserve. This could prove to be that year: the year when the farm bill became a food bill, and the eaters at last had their say.
Michael Pollan, a contributing writer, is the Knight professor of journalism at the University of California, Berkeley. His most recent book is "The Omnivore's Dilemma."
(In the photo: Michael Pollan in all his glory)
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Despierta Mama, Despierta
It's Mother's Day here in Mexico. Quite a celebration, let me tell you. Last night the jovenes group from the church (jovenes being high school to twentysomethings) set out to do a little late night serenading in the streets of Agua Prieta. Armed with two busted up guitars, some hand written lyrics sheets, a list of Mexican Mamas, and a few flashlights, three cars set out to wake up all the women of the church with off key singing and the promise of group hugs. 3:30 in the morning later I finally made it to bed, surprised by how quickly I have adjusted to a post college life (well before 2:00 a.m., my former bedtime, I was way past still wanting to be awake). I managed to confuse some of my Mexican (and American) friends yet again last night by being both very detached socially and also willing to sing quite loudly. A sure sign that it's time for a nap.
I have been really fortunate this year to take part in a whole mess of Mexican customs that I didn't understand or know anything about prior to arriving at the border. A lot of people have been very gracious by opening up their homes to me and letting me share a small part of their lives with them. This was one of those times.
I thought about calling my own mother to wake her up for some singing, but in the end decided that muffled and incomprehensible noises at two in the morning might not be the most compelling way to tell her how much I appreciate her. But there's always next year.
I have been really fortunate this year to take part in a whole mess of Mexican customs that I didn't understand or know anything about prior to arriving at the border. A lot of people have been very gracious by opening up their homes to me and letting me share a small part of their lives with them. This was one of those times.
I thought about calling my own mother to wake her up for some singing, but in the end decided that muffled and incomprehensible noises at two in the morning might not be the most compelling way to tell her how much I appreciate her. But there's always next year.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Death season.
Yesterday I was digging around my comptuer for pictures of the Migrant Resource Center when I found this map. It's a map of migrant deaths from the year 2003. Sorry that the graphic is so small. If you click on the map you should be able to see a full size image.
Sometimes I worry that my posts here are too negative (edit: especially recently), or that there are too many negative posts and not enough of the positive. There's so much hope down here, but it's a lot harder to share over the internet.
That being said, we're now entering the "death season" (hence the title of the post). Heat, more than anything else down here, kills. It was a colder than normal winter, I'm praying that the summer stays cool as well.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
The Quarter Life: Romantic Relationships Rd. 2
My great friend Mike wrote a really amazing piece for the last Quarter Life. Check it out here.
After writing my last installment of The Quarter Life I got a comment from my friend Lexie asking me to answer some questions she had about that post. Here are a few of my thoughts. Anything for a friend, Lex.
I think that experience, the experience of ourselves in a relationship, and the experience of an intimate encounter with another person, is probably the strongest argument out there for why dating is a fantastic idea. I have learned a great deal about myself from dating. I have also learned a tremendous amount about women/men/God/life/love/etc. from dating, much more than I could ever possibly relate to you here. And learning for learning's sake, as any liberal arts grad will tell you, is a very good thing. Unfortunately, most of what I learned from some of those relationships was learned the hard way. And just because I learned something does not mean that those relationships were a good idea to begin with, or functional by any stretch of the imagination. Calling some of them relationships, in all honesty, might be too kind. Was some of that hardship and hurt necessary? Possibly. Immaturity, "life issues," ideas about what dating should be, etc., all played their part in making some of my past relationships memorable for all the wrong reasons. But poor choices about when and who I should date did not make things any better.
So "learning about yourself" is great, but it can be a messy and dangerous affair. Even more so if that is your primary, or only purpose, in dating that specific person. Going into a relationship (or even a date) thinking "I like them-ish," while not a sure recipe for disaster, does raise some ethical questions. Starting to date someone without a clear sense of why you are doing it or what you want out of it opens yourself up to a host of complications, but it also leaves you very much in danger of hurting the other person. Do they share your vision of dating? If not, your "learning about yourself" could be their "getting rejected by someone I really, really liked." Like I said in my last post, I don't believe that we date because we desire it, but because we must. Ideally the two coincide.
Dating in the right context is clearly very good. To put this in a somewhat (ok, very) crude manner, marriage is not a product that we should buy without shopping around a little bit first. So in that sense, I'm all for dating. I'm just not all for dating every person (or even most people) that come your way. In high school there were a few girls that I should have asked out on a date but didn't because I was afraid of rejection. Clearly that was not a healthy way to date (or, more specifically, not to date). I also dated a girl in high school that I barely knew because she came on to me very strongly (i.e. I knew that rejection wasn't likely) and that turned out, not surprisingly, very poorly. In the first example I needed more initiative, in the second, more wisdom and self-control.
I personally don't believe that a "season of dating" is a very good idea for many reasons, but for a few especially compelling ones in particular. Relationships, ideally, are special. We value our family (in many cases) more highly than our friends, and our friends more highly than our acquaintances. This formula (there's that word again) becomes more complicated when we insert Christ into our lives, but I won't go into that here. The point is that most people feel that different types of relationships are, well, different, and that some of them are more special than others. Dating should be a special act reserved for people we really care about.
The most serious problem with a season of dating, in my opinion, is the potential for that season to turn into a long-term (or even lifetime) commitment. How many people do you know who started seeing someone casually ("just to see"/hooking up at parties/season of dating/we're just friends) and just never stopped? This scenario doesn't always end badly, I can think of many happy couples who started off this way. But is it something to which we should aspire? What other major life choices do we take "just try it out" or "we'll see what happens" attitudes with? Is that how you chose a college? Plan to buy a house? This might make me conservative, but I think that dating is something to be respected and, in some sense, feared. In my experience it is much easier to never date someone at all than to stop dating them once the process has been started. And once you start dating, going back to being friends is always a difficult process. In many cases it simply doesn't work. Since most people that you will ever meet are going to be friends instead of dates, why not preserve those friendships rather than explore dating just because it's fun?
I also think that a "season of dating" sort of misses the point of a "season of not dating." At various times I have resisted the urge to enter into potentially great dating situations because of time constraints/outside pressures/personal issues/need to grow with God/whatever. But that should be the exception, not the rule. The default for any single Christian should be "available for dating," unless there is other work in your life that needs to be done. For many of us, there is. So a season of not dating is a way to recognize a unique situation and make an intentional choice about it. A season of dating, to me, seems like a license to do things that you wouldn't do otherwise. "I don't really like him that much, but I'm trying to date a lot right now." See my point? What prompts a season of dating? Why doesn't that prompt being open to dating in general, as long as the person is right?
When I think back on just my time here in Agua Prieta, let alone college, there are a number of women that I probably could have started dating at one time or another. I do not believe that any of those relationships would have been a very good choice. So my dating here has been more than conservative, it has been non-existent. But I believe it has also been the most healthy and faithful choice that I could have made. I haven't done it perfectly, but it could have been a lot worse.
I have some more thoughts that I could but I think I'll leave it at that. I'd love to hear what you (or any of you) have to say about this.
After writing my last installment of The Quarter Life I got a comment from my friend Lexie asking me to answer some questions she had about that post. Here are a few of my thoughts. Anything for a friend, Lex.
Very conservative philosophy Aaron!! This reminds me of a guy i dated in high school who broke up with me by saying "I can live without you." it made me so mad. Anyhoo, what do you think of dating just to learn more about yourself/others? Like the Townsend/McCloud philosophy? Or the idea of focusing on dating itself/trying to date a lot as a particular season, much like seasons of intentionally not dating?
I think that experience, the experience of ourselves in a relationship, and the experience of an intimate encounter with another person, is probably the strongest argument out there for why dating is a fantastic idea. I have learned a great deal about myself from dating. I have also learned a tremendous amount about women/men/God/life/love/etc. from dating, much more than I could ever possibly relate to you here. And learning for learning's sake, as any liberal arts grad will tell you, is a very good thing. Unfortunately, most of what I learned from some of those relationships was learned the hard way. And just because I learned something does not mean that those relationships were a good idea to begin with, or functional by any stretch of the imagination. Calling some of them relationships, in all honesty, might be too kind. Was some of that hardship and hurt necessary? Possibly. Immaturity, "life issues," ideas about what dating should be, etc., all played their part in making some of my past relationships memorable for all the wrong reasons. But poor choices about when and who I should date did not make things any better.
So "learning about yourself" is great, but it can be a messy and dangerous affair. Even more so if that is your primary, or only purpose, in dating that specific person. Going into a relationship (or even a date) thinking "I like them-ish," while not a sure recipe for disaster, does raise some ethical questions. Starting to date someone without a clear sense of why you are doing it or what you want out of it opens yourself up to a host of complications, but it also leaves you very much in danger of hurting the other person. Do they share your vision of dating? If not, your "learning about yourself" could be their "getting rejected by someone I really, really liked." Like I said in my last post, I don't believe that we date because we desire it, but because we must. Ideally the two coincide.
Dating in the right context is clearly very good. To put this in a somewhat (ok, very) crude manner, marriage is not a product that we should buy without shopping around a little bit first. So in that sense, I'm all for dating. I'm just not all for dating every person (or even most people) that come your way. In high school there were a few girls that I should have asked out on a date but didn't because I was afraid of rejection. Clearly that was not a healthy way to date (or, more specifically, not to date). I also dated a girl in high school that I barely knew because she came on to me very strongly (i.e. I knew that rejection wasn't likely) and that turned out, not surprisingly, very poorly. In the first example I needed more initiative, in the second, more wisdom and self-control.
I personally don't believe that a "season of dating" is a very good idea for many reasons, but for a few especially compelling ones in particular. Relationships, ideally, are special. We value our family (in many cases) more highly than our friends, and our friends more highly than our acquaintances. This formula (there's that word again) becomes more complicated when we insert Christ into our lives, but I won't go into that here. The point is that most people feel that different types of relationships are, well, different, and that some of them are more special than others. Dating should be a special act reserved for people we really care about.
The most serious problem with a season of dating, in my opinion, is the potential for that season to turn into a long-term (or even lifetime) commitment. How many people do you know who started seeing someone casually ("just to see"/hooking up at parties/season of dating/we're just friends) and just never stopped? This scenario doesn't always end badly, I can think of many happy couples who started off this way. But is it something to which we should aspire? What other major life choices do we take "just try it out" or "we'll see what happens" attitudes with? Is that how you chose a college? Plan to buy a house? This might make me conservative, but I think that dating is something to be respected and, in some sense, feared. In my experience it is much easier to never date someone at all than to stop dating them once the process has been started. And once you start dating, going back to being friends is always a difficult process. In many cases it simply doesn't work. Since most people that you will ever meet are going to be friends instead of dates, why not preserve those friendships rather than explore dating just because it's fun?
I also think that a "season of dating" sort of misses the point of a "season of not dating." At various times I have resisted the urge to enter into potentially great dating situations because of time constraints/outside pressures/personal issues/need to grow with God/whatever. But that should be the exception, not the rule. The default for any single Christian should be "available for dating," unless there is other work in your life that needs to be done. For many of us, there is. So a season of not dating is a way to recognize a unique situation and make an intentional choice about it. A season of dating, to me, seems like a license to do things that you wouldn't do otherwise. "I don't really like him that much, but I'm trying to date a lot right now." See my point? What prompts a season of dating? Why doesn't that prompt being open to dating in general, as long as the person is right?
When I think back on just my time here in Agua Prieta, let alone college, there are a number of women that I probably could have started dating at one time or another. I do not believe that any of those relationships would have been a very good choice. So my dating here has been more than conservative, it has been non-existent. But I believe it has also been the most healthy and faithful choice that I could have made. I haven't done it perfectly, but it could have been a lot worse.
I have some more thoughts that I could but I think I'll leave it at that. I'd love to hear what you (or any of you) have to say about this.
Friday, April 13, 2007
This might be the only post in the blogworld today that isn't about Don Imus.
Sorry for the prolonged absence, I have been a busy little bee this week spending all of my time hosting a great group of students from Seattle, WA.
Here's a little update on my life:
On Tuesday Meghan and I got to spend the day with a group of friends from Tucson and Phoenix (the Presbyterian Pope, some people from No More Deaths, the Catholic Worker House, John Fife) camping, eating delicious food, and running some class three rapids on inflatable kayaks. An amazing time, to say the least.
I love to be out in nature, and I love it even more when it gives me a chance to connect with such amazing people. I thought of the New Zealand crew and Galatians. "For freedom Christ has set us free."
Tomorrow we're having a bi-national border fiesta over in Naco, Sonora/Naco, Arizona. We're going to set up a stage that sits on both sides of the fence, have a potluck, and play volleyball using the international boundary as a net. Promises to be a great time.
In the afternoon I'll be heading up to Tucson to catch my flight out to Dallas. I am REALLY looking forward to next week and to Nate and Milli's wedding (and it's not just because her parents are putting us up in this hotel). Although now that I mention it, apparently the hotel has a really sweet pool on the roof. Meghan has a tendency to make obscene hand gestures when I gloat about it. Haha.
I'll also be meeting my great friend Jo's baby Junia for the first time (exciting!), and getting my first chance to reflect on my time down in Mexico in an environment outside of the borderlands (or Chiapas).
To be honest, I'm a little nervous about how I'll do with the culture shock. It's always a tough transition from one place to the next, one language to the next, and one economic reality to the next. I'm praying that I can adjust "well" and enjoy myself.
Here are a few things that caught my interest on the old www:
Brianne's post for the most recent Quarter Life.
Zach links to a great site called Kiva, an interactive online bank that lets you lend money to start small businesses in the Two-Thirds World and then stay in touch with the person who borrowed the money. I need to look for a loan that I can afford! Anyone want to split one?
Ariah writes a post about biking (something I have come to love) and links to this incredible invention: a bicycle powered washing machine. Brilliant. I want one.
I don't know how much blogging I'll be doing next week, but I expect to put up at least a few posts for you folks that I'm working on right now.
And by the way, He is risen indeed.
Here's a little update on my life:
On Tuesday Meghan and I got to spend the day with a group of friends from Tucson and Phoenix (the Presbyterian Pope, some people from No More Deaths, the Catholic Worker House, John Fife) camping, eating delicious food, and running some class three rapids on inflatable kayaks. An amazing time, to say the least.
I love to be out in nature, and I love it even more when it gives me a chance to connect with such amazing people. I thought of the New Zealand crew and Galatians. "For freedom Christ has set us free."
Tomorrow we're having a bi-national border fiesta over in Naco, Sonora/Naco, Arizona. We're going to set up a stage that sits on both sides of the fence, have a potluck, and play volleyball using the international boundary as a net. Promises to be a great time.
In the afternoon I'll be heading up to Tucson to catch my flight out to Dallas. I am REALLY looking forward to next week and to Nate and Milli's wedding (and it's not just because her parents are putting us up in this hotel). Although now that I mention it, apparently the hotel has a really sweet pool on the roof. Meghan has a tendency to make obscene hand gestures when I gloat about it. Haha.
I'll also be meeting my great friend Jo's baby Junia for the first time (exciting!), and getting my first chance to reflect on my time down in Mexico in an environment outside of the borderlands (or Chiapas).
To be honest, I'm a little nervous about how I'll do with the culture shock. It's always a tough transition from one place to the next, one language to the next, and one economic reality to the next. I'm praying that I can adjust "well" and enjoy myself.
Here are a few things that caught my interest on the old www:
Brianne's post for the most recent Quarter Life.
Zach links to a great site called Kiva, an interactive online bank that lets you lend money to start small businesses in the Two-Thirds World and then stay in touch with the person who borrowed the money. I need to look for a loan that I can afford! Anyone want to split one?
Ariah writes a post about biking (something I have come to love) and links to this incredible invention: a bicycle powered washing machine. Brilliant. I want one.
I don't know how much blogging I'll be doing next week, but I expect to put up at least a few posts for you folks that I'm working on right now.
And by the way, He is risen indeed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
