#i live thousand of miles away in latin america

[wilquinones]

What is community? What does it mean to co-create with communities?

(Pictured above: 1898 U.S. Imperial Visions and Revisions at the Smithsonian American Art Museum)

I remember my first month in D.C. I felt disoriented, confused and lonely a majority of the time. This was mostly due to the fact that, here, I was no longer surrounded by people that shared something intrinsic about my identity; I felt like I had gone adrift from my community. Community itself is a difficult term to define, according to Crooke it can be “...constructed in a multitude of ways and take a variety of forms” (p. 177). However, I believe a community is a group of people, large or small, that share certain characteristics, interests, geographical location, life experiences, etc. This can include race, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, age and/or socioeconomic background. People that share the same enthusiasm for a book series can consider themselves to be part of a community. My classmates and I are now a part of the community of students of the Museum Education Program. Forming part of a community should also make individuals feel empowered, a community should lift each other up in times of need, as well as provide a safe space. These are all ideals to strive towards, but the word community can also become a double edged sword. If a community is based on similarities within a group, it is inevitable that a certain antagonism would begin to form towards the outsiders that are different from said group: “Worldwide, there are many examples of the use of the preservation of community identity, heritage, and culture to justify racism and genocide, perhaps the most tragic being the consequence of the use of “community” as justification for fascism in Nazi Germany” (p. 174). 

This being said, what I consider to be my community has shifted, or rather expanded with this new change in environment. There are friends who studied with me back in Puerto Rico who are now also studying and living in D.C. which I consider to be my small community of Puerto Ricans. We get together and cook what we loved to eat back home, listen to the music at full blast and talk about our island as if we aren’t over a thousand miles away. But now, because I’m surrounded by so many people that are unlike me, there is also a secret sense of community that I foster towards anyone that comes from Latin America, who gives me even the slightest resemblance of home. The family behind me at the park whose Colombian accents I relish, the server at the restaurant whose parents immigrated from Costa Rica, the Guatemalan woman shopping at the same Goodwill as me, my classmate who was born in Ecuador and who introduced me to Salvadoran pupusas. People that, if I was living in Puerto Rico, would feel wildly different from me, but are my lifeline from feeling incredibly alienated here. In many ways, my experience living in D.C. so far has reaffirmed my identity as not only a Puerto Rican woman, but a Latin American one as well.

Museums being involved within their respective communities is nothing particularly new, as Crooke explains: “The history of European museum development in the nineteenth century links directly to the rise of the nations and the need for those places to claim and present a national past” (p. 174). The difference is that now, museums as an institution are attempting to shift their attention from the predominant white and heteronormative narrative to a more inclusive and diverse one, which directly involves the community in its program and exhibition development. The most effective way to do this is by inviting outsiders in, as Bergeron and Tuttle phrase it. Welcoming cultural or civic leaders, or even the audience itself to “...freely share their resources, expertise and talent…at the early stages of idea development” (p.60).

 An example of this could be the District Six Museum in Cape Town, South Africa. District Six was a neighborhood that was declared all white under Apartheid, forcibly removing the people that already lived there from their homes, churches and schools, resulting in a traumatic event for those involved. The idea for the District Six Museum was conceived during the 1980’s with the community led program “Hands off District Six” which sought to protect the neighborhood from redevelopment, and in 1994 the museum was established. The museum is unlike the more European institutions found in South Africa: “...the building and space is modest; there are no glass cases; the curator has not taken authority; and the exhibition text is not fixed: former residents may add to the panels while they visit the exhibition” (Crooke, p. 175). Through this museum, the community is finally offered a space in which they can tell their own story in their own terms, to feel like their history is finally being acknowledged, to feel pride at an event that was supposed to make them feel shame; and as a result, the community has become stronger.  

Here in D.C. I have yet to find my community represented within museums. There is the National Museum of the American Latino that is starting to take shape, but as of today, it doesn’t occupy a building and it will be many years before the initiative can actually provide a space for Latin Americans. I had an impactful experience at the Smithsonian’s Museum of American Art exhibition: 1898: US Imperial Visions and Revisions. In said exhibit, the Smithsonian attempts to grapple with the United States’ imperialistic past (and present), but in my opinion, fails to fully grasp the negative aftermath that America inflicted on its colonies. In the section dedicated to Puerto Rico it says: “In general, Puerto Ricans welcomed the change of sovereignty from Spain to the United States in 1898. They hoped for more civil liberties, economic prosperity, and modernization. Later, against the backdrop of the First World War (1914–18), the United States granted citizenship to Puerto Ricans and established a popularly elected senate”. This does not include the fact that Puerto Ricans have fought for our independence for over a hundred years since the United States marched into our shores, and that this fight was met with violent massacres, attempts to suppress our language in schools and the Ley Mordaza (Gag Law) in 1948, which outlawed the display or ownership of the Puerto Rican flag. It also conveniently does not mention that after gaining control of the island, the United States used the Puerto Rican population as guinea pigs for experiments involving birth control, Agent Orange, as well as bombs on the coast of Vieques. Lastly, it mentions the fact that we were granted citizenship during WWI, but omits that the reason why was to send our men on the front lines of the war. 

When reading the panel I wondered who wrote it, and for whom. It seemed to me that this was created to provide comfort for Americans who might feel uneasy about their colonial heritage, a way to say: “What we did was bad, but you can feel better now! Pat yourself on the back for recognizing your problematic past in the first place, but don’t take any steps towards actually fixing the problem”. As a museum educator, I want to make sure I’m involving as many voices as I can, so that people from my community don’t feel as angry, and as small, as I felt that day inside of the Smithsonian.

Connect Through Art | District Six Museum

(source: Investec Cape Town Art Fair YouTube)

References: 

Bergeron, Anne, and Beth Tuttle. Magnetic : The Art and Science of Engagement. The Aam Press, 2013.

Crooke, Elizabeth, “Museums and Community” A Companion to Museum Studies. Edited by Macdonald, Sharon. Wiley-Blackwell, 2011, p. 170-185.

“Gallery Page | 1898: U.S. Imperial Visions and Revisions.” 1898exhibition.si.edu, 2023, 1898exhibition.si.edu/gallery.

[fvcktoxsick]

.

#man i know what's happening in the US rn is terrible and i support everyone protesting with all my heart but #fuck all i've seen all day are posts and images about that #man i live like a fucking ten thousand miles away from all this im trying to use the internet to escape the fact that i'm stressed #and depressed and anxious #and this stuff is all i see #it's tiring #and i'm sorry but #barely a single gringo would do the same if this shit happened outside of the US #y'all don't talk about this shit when it happens in latin america #only the ultra leftie anarchists ones and only sometimes #it sucks man

[newstfionline]

Wednesday, September 22, 2021

Trudeau’s Liberals win Canada election, but miss majority (AP) Canadians gave Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s Liberal Party a victory in Monday’s parliamentary elections, but his gamble to win a majority of seats failed and nearly mirrored the result of two years ago. Trudeau’s Liberals were leading or elected in 156 seats—one less than they won 2019, and 14 short of the 170 needed for a majority in the House of Commons. The Conservatives were leading or elected in 121 seats, the same number they won in 2019. The leftist New Democrats were leading or elected in 27, a gain of three seats, while the Quebec-based Bloc Québécois remained unchanged with 32 seats and the Greens were down to two. “Trudeau lost his gamble to get a majority so I would say this is a bittersweet victory for him,” said Daniel Béland, a political science professor at McGill University in Montreal. “Basically we are back to square one, as the new minority parliament will look like the previous one. Trudeau and the Liberals saved their skin and will stay in power, but many Canadians who didn’t want this late summer, pandemic election are probably not amused about the whole situation,” he said.

COVID has killed about as many Americans as the 1918-19 flu (AP) COVID-19 has now killed about as many Americans as the 1918-19 Spanish flu pandemic did—approximately 675,000. And like the worldwide scourge of a century ago, the coronavirus may never entirely disappear from our midst. Instead, scientists hope the virus that causes COVID-19 becomes a mild seasonal bug as human immunity strengthens through vaccination and repeated infection. That would take time. “We hope it will be like getting a cold, but there’s no guarantee,” said Emory University biologist Rustom Antia, who suggests an optimistic scenario in which this could happen over a few years. For now, the pandemic still has the United States and other parts of the world firmly in its jaws.

Why Louisiana’s Electric Grid Failed in Hurricane Ida (NYT) Just weeks before Hurricane Ida knocked out power to much of Louisiana, leaving its residents exposed to extreme heat and humidity, the chief executive of Entergy, the state’s biggest utility company, told Wall Street that it had been upgrading power lines and equipment to withstand big storms. That statement would soon be tested. On the last Sunday in August, Hurricane Ida made landfall in Louisiana and dealt a catastrophic blow to Entergy’s power lines, towers and poles, many of which were built decades ago to withstand much weaker hurricanes. The storm damaged eight high-voltage transmission lines that supply power to New Orleans along with scores of the company’s towers throughout the state. Hundreds of thousands of homes and businesses were without power for days. Ida damaged or destroyed 31,000 poles that carry lower-voltage distribution lines in neighborhoods, nearly twice as many as Hurricane Katrina, according to Entergy. Lawmakers and regulators require utilities to ensure safe, reliable service at an affordable cost. The grid failure after Ida is the latest display of how power companies are struggling to fulfill those obligations as climate change increases the frequency and severity of extreme weather. In California, electricity providers have been forced to shut off power to tens of thousands of customers in recent years to prevent their equipment from setting off wildfires and to reduce energy demand during heat waves. In February, the grid in most of Texas failed during a winter storm, leaving millions of people without power and heat for days.

White House faces bipartisan backlash on Haitian migrants (AP) The White House is facing sharp condemnation from Democrats for its handling of the influx of Haitian migrants at the U.S. southern border, after images of U.S. Border Patrol agents on horseback using aggressive tactics went viral this week. Striking video of agents maneuvering their horses to forcibly block and move migrants attempting to cross the border has sparked resounding criticism from Democrats on Capitol Hill, who are calling on the Biden administration to end its use of a pandemic-era authority to deport migrants without giving them an opportunity to seek asylum in the United States. At the same time, the administration continues to face attacks from Republicans, who say Biden isn’t doing enough to deal with what they call a “crisis” at the border. Immigration is a complex issue, one no administration has been able to fix in decades. And Biden is trapped between conflicting interests of broadcasting compassion while dealing with throngs of migrants coming to the country—illegally—seeking a better life.

Haitian journey to Texas border starts in South America (AP) Robins Exile downed a traditional meal of plantains and chicken at a restaurant run by Haitian immigrants, just a short walk from the walled border with the United States. He arrived the night before and went there seeking advice: Should he try to get to the U.S., or was it better to settle in Mexico? Discussion Monday at the Tijuana restaurant offered a snapshot of Haitians’ diaspora in the Western Hemisphere that picked up steam in 2016 and has shown little sign of easing, demonstrated most recently by the more than 14,000 mostly Haitian migrants assembled around a bridge in Del Rio, a town of only 35,000 people. Of the roughly 1.8 million Haitians living outside their homeland, the United States is home to the largest Haitian immigrant population in the world, numbering 705,000 people from the Western Hemisphere’s poorest country. Significant numbers also live in Latin American countries like Chile, which is home to an estimated 69,000 Haitians. Nearly all Haitians reach the U.S. border on a well-worn route: Fly to Brazil, Chile or elsewhere in South America. If jobs dry up, slowly move through Central America and Mexico by bus and on foot to wait—perhaps years—in northern border cities like Tijuana for the right time to enter the United States and claim asylum.

‘We were them:’ Vietnamese Americans help Afghan refugees (AP) In the faces of Afghans desperate to leave their country after U.S. forces withdrew, Thuy Do sees her own family, decades earlier and thousands of miles away. A 39-year-old doctor in Seattle, Washington, Do remembers hearing how her parents sought to leave Saigon after Vietnam fell to communist rule in 1975 and the American military airlifted out allies in the final hours. It took years for her family to finally get out of the country, after several failed attempts, and make their way to the United States, carrying two sets of clothes a piece and a combined $300. When they finally arrived, she was 9 years old. These stories and early memories drove Do and her husband Jesse Robbins to reach out to assist Afghans fleeing their country now. The couple has a vacant rental home and decided to offer it up to refugee resettlement groups, which furnished it for newly arriving Afghans in need of a place to stay. “We were them 40 years ago,” Do said. “With the fall of Saigon in 1975, this was us.” The crisis in Afghanistan has spurred many Vietnamese Americans to donate money to refugee resettlement groups and raise their hands to help by providing housing, furniture and legal assistance to newly arriving Afghans.

‘Crisis of trust’: France bristles at US submarine deal (AP) France’s top diplomat declared Monday that there is a “crisis of trust” in the United States after a Pacific defense deal stung France and left Europe wondering about its longtime ally across the Atlantic. France canceled meetings with British and Australian officials and worked to rally EU allies behind its push for more European sovereignty after being humiliated by a major Pacific defense pact orchestrated by the U.S. Speaking to reporters in New York, French Foreign Minister Jean-Yves Le Drian said European countries won’t let Washington leave them behind when shaping its foreign policy. Le Drian reiterated complaints that his country was sandbagged by the submarine deal between the U.S., Britain and Australia, which led to France losing a contract to sell subs to Australia. Washington, London and Canberra say the deal bolsters their commitment to the Indo-Pacific region, and it has widely been seen as an effort to counter an increasingly assertive China. But Le Drian, who is in New York to represent France at the U.N. General Assembly, said it was a “brutal, unexpected and unexplained breach” of a contract—and a relationship.

Pedestrians take to the streets of Paris to celebrate the city’s seventh annual ‘day without cars’ (Business Insider) On Sunday, Paris turned over its streets to pedestrians so that citizens and visitors could enjoy its seventh annual “day without cars.” Announced by socialist mayor Anne Hidalgo in 2015, the city received enthusiastic support from both ordinary Parisians and unlikely parties including the head of a French drivers’ association, USA Today reported. From 11 a.m. to 6 p.m., cars, motorcycles, and scooters are banned throughout Paris, and any offenders face a fine of 135 euros, according to the Paris Without A Car website. Certain vehicles like buses, emergency vehicles, taxis, and private drivers are allowed to circulate, although their speed is limited to 20-30 kilometers per hour (12-19 miles per hour) in certain areas. Events at this year’s “day without cars” included a techno parade, picnic, bicycle fair, rollerblading marathon, and street art exhibitions, according to the event website.

More evacuations as lava gushes from Canaries volcano (Reuters) Lava gushing from the Canary Islands’ first volcanic eruption on land in 50 years has forced authorities to evacuate another part of El Paso municipality on the island of La Palma and to urge sightseers attracted by the phenomenon to stay away. About 6,000 of the 80,000 people living on the island have been forced to leave their homes to escape the eruption so far, TVE said. The volcano started erupting on Sunday after La Palma, the most northwestern island in the Canaries archipelago, had been rocked by thousands of quakes in the prior days. It has shot lava hundreds of metres into the air, engulfed forests and sent molten rock towards the ocean over a sparsely populated area of La Palma. Experts say that if and when the lava reaches the sea, it could trigger more explosions and clouds of toxic gases.

Magnitude 6.0 earthquake strikes near Melbourne (Reuters) An earthquake with a 6.0 magnitude struck near Melbourne in Australia on Wednesday, Geoscience Australia said, causing damage to buildings in the country’s second largest city and sending tremors throughout neighbouring states. The quake’s epicentre was near the rural town of Mansfield in the state of Victoria, about 200 km (124 miles) northeast of Melbourne, and was at a depth of 10 km (six miles). The quake was felt as far away as city of Adelaide, 800 km (500 miles) to the west in the state of South Australia, and Sydney, 900 km (600 miles) to the north in New South Wales state, although there were no reports of damage outside Melbourne and no reports of injuries.

‘An iron curtain’: Australia’s covid rules are stranding people at state borders (Washington Post) The four figures huddled in the shade on the side of the highway, eight miles from a border they had hardly noticed until it slammed shut behind them. As flies buzzed and crows circled and their supplies ran low, they waited for emails that would allow them to leave New South Wales and return to their home state of South Australia. Teresa Young and her husband had been stuck at the rest stop—little more than a toilet in the middle of the Outback—for 10 days. “All of a sudden, Australia has been cut up like pieces of a cake,” the 75-year-old said on a recent day. Welcome to covid-era Australia, where state border closures designed to keep the coronavirus from spreading have turned retired office workers into roadside nomads. When the pandemic began, many Australians found that the leaders of the country’s six states and two territories, rather than the federal government, suddenly controlled the most vital things in people’s lives, including who could go to work and where they could travel. The closures have upended domestic travel and stranded scores of Australians internally, even as a vaccination ramp-up means some states—and international airports—will soon open up. People in Sydney could find it easier to fly to Singapore or Los Angeles than to Adelaide.

Sudan’s coup attempt (Foreign Policy) Sudanese state media reported a “failed coup attempt” early Tuesday morning. The coup reportedly involved an attempt to take control of the state radio services. If confirmed, the attempted power grab would be the fourth putsch attempt the African continent has seen this year, following military takeovers in Guinea and Chad and an unsuccessful coup in Niger.

#headlines #news

[no-dull-days]

Bogota, Colombia

Exploring Bogota's Misunderstood History

Three weeks in to Colombia, I headed to the infamous Bogota . As dawn approached, I arrived at the North Terminal. 14 hours had passed during the night bus from Popayan. The trek to Bogota took us through the Andes mountains, hairpin curves, and peculiar weather. I was suspicious as we drove by uneasy scenery. I’d researched every other destination prior to arrival. Bogota was the exception.

History: During the 1980’s & 90’s Bogota was the most dangerous city in the world. I'll bet you think it's danger emanated from drug cartels…More people were killed in Bogota by buses and cars than by military or political problems. Children feared being hit by a car, truck, or bus. Public transportation was a mafia run business. Buses would block traffic or run people over on the sidewalk. The people of Bogota were ashamed of the city. There was a lack of infrastructure coupled by low security and high safety concerns. Residents had zero faith in the future. Leaders didn’t know where to go or what to do. Bogota had no vision, no model and no money. It was known as the worst place in Latin America.

In 1998 Enrique Peñalosa was elected mayor of Bogota. During a visit to Europe, Peñalosa said, “as a fish needs to swim, we need to walk. Not in order to survive, but in order to be happy.” In regards to Bogota, Peñalosa was convinced, crime and poverty were connected to Bogota’s design — how the city was structured.

Something had to be done, considering Bogota’s population grew from 100k to 7 million in 100 years. Peñalosa created automobile restrictions. In the following ten years, Bogota’s murder rate fell a whopping 70%! From the highest in the world to less than that of Washington DC.

Bogota’s bus system was modeled after a Brazilian city. Today, Bogota has an internationally acclaimed bus system. Public transportation has brought the community together. Take Avenida el Dorado— there’s what seems to be endless miles of road dedicated solely to pedestrians. On Sundays, over a million people show up to ride, walk and socialize. It’s the safest place in the city. By way of urban design, a city for the people was created.

It changed beyond belief. We changed the city more for people than for cars.

— Enrique Peñalosa

As a statement of priorities, Avenida el Dorado was built to go through the poorest communities. It’s the longest pedestrian walkway on the continent. Buses and parks are all connected causing entire neighborhoods to interact. When communities know one another, crime rates fall and the quality of life improves. Locals even denounced those who violated the system.

Public transportation was a multi billion dollar industry. By placing mafia members on the board of directors and giving them stock options, the system evolved. A power play considering the mob could crush the city.

Bogota’s large sidewalks show people are equally or more valuable than automobiles. These and other changes made it more difficult for people to access businesses which led to a movement to impeach Peñalosa. People soon realized public interests come before private interests. This urban design proclaims a bicyclist is just as important as a $30,000 automobile. Bogota’s mayor, Peñalosa, left office with the highest approval rating of any mayor in history.

This is one iota of Bogota’s history. The powerful drug cartels of the 80s who ruled cities such as Medellin, Bogota, and Miami were historical times no doubt. Seeing the murals, sites, and stomping grounds of these tumultuous times was spine-tingling.

I explored the Halls of Justice where Supreme Court Justices were assassinated and many others were killed or held hostage. I’ve watched dozens of documentaries on Colombia and Pablo Escobar’s reign over Bogota. Walking around the city was like being in a history book.

The history was so thick, it almost rivaled The Lost City of Petra’s history! Escobar and the drug cartels pillaged Bogota and ran the city at some points. Escobar practically owned the police. He was both loved and hated by fellow Colombians. He also made the Forbes Top 10 List. Netflix’s, ‘Narcos’, does a great job of documenting what happened during this time. Both enthralling, and terrifying.

My Experience: Upon arrival, I had no plans. My Spanish had drastically improved. I was sociable, yet cautious. Violent crime still occurs at random. After Cartagena, I discovered it was tough finding a place to stay in advance. Taxis can be dangerous and I didn’t know how far I’d be from my destination. There were times I’d arrive in a new city, by plane or bus after dark. I didn’t think it was wise to take a bus or walk through unfamiliar neighborhoods. Speaking far from perfect Spanish and carrying thousands of dollars of electronics didn’t ease the situation.

All through Colombia, ATMs dispense pesos. Many of the bills are COL$50,000 and finding change can be difficult. Exchange rates and small bills was another barrier. If you’re traveling to Colombia, I’d recommend learning how to count to 100,000 in Spanish.

I rented a room in the common style five bedroom home for COL$50,000/24 hours. This gave me time to make plans, look at a map and figure out where I wanted to stay thereafter. I had a queen bed with a private bathroom. 15 minutes later, I was walking to another bus. I paid special attention to the landmarks because addresses were beyond my understanding. Getting lost was no fun.

Perhaps my favorite thing to do in Bogota was play tejo. Tejo can be played for fun with points or in professional tournaments. The object of the game is to throw fairly heavy discs at small triangle packets filled with gunpowder. Points are acquired when there’s a ferocious bang! They sound like revolvers firing at random. It’s fun playing in lanes with 30 people. It sounds like a fire fight. Only difference is, everyone’s drinking beers and smoking various substances. Players stand about 40 feet away and the gun powder packets are about 3 inches. They sit in a clay bay at a 45 degree angle.

Aside from tejo, sampling mouthwatering exotic fruits was a meal in itself. I sampled literally dozens of fruits I never knew existed. Fruits with vibrant colors and bizarre shapes with funky names. Outrageous natural flavors. I’d return to Bogota just for the fruits!

Though Bogota’s fruits were an enlightening experience, it made me sad and angry. I thought of Monsanto — the massive evil corporation based in the US that’s burned farmers in more ways than god intended. I thought of the politicians and lobbyists that support GMOs — special seeds created from the same corporation that developed Agent Orange in Vietnam.

Between fresh fruits in Bogota, godly organic produce in the rural Nicaraguan mountains and Panamanian islands, I practically had steam coming outta my ears. I drank water from a stream near Ecuador. It was the purest, most amazing water I’ve ever had. If you know what food and water should taste like, it should make you absolutely livid that corporations and politicians are taking control of our food supply and destroying our water for bigger profits.

La Candelaria: I made a friend at the bus stop who guided me to La Candelaria in Bogota. La Candelaria is a hipster neighborhood that reminded me of Berkeley and San Francisco. Graffiti on every corner, VW’s, head shops, music stores, and reggae music all flooded by local college students.

The nightlife here was unique. Hundreds of people mingled throughout the area on bicycles and mopeds. The energy was comforting and it was refreshing to meet a wide array of travelers in this area who spoke broken English.

The daunting feelings of massive Bogota subsided when I found a great hostel in this neighborhood. I got a private room and bathroom for COL$60,000/night. I met other international travelers. I had a solid internet connection, private living quarters, a hot shower, and food from all over the world in my neighborhood.

In the following days, I explored the city on bicycle — by guided tour and on my own. Two friends and I rode around for five hours with a Bogota local. We saw cemeteries, tasted the world’s finest coffee, learned about political graffiti, human rights, Pablo Escobar, terrorism, cocaine, Buddhism, the upper class, and people who lived in sewers. We learned about the Emerald Industry and agriculture.

Attractions: The city of Bogota, home to about 10 million people, is a massive city. It resides at 8,660 ft in the Andes Mountains. The air is a little thin, but I got used to it. You’d really need many months to see everything the city has to offer. I enjoyed the hike to the top of the Monserrate.

Monserrate is a mountain that dominates the city center of Bogota, the capital city of Colombia. It rises to 10,341 ft above the sea level, where there is a church built in the 17th century. — Wikipedia

Bolivar Square is a huge plaza with government buildings, tremendous history and usually the location of concerts and festivals. It’s a great place to socialize and take in the open air. I also enjoyed the Bogota Botanical Gardens. It too was a nice place to casually walk around, mingle, and learn something new.

However, I enjoyed Parque 93 moreso. It reminded me of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco where singles, families, couples, bikers, and dog walkers all come together for lunch, reading the newspaper, and snoozing in the sunshine. The bike tour was probably my favorite though. There’s a number of companies throughout the city. If you’re looking for nightlife in Bogota, I can vouch for that too. If you’re a social butterfly, workaholic, party animal, foodie, or entrepreneur, Bogota has plenty to offer.

[robertreich]

Do Good Fences Make Good Neighbors?

It used to be that people who owned a lot of things could protect themselves and their things by erecting sturdy houses and, if necessary, putting a lock on the door. Today, it seems, that’s not enough. It’s estimated that three million American households live within gated communities – twenty thousand of them, often equipped with private security guards and electronic surveillance systems. Some years ago, the town of Rosemont, Illinois, erected a beige wrought-iron fence. Rosemont is a suburb of Chicago, with a population of four thousand, and it has one of the largest auxiliary police forces in the United States.

A wall is being erected around the nation, too – an outer perimeter, separating the United States from the Third World. So far, our national wall extends along only sixty-four miles of the nearly two-thousand-mile border with Mexico, but Congress has appropriated funds for lengthening it and also fortifying it.

The urge to erect walls seems to be growing, just as disparities in wealth are widening. Many of the Americans who reside within gates like Rosemont’s have become substantially wealthier during the past several years, whereas a great many Americans who live outside the gates have not. (One man, appropriately named Bill Gates, has a net worth roughly equaling the combined net worth of the least wealthy forty percent of American households.)

On a much larger scale, inhabitants of the planet who reside at latitudes north of the national wall are diverging economically from those who live south of it. The consequence is that at both perimeters – the town wall and the national wall – outsiders are more desperate to get in and insiders are more determined to keep them out. Yet the inconvenient fact is that increasingly, in the modern world, the value of what the insiders own and of the work they do depends on what occurs outside.

Half a world away from Rosemont are places whose currencies, denominated in bahts, ringgits, rupiahs, and won, began toppling more than a year ago, and seem to have come to rest only in the last several weeks at levels far below where they started. This has caused most of these countries’ citizens to become far poorer. An Indonesian who had worked for the equivalent of three dollars and thirty-three cents a day before the rupiah’s decent is now working for about one dollar and twelve cents. Efforts by the International Monetary Fund to build back the “confidence” of global investors in these nations by conditioning loans on the nation’s willingness to raise interest rates and cut their public spending have had the unfortunate side effect of propelling more of their citizens into ever more desperate poverty. After the tremors spread to Russia last summer, and it defaulted on its short-term loans, the worldwide anxiety grew, spreading all the way to Brazil, the largest economy in Latin America, with the widest gap between rich and poor. In return for its promise of austerity, Brazil is now set to receive an international line of credit totaling forty-one and a half billion dollars, designed to convince global investors that its currency will not lose its value, and that, therefore, there is no reason for them to take their money and run.

All this commotion has also diminished the economic security of quite a number of people who thought of themselves as safely walled in. Recent government data show that in the third quarter of the year, the profits and investments of Americans companies shrank for the first time since the recession year of 1991. This is largely because their exports to Asia and Latin America have continued to drop, while cheap imports from these regions are undercutting their sales in the United States. In consequence, they have been laying off American workers at a higher pace, and creating new jobs at a slower pace, than at any time in recent years.

We do not know how many residents of Rosemont will lose their jobs or the value of their stock portfolios because of the continuing global crisis. No burglars will climb over the steel barrier now walling off the United States and then scale Rosemont’s beige wrought-iron fence, but some residents of Rosemont will lose a bundle nonetheless.

The major risks of modern live now move through or over walls, sometimes electronically, as with global investments, but occasionally by other means. 

A lethal influenza virus originating among a few Hong Kong chickens could find its way to Rosemont via a globe-trotting business executive. Drugs are flowing across the border as well, not because the walls are insufficiently think but because the people behind them are eager to buy. Something these is in capitalism that doesn’t love a wall.

So why do we feverishly build more walls when they offer us less and less protection? Perhaps it is because we feel so unprotected of late. Amid all the blather about taking more personal responsibility for this or that, there is a growing fear that random and terrible things can happen to us. Solid walls at least create the illusion of control over what we call our own, and control is something we seem to need more of these days, when almost anyone can be clobbered by a falling baht.

[I wrote this for the New Yorker magazine’s issue of November 30, 1998]

[kuramirocket]

Carlos Muñoz, Jr. remembers when he first began to ponder the meaning of his Mexican roots.Muñoz, now 80, was living in the crowded Segundo barrio of El Paso, Texas. His family—like thousands of other émigrés—had settled there decades earlier, refugees fleeing violence spawned by the Mexican Revolution.Neither of his parents had made it past elementary school, but they wanted more for their son. So young Carlos walked across town every day to an Anglo neighborhood where the local school had more resources than barrio campuses.In that world, Carlos became Charles—rechristened in fifth grade by a white teacher in an attempt to “Americanize” him.

His school records were altered to label him Charles. But nothing else about him changed. “I began to wonder about what that meant,” he recalls. “That was the first time that I started thinking about identity and culture and that kind of stuff.”

It wouldn’t be the last.

The next year his family moved from El Paso to Los Angeles, where they hopscotched among barrios from the Eastside to Downtown to South Los Angeles. And no matter whether his teachers called him Carlos or Charles, their ingrained attitudes about his Mexican heritage narrowed his path.

The counselors at Belmont High School steered Charles away from college prep and toward vocational ed, even though he was an honor student. They suggested he become a carpenter, like his dad.

“If you were Black or Brown and a male at that time, you automatically got to be an industrial arts major,” he says. “You take the basic courses in English, history and government, but you don’t get the algebra and the biology courses.”

He didn’t realize until after he graduated with honors in 1958 that those courses he missed were required for admission to California’s public universities.

It would take six years for Charles to navigate a route—through community college, military service and a white-collar job that paid well but left him unfulfilled—to the campus of Cal State LA.

There, in the midst of a nascent Chicano rights movement, Charles reclaimed Carlos and played a key role in a history-making venture that would create new paths for Latino students: the creation at Cal State LA of the first Mexican American Studies program in the nation.

Its launch five decades ago—which Muñoz, then a graduate student, helped lead—would usher in a new era of ethnic studies across the Southwestern United States and ultimately around the country. Today more than 400 universities have programs dedicated to the study of the history, circumstances and culture of Latinos in America.

“Right now, there’s an awareness of ethnic studies. … But the beginnings of ethnic studies, as a discipline, were right here at Cal State LA,” says Professor Dolores Delgado Bernal, chair of what is now the Department of Chicana(o) and Latina(o) Studies.

“The discipline offers a lot to students, in terms of their identities, their intellect, what interests they pursue. Taking these courses allows students to say, ‘I can claim and be proud of who I am, and that allows me to better understand and accept others who are not like me.’ ”

“It’s becoming increasingly important to have that interdisciplinary background, and an understanding of other cultures and races,” Delgado Bernal says.

Today Muñoz is a professor emeritus in the Department of Ethnic Studies at UC Berkeley. He’s an author, political scientist, historian and scholar, specializing in social and revolutionary movements.

But the challenges Muñoz encountered on his journey from the barrio to the ivory tower typify the struggles that many Latino students still face today—and illustrate why Chicano Studies was necessary decades ago, and still has an important role to play.

In its early years, the Cal State LA program was a resource for local students who felt intimidated by college and invisible on campus.

The spotlight on Chicano history and culture allowed them to see themselves through a new lens, one scrubbed of stereotypes. And its sweeping scope connected them to other marginalized groups, illuminating struggles for equality that students found ultimately empowering.

“To me, the thing about Chicano Studies is that it was eye-opening to the truth and history,”  Carmen Ramírez, an Oxnard city councilwoman who attended Cal State LA for two years in the 1970s, says. “If you don’t know the truth, you can’t fix the future. … We need to know our history.”

And the dividends spread far beyond the campus, the student body and local communities. By its very existence, the Cal State LA program gave national credibility to the concept of ethnic studies as an intellectual pursuit.

“Chicano Studies opened the door to possibilities of employment on university faculties,” said Raul Ruiz, professor emeritus in the Department of Chicana and Chicano Studies at Cal State Northridge, which hired him in 1970. He earned a bachelor’s degree from Cal State LA in 1967, and went on to earn his master’s and Ph.D. at Harvard. Ruiz died this year at 78 years old. 

“Chicano Studies gave us opportunities to teach at the college level. And that was very significant in an era when many of us never had a Latino professor.”

At that time, “there were only about five Mexican Americans in the country with Ph.D.s in the social sciences,” recalls Muñoz, who earned his B.A. in political science from Cal State LA and a Ph.D. in government from the Claremont Graduate School.

Like Ruiz and Muñoz, several of the campus movement’s leaders went on to become college professors and scholarly experts in the field.

But even when they were offered faculty positions in Latino Studies, their contributions were often minimized or disregarded.

“Now we’re very visible at universities across the nation,” Muñoz says. “But during my career, I often had to face that perspective— you’re just ideologues, not scholars—from conservative faculty. It was not an easy path.”

For students like Ruiz, the path was equally challenging.

Ruiz had moved to Los Angeles from El Paso as a child in the 1950s. Told he wasn’t “college material,” Ruiz enrolled in Trade Tech, studied mechanical drawing and took a job drafting engineering plans for aviation systems. A year of that made him miserable, so he quit and in the mid-’60s applied to Cal State LA as an English major.

Then, as now, the Cal State LA campus was walking distance from one of the largest urban Mexican American communities in the United States. But few students in that community were being prepared for college.

The university experience seemed so remote that Eastside parents who could see the hillside campus from their yards thought “the building on the hill was the Sybil Brand Institute” for incarcerated women, Cal State LA Professor Ralph C. Guzmán told the University’s College Times newspaper in 1968.

Guzmán, who helped draft early Chicano Studies proposals, was one of just a handful of Latino faculty members then.

Ruiz was the only Mexican American kid in most of his classes, he said.

“I remember as an English major, the sense of me being up against everything. I remember making a presentation and the other students came at me hard with criticism,” Ruiz said. “I remember saying to myself, ‘Next time you’re going to know more than everybody else.’ ”

Ultimately, that would motivate him to develop a rigorous background in research. But as a new student, he found the social isolation to be a destabilizing experience.

After a professor told him he was smart “but basically illiterate,” Ruiz spent hours alone in the library—after classes and before his post office job—teaching himself to write.

“I would practice writing sentences and improving them until I could write a paragraph, and then an essay,” he said. It took him six months to develop the skills he needed. The skills he should have been taught in high school.

Cal State LA already had a robust interdisciplinary program of Latin American Studies, with classes that focused on Mexican culture but had little connection to the American experience.

“It was a marvelous program. It opened up my consciousness,” Ruiz said. But he came to realize that he knew more about Mexicans in Mexico than he did about families like his, “Mexicans in my own community.”

Beyond the University, in his own community, unrest and outrage were brewing. Mexican Americans had found their voice and were beginning to challenge the status quo. And nowhere did that coalesce more vividly than in the neighborhoods around Cal State LA.

“It was actually right here in the city of Los Angeles where the Chicano movement started,” noted legendary civil rights leader Dolores Huerta, when she visited campus to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Chicano Studies in September 2018.

The Chicano Studies program helped empower young activists and bring national attention to the challenges and concerns of Mexican Americans, she said.

Ruiz remembered what that felt like. “We were becoming part of this growing social movement that was sweeping the country, with massive anti-war protests and civil rights marches,” he recalled.

Community organizers rallied Eastside families to join the demonstrations. Student groups on campus worked together behind the scenes for change.

“I was not a radical person,” Ruiz said. “But you couldn’t help but become involved, or at least think about it.”

In March 1968, that awareness came to a head, as thousands of students at five high schools within a six-mile radius of Cal State LA walked out of classes and took to the streets, to challenge an educational system that didn’t recognize their worth or value their needs.

Thirteen adults would be arrested, jailed and charged with conspiracy for helping organize the walkouts. Muñoz—who’d proudly changed his name back to Carlos—was among them.

By then Muñoz was a Cal State LA graduate student and a U.S. veteran, who understood why students were walking out. The kid whom counselors steered away from college prep classes in high school was now on his way to becoming a university professor—and he was on the front lines of the battle to improve education for younger Latinos.

Police arrested Muñoz at gunpoint three months after the walkouts, as he sat at the kitchen table in his apartment doing his political science homework, and his wife and two young children slept upstairs. Muñoz spent two years on bail and faced a possible prison term of 66 years, until an appellate court dismissed the charges as a violation of the defendants’ First Amendment rights.

The walkouts alarmed the educational establishment, but energized the local community and moved education to the front of an activist agenda.

Cal State LA students, faculty and administration partnered with community groups to help broaden opportunities.

That summer Cal State LA’s student government voted to allocate $40,000 for an Educational Opportunity Program that would provide the support needed by students who were motivated but underprepared. Sixty-eight Latino and Black freshmen were admitted through the program that first year.

And University leaders agreed to work with student activists to get the Chicano Studies program up and running. The pioneering program was launched in the fall of 1968—with four courses and funding from student government.

Muñoz wound up teaching the program’s introductory course in the fall of 1968: Mexican American 100. Graduate student Gilbert Gonzalez taught Mexican American 111, a course on Mexican American history, and Professor Guzmán taught two upper-division classes.

“I was a first-year grad student in political science,” Muñoz recalls. “I had no teaching experience. I didn’t even know how the University worked. … We were very, very fortunate that there were progressive people in the administration. They were very helpful in generating support.”

In fact, the Chicano Studies movement at Cal State LA created a blueprint for collaboration—in an era when campus clashes were the primary tools of social and academic change.

Students worked with parents and with University leaders. Chicano and Black student groups supported one another. Both groups wanted a voice, a bigger presence on campus and a curriculum that reflected their culture and history.

Today, the Department of Chicana(o) and Latina(o) Studies offers more than 150 courses, taught by scholars from a wide range of disciplines. Its academic legacy is strong and its graduates have contributed immeasurably to the University, the region and beyond.

The number of students majoring in Chicano Studies has grown by almost 40% over the past 18 months, said Department Chair Delgado Bernal at the anniversary celebration.

“Maybe that’s because of the political climate,” she surmised. “Students are looking to understand it, and to have the skills, knowledge and rhetoric to respond.”

Over the years, the department has opened new career paths for students, elevated the status of Chicano scholarship and empowered successive generations in ways that only understanding your culture and history can do.

Its success reflects the foresight of its founders and the University’s ongoing commitment to academic rigor, inclusion and equality.

“Our whole purpose was assisting our community, supporting the aspirations of students and asserting our right to be here,” Muñoz says of the department’s creation a half-century ago.

“We said let’s do something so our younger brothers and sisters won’t be victimized by racism, the way we were.”

#mexican american studies #ethnic studies #usa #united states #chicano studies #history #long post #🇲🇽 #mexico

[suga-kookiemonster]

drabble where you asked Min Yoongi to marry you in his vlive and he said, "Bring the documents" and you actually show up with them

🙃🙃🙃rating⇢ pg

✨masterlist✨

You had always been drawn to Yoongi.

You loved the other members as well, of course. Loved them to pieces, supported them in all their endeavors. But Yoongi was the one who always held your attention.

It had nothing to do with how hot he was—and he was, very much so, but so was literally every other member of Bangtan. No, it was his passion, his mind that had you holding on to every word.

There was truly something about the way he never spoke solely to be heard, like many of the other members. No, when Min Yoongi spoke, it was because he actually had something to say. And it was always something worth hearing, always something that enhanced the world, no matter how small. You always admired that about him, always admired his outlook on life. Admired his drive, his raw musical talent—rapping, composing, the specifics honestly didn’t matter, because the man was talented.

So naturally, you ended up giving him the title of bias on a silver platter. And while you always tried to catch all of the Vlives when you could, his lives tended to be the only ones you actually commented on.

Eat well, you would say. Get lots of rest. During one live, you told him you thought he looked handsome in his leather jacket, and to your delight, he ended up wearing it to the airport the next day. You weren’t delusional, but sometimes it made your day a little brighter to pretend he had seen your message out of thousands and had done that for you.

This live started out just like the others. Yoongi was in his pajamas, trying to read through the quickly accumulating comments. “I love you,” he read, blinking at the screen before looking up at the camera. “Thank you. I’m getting so many comments of love in so many different languages here. Thank you. I miss you. I miss you too,” he answers. “I feel the love from all of you.”

And so it goes, Yoongi taking professions of love in stride, chatting about the making of Seesaw, complaining about how his vision is getting bad, so he can’t read the comments well. Just being his lovable, grumpy, Yoongi self.

But there was also something particularly playful about him tonight.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” He chuckled. “A date? We could. Where should we go?”

And that was probably what made you do it.

Later, after he talked about how his favorite Avenger was Black Panther (an intellectual, you thought dreamily to yourself), you found your fingers dancing across the keys, giddiness swelling in your belly at your uncharacteristic boldness. Your reasoning was, he seemed to be in the right mood to receive silly comments tonight—and it was highly unlikely that he would even see yours before it got swallowed by others. So it was almost with a sense of relief that you hit the enter key. Just happy to get it out in the world, your affection sent in his direction, whether he saw it or not.

Yoongi stared at the screen silently for a few seconds, lips quirking before reading, “Please marry me.”

You froze, shock coursing through your system. Surely this was a coincidence. There was no doubt other fans had written the exact same thing as you, so it couldn’t have possibly been your comment he was reading. You watched as he looked away shyly, a small smile on his face, before he regained eye contact with the camera, a wide smile stretching across his features.

“Bring the documents, QueenYoonji93,” he grinned, and it was like he was staring right at you, even thousands of miles away. Like you had tunnel vision, only able to see the challenge in his eyes, only able to see his gummy smile.

But then he was looking away and moving on to other comments. “Come to Latin America. I really want to go.”

You screamed long and hard into your pillow.

Fast forward, and you had somehow made it here. Here, at a BTS fansign, here, about to be face to face with your favorite band.

With him.

What originally started out as excitement quickly morphed into anxiety as you made your way down the table, doing your best to chat with all the members without projectile vomiting everywhere. Because as nervous as Namjoon’s dimply smile made you, what lay in wait for you further down the table had you quaking in your boots.

At the time, you had thought it was funny. Bring the documents, he had challenged you. So when the universe had decided to somehow let you win the fanmeet lottery, you had taken it as a sign to rise to his challenge. Now that you were here, though, you were realizing just how creepy you could be perceived.

“Yah, I’m right here,” Seokjin whined good-naturedly, waving a hand in front of your face. You jumped, thrown out of your thoughts, and that only made him lean closer to you, grinning and amused. “Is it Taehyungie?” he stage-whispered. “It’s always Taehyungie.”

“I—” The words caught in your throat, so you shook your head in answer, thoroughly embarrassed.

Jin’s mouth formed a surprised O, there only one other possibility left. “Good luck with that,” he winked as the little bell rang, announcing it was time for everyone to move down the line.

Your limbs moved robotically as you shuffled down to the next member. Actively trying not to shit yourself.

Yoongi was impossibly more beautiful in person. He looked a bit tired, purple hair wisping prettily over his glazed-over eyes. But he still gave you his full attention. “Hello,” he said, voice soft but not quiet. You were happy that you were kneeling, because otherwise your knees would be shaking. “I’m Suga.”

He watched you expectantly, and it took a lot of effort to unglue your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “_____,” you squeaked.

“Nice to meet you, _____. Thank you for supporting us.” He reached for your album booklet, and before you realized what was happening (and could chuck it across the room), it was in his hands. And he was opening to the post-it marked with his name.

Oh no. Oh no oh noohnoohno—

Yoongi’s lips quirked at the folded pieces of paper tucked into a specially-chosen photo spread of him. “Ah, what’s this?” he asked teasingly, unfolding the paper and eyes roving its contents curiously.

His smile fell.

“It was a joke!” you babbled desperately. “You said to bring it so I thought it would be funny—”

“You’re QueenYoonji93?” he cut in, eyes widened in surprise.

Your jaw dropped. “…You remember me?!”

“Of course I remember you,” he replied mildly, squinting suspiciously. “But prove you’re them.”

How did he expect you to do that? Did he want you to show him your Vlive login? Security had already taken your phone.

“I…” you shuffled. “Uh…one time I told you your face mask made you look like a Decepticon?”

“Holy shit,” he breathed, staring at you in awe. You stared right back, watching with interest as color began to bloom across his face.

The bell rang, indicating your time was up. Yoongi cleared his throat, dropping his gaze back to the papers in his hand. To your shock, he smoothed the them out and lifted his pen. “You know this isn’t legal unless we’ve got an officiant and witnesses, right?”

“Y-Yeah but—” He was signing it. He was actually signing the marriage registration papers. There was no way. There was absolutely no fucking way, you must have been in the middle of a really vivid dream, or maybe you had done some shrooms and forgotten about it, or maybe—

“It was nice meeting you,” he said quietly, tucking the papers back into your album booklet and handing it all back to you. “Please anticipate the rest of our comeback.”  

“I will,” you replied, flustered, not able to say more as the fan behind you crowded your space and forced you further down the line. Yoongi shot you a few glances before focusing completely on the new fan.

“Hi,” Taehyung smiled at you.

You couldn’t help but grin back.

Later, you realized he hadn’t signed where he was supposed to, but in the margins instead. And below the beautiful script of his signature: kkt hollybolly

#milestone drabbles 💞 #gimme some suga #Anonymous #asks #mine

[jamesgierach]

Chicago Mayor Lori Lightfoot’s

“State of the City” Address, 2019)

(Excerpt) (Draft prepared by James E. Gierach)

Mayor Lightfoot’s “2019 State of the City” Observations and Aims re Violence, Gangs, Guns, Drugs, Immigration, Healthcare, Policing, Racism and Corruption

[CHICAGO_. Marking her FIRST 100 days in office as Chicago’s mayor, just a few days before Labor Day 2019, the following comments are taken from a SUGGESTED DRAFT of Mayor Lori Lightfoot’s first “STATE OF THE CITY” address.]

‘My fellow Chicagoans —

Though we have made progress in reducing the number of HOMICIDES and SHOOTINGS in Chicago, violent crime remains all too prevalent in too many Chicago neighborhoods, increasingly leeching even onto “the Magnificent Mile,” into our best neighborhoods, and onto Chicago expressways.

VIOLENCE can erupt anywhere in today’s climate.

Though the number of ILLEGAL GUNS recovered by Chicago Police has increased, likely to reach 10,000 illegal guns by year’s end, and despite numerous anti-violence initiatives and strategies put in place over three, Chicago mayoral administrations spanning decades, I am convinced that so long as DRUG PROHIBITION remains “the Law of the Land,” Chicago will continue to be plagued by painful, unrelenting gang and gun violence.

DRUG PROHIBITION PROFITS ARE THE LIFEBLOOD OF CHICAGO GANGS. And Chicago gangs are the center core of our gun and violence crises.

Under the new leadership of Gov. JB Pritzker, effective January 1st, Illinois has LEGALIZED RECREATIONAL MARIJUANA, and soon will have largely removed marijuana from drug-dealer shelves, the drug substance most commonly used by Chicagoans, Americans and people around the world.

This great accomplishment was achieved by thoughtful LEGISLATIVE ACT and by stoke of the GOVERNOR’S PEN — not by action of a drug task force, paid-informant, or raiding police SWAT team.

I hasten to add: By delivering this “State of the City Address,” I AM NOT RECOMMENDING THAT PEOPLE USE MARIJUANA.

Individual freedom to choose whether or not to use marijuana, because recreational marijuana use has now been legalized in Illinois for persons 21 years-of-age or older, does not mean individuals should choose to use it.

But I do applaud the removal of marijuana from the REVENUE STREAM of Chicago GANGS and UNLICENSED DRUG DEALERS, who use those revenues to buy weapons of mass destruction — ASSAULT WEAPONS and HANDGUNS. Those weapons in the hands of drug gangsters are used to intimidate witnesses, acquire turf, and lure kids with aspirations to succeed in life by passing through a “GOLDEN PROHIBITION GATEWAY” that purportedly offers easy money and the accumulation of great wealth without need of formal education or hard work.

But MARIJUANA LEGALIZATION IS NOT ANSWER ENOUGH to right today’s wrongs, resulting from society’s return to the sorry Al Capone-chapter of Chicago prohibition history.

I say, DRUG PROHIBITION IS WORSE than a hundred alcohol Prohibitions in terms of unintended and unforeseen bad consequences.

AL CAPONE needed to buy trucks and warehouses to move and store bulky liquor, a big capital outlay limiting entry into the business. In contrast, drug prohibition invites every smart, disadvantaged, or aspiring kid into the powdered, drug-concentrate business without need of startup capital. A plastic baggy containing heroin, fentanyl, cocaine or other powdered drug worth $1,000 on the street won’t even bulge a youngster’s bluejeans pocket.

All that is required to go into Chicago’s, drug-prohibition business is a gun to compete and a pair of gym shoes to get away.

The illicit drug business attracts not only the young and ambitious, but also experienced and disparate parolees. For many thousands of “ex-cons” released back into communities on Chicago’s West and South Sides, and elsewhere, drugs are often the EMPLOYER OF LAST RESORT.

These ill-conceived societal rules have instilled in the minds of many people living on the fringe of society the notion that “It’s them or us,” “Kill or be killed,” “I’m not going back to prison.” This desperate and unforgiving thought must end. But how?

Dr. Gary Slutkin, founder of CEASEFIRE, a violence-interrupter nonprofit organization that has received funding from the City of Chicago, among other governments, was nearly correct 30 years ago when he first suggested that we should treat violence as a disease.

More correctly, he should have said, that DRUG PROHIBITION is a disease that causes unending violence, and many other systemic diseases; and that all are without cure or significant remediation, UNLESS WE RETREAT from counterproductive drug-prohibition policy.

I believe that so long as we have drug users unable to access a legal, labeled and reasonably affordable supply of the substances to which many users are addicted, the myriad horrors of drug prohibition will continue to fowl the Chicago landscape. Those DRUG PROHIBITION horrors, implicitly built into all drug prohibition policies, include the following UNENDING and INSURMOUNTABLE CHALLENGES:

• ACCIDENTAL DRUG OVERDOSE DEATHS, caused by users’ voluntary consumption of unlabeled, untested and unregulated illegal drugs;

• drug warriors and innocent crossfire victims left dead or wounded in unending, Chicago TURF WARS, including street-settled drug business disputes and RETALIATORY SHOOTINGS;

• gang members needfully armed with ever more POWERFUL GUNS to meet rival competitors in a free-for-all fight for CONTROL OF DRUG MARKETS, customers and gang members;

• UNAFFORDABLE, BULLET-HOLE HEALTHCARE;

• the need for MORE POLICE, metal detectors, cameras and MORE TECHNOLOGY in the public way;

• the need for MORE SCHOOL SOCIAL WORKERS, counselors and trauma centers;

The list of drug-prohibition horrors is much longer, and without exhaustion includes:

• RACIALLY-DISPARATE and HEAVY-HANDED POLICING;

• MONEY JUDGMENTS in the hundreds of millions of dollars expended to settle ABUSIVE POLICING LAWSUITS and fund DOJ CONSENT DECREE COMPLIANCE;

• CRIMINAL COURT INJUSTICES;

• FAMILY SEPARATION and BREAKDOWN, caused by MASS INCARCERATION of nonviolent (disproportionately Black and Brown) drug users, and dealers-dealers trying to survive and make a living;

• communities filled with unemployed and often UNEMPLOYABLE WORKERS needlessly saddled with drug-conviction backgrounds;

• and TERRORIZED IMMIGRANTS, DRUG-WAR REFUGEES really, flocking to the U.S.-Mexican border, and eventually to friendly cities like Chicago, to escape the violent consequences of UNITED NATIONS-MANDATED and U.S.-SUPPORTED drug prohibition policies adversely impacting many people from Central America and Latin America.

Of course, DRUG POLICY REFORM ALONE IS NOT ENOUGH.

We must continue and accelerate our “WEED AND SEED” INITIATIVES with enhanced job opportunities, infrastructure improvements, and government and private investment and cooperation—all essential ingredients to address these problems, as long-recognized by all.

But what we have all been much slower to recognize or callout is the UNINTENDED DAMAGE caused by DRUG-PROHIBITION POLICIES enacted and enforced at the LOCAL, STATE, NATIONAL and INTERNATIONAL LEVELS.

ZERO TOLERANCE OF DRUGS has been the watchword and commonly-supported public policy endorsed by the masses, political and religious leaders, and honorable members of the press for too long — OVER HALF A CENTURY.

This mainstream intolerance, and implicit and explicit endorsement of drug prohibition governmental polices, has preceded successive Chicago, and American, DRUG CRISES with marijuana, LSD, cocaine, crack cocaine, PCP, heroin, ecstasy, methamphetamines, fentanyl and 803 newly invented synthetic mind-altering substances, the latter over just the past decade.

The “SHADOW REPORT” — prepared by the International Drug Policy Consortium (IDPC), based in the United Kingdom, a collective of over 100 nonprofit organizations — authoritatively documents GLOBAL DRUG POLICY FAILURES, including DRAMATICALLY INCREASED PRODUCTION OF OPIATES, COCAINE and SYNTHETIC DRUGS over the past decade. I refer all Chicagoans to the 138-page IDPC report available in five languages. https://idpc.net/publications/2018/10/taking-stock-a-decade-of-drug-policy-a-civil-society-shadow-report

Finally, I acknowledge that, alone, Chicago cannot untie the DRUG-PROHIBITION GORDIAN KNOT, cinched so tightly to so many of our Chicago problems for so long.

It will require the cooperation of the CHICAGO CITY COUNCIL, COOK COUNTY BOARD, the ILLINOIS GENERAL ASSEMBLY, the u.S. CONGRESS, the UNITED NATIONS COMMISSION ON NARCOTIC DRUGS, the INTERNATIONAL NARCOTICS CONTROL BOARD, ECOSOC, the UNITED NATIONS GENERAL ASSEMBLY, the WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION and approximately 186 NATIONS OF THE WORLD who have heretofore agreed to support and execute disastrous, UN drug-prohibition CONVENTIONS and POLICIES.

Alone, no one can solve this gargantuan, monolithic, global and Chicago drug prohibition policy conundrum with poisonous tentacles reaching everywhere.

But I intend to dismantle the illicit drug business in Chicago by fighting for EXPERIMENTAL DRUG POLICY REFORM IDEAS, including programs and initiatives embracing drug decriminalization and drug legalization.

And of course, Chicago will also be supporting drug treatment on demand, clean needles, naloxone for all, methadone, suboxone, buprenorphine clinics, mobile drug dispensaries for on-site consumption, safe injection sites, and other HARM-REDUCTION INITIATIVES.

TOGETHER, WE CAN DO THIS. WE CAN AGAIN MAKES DRUG POLICY A MEDICAL PROBLEM, NOT A RAINFALL OF SOCIETAL PROHIBITION CRISES.

We can do it by supporting drug-tolerant ideas aimed to eliminate prohibition drug markets and undercut gang revenues, ideas that simply “TAKE THE PROFIT OUT OF DRUGS.” Because armed gangs will not give up their core, addicted user-base without a fight, I will deploy Chicago police to protect drug users and drug dispensaries at every location and in every legal drug venue.

Now, I’d like to turn to Chicago’s financial problems, including our billion dollar budget shortfall, our budget-busting contractual pension obligations, school contract negotiations and the failed soda tax….’

[Draft prepared for the Honorable Mayor Lori Lightfoot by James E. Gierach, a supporter and admirer of Mayor Lightfoot.]

James E. Gierach

Palos Park, Illinois

Originally drafted, Tuesday, August 27, 2019

Edited, Friday, March 5, 2021

[Mayor Lightfoot’s Thursday address now about 48 hours out.]

[leastshittyexpats]

Running in CDMX

Running is my favorite sport for a lot of reasons, but I think the main one is because you can do it anywhere, anytime, and the only equipment you need is a decent pair of running shoes.  (Although I had to get rid of 99% of my wardrobe in the last 24 hours of packing for this adventure, I refused to cut my second pair of running shoes.  They don’t sell Brooks in Mexico!)  

So once we moved into our long-term rental I laced up my shoes and went out to explore.  I was curious to see what running in Mexico City was really like, since I’d read some less-than-positive things before we arrived.  Here’s what I’ve learned.

(Parque México, just a mile away!)

Air Pollution: There is a lot of traffic in Mexico City.  A lot.  But I have found that if you plan your route well, you can run on quiet, tree-lined streets and in beautiful parks 90% of the time, which seriously cuts down your intake of car exhaust.  You’ll have to cross a main road or two with pretty much any route, but these provide great opportunities to catch your breath.  Which brings me to issue number 2...

Elevation: A few runner friends warned me that Mexico City is at a very high elevation.  I figured, whatever, I’ve been there before and I didn’t notice any difference.  But I must not have had time to run when I was here as a tourist.  

I’ve never even really paid attention to elevation, but apparently that’s because the places I’ve lived and run in made it unnecessary.  For comparison, Chicago is 181 meters above sea level.  NYC = 10 meters on average.  Other places I’ve lived and run: Washington, DC = basically sea level; Valencia, Spain = 15 meters.  

Mexico City?  TWO THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY METERS.  Turns out, elevation is no joke for runners.  The first time I ran here I was appalled at my pace.  I was running an average pace of 13:30 per mile...slightly slower than my usual average of 9:00!  Even in splits, if I’m lucky the closest I get to my usual range is an under-11-minute mile!  And I constantly have to stop and catch my breath because the air is so thin.  Luckily there are lots of pretty things to look at.

(Centennial monument to the Armenian Genocide: ”If you want to live a happy life, attach yourself to a goal, not a person or a thing.” ~ Albert Einstein)

At first I was absolutely exhausted the day after even a short (3–4 miles) run.  But I already feel like it’s getting easier, and my pace is picking up little by little.  So I see this part, the beginning of our trip, as a nice little challenge to remind me I can always get stronger.  And I’m very much looking forward to getting back to sea level because I’m going to feel like a rock star!

Running culture: I am not and probably never will be a very social runner.  But I do enjoy the feeling of solidarity I experience whenever I find there’s been at least one if not many a runner before me who has carved out a path in the dirt alongside a paved road, wet sand on the beach, or freshly fallen snow. Every time I run here — no matter what time of day, what day of the week — I see other runners out there and we share a smile or nod.  I’ve seen runners of all ages and sizes, too.  My favorite experience of fitness culture so far in CDMX, though, is the first time I stumbled upon Ciclovía.

(Ciclovía right outside our apartment!)

Ciclovía is a public health/urban planning initiative that started 40 years ago as a protest against car-centric development in Bogotá, Colombia, and has since been adopted by municipal governments across Latin America.  Main streets are closed to automobile traffic for several hours on given days, often Sunday mornings, and some cities have weekday or weekend evening Ciclovías as well.  I knew these existed in Mexico City, but I wasn’t sure where.  So imagine my delight when, our first Sunday morning in Mexico City, I went out for a run and found Ciclovía at our doorstep!  

As you may gather from the title (and the above photo), Ciclovía is geared towards encouraging bicycling, but there are plenty of runners and rollerbladers out there too.  It’s such a fun way to enjoy a lovely Sunday morning with your neighbors.  That morning I followed the crowd and discovered a new route.  I was rewarded with a new (to me) park that is ringed by a rubber running path — one of my absolute favorite things!

(Rubber track!!!)

So despite the challenges, I love running in CDMX as much as anywhere else.  I even manage to get Tim to join me once or twice a week to show him some of my favorite things I’ve discovered.  I’ll keep sharing them with you as well.

~ A

#running #cdmx #mexico city #mexico #air pollution #elevation #chapultepec #run happy

[bts-love-sweat-tears]

Julie’s Love Yourself Concert Diary

Concert Date: September 29, 2018

Written: September 30, 2018

Warnings: I curse more than I should?

Words: 3,330ish-added a few  things at the last minute (phew!)

A/N:

[Update: Tumblr couldn’t upload all my photos that I spent awhile choosing and placing, so I’m going to have to pare it down. Sorry bbs! I opted to cut my personal & merch photos in favor of the boys]

So I have one thousand and one things I should be working on-for school, for work, for my eventual job hunt. But instead I am going to write about last night’s experience while it was still fresh in my mind. I was thinking of doing a song-by-song play-by-play, but you can look up the setlist on Wikipedia, so instead I am going to talk about the things that jumped out at me. WARNING: This is essentially one giant spoiler, so I will try to put a “Read More” cut, though it’s been being weird for me lately. So scroll carefully if you’re going to a later date and don’t want to know. All photos taken on my (now ancient) iPhone 6, so I tried to choose the best ones). Will edit as I see typos I made.

I’m a little nervous since I usually write fiction instead of sharing my personal experience. Anyway, full disclosure that this is just my perspective, and I’m (always) happy to discuss things (civilly) if you disagree with me.  <3  Photos and opinions are mine.- please don’t re-post anywhere else.

The Background/ Pulling a Namjoon and Leaving my Ticket at Home

Even though I was going to the Saturday show, I flew into LaGuardia using frequent flyer miles on Friday morning. I was staying with a friend in Queens, so I went straight to her apartment. I’m a grad student as most of you probably know at this point, so I spent most of Friday working on a paper that was due. I had two friends I met at last year’s concert going to the Friday concert, and they went for merch promptly at 9, but I had just arrived and had a deadline to meet for school.  Around 4:30PM, I decided that I was done for the day and opened Ticketmaster to print my ticket for the next day’s show. When I logged in, I saw the notice that the ticket had been mailed to me. I remembered having seen that when I bought the ticket in May, but in my defense I was jet-lagged and ill on that day. Furthermore, I moved to and from NYC in that time for a summer internship, and SO MUCH HAD HAPPENED. The tickets had been mailed while I was living here and I had never seen them, so somehow it slipped my mind. Obviously I lived too far away, but I didn’t know if I could express overnight them, but I think when I called Ticketmaster, the old ones were deactivated when the guy tried to send me the link.

Anyway, print at home was not an option, so I called Ticketmaster and in a panic explained my situation. They said it happened all the time and offered to send me a link. Luckily I kept the rep on the line, because it turned out that even they couldn’t email a link because of the anti-scalpers/fraud/whatever.

Then the rep said that I could show the credit card, but I had literally cut it up the week prior since the Vendor (e.g. the store that the card was through) had switched their card to a different bank (e.g. Visa to Mastercard), so I seemed shady af, even though I was telling the truth. He said as long as I had a login to a statement showing the transaction (I didn’t, since they had opted to close the account at an institutional level).  So I called my mom frantically, and luckily she is the hyper-organized type who keeps paper copies of everything and sent them to me. Seriously, Mom for the win!  I run to this print shop as it’s closing and print everything out.  I had the Ticketmaster receipt & order #, and two photo ID’s confirming my address. The guy said it should be fine, but I was on the verge of a mental breakdown. This was my one birthday gift and something I had been looking forward to for months. Anyway, my friend and I went out to a local bar near the Halsey (yes, the singer took her name from the station) stop on the L line, and I was super anti-social because I was so upset. I also burst a blood vessel in my eye  (it will heal, no worries) because of too much birthday partying the prior weekend, so I’m sure I was a (sour) sight to behold.

I slept poorly for obvious reasons, and left the apartment around 7AM, and arrived to Prudential center around 8:30ish. There were only a few people outside of will call, but the GA line was already wrapped around the building. I made small talk with people outside of the box office, and one woman told me she had gotten soundcheck both days. Seriously, what kind of karma do I need for that to happen to me? She and her friends had been camping out since Thursday, and they were SUPER organized: while she waited in line, one was at merch, and someone else was holding their GA site. I almost wondered if they were a fansite or something. ARMY are a truly organized bunch (except for me, clearly).

Anyway, after another half hour of pure anxiety, they opened up will call and I was panicking, but they were really helpful and gave me my ticket after I verified the order number, showed my id and confirmed some other personal data. I decided then and there that nothing else mattered and I was just happy to be there and be in.

Waiting in line/Logistics/Staff

I left the box office, and got into the GA line. It was probably around 9:15, and the line had already doubled-back on itself all the way around the building. The woman from earlier told me that her friend had got #1000 and was only 3 rows back, so I still had some hope. Basically, you line up to get your spot in line- though it’s kinda dumb that you have to line up twice, it makes security go faster and guarantees that there isn’t a huge surge/stronger people cutting  in line later.

I wore what I thought were my most comfortable shoes, but after standing on concrete for hours, I don’t think it makes a difference. People were so friendly though-  I never once felt awkward even though I was by myself. The same was true last year- the friends who had gone up for merch on Friday I met while in line at last years’ Wings concert. I chatted with people around me, drank the two bottles of water I had, and looked at my phone. Bring an umbrella for shade and sunscreen though-I didn’t and am rocking a nice farmers burn/tan today.  It wasn’t humid though, and it wasn’t raining, so it could have been so much worse.

Even though there were tons of people, everyone was well-behaved. I didn’t see any altercations, though as the day went on the staff seemed a bit overwhelmed with crowd control.  I didn’t see too many people selling unofficial merch like last year, though I did buy a few necklaces (Joon and Chim, ofc).

After 3.5 hours, I finally got my wristband. They told us to be back by 2pm to line up for real, as they were going to try to open the doors at 3 instead of 3:30 (didn’t end up happening).

Merch

I then ran to merch, but there wasn’t much left. The fans/pickets were selling out as I got in line, and people were basically yelling “NOOOOOOOO” everytime the staff put up a “SOLD OUT” sticker. I bought what I could that was left, including a bracelet, which I’m actually in love with, the eco-tote (super overpriced tbh, $50 for a canvas bag), but the shopper bags were gone and I needed something to carry the box and batteries V3 ARMY Bomb I bought. I had one from last year that I also forgot, but I think the new version was cool because they are synced up with the music so you can change colors and patterns along with everyone else. Overall, it’s EXPEN$$$$IVE, but if anyone’s worth it, it’s Bangtan.

Newark

I was getting super tired after this, so I kinda passed on the photo studio table, big poster, and UNICEF stuff. I tried to go to Starbucks, but even though it was the middle of the day, I didn’t feel that safe, even though it was like 11:45 in the middle of the day. I’m a 27 year old who’s lived in Latin America (which is generally stereotyped for violence), solo traveled around the world, and I’m from the Rust Belt (aka home of true urban decay), but that part of Newark sketched me the heck out. Probably it would have been fine, but I opted for caution, and went to a Dunkin Donuts and empanada place right around the corner. The timing was actually good since we had to get back pretty quickly to line back up.

The second line was where the staff struggled, telling people to back up and get in order, but it seemed like staff were doing different things. Plus, if they wanted people to back up, they should have created room at the back first, before telling the front to basically “back that ass up” on the people behind them.

GA vs. Seated

I can say this- if you are short, you probably want a seat. Or if you have any kind of knee, back, or joint problems- I stood for approximately 14 straight hours on concrete yesterday. I am just under 5”5” but I was probably one of the taller people in the crowd, so I had a pretty good view. Even though they asked people to not take videos or record, you WILL be looking through a sea of cell phones. I could see pretty well, but sometimes when they were on the main stage I had a hard time seeing around other people’s arms.

Last time I had P2 seated, and the view was wonderful. I went to the bathroom, charged my phone, and ate nachos (lol), so it was generally a more chill experience. I was still super close but up a little higher and could see absolutely everything. But last night I was SO close I could see Joon’s dimples irl, and got splashed by both Jungkook and J-Hope when they threw the water bottles.  Probably 100 people think this, but I’m also pretty sure Yoongi  (and maybeeee Jimin) saw me jumping and singing along like crazy since I was one of the taller people. At the very least, Yoongi keep looking in the general direction I was in. Ofc I looked gross af with my messed up eye and crazy hair, but what I loved about the concert is that I was 100% able to forget all the insecurities I carry around with me on a day to day basis and have an AMAZING time.

Of course the whole place is crazy high energy, but I feel like last night was INSANELY high. I’m not sure if it was the overall vibe or if that was the GA influencing my opinion.  It just depends on what kind of experience you want to have. Also, if you are claustrophobic, you should probably pass on GA. The guards kept forcing people to back up, at one point even coming in with a flashlight, and people would surge forward whenever a member came close. But someone said the night before was chill, so maybe it’s just luck of the draw.

The Show

The show was absolutely amazing. They opened with IDOL, which got people hyped from the get-go. Their dancing was ON POINT as always. People were chanting during the intro videos and chatting as it filled in, so it was a great vibe once again- just super happy feeling. The audio visual part was AMAZING, though I’m no pro, and I loved all of the concert outfits, especially Jimin’s super sparkly sweater. Lots of jumping, and lots of screams. I didn’t have earplugs and was fine, but if you’re sensitive to loud sounds I definitely recommend them. ISTG I remembered hearing a mashup of FIRE, but maybe not? Wikipedia seems to think not. But they played a few older ones too, which made me so soft and nostalgic.

More on the members during the concert

Kim Namjoon

Ok, this is so so so biased, let me start with that. If you’ve followed me for any amount of time, you know how much I love this man. Seeing him smiling and happy was amazing. And they had a professional translator for this concert, so I felt like Joon was able to relax a little and enjoy himself instead of worrying about translating for everyone else.  He is just as tall and proportional as everyone says he is.  Everyone talks about how soft he is these days (and I love it), but he has undeniable charisma when he raps. Plus him in sunglasses, ddaeng. Seeing him so close was akin to something spiritual for me (I SAW THE DIMPLES WITH MY OWN EYES), as were people shouting along with him to “Love.” At the end, he commented how we were all sharing the same air, and hearing him think the way (I know at least some of ) us think was so heartwarming.  

Also during some of the videos, there were some NOT AT ALL subtle Minjoon moments.  

Kim Seokjin

The crowd last night ADORED Jin and gave him all the attention he deserves to have all the time. People were chanting his name SO LOUDLY during instrumental breaks in Epiphany. His voice was phenomenal, particularly the high notes. it’s clear how hard he’s worked to make it sound so effortless.  I noticed that people weren’t moving as much during some of his notes and I can only think it’s because we were literally transfixed. It’s well established, but I don’t think this man has any bad angles. Even in the still pictures I took while dancing, he DOESN’T look awkward in any of them. #impossible.

Min Yoongi

Suga was clearly happy about something last night- he was SO cute and happy. Other ARMY on the train back to the city agreed with me. His rapping was fire (duh), but he was really smiley and took out his earpiece a number of times to hear us screaming. “Seesaw” starts with him laying on a couch and I can think of no better way to capture his true soul (lol). He was extra attentive to fans, and  I feel like what Tae mentioned in Burn the Stage, he was trying to memorize ARMY’s faces and live in the moment. I felt bad because there were clearly parts where he wanted us to sing along, but we couldn’t necessarily keep up with his tongue technology :P  But people definitely tried their best.  

Jung Hoseok

Idk what I can say here that’s new. J-Hope is one of the most charismatic members on the stage. And there’s something in the American air that turns him into Jay Hope. Seriously, he’s hard to move your eyes away from. “Just Dance” was the first solo track if I remember correctly and he did not disappoint. His glasses at the end were adorable, and one of the other members called him a “happy grandfather” or something like that.  Seriously, if you’re still sleeping on Hobi, we can’t be friends.  

Park Jimin

Jimin was ethereal as always, and the choreography for Serendipity was…..salacious, to say the least. Like if you thought the “Take Me Down” cover from last year’s Festa was too much, then idk what to tell you. Bring holy water or something. Despite  the free water that fans were providing to others (ARMY are seriously the best) there was a different kind of thirst occurring, if you smell what I’m stepping in. Jimin is pure charisma, like J-Hope. Obviously their styles are totally different, but when they move, you stop whatever you’re doing and watch. Again, I didn’t even see many ARMY bombs moving during Serendipity- I think we were too entranced. I personally thought that he killed his vocals and did great, but he seemed a little tired or like he was working hard at it. Jimin was also the one (at least that I saw from my angle) that got the closest to the fans, crouching down and leaning over the teleprompters/fans/lights/ whatever the black boxes were at the edge of the stage.

Similar to Tae and Yoongi, I saw him looking at fans A LOT during the show. He was exactly how he seems in V Lives and cameras, and I’m fairly certain I would spontaneously combust if I ever ran into him irl (even if I didn’t know who he was)- he just radiates warmth and friendliness. Seriously, if I believed in magic, I feel like he would be able to influence people’s emotions.

Kim Taehyung

So many fic writers have this ultra primal (for lack of a better word?) for Tae, but all I see is a cute sweetheart. Obviously I’ve never seen someone create as much tension with their own arm as he does during Singularity, but when he’s not dancing, I just got a super innocent, cutesy vibe from him. His voice was so smooth last night. I mean, I knew, but now I KNOW.  He actually was shooting hearts at one fan (how lucky they are), and pretended to fall down when they shot him back! They were further back in P2 as well so he really does work hard at paying attention to everyone. He actually called over another member (maybe Yoongi or Jimin? I was too busy trying to remember how to breathe, to see whatever he was seeing).

At the end he whipped a heart out of his beanie (how I pray to god someone got that moment on camera) a la Jin. He just seemed really comfortable in his own skin last night, and I was so grateful for it.  

Jeon Jungkook

I had a hard time seeing most of his Euphoria performance as it was relatively early on and people were taking a shit ton of videos. He also stayed mostly on the main stage, rather than come out to the extension area near where I was. His abs are just as great in person, and the screams were (as is to be expected), absolutely deafening. They’ve talked about it in shows, but his voice is  SO stable. Obviously they stopped at times and don’t use too much backing vocals, but it sounded EXACTLY how it does on the album. He threw something into the crowd  (I think a banner) at the end, and it FLEW so far-back to P2 or further. They’re not kidding when they talk about how strong he is.  

Final thoughts

At first, I was a little exhausted after my emotional trauma of the prior day, and from standing for so long but the minute it started I forgot everything else. I was salty when I couldn’t see that much bc of people recording (esp when they asked us not to), but I understand the specialness of the moment and wanting to have some tangible evidence that you were there. By the time the concert was over, I realized how special GA was, even if it’s more difficult logistically (since I went solo and didn’t have parents or friends to stand in). I still don’t know if it’s hit me that I was like 10 feet away from them, max. It reaffirmed how important they are to me. I didn’t write this to brag, but to hopefully share my perspective and let others live vicariously through my experience. If you want clarification or anything else, write to me!  

#love yourself tour #newark day 2 #bts #bts army #concert diary #concert musings

[tlatollotl]

St. Thomas the Apostle Church in Abiquiú, N.M., a village settled by former Indian slaves, or Genízaros, in the 18th century.

Lenny Trujillo made a startling discovery when he began researching his descent from one of New Mexico’s pioneering Hispanic families: One of his ancestors was a slave.

“I didn’t know about New Mexico’s slave trade, so I was just stunned,” said Mr. Trujillo, 66, a retired postal worker who lives in Los Angeles. “Then I discovered how slavery was a defining feature of my family’s history.”

Mr. Trujillo is one of many Latinos who are finding ancestral connections to a flourishing slave trade on the blood-soaked frontier now known as the American Southwest. Their captive forebears were Native Americans — slaves frequently known as Genízaros (pronounced heh-NEE-sah-ros) who were sold to Hispanic families when the region was under Spanish control from the 16th to 19th centuries. Many Indian slaves remained in bondage when Mexico and later the United States governed New Mexico.

The revelations have prompted some painful personal reckonings over identity and heritage. But they have also fueled a larger, politically charged debate on what it means to be Hispanic and Native American.

A growing number of Latinos who have made such discoveries are embracing their indigenous backgrounds, challenging a long tradition in New Mexico in which families prize Spanish ancestry. Some are starting to identify as Genízaros. Historians estimate that Genízaros accounted for as much as one-third of New Mexico’s population of 29,000 in the late 18th century.

“We’re discovering things that complicate the hell out of our history, demanding that we reject the myths we’ve been taught,” said Gregorio Gonzáles, 29, an anthropologist and self-described Genízaro who writes about the legacies of Indian enslavement.

Those legacies were born of a tortuous story of colonial conquest and forced assimilation.

New Mexico, which had the largest number of sedentary Indians north of central Mexico, emerged as a coveted domain for slavers almost as soon as the Spanish began settling here in the 16th century, according to Andrés Reséndez, a historian who details the trade in his 2016 book, “The Other Slavery.” Colonists initially took local Pueblo Indians as slaves, leading to an uprising in 1680 that temporarily pushed the Spanish out of New Mexico.

Floyd E. Trujillo, 83, right, swabbed the inside of his mouth for a DNA sample as his son Virgil spoke with Miguel A. Tórrez, a genealogist.

The trade then evolved to include not just Hispanic traffickers but horse-mounted Comanche and Ute warriors, who raided the settlements of Apache, Kiowa, Jumano, Pawnee and other peoples. They took captives, many of them children plucked from their homes, and sold them at auctions in village plazas.

The Spanish crown tried to prohibit slavery in its colonies, but traffickers often circumvented the ban by labeling their captives in parish records as criados, or servants. The trade endured even decades after the Mexican-American War, when the United States took control of much of the Southwest in the 1840s.

Seeking to strengthen the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery in 1865, Congress passed the Peonage Act of 1867 after learning of propertied New Mexicans owning hundreds and perhaps thousands of Indian slaves, mainly Navajo women and children. But scholars say the measure, which specifically targeted New Mexico, did little for many slaves in the territory.

Many Hispanic families in New Mexico have long known that they had indigenous ancestry, even though some here still call themselves “Spanish” to emphasize their Iberian ties and to differentiate themselves from the state’s 23 federally recognized tribes, as well as from Mexican and other Latin American immigrants.

But genetic testing is offering a glimpse into a more complex story. The DNA of Hispanic people from New Mexico is often in the range of 30 to 40 percent Native American, according to Miguel A. Tórrez, 42, a research technologist at Los Alamos National Laboratory and one of New Mexico’s most prominent genealogists.

He and other researchers cross-reference DNA tests with baptismal records, marriage certificates, census reports, oral histories, ethnomusicology findings, land titles and other archival documents.

Mr. Tórrez’s own look into his origins shows how these searches can produce unexpected results. He found one ancestor who was probably Ojibwe, from lands around the Great Lakes, roughly a thousand miles away, and another of Greek origin among the early colonizers claiming New Mexico for Spain.

“I have Navajo, Chippewa, Greek and Spanish blood lines,” said Mr. Tórrez, who calls himself a mestizo, a term referring to mixed ancestry. “I can’t say I’m indigenous any more than I can say I’m Greek, but it’s both fascinating and disturbing to see how various cultures came together in New Mexico.”

Brienna Martinez performed the Matachines dance in Alcalde, N.M.

Revelations about how Indian enslavement was a defining feature of colonial New Mexico can be unsettling for some in the state, where the authorities have often tried to perpetuate a narrative of relatively peaceful coexistence between Hispanics, Indians and Anglos, as non-Hispanic whites are generally called here.

Pointing to their history, some descendants of Genízaros are coming together to argue that they deserve the same recognition as Native tribes in the United States. One such group in Colorado, the 200-member Genízaro Affiliated Nations, organizes annual dances to commemorate their heritage.

“It’s not about blood quantum or DNA testing for us, since those things can be inaccurate measuring sticks,” said David Atekpatzin Young, 62, the organization’s tribal chairman, who traces his ancestry to Apache and Pueblo peoples. “We know who we are, and what we want is sovereignty and our land back.”

Some here object to calling Genízaros slaves, arguing that the authorities in New Mexico were relatively flexible in absorbing Indian captives. In an important distinction with African slavery in parts of the Americas, Genízaros could sometimes attain economic independence and even assimilate into the dominant Hispanic classes, taking the surnames of their masters and embracing Roman Catholicism.

Genízaros and their offspring sometimes escaped or served out their terms of service, then banded together to forge buffer settlements against Comanche raids. Offering insight into how Indian captives sought to escape their debased status, linguists trace the origins of the word Genízaro to the Ottoman Empire’s janissaries, the special soldier class of Christians from the Balkans who converted to Islam, and were sometimes referred to as slaves.

Moisés Gonzáles, a Genízaro professor of architecture at the University of New Mexico, has identified an array of Genízaro outposts that endure in the state, including the villages Las Trampas and San Miguel del Vado. Some preserve traditions that reflect their Genízaro origins, and like other products of colonialism, many are cultural amalgams of customs and motifs from sharply disparate worlds.

Each December in the village of Alcalde, for instance, performers in headdresses stage the Matachines dance, thought by scholars to fuse the theme of Moorish-Christian conflict in medieval Spain with indigenous symbolism evoking the Spanish conquest of the New World.

In Abiquiú, settled by Genízaros in the 18th century, people don face paint and feathers every November to perform a “captive dance” about the village’s Indian origins — on a day honoring a Catholic saint.

Miguel A. Tórrez conducts the El Pueblo de Abiquiú DNA and Ethnographic Study, which examines the backgrounds of people who either identify as Genízaros or are descendants of Genízaros in Abiquiú.

“Some Natives say those in Abiquiú are pretend Indians,” said Mr. Tórrez, the genealogist. “But who’s to say that the descendants of Genízaros, of people who were once slaves, can’t reclaim their culture?”

Efforts by some Genízaro descendants to call themselves Indians instead of Latinos point to a broader debate over how Native Americans are identified, involving often contentious factors like tribal membership, what constitutes indigenous cultural practices and the light skin color of some Hispanics with Native ancestry. Some Native Americans also chafe at the gains some Hispanics here have sought by prioritizing their ancestral ties to European colonizers.

Pointing to the breadth of the Southwest’s slave trade, some historians have also documented how Hispanic settlers were captured and enslaved by Native American traffickers, and sometimes went on to embrace the cultures of their Comanche, Pueblo or Navajo masters.

Kim TallBear, an anthropologist at the University of Alberta, cautioned against using DNA testing alone to determine indigenous identity. She emphasized that such tests can point generally to Native ancestry somewhere in the Americas while failing to pinpoint specific tribal origins.

“There’s a conflation of race and tribe that’s infuriating, really,” said Ms. TallBear, a member of the Sisseton Wahpeton Oyate tribe of South Dakota who writes about tribal belonging and genetic testing. “I don’t think ancestry alone is sufficient to define someone as indigenous.”

The discovery of indigenous slave ancestry can be anything but straightforward, as Mr. Trujillo, the former postal worker, learned.

First, he found his connection to a Genízaro man in the village of Abiquiú. Delving further into 18th century baptismal records, he then found that his ancestor somehow broke away from forced servitude to purchase three slaves of his own.

“I was just blown away to find that I had a slaver and slaves in my family tree,” Mr. Trujillo said. “That level of complexity is too much for some people, but it’s part of the story of who I am.”

#history #historia #new mexico #mexico #native american #first nations #indian #slavery #Genízaro #hispanic #Genízaros #puebloans #puebloan #colorado #apache #camanche #navajo

[newstfionline]

Monday, October 26, 2020

California girds for most dangerous fire weather of year (AP) California, which has endured its worst wildfire season in history, is bracing for the most dangerous winds of the year, a forecast that prompted the largest utility to announce plans to cut power Sunday to nearly 1 million people to guard against its equipment sparking new blazes. Pacific Gas & Electric Co. said the outages would start in far Northern California and ultimately could affect 386,000 customers in 38 counties, with many of the shutoffs concentrated in the San Francisco Bay Area. At a Saturday night briefing, utility officials said high winds were expected to arrive midday Sunday and reach 40 to 60 mph (64 to 97 kph) with higher gusts in the mountains. Winds that strong can topple trees and send branches into power lines. Some of the largest and deadliest fires in recent years were started by utility equipment being damaged by high winds, so PG&E has been aggressive about pre-emptively cutting power when fire conditions are most dangerous. This will be the fifth time PG&E has cut power to customers this year and by far the largest shutdown.

Tropical Storm Zeta to threaten Gulf Coast as 2020 ties record for most named storms (Washington Post) Tropical Storm Zeta formed in the western Caribbean very early Sunday morning and is set to drift north and unleash wind, heavy rainfall and, potentially, ocean surge concerns as it approaches the U.S. Gulf Coast Tuesday night and Wednesday. Zeta becomes the record-tying 27th named storm of the 2020 Atlantic hurricane season, matching 2005 for the most names used in a season. Zeta is most likely to come ashore the Gulf Coast on Wednesday at tropical-storm strength, but there’s an outside chance that it could cross the coast as a hurricane. According to the Hurricane Center, Zeta “could bring storm surge, rainfall, and wind impacts to areas from Louisiana to the Florida Panhandle.”

Foreign students show less zeal for US since Trump took over (AP) On a recruiting trip to India’s tech hub of Bangalore, Alan Cramb, the president of a reputable Chicago university, answered questions not just about dorms or tuition but also American work visas. The session with parents fell in the chaotic first months of Donald Trump’s presidency. After an inaugural address proclaiming “America first,” two travel bans, a suspended refugee program and hints at restricting skilled worker visas widely used by Indians, parents doubted their children’s futures in the U.S. “Nothing is happening here that isn’t being watched or interpreted around the world,” said Cramb, who leads the Illinois Institute of Technology, where international scholars have been half the student body. America was considered the premier destination for international students, with the promise of top-notch universities and unrivaled job opportunities. Yet, 2016 marked the start of a steep decline of new enrollees, something expected to continue with fresh rules limiting student visas, competition from other countries and a haphazard coronavirus response. The effect on the workforce will be considerable, experts predict, no matter the outcome of November’s election. For colleges that fear dwindling tuition and companies that worry about losing talent, the broader impact is harder to quantify: America seemingly losing its luster on a global stage. Roughly 5.3 million students study outside their home countries, a number that’s more than doubled since 2001. But the U.S. share dropped from 28% in 2001 to 21% last year, according to the Association of International Educators, or NAFSA.

Watching U.S. presidential vote, much of the world sees a less-strong America (LA Times) In the eyes of much of the world the United States is a potent, yet faltering force, a conflicted nation heading into an election that will either redeem it or tug it farther away from the myths and promise that for generations defined it in capitals from Singapore to Paris and Buenos Aires to Nairobi. The stature and standing of the U.S. have plummeted in recent years, a number of international polls suggest. That trend has been exacerbated this year by what is widely perceived to be a disorderly and ineffectual governmental response to the COVID-19 pandemic, and now by a chaotic electoral process. For some, a once-bright beacon of egalitarian values has faded into an aloof, disfigured power. “The United States was always a model to follow,” said Gloria Jácome Torres, a 41-year-old lawyer in Mexico City. “Since I was a student, I always viewed the United States with admiration—everything they did there with respect to human rights, the level of education, personal liberties.” But particularly during the last four years, her view has been soured by what she sees as a pattern of cruelty and callousness emanating from U.S. officialdom, as seen in the mistreatment of migrants and racial injustice laid bare. “Honestly, I believe that the United States is not the same as before,” she said. “One sees the news and thinks, ‘Is this really what the United States has become?’” In many parts of the world, a broad sense of disillusionment directed at the United States cannot be laid solely at the feet of President Trump, who began his term in January 2017. Particularly in regions such as Latin America and the Middle East, where the U.S. for decades propped up repressive regimes, historic grievances long predate Trump’s headlong America-first presidency.

Indigenous Colombians, Facing New Wave of Brutality, Demand Government Action (NYT) Protesters descended by the thousands on Colombia’s capital, Bogotá, this week, horrified by a brutal wave of violence sweeping the country, one so intense that mass killings have taken place every other day on average. Most traveled hundreds of miles, from the rural Indigenous communities that have been particularly ravaged by the violence, which they trace to government failures to protect them under the country’s halting peace process. “If we don’t stand before the world and say, ‘This is happening,’” said Ermes Pete, 38, an Indigenous leader from the country’s southwest, “we will be exterminated.” Four years ago, the government signed a historic peace deal with the country’s largest rebel group, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, ending the longest-running conflict in the Americas. The accord called for the Colombian government to provide basic services—education, health care and safety—in areas battered by the long civil war. But many protesters said that when the FARC moved out of their communities, the government never moved in. Instead, new criminal groups arrived. As new criminal groups have moved into former FARC territory, Indigenous communities, often located on drug routes and in areas rich with minerals and timber, have been among the most vulnerable. The criminal groups have used deadly violence to stifle dissent and discourage people from working with rivals.

Spain orders nationwide curfew to stem worsening outbreak (AP) Spain declared a second nationwide state of emergency Sunday and ordered an overnight curfew across the country in hopes of stemming a resurgence in coronavirus infections, Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez said. The Socialist leader told the nation in a televised address that the extraordinary measure will go into effect on Sunday night. Sánchez said that his government is using the state of emergency to impose an 11 p.m.-6 a.m. nationwide curfew, except in the Canary Islands. Spain’s 19 regional leaders will have authority to set different hours for the curfew as long as they are stricter, close regional borders to travel and limit gatherings to six people who don’t live together, the prime minister said. The leader added that he would ask Parliament this week to extend the state of emergency for six months, until May.

France recalls ambassador from Turkey after Erdogan says Macron needs ‘mental’ treatment (Washington Post) The French foreign ministry said Sunday it was recalling its ambassador to Turkey, a day after Turkish President Recep Tayyip Erdogan sharply criticized French President Emmanuel Macron’s response to the beheading of a teacher who had shown students pictures of the prophet Muhammad, strictly prohibited by the Muslim faith. French Foreign Minister Jean-Yves Le Drian said the country was withdrawing Ambassador Herve Magro from its NATO ally because of a “hateful and slanderous propaganda against France, testifying to a desire to stir up hatred against us and our heart” as well as “direct insults against the President of the Republic, expressed at the highest level of the Turkish state.” In the week since the attack in the Paris suburb of Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, Macron’s government has ordered a crackdown on Muslim organizations it accuses of spreading hatred, and defended the caricatures of Muhammad as emblematic of the French values of secularism and free expression, even if they’re deeply offensive to many of France’s own Muslim citizens, among its largest minority populations. “What is the problem of this person called Macron with Muslims and Islam?” Erdogan asked during a speech to members of his political party on Saturday. “Macron needs treatment on a mental level.” “What else can be said to a head of state who does not understand freedom of belief and who behaves in this way to millions of people living in his country who are members of a different faith?”

Virus is pummeling Europe’s eateries—and winter is coming (AP) A resurgence of the coronavirus is dealing a second blow to the continent’s restaurants, which already suffered under lockdowns in the spring. From Northern Ireland to the Netherlands, European governments have shuttered eateries or severely curtailed how they operate. More than just jobs and revenue are at stake—restaurants lie at the heart of European life. Their closures are threatening the social fabric by shutting the places where neighbors mix, extended families gather and the seeds of new families are sown. This time, the closures are particularly painful because they might stretch into the Christmas season, nixing everything from pre-holiday office drinks to a special meal on the day. When it comes to purely calories and vitamins, “of course we can live without restaurants,” said food historian professor Peter Scholliers. But, he asked: “We can live without being social? No, we can’t.” Successful restaurants have always had to adapt quickly—but never has there been a challenge like this. The European Union said the hotel and restaurant industry suffered a jaw-dropping 79.3% decline in production between February and April. Summer brought some respite. But then came fall. Any giddiness that the fallout from the pandemic could somehow be contained faced the sobering reality of relentlessly rising coronavirus cases and hospitalizations. Government leaders are now warning things will get worse before they get better.

Berlin’s new airport is opening at last (NYT) Berlin-Brandenburg Willy Brandt Airport, conceived 30 years ago in the giddy aftermath of German reunification as a symbol of freedom and modernity, has instead become the butt of jokes. The litany of engineering blunders, corruption scandals and lawsuits that have plagued what was once Europe’s biggest building site have chipped away at the story Germany likes to tell about itself as a model of efficiency. Miles of cables were incorrectly installed. Firewalls turned out to be just walls. Escalators came up short. Screens had to be replaced, having reached the end of their lives. Under construction for 14 years, the airport is nine years past its original opening date and more than $4 billion over budget. Every month, it costs several million dollars just to keep the unused airport running. Airport staff are paid to flush all the toilets to keep the plumbing working. Ghost trains run to the ghost terminal at night to stop the tunnels from molding. With so many costly setbacks, T-shirts spotted in the city offer this advice: “Let’s just move the city of Berlin to a functioning airport.” Even Ms. Merkel has publicly aired her exasperation: “The very Chinese with whom we have government consultations are asking themselves, ‘what on earth is going on in Berlin that they can’t even build an airport with two runways’,” she said two years ago.

As China Clamps Down, Activists Flee Hong Kong for Refuge in the West (NYT) In Western democracies, they have been welcomed as refugees escaping Beijing’s tightening grip over Hong Kong. In China, they have been denounced as violent criminals escaping punishment for their seditious activities. A group of Hong Kong activists who have been granted asylum in the United States, Canada and Germany in recent weeks are the latest catalyst for deteriorating relations between China and the West. Western leaders have asserted that they will stand up for human rights in Hong Kong, while Chinese officials have rebuked the countries for what they called interference in Beijing’s affairs. The protesters’ newly conferred status has made clear how profoundly Hong Kong has changed since China imposed a tough new security law this summer. For decades, the city had been a place of shelter for people escaping war, famine and political oppression in mainland China. Now the semiautonomous city has become a source of asylum seekers.

Police cracking down on Thailand’s landmark protests aren’t sure what side they are on (Washington Post) The 21-year-old police officer arrived in Bangkok just after midnight on Oct. 15 with clear instructions: Disperse all protesters gathered in front of the prime minister’s office, with force if necessary. The young officer’s commander ordered the operation to start at 4:20 a.m., shortly after the Thai government issued an emergency decree aimed at quashing the demonstrations that had rocked Bangkok over the summer, challenging the once-untouchable monarchy. Protected by their shields, the police bore down on the young protesters, some officers kicking and punching as they went, before arresting more than a dozen leaders of the youth movement. “The commander in charge of our operation was quite aggressive and I was worried about that. I thought our actions were very unnecessary,” said the officer, speaking on the condition of anonymity for fear of repercussions. “It made me feel ashamed of myself as a human being, and like I was a coward, betraying my principles.” His views are shared by half a dozen officers interviewed by The Washington Post, reflecting a growing disaffection inside the Royal Thai Police with the three institutions that have long dominated politics in the kingdom: the army, the government and the monarchy. Over the past week, several police officers have been photographed raising the three-finger salute, a symbol of resistance and solidarity that the young demonstrators borrowed from the Hunger Games series.On social media, stories have circulated of officers helping protect demonstrators from water cannons and allowing them to escape without arrest. The predicament reflects a reality for many governments across the globe that have in recent months faced popular protests, including the United States, Hong Kong, Belarus and elsewhere, where some of the police officers tasked with crushing the demonstrations would rather be on the other side.

Philippines: Typhoon leaves 13 missing, displaces thousands (AP) A fast-moving typhoon blew away from the Philippines on Monday after leaving at least 13 people missing, forcing thousands of villagers to flee to safety and flooding rural villages, disaster-response officials said. The typhoon was blowing west toward the South China Sea with sustained winds of 125 kilometers (77 miles) per hour and gusts of up to 150 kph (93 mph). It roared overnight through island provinces south of the capital, Manila, which was lashed by strong winds but escaped major damage. At least 25,000 villagers were displaced, with about 20,000 taking shelter in schools and government buildings that were turned into evacuation centers, the Office of Civil Defense said, but officials added that some have returned home in regions where the weather has cleared.

Taliban show they can launch attacks anywhere across Afghanistan, even as peace talks continue (Washington Post) In the past several weeks, Taliban fighters have staged ground attacks and bombings in 24 of Afghanistan’s 34 provinces, leaving scores dead. In northeastern Takhar they ambushed and killed at least 40 soldiers and police. In northwestern Ghowr, a car bomb killed 19 civilians. In southern Helmand, Taliban fighters are still clashing with Afghan forces after a two-week assault on the provincial capital region. The message of the surge is clear and coldblooded. Even as Taliban delegates continue to nominally participate in peace talks with Afghan leaders in Qatar, the insurgents have shown no intention of reducing violence. Instead, they appear out to prove they can wreak havoc everywhere. In the past week alone, Afghan security officials said Saturday that the Taliban had staged 356 attacks, two suicide bombings and 52 mine explosions across the country, killing 51 civilians and wounding 157. They said more than 400 insurgents were killed but did not give casualty figures for Afghan forces. As the violence spreads, Afghans have expressed outrage and several prominent Middle Eastern religious scholars have condemned the attacks, especially against civilians, as un-Islamic. But Taliban leaders, partly in response to the criticism, reiterated that they have the right to kill anyone connected with the Afghan government or its foreign backers.

#headlines #news

[longlivekookie]

Presto Chango: Titan's "Magic Island" Mystery

AFRICA

I usually wanted to visit Africa. Loose Diamonds Like most Afro-Americans, I grew up in an environment idolizing the whole thing, Africa. Once I were given there, I realise I Knew not anything approximately Africa. My maternal grandmother made it clear that the whole thing Africa is high-quality. Granny did now not, however, spend time disparaging the accomplishments of different cultures.

Growing up in Nicaragua's Latino and black cultures. And for me, there's no differentiating between those  ethnicities. Latinos are blacks, and black are Latinos. But this isn't so for every body who finds favor with one organization.

In Africa, those distinctions will magnify. Creating a surreal international where an elite minority will treat different with indifferent. Sometimes stereotype can provide an explanation for matters If it changed into clean as black and white. However, things are seldom black or white.

STEREOTYPES

The standard stereotype cannot give an explanation for Africa's ethnic variations; most people's appearance darkish to me, however they're differences; differences that go back for hundreds of years. The Sierra Leoneans asked me regularly, "are you Nigerian," "American" or "Hausa," the ones usually came up. Chief Morsay defined Biko and me as "white." He advised us that we're foreigners much like people with white pores and skin. His index finger changed into rubbing the pinnacle of his hand for emphasis. When Afro-Americans do this in a communication, we recognise that it is an obstacle akin to "Whites Only." "You're not Africans," he stated. In Africa, it topics where you come from, or from what side of the river; in the case of the Congo's Bushong and the Lele ethnic group; what aspect of the river makes a distinction socially politically and financially.

But none of that turned into on my mind. I become excited to go to Africa. Relating to my grandmother's Afrocentric ideals; I desired to look for myself the grandeur of the continent that released civilization and the whole lot that makes us lovely: The melanin, the curves, rhythm, the food. A listing of defense mechanism, my vanity used to combat the constant influx of American racist propaganda, in which everything is set color, and black is the coloration that faints all hues.

RACISM

Consequently, racism is the lens via which maximum Afro-Americans view the world. It's no longer a distorting lens; for the maximum part, the lens is accurate; although restricting. Focusing most effective on the only view. In a world wherein humans locate myriad of ways to segregate each other, racism makes this department feasible.

It is obvious that the Belgians of King Leopold II acted in the most racist, inhuman way in the direction of the human beings of the Congo. But ultimately Mobutu Sese Seko of the Ngbandi ethnic group arrested Patrice Lumumba of the Tetela ethnic institution. I don't suppose that ethnicity turned into the reason for Mobutu Sese Seko transgression in the direction of Lumumba. Thomas Sankara and Blaise Compaoré, both are from the Mossi ethnic organization of Burkina Faso. But just like King Leopold II, greed become the motive for Mobutu's treachery closer to Patrice Lumumba and the destruction of limitless Congolese lives. Compaoré did the identical in Burkina Faso securing privileges for a ruling minority; maintaining energy at the fee of Thomas Sankara and the human beings of Burkina Faso. Using corruption, expropriation even overseas help to maintain energy. With no state to reply to, these guys had been no exceptional than King Leopold II in the inhumane remedy of their countrymen.

In Sierra Leone, the (RUF) will enforce the same, cutting off limbs and ad systematic rape and homicide; dispersing thousands and enslaving the population to extract diamonds for his or her personal wealth.

POVERTY

But poverty is a relative aspect. Having grown up in the Caribbean and Latin America. I became accustomed to 0.33 global fact. But none of this organized me for Africa.

THE TRIP

The quantity on conversations goes up the closer you get to the African departure lounge. Things are direct. Laughter reinforced; the sucking of the enamel is loud, the grins huge.

The plane landed in Lungi International airport to a excellent refrain of cheers and applauses. Like a Hollywood emancipation scene, Africans are happy and thankful to be domestic. You can experience their excitement. I too became excited, to greet the African air. Stepping out of the aircraft, I found the humidity familiar. What changed into extraordinary, become to look into a crowd and seeing one coloration of black people. I attempted not to look surprised; I pretend I've been here earlier than. The Africans checked out me like if I've been right here before too.

The tarmac and runway are large, like all airports. But at Lungi you do not see the buses, vans or the on foot tunnel defensive you from inclement weather. Everything is open and huge because the sky. I didn't see business airplanes or commercial enterprise plane; simply empty tarmac with a miles far away blue-green forest horizon with no homes in sight.

Walking into the mild immigration building changed into a surprise, no crowds! I concept this strange for an international airport. Somehow, I notion they is probably connecting flights to the opposite part of Africa. Only the those who can be boarding on the same plane in course to Liberia. Right away as you input the building, you notice a few antique style cubicles with contemporary fingerprint recognition machines. Immigration officials were easy and quick. They ask for passport and yellow vaccination card. Welcome to Sierra Leone!

The humans of Sierra Leone are pleasant; they are generous with their comfort sector. They greet you, contact you lightly with a common custom.

Waiting for our luggage, I was attracted to two large, very awesome, status timber sculptures. Two movement figures carved from a single tree trunk. No one paid these any thoughts. They walk by means of them like nuisance African memento. I constantly appreciated the attention to detail of African artwork; there is a consideration for the viewer, the wearer, and dealing with of artifacts. This affiliation of welcoming artistically with dance, texture, meals and shades changed into for me African arts capability.

Although very awesome, I did no longer know at the time; those  wood sculptures will represent the culmination of my African creative impact.

Leaving the airport, we see a sign with our names. Our host Chernor, we name him Cherry, set up to have Lamin greet us and set up the bus tickets to be able to take us to the seaside and the ferry to Freetown. Lamin works for a organization that assists tourists to Sierra Leonne. Having someone on the ground that speaks, Krio become calming. Krio is a higher bargaining language; changing money is competitive, a few notes have alternatives. So there's room for saving if you may good deal in Krio.

Outside, they're young guys selling bus tickets along with Sim Cards. They're aggressive, however now not pushy. There's masses of cash in sight constantly changing fingers. We watch for the air condition mini buses to fill with passengers. The ferry isn't a ways away, approximately a mile. But it takes approximately ten minutes power to get there. The road is wrong; I concept that this being the manner to the airport it might be in better care, but no. It was simply the begging of the numerous examples of forget and corruption that the human beings of Sierra Leone stay with everyday.

The beach is large and smooth; I note this due to the fact everywhere else appears to be muddle with particles. I see a few modest rapidly built shanties. I changed into looking for colorful fishing boats but did now not see any. They're small youngsters, playing with torn and grimy western clothes. They paid us no thoughts. At this time the little wharf turned into full of the passenger from the plane, looking ahead to the ferry; baggage and those below a timber hut, with an armed protect. We waited for numerous hours. It will be sundown before they referred to as our numbered tickets, the small ferry made several journeys transporting us properly to Freetown.

[robertreich]

Do Good Fences Make Good Neighbors?

[I wrote this for the New Yorker magazine’s issue of November 30, 1998]

It used to be that people who owned a lot of things could protect themselves and their things by erecting sturdy houses and, if necessary, putting a lock on the door. Today, it seems, that’s not enough. It’s estimated that three million American households live within gated communities – twenty thousand of them, often equipped with private security guards and electronic surveillance systems. Some years ago, the town of Rosemont, Illinois, erected a beige wrought-iron fence. Rosemont is a suburb of Chicago, with a population of four thousand, and it has one of the largest auxiliary police forces in the United States.

A wall is being erected around the nation, too – an outer perimeter, separating the United States from the Third World. So far, our national wall extends along only sixty-four miles of the nearly two-thousand-mile border with Mexico, but Congress has appropriated funds for lengthening it and also fortifying it.

The urge to erect walls seems to be growing, just as disparities in wealth are widening. Many of the Americans who reside within gates like Rosemont’s have become substantially wealthier during the past several years, whereas a great many Americans who live outside the gates have not. (One man, appropriately named Bill Gates, has a net worth roughly equaling the combined net worth of the least wealthy forty percent of American households.)

On a much larger scale, inhabitants of the planet who reside at latitudes north of the national wall are diverging economically from those who live south of it. The consequence is that at both perimeters – the town wall and the national wall – outsiders are more desperate to get in and insiders are more determined to keep them out. Yet the inconvenient fact is that increasingly, in the modern world, the value of what the insiders own and of the work they do depends on what occurs outside.

Half a world away from Rosemont are places whose currencies, denominated in bahts, ringgits, rupiahs, and won, began toppling more than a year ago, and seem to have come to rest only in the last several weeks at levels far below where they started. This has caused most of these countries’ citizens to become far poorer. An Indonesian who had worked for the equivalent of three dollars and thirty-three cents a day before the rupiah’s decent is now working for about one dollar and twelve cents. Efforts by the International Monetary Fund to build back the “confidence” of global investors in these nations by conditioning loans on the nation’s willingness to raise interest rates and cut their public spending have had the unfortunate side effect of propelling more of their citizens into ever more desperate poverty. After the tremors spread to Russia last summer, and it defaulted on its short-term loans, the worldwide anxiety grew, spreading all the way to Brazil, the largest economy in Latin America, with the widest gap between rich and poor. In return for its promise of austerity, Brazil is now set to receive an international line of credit totaling forty-one and a half billion dollars, designed to convince global investors that its currency will not lose its value, and that, therefore, there is no reason for them to take their money and run.

All this commotion has also diminished the economic security of quite a number of people who thought of themselves as safely walled in. …. Recent government data show that in the third quarter of 1998 the profits and investments of Americans companies shrank for the first time since the recession year of 1991. This is largely because their exports to Asia and Latin America have continued to drop, while cheap imports from these regions are undercutting their sales in the United States. In consequence, they have been laying off American workers at a higher pace, and creating new jobs at a slower pace, than at any time in recent years.

We do not know how many residents of Rosemont will lose their jobs or the value of their stock portfolios because of the continuing global crisis. No burglars will climb over the steel barrier now walling off the United States and then scale Rosemont’s beige wrought-iron fence, but some residents of Rosemont will lose a bundle nonetheless.

The major risks of modern live now move through or over walls, sometimes electronically, as with global investments, but occasionally by other means. A lethal influenza virus originating among a few Hong Kong chickens could find its way to Rosemont via a globe-trotting business executive. Drugs are flowing across the border as well, not because the walls are insufficiently think but because the people behind them are eager to buy. Something these is in capitalism that doesn’t love a wall.

So why do we feverishly build more walls when they offer us less and less protection? Perhaps it is because we feel so unprotected of late. Amid all the blather about taking more personal responsibility for this or that, there is a growing fear that random and terrible things can happen to us. Solid walls at least create the illusion of control over what we call our own, and control is something we seem to need more of these days, when almost anyone can be clobbered by a falling baht.

[socialjusticeartshare]

First She Was Separated From Her Family, Now She’s Separated From School

A refugee child, once separated from her mother at the border by Trump, now struggles with online school.

Every weekday morning, a 12-year-old refugee named Génnezys logs into her seventh grade online classroom. She sits at a tiny table in a corner of her cluttered living room. Before logging in, she tapes her phone to a chair and dials my number on FaceTime. Once we’re connected, I peer into the screen of a laptop lent to her by her public middle school. For hours, I observe coronavirus pandemic-era education for Génnezys and about 20 other children of multiple races, nationalities, and economic circumstances. What I see is both heroic and tragic.

Génnezys is one of the thousands of immigrant children who were torn from their parents in 2018 by the Trump administration’s “zero tolerance” family separation policy at the U.S.-Mexico border. I wrote about the desperate efforts of Cruz, her incarcerated mother, to find her 10-year-old daughter. They were reunited after about six weeks. Cruz later borrowed $6,000 from a friend for a coyote to smuggle her three-year-old daughter into the U.S. The child was detained for a few days then released to Cruz.

I asked Génnezys to invent a pseudonym to protect her family from U.S. government reprisal, and she came up with a fanciful one based on the Spanish pronunciation — HEH-neh-sees — of the first book in the Old Testament.

Today the family resides in a small Southern city. Cruz works as a janitor, earning a bit less than $10 an hour. They live in a small apartment with one bedroom, which Cruz and the girls share with her boyfriend. He is also an immigrant, and he pays half the rent. He’s employed in construction, and he leaves for work very early in the morning. Cruz goes to work after taking her four-year-old daughter, whom I’ll call Bety, by bus to a daycare center. With school strictly online now because of Covid-19, Génnezys stays in the apartment all by herself from 7:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., often supervising an 8-year-old girl who has her own school computer with headphones. This child’s Latina immigrant mother works, too, so Génnezys acts as babysitter. Before online school started in September, she worried intensely that being without an adult in the home would be lonely and scary. I live hundreds of miles away, so I volunteered to sit with her via FaceTime. She says that she feels much better when I’m with her.

During the first two days of remote school, the teachers, all young or middle-aged white women, cycled though a dither of confusion and kind but mostly fruitless efforts to actually see and hear their students. One problem was that the online platforms were glitchy. The class links often crashed, leaving the students, including Génnezys, with blank screens. But by week’s end, the kinks were worked out — yet the students remained silent phantoms.

“Know that I see you. I hear you. I’m with you,” one young teacher intoned to the kids right after introducing herself. They had names like Hassan, Rasheeda, Yennifer, and Travis. “Black Lives Matter,” the teacher added. She was met by silence from her new students, and she could not see their reactions either. She asked them to turn on their mics and cameras, but getting them to comply was harder than pulling their teeth. “What did you do all summer? How did you deal with Covid? Talk about your family!”

A boy with an Arabic name turned on his mic just long enough to say that he had a baby sister. Indeed, the loud wailing of an infant could be heard. The teacher skipped a beat, then the boy’s mic went dead. No other students turned on their microphones. Not even Génnezys, who had earlier proved she was not shy. When the teacher mispronounced her name on the first day of school, Génnezys politely but firmly corrected her. She is a brilliant girl who knew no English whatsoever two years ago yet speaks it almost perfectly now, and who scrolls through the internet on her own initiative for details about the accident that crippled Frida Kahlo.

Though she has defended her name and sometimes has been the only student to answer her teachers’ questions about math, Génnezys remains strenuously silent about most of the details of her life. The family all got sick in late May, with many days of fever, coughing, muscle aches, nausea, dizziness, and diarrhea, as well as loss of appetite, taste, and smell. They recovered, but Cruz is suffering now from hair loss — a condition just recently recognized as a complication of Covid-19.

When Cruz got sick, she was employed in housekeeping at an upscale chain hotel. She said she fell ill after being ordered to enter and clean a room occupied by a woman who was coughing. She was not given PPE for the job.

Cruz estimates that in her building complex of a few dozen apartments, about 20 other people came down with Covid-19. “No one died, but some were carried off to hospitals in ambulances,” she said, adding that all were immigrants from Latin America.

Latinos comprise fewer than one in five residents in the county. But they make up about half of the people in Cruz’s census tract, while just across a main thoroughfare almost everyone is white and owns a house.  In Cruz’s tract, many of the Latinos live in cramped little rental apartments.

During the outbreak and their own illnesses, Cruz and her children were never tested for Covid-19. Nor did she contact me, though she instructed her preteen daughter to call me for help if she took a turn for the worse. The family just stuck it out, but Cruz was fired by the hotel because of her sickness and missed work. She got the janitorial job just as soon as she felt better. She couldn’t self-quarantine: She had rent to pay, kids to feed. None of this is something Génnezys wants to talk about in online seventh grade.

She doesn’t turn on her camera either.

It’s hard to know exactly why the students as a group refuse to show themselves to their teachers or to each other. Middle school is the empire of peer pressure — pressure not to stand out, even in normal times, when rows of children are looking at and breathing with each other, along with a teacher in a real room. But the kids’ reluctance now seems at least partly due to how dispirited and disconnected their virtual classrooms feel. Génnesyz’s teachers practically stand on their heads coaxing interactions with the students, but the teachers’ energy seems TV-ish, abstract.

The kids are alone. They have no books. The only class that resembles normal school is math. As in times past, the teacher writes figures on a board and explains what they mean. The other classes are a mishmash of hyperactive YouTube science videos with men who speak too fast, and a woman with a white coat and test tubes performing experiments — work the students normally would be absorbed with in a classroom lab, but which they can only stare at now from afar, wall-eyed. An art class features hip-hop music, whose teaching intention is muddled, and digital choose-and-drag stickers and emojis. Strange, sci-fi cartoon people in Génnezys’s American History class purport to recount the high points of the antebellum human bondage, the Civil War, and the Black Codes. After that lesson, I asked Génnezys if she understood what a slave was. She still didn’t know — though she did remember the cartoon guy saying that a man named Frederick Douglass had been forcibly separated from his mother. She knew what that meant, from firsthand experience, but didn’t mention it in class. With me, she minimized her experience. She’d learned that Frederick Douglass was an infant when he was taken. “But, um, I was 10 when it happened,” she said. “I was a big kid, not a little kid.”

One teacher conducted a lesson about why students should participate in small- group, online “breakout” chat rooms. “Because they help us get to know each other?” said Génnezys, daring to speak.

“Very good! Thank you for that, Génnezys!” chimed the teacher, saying all the syllables correctly. Then she warned the students that they must use “appropriate language” in the chat rooms, and that their language was being watched.

This teacher also held a “correct answer” contest, with her pupils silently checking T’s and F’s on their screens. “True or false: If you fight at a school bus stop, you will be punished as severely as if you’d fought a school. True! Right, Brian! Brian gets a point! He’s pulling ahead of Corinne! Next question. True or false: If you touch the private body part of someone else at school, whether on purpose or by accident, you will be punished the same, either way. Yay, Corinne! She’s back in play!”

But there are no school bus stops now. There are no “someone else”s at school.

Génnezys has another reason not to turn on her camera: She is ashamed of her clothes. She fits a girl’s 14 now, but her wardrobe dates from a year ago, when she was size 10 and 12. Her shirts are too tight for her rapidly developing body. In the morning she puts on her mother’s dresses. They are several sizes too large.

Read Our Complete CoverageThe War on Immigrants

Cruz can’t afford to take her daughter shopping. She just lost another week of work, and wages, due to Covid-19. Two co-workers at her janitorial job tested positive and one is in the hospital. Because Cruz worked closely with both infected women, she was quarantined for 14 days. She had no proof that she had already contracted Covid-19. She had to stay home, along with Bety, who ran around the apartment laughing, yelling, and rifling Génnezys’s little desk while her sister tried to pay attention to online class.

An employee from the county health department came by to deliver some onions and pieces of fruit. Cruz finally got a negative test result but still had to finish the quarantine. Génnezys did not tell her teachers what was happening.

Génnezys also avoids the camera because of what Cruz calls “her obsession.” On the second day of school, a teacher asked, “What is your favorite thing to do?” Amid the mass silence, Génnezys activated her mic and bravely answered: “Play with slime,” she said.

“Slime?” said the teacher, nonplussed.

“Yeah. Slime.”

“Ah. OK. Yeah. Slime. Well, that sounds relaxing!”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Slime” is a faddish kid product that’s been around since the 1970s. Back then, it was valued by boys for its gross-out appeal. Now it’s prettier, smells nice, and is all the rage among preteen and teen girls. Many make it from a home recipe involving glue, borax, food coloring, and plastic beads from craft stores like Michael’s.

Génnezys was already into slime by age 10, back in Central America. Cruz’s partner there, an extremely violent man who was neither of the girls’ fathers, was terrorizing and assaulting Cruz and the children, threatening them with death. The girls witnessed the violence. Cruz made plans to hide Bety with her sister and flee to the U.S. with Génnezys. Meanwhile, Génnezys discovered slime. “In my country,” she remembered, “it was called moco,” which is Spanish for snot. She pushed it, pulled it, rolled and wrapped it, over and over and over. It calmed her, Cruz remembers.

After a grueling trip north, including a stay in a filthy, crowded stash house, things got worse at the border when the Trump administration took Génnezys from Cruz and shipped her 2,000 miles away to a child detention center. There, she was warehoused with mostly older Central American girls who’d come to the U.S. by themselves, pregnant or already with babies.

After spending six weeks with these young women, according to Cruz, 10-year-old Génnezys was using racy language and discussing sex. After she was reunited with her mother, she experienced night terrors and walked in her sleep for three months. She had three sessions with a psychologist. Then, said Cruz, “She entered a new phase of her life: adolescence,” and “she hardly talked about what happened.” Even so, Cruz added, “Two weeks ago, after Génnezys had an eye exam that showed a problem with one of her eyes, she mentioned to me that an older girl in the detention center hit her hard in that eye with a ball. That was two years ago. She’d never told me till now. Sometimes I worry about what’s in her head.”

Outside of her head is slime: jars and jars of it in all colors and textures, from shiny and glistening to rough and frothy. “I love YouTube slime videos,” Génnezys told me. The site has a plethora of young girls extolling their slime collections, as well productions with sexy women’s voices doing ASMR routines, and images of long, manicured fingernails digging languorously into the goo.

“I worry about it,” said Cruz. “It’s such a waste of money. But she would rather have slime, even, than clothes that fit her.”

If Génnezys were to activate her camera for her classmates and teachers, they might see her furiously and endlessly twisting, pulling, and punching her strange doughs as she fidgets at the computer and tries hard to do her schoolwork. A few months ago, Wired magazine interviewed a neuroscientist and psychologist who suggested that people might be gravitating toward slime during the Covid-19 crisis to simulate the feeling of touching actual people.

As a Central American refugee child, Génnezys has been traumatized by murderous violence, forced family separation, poverty, and plague. More and more, however, nonrefugee children in America are joining her in the grief and fear of being apart and alone. How many of these kids are scrunched over their own computers, secretly toying with slime?

“I don’t know,” Génnezys said when I asked her that question. “Maybe I’m the only one. Before the virus, I didn’t play with it in school because school was good. Now, I don’t think I could do school if I didn’t have slime. Without it I’d be dying.

“Dying of what?”

“Boredom.”

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#separated children #separated school #separated families

[creativitytoexplore]

Don Juan and the Runaway Knight by Phyllis Houseman https://ift.tt/338nvih Linda, feeling abandoned by her husband and children, flees for a holiday in Ecuador, where she has an unexpected encounter; by Phyllis Houseman.

Well, Linda, you've gone four thousand miles south, and sixteen years into the past - pretty good for a novice fugitive. The tall, slender woman smiled at the wry thought as she stepped off the plane's ramp onto tropically hot concrete. Breathing deeply in the thin air, Linda instantly identified pine, a mix of exotic flowers, and dust. Even if she had been blindfolded, her nose would have told her she had landed in Quito, the capital of Ecuador, the symbol of her carefree youth. As she looked toward the city, Linda felt a stab of dismay. Quito had changed. There were high-rise buildings everywhere, almost obliterating the umber-tiled roofs and white-capped volcanoes she had captured on slides so long ago. Dampening down her sense of disappointment, Linda walked into the terminal. When her turn came in the Aduana, the Customs officer inspected her papers. Amazingly, the Ecuadorian consulate in San Francisco had re-approved her visa in less than a day. She had explained that now she would be going alone on this long-awaited South American vacation - the trip John had backed out of last week. Linda was even able to get a low-priced, no-wait plane ticket - thanks to the current industry price war. Since the money had originally come from her teaching salary, she felt absolutely no guilt about raiding the account yesterday. She needed this vacation. She had weathered months of upheaval. There was only so much a person could take. Linda had tried to be understanding about John's position as a newly transferred employee, however, it hurt that instead of spending a wonderful week in Ecuador with her, he had taken off on yet another open-ended business trip. A little feminine sympathy from one of her friends might have helped, but everyone she knew lived on the East Coast, three-thousand miles away from her new home near San Francisco. It was a potentially beautiful house, but three weeks after moving into it, confusion still reigned. The dust raised by an overzealous landscaping bulldozer covered every surface. Linda's camp-bound twelve-year-old twins had pulled out most of the clothing and games they owned, trying to decide what to include in their duffel bags. Camp had seemed the perfect solution for the homesick boys. Linda hadn't been prepared for the numbing loneliness their departure brought. It was then that she had decided to fly to Ecuador. "Is this your first visit to our country, Señora Knight?" The Customs man's polite question cut into Linda's thoughts. "Uh - no, I worked here as a Peace Corps Volunteer for two years," she murmured. "Espero que su estancia en nuestro país sea tan buena que no quiera irse." "Ah - er - that is, gracias." She gave trying to translate the rapid flow of words. Something about enjoying her stay so much, she would never want to leave. Obviously, all the Spanish-language soap operas she had watched on television recently hadn't been enough to regain her old fluency. Linda gathered her belongings, then went in search of a taxi.

The small, third-floor room of the Pension Suiza was freezing when Linda awoke the next morning. She automatically reached for John's warm, solid body, finding only the cold, squishy comfort of a goose down pillow. Punching that inadequate substitute into submission, Linda leaned back, savoring the architecture of the gabled bedroom. The gingerbread on the window might be ersatz Swiss Chalet, but the magnificent view it framed was genuine Ecuadorian. The sun had just begun its run down the eastern flanks of patchworked Pichincha. Like a spotlight, it revealed the civilized earthen squares thrifty Ecuadorian farmers had tilled into the steep sides of the dormant volcano Yawning widely to get more of the thin air into her lungs, Linda pulled the plump feather bed quilt up to the tip of her cold nose. She watched the golden line that separated dawn and day inch down the mountainside, until the raucous cry of a morning bird jarred her from a semi-trance. Forty-five minutes later, she had showered, dressed, and was on her way to the reception desk to turn in her key. She also wanted to find out when a bus to the equatorial monument would be leaving. Manager Señor Velasquez was busy processing an early arrival. A huge potted weeping fig tree hid most of the newcomer from Linda's view. All she could see of him was a broad shoulder in a suede jacket as the bent over the registry book. Then hearing the man's soft, gravelly burr suddenly made her wish she had picked some other place to spend the night - some other country to visit. She must have made some sort of sound for the manager turned toward her. "Ah, good morning, Señora Knight. I'll be with you in just a moment." Linda was about to back away from the edge of the desk. Her intention, to slide around a nearby corner into the hallway leading outside. With nightmarish predictability, before she could take a step, the tall man leaned around the fig tree, fixing dark eyes upon her face. With all her senses shouting "DANGER," Linda wanted to run. Yet, she couldn't move; she couldn't take her eyes off his compelling face. Constructed of sharp angles, his features had a manly beauty that had nothing to do with handsomeness, everything to do with masculine strength. As Linda stood there, staring, his gaze intensified. In an encompassing sweep, dark eyes caressed the shoulder-length fall of her ash-blond hair, then traveled down her slender body. Linda shook off her paralysis, stalking toward him, ready to protest the embarrassing visual evaluation. Her rage was abruptly neutralized when a wide smile revealed strong, white teeth. Before she could recover from that powerful grin, its owner turned to the entranced clerk, demanding, "Señor Velasquez, I would be honored if you could present me to your lovely guest." The opened-mouthed employee stood for long seconds before he nodded, beamed a gold-accented smile, and made the introduction. "Señora Knight, it is my pleasure to present to you Don Juan Caballero del Rey, a valued executive with, ah -" He looked at the register. "- with International Computers." His bald head bobbed between Linda and Don Juan. "Señor, allow me to acquaint you with the Señora Linda Knight." Forgetting the angry words she had planned, Linda played back the introduction, her mind bemused. Mulling over the surname, she tried to translate it. Something like 'Gentleman of the King'? Playing along, she inclined her head, murmuring, "Encantada, Señor Caballero del Rey." "El placer es mío, Señora." The sudden rumbling of Don Juan's stomach completely ruined his aura of suave sophistication. "I've been flying all night. I guess my stomach just caught up with the rest of me. Come, Señora Knight, please join me for breakfast." He held out his hand to her. Linda stared at those beckoning fingers, torn between preserving her matronly dignity in front of the avid manager, and wanting to know just what was going on here. She found her eyes focusing on the wink of gold on Don Juan's left hand. "What would Mrs. Caballero del Rey say about you having breakfast with me?" "Well, after fifteen years of marriage, she must know how much I love her - too much to let anything ruin our relationship." He indicated the wide band on her own marriage finger. "Señora, you must feel the same way about your husband." Linda forced herself to look into that dark gaze. "Of course. Having breakfast with you can't possibly do any harm to my marriage - such as it is." "Such as it is?" Don Juan echoed softly. Before Linda could respond, Señor Velasquez appeared at her side. "Señora, Senor, the dining room is open. Let me have the honor of escorting you to our best table. It has a magnificent view of Vulcán Pichincha. You must see it up close, and El Panecillo -" He listed several tourist attractions as he shepherded the pair into the adjoining room. "We'll have Naranjilla juice with croissants and Café con leche," Don Juan informed the waiter who instantly appeared as they sat down. "Señor Caballero del Rey," Linda chided, almost choking on that surname. "You're supposed to let me order for myself, or at least ask me what I want." "Ah, Señora Knight, I'm so sorry. It's just that my wife used to live in South America. She's raved about Naranjilla juice and the Ecuadorian style of coffee. They boil the beans down into a thick essence, then add hot milk," he explained. "I'll call the waiter back." "Ah - now that you mention it, what you ordered is fine," Linda recanted. She had suddenly remembered the piquant, frothy green drink and the rich Ecuadorian brew. When the juice arrived, Linda took a tentative sip. A sigh of bliss escaped her lips. Her breakfast companion chuckled. "Well, it is wonderful," she challenged. "Of course, it is. I can always rely on my wife's taste in food, drink, music -" He looked around, focusing on the empty platform at the end of the dining room. "Shoot! That's just what we needed with our breakfast - romantic Latin music. Too bad it's so early; the band probably plays only at dinner." "That's right," the eavesdropping waiter agreed, as he turned from serving the next table. "A magnificent three-piece band plays the latest American hits from eight to eleven." "Never in the morning?" Don Juan asked. The waiter shook his head. "What about CDs - a radio?" The employee looked more and more downcast as he denied each suggestion. Don Juan shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry, it would have been -" "There is Miguel," the waiter interrupted. "Miguel?" "Yes, he's only a dishwasher, but he plays the guitar. He's been begging the manager to let him try out for the evening show. Maybe - no, I might get in trouble -" "Just tell them I insisted," Don Juan coaxed. A thousand sucre bill appeared on the table. The waiter looked at it longingly, weighing rewards and consequences. He abruptly took the money, making for the kitchen. Before the swinging doors stopped flapping, a short, slender teenager appeared. He clutched the neck of a battered guitar under his arm, wiping his hands on a damp apron. The grin of delight on his face was so endearing, Linda felt her eyes sting. Bowing to his unexpected audience, the dishwasher put one leg on the seat of a chair, tested the tuning of his instrument, then broke into a boastful song Linda remembered from her Peace Corps days. "Yo soy el chullito Quiteño. La vida lo paso encantado. Para mi ella es un sueño. ¡No hay mujeres en el mundo como las de mi canción!" "I am a proud man of Quito. Life passes enchantedly. For me, it's a dream. There are no women in the world, like those in my song!" Linda found herself murmuring the translation. Without waiting for applause the novice entertainer changed moods, beginning a sad, sensual melody that pledged passion and undying love. The music generated sympathetic vibrations in Linda's body. Although she tried not to look at Don Juan, she felt her eyes being pulled toward the man. He watched her, not the singer. His gaze was assessing, serious. Linda couldn't move, her sea-blue eyes were entrapped by his deep brown irises. Long, soul-searching seconds passed. Applause from the other diners broke the hypnotic power of those eyes. Don Juan seemed equally startled by the clapping. Shaking his head, he turned away from Linda, beckoning to the young troubadour. The dishwasher shyly accepted the verbal and financial praise they both gave him for his impromptu performance. The dining room settled back to the business of eating breakfast. Don Juan didn't touch the rest of his meal. He just sat there, looking at Linda. Several opening gambits ran through her head. She finally blurted, "That was a marvelous gesture, Señor Caballero del Rey, thank you for an unforgettable treat." "It was my pleasure - with an ulterior motive." His penetrating gaze speared Linda's complete attention. "In return for the musical interlude, I expect you to end this - this formality. Let me call you Linda," he demanded. He pronounced "Linda" with just a hint of Latin caress. A broad grin stretched his generous mouth. "You must call me -" "Don Juan?" Linda interposed. "- Well, OK, I'll accept Juan, for the time being, cara mia." "Now, don't push your luck," Linda warned, her body stiffening at the endearment. "I wouldn't want to do that." Then, as if striving to reestablish the genial atmosphere, he changed the subject. "So, Linda, what brings you to Ecuador?" It was a casual question. It would require such a complex answer. Linda looked at him, trying to decide if she wanted to open up to this man. If she did, what was most important? The move? The twins' reaction to it? The canceled trip? "I guess I came to Ecuador to get a breather," she said. "We just moved into a new state. John, my husband, was transferred. His promotion involves constant traveling, so I've been left alone to deal with two unhappy children, a house that's a mess, a thousand minor decisions -" Linda stopped, aghast at the bitterness of her tone. "Sounds like he dumped a lot on your head," Don Juan ventured. "Yes - no, oh, I don't know. He was supposed to be here on this trip - a second honeymoon. Then, he had to cope with some customer emergency," she admitted. "I can't blame him for that. But when the kids went off to camp, well, I just decided I needed to get away. You must think that was wrong of me, Don Juan." Linda's voice had a waver in it she tried to control. "No, Linda, I don't. I'm sure your husband understands how angry you must have felt." Long-fingered hands reached across the table, ready to provide comfort. Not able to accept it, Linda jerked her hands away. "Just why are you here, Don Juan?" "Business - very important business." "Of course, what else? Well, I won't keep you. I'm sure your clients are waiting. I've got a lot of sightseeing to do this morning." She rose, unconsciously extending her hand as a polite South American would. He took the offered hand. Instead of a pro forma squeeze, Juan brushed the tips of her fingers with his lips before letting it go. "Linda." Soft, husky seduction. "Linda, let me join you. My - my wife has told me so much about this beautiful country. Where are you going today?" A myriad of conflicting emotions battled in Linda's mind. Oh, she was very tempted to go sightseeing with this beguiling stranger, who reminded her so much of Johnny. Johnny, the carefree young man she had married. Johnny, who had climbed the corporate ladder, transforming into serious, preoccupied John. Distant, elusive John. This man was warm, funny, gorgeous - so tempting. Perhaps going on an innocuous sightseeing trip with Don Juan was just what she needed. "I'm taking a bus to the monument on the equator, and - you're welcome to come along." "Terrific! We don't have to take a bus, I've a rental. It comes with a complete set of maps, so you can be the navigator." Linda couldn't help laughing. "Don Juan, I have to warn you. My family and friends all know I get lost going to the supermarket." Linda wasn't trying to get out of the trip. She couldn't back out now, not when the devil sparked glints of humor out of those compelling eyes. Not when his lean face was so relaxed, so attractive.

It took a half hour for them to get out of the city. Once they got on the Pan American Highway, there was little navigating for Linda to do. It was the only road that followed the high basin dividing the two cordilleras of the Andes. After a while, guardrails disappeared. There were just buffering earthen banks that often fell away, leaving their little car clinging to bare mountainside, thousands of feet above meandering river ribbons. When Linda slid next to Juan's sturdy body, he asked through clenched teeth, "How much further to the monument?" For the first time, Linda could see he was as nervous as she was. His knuckles gleamed white on the steering wheel. "About six miles, according to the map," she said, trying not to look over the edge as they rounded a sharp curve. "My God, I don't understand how people can drive on this highway every day!" "I know how you feel," her companion admitted. "For the last half hour, I've been sending up prayers for every denomination I could think of." He laughed. The rich sound curved around the low ceiling of the car, wrapping Linda in a sudden cloak of security. "Juan." She laid a light hand on his arm. "I have a feeling Someone up there already heard you, you're doing just fine." Her faith in his driving appeared to relax him. Broad shoulders settled back against the seat. Smiling at Linda, Juan fiddled with the radio until the lyric chords of a pasillo filled the small car. They found the equatorial monument twenty minutes later. At the stone obelisk, Juan took Linda's camera, asking an obliging Japanese tourist to snap a picture of them straddling the line dividing the hemispheres. Juan slid his arm around Linda's shoulders at the last instant. She looked up at him, not knowing that what she was feeling escaped her eyes, being captured for posterity on the film. Linda was startled when she felt a shudder run through Juan's body. "So, cara, where do we go from here?" The hoarse question held multiple layers of meaning. Gazing up at him, Linda felt lightheaded, until she realized she had been holding her breath too long in the rarefied air. Taking a deep, ragged gulp, she said, "There's supposed to be a small village near here, known for its woodcarvers. We - my husband and I - tried to find a piece of art when we used to go on vacation." "That's a wonderful tradition. Let's see if we can locate the place." There were choices this time. Linda made some wrong ones. Paving, then cobblestones disappeared. The road turned into a rutted trail, which terminated at the top of a high plateau. They were lost amid such compelling beauty both left the car, drawn to the edge of a precipice that could have marked the end of the known world. In the distance, a pale blue sky melded with the jutting, indigo escarpment of the eastern cordillera. From old geography lessons, Linda knew that just on the other side of the seemingly impassable barrier rivulets merged, eventually forming the headwaters of the Amazon. In her mind's eye, Auca and Jivero Indians - headhunters only a generation ago - glided through steaming jungle just fifty miles east, and ten thousand feet below. The danger - the splendor - coalesced, tugging at the couple. They turned. Linda found herself taking a hesitant step toward the man who was more dangerous, more wonderful to her than anyone else she had ever known. Her step was all he needed. Closing the distance between them, he captured her in his arms, raining hot kisses over her face, not caring where they landed. Their kisses grew desperate, hands moved to mold, to caress. Their melding bodies sank onto minty ground cover. Linda couldn't get enough of his firm, tender mouth, or get close enough to the warmth of his body. Her head was spinning, tinkling bells began to play an exotic tune in her ears. Running counterpoint to the jingling melody, were the haunting scales of Andean pan pipes playing somewhere in the misty distance. The music grew louder and nearer until reality jolted Linda out of the fantasy she had been playing along with since early morning. "Juan. John! Stop kissing my neck. JOHN KNIGHT, I said let go of me this instant. We're going to have company," she yelled into her dazed husband's ear. John finally heard the panic in her voice. He stumbled to his feet, pulling Linda up with him. He was still clasping her, leaning against the support of a wind-bent eucalyptus tree, when a small boy of ten or so rounded a rocky outcrop. The child's eyes widened at the sight of two disheveled gringos clutching each other. With inbred good manners, he doffed his colorful knitted cap to them, grinning a white smile of hello and goodbye. The dignified string of llamas following him paid no attention to the bewildered couple. "I just don't believe this." John shook his head. He looked out at the seemingly empty vistas surrounding them. "I would have sworn nobody else has been here for the last million years." "John. Oh - Johnny," Linda managed to gasp through the laughter shaking her body. "It's my fault. I should have remembered that old Ecuadorian saying - 'No matter how high the mountain, an Indian will be there before you.'" John joined in on her compulsive laughter. When he sobered, he looked into his wife's eyes. "Linda, I was never so frightened as when I walked into that empty house yesterday," he said, dropping a soft kiss on her hair. "I'd forgotten about the twins going to camp. I imagined a kidnapping, or that you had left me." He put a restraining finger on Linda's mouth when she tried to protest. "Just let me finish, honey. I should have realized how unhappy you were. You never reproached me, but I heard the sadness in your voice the last time I called. So, I rushed through those Mexican contracts and got home a week early." He placed tender hands against each side of her face. "Linda, I swear that was my last business trip for a long time. I don't care if they fire me. I've refused any more travel for the next six months." John looked at his wife, his face whitening when he saw tears sliding down her cheeks. "Linda, you've got to let me have another chance!" he pleaded. "I know I've given you a rough time, but I won't let you leave me. When I found the notations you made about your travel arrangements, next to the phone, I even followed you to Ecuador!" That explained most of the questions Linda had about his arrival at the Pension Suiza. "Oh, John," she sighed, hugging his strong body. "I know it was dumb to bolt. And as anti-woman's liberation as it sounds, I needed you to lean on at times, and you just weren't there. In fact, you, the 'Johnny' I fell in love with, hasn't been there for a long, long time." "Sweetheart, I know. I got too involved with my new responsibilities. That won't ever happen again. My God, don't you understand how much I need you, too? Your strength, your laughter, your love?" Nodding, Linda wiped away the last of her tears and smiled up at her husband. "I think I realized it this morning when I saw you leering at me around that potted fig tree. 'Don Juan Caballero del Rey,' indeed!" She repeated his alias once more, a sweet hint of laughter lingering in the lilting Spanish flow of the name. "Well, what does 'Caballero del Rey' mean? A king's man - his knight," he translated. "Yes, I sort of figured that out. My reputation must be ruined with Señor Velasquez and everyone else at the Pension." "Don't worry, honey. Velasquez was in on the game. I had to show him my passport and explain my mission. That guy's a romantic at heart and put on a first-class act for your benefit." Grinning, John pulled Linda down to sit with him against the rough-barked wood of the storm-canted eucalyptus. Safe in each other's arms, they leaned on the wind-tested tree. They had mended their marriage; a marriage, like the tree, that would endure.

#FICTION on the WEB short stories