SOCIAL ISSUES - St. Edwards University Sites

Transcription

NEW Lit
The New College magazine for students learning to spread their creative wings
SUMMER 2013
St. Edward’s
New College –
Making it Work:
Amidst the
Competition
human
trafficking &
smuggling
in our
backyard
ST. EDWARD’S
DOORS OF
OPPORTUNITY
St. Ed’s CAMP and
Goodwill Programs
SOCIAL ISSUES –
Devout and “Out”
www. http://sites.stedwards.edu/newlit/ 1
6 C.A.M.P. & GOODWILL
42 HUMMAN TRAFFICING &
PROGRAMS
SMUGGLING
N o w i s t h e t i m e fo r a l l g o o d m e n to c o m e to
t h e a i d o f t h e i r c o u n t r y.
6 A Drop of Hope (1st)
42 Restoring Dignity
10 Convictions (2nd)
46 The Lost Children
14 Nothing in My Way Now (3rd)
58 Devout & Out — Generic
17 ESSAYS
48 NEW COLLEGE
DOORS OF OPPORTUNITY
17 Slammed (3 photos)
48 The History of New College
(old time photos)
20 A T-Shirt Tale (x photos)
22 TwoWheel Freedom (one chart)
67 Sad Song on the Hilltop
(carriage)
28 The Peach Cobbler House
(1pic)
30 A Square Peg (psych codes)
32 My Brother Mike
36 Idiosyncrasies
38 Profile of Nagishot —
CntrSpread
2 NewLit Summer 2013
54 At What cost? (make chart +
sidebar info)
65 Wendell Spread (place before
New Collllege section--make 1 or 2
pages)
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
ABOUT OUR FRONT COVER
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am nonsed ut omnihil lautem dis eiciandae nus.
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ma qui doluptae. Nemque versperferem niendip sandic tem fugita
nonse rem namet ra que nihiliam alignam comni omnisitatis mo et
que nos re sam rectur?
50 The Future of New College (bar
chart in doc)
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liquis idessi ut et hitae que velitaMaio dent plit ape consequo
culparum quae cus, quatet volorepratur solum ea non et ipiende
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iducia ius magnis delenis aspe mint et endae sunt as commod ea
ipisciis est vollique comnientia estem fuga. Itatusd aerrore pellab
inciatu sapicatiur sitiandae consect atiur, volupta epudae pro quia
peremqui autem volupti qui omnieniscim quatusc idelitias eum nulpa
veratem quo dios simus mincita sperspe et esed quate
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nimus id quae ilia dolorporia atet as pe quas denisquidel estrum
faccabo resciist oditi aut ium hitas molum se id quis experspicius aci
venis aut peritat.
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culloruptat.
Porporemquae ipis et maiostis maio doluptat qui te quiant
quunt as ero corrum quias assunto consequasime aut elluptae
eossi simaxim atem autes quate illabo. Nullaboreius sinimpor reris
ex estem lab inctis asperesti tem quo quatatus estiate mquodia
tempore prorem dolor simin exerchi tatur? Qui vit enes illa volore est,
ullaborro beate viderum, utemperum as sum dent et quis magnis
event latio estibusam cumAlignam dellanihil ilibus.
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mi, consequ odipsae ceptaspit vent dunt eum dis assequi nobit
omnimus, se doluptate magnis re solorer natur? Enempe nitis volla
sequi re poremos aut hicat.
Lynna Longaro
Editor
This issue of New Lit is loviningly dedicated to
the memory of
Stephanie Henderson Ohlinger
NEW Lit
THE NEW COLLEGE MAGAZINE
FOR STUDENTS
EDITOR Lynna Longaro
PUBLICATION, Leo Loza
COVER DESIGN & Lynna Longaro
PRODUCTION
President,
New College Writers
1991 – 1992
1959 – 2013
B.L.S., St. Edward’s University, 1992
STAFF WRITERS Christopher Ashlock
Alfonso Castillo
Christopher Erdie
Leslie Marlow
Mark Raymond
Bridgid Bender
Daniel Haverty
Melissa Huff
Luis Lira
Fernando Mendez
Kiva Navarro
Rachel Spies
CONTRIBUTING Traci Riser
WRITERS Samuel Smith
Lucas Coyne
Debra Duran
Mission Statement
Founded in 1993, the New Lit remains an
ongoing, evolving project of St. Edward’s
University New College. Our purpose is
to encourage creativity within the New
College community by featuring works of
art including short stories, poems, essays,
and drawings. In addition, our staff writes
profiles on creative instructors, students,
and organizaitons associated with New
College and St. Edward’s University.
The New Lit recognizes the exceptional
talents of imaginative, inspired individuals
through this publication, which highlights
their original works, of art, and honors the
process of creativity.
© 2004, 2013 St. Edward’s University. All
rights reserved. One-time publication rights
for individual works. All rights retained by
authors.
New Lit, Dr. Timothy Green
St. Edward’s University
3001 South Congress Avenue
Austin, Texas 78704
Publication of this journal is made possible in
part by the generous support of OneTouchPoint/Ginny’s Printing.
Printed in the United States of America,
Austin, Texas.
You’ve Been Moodled
Annonymous
Dear John (or whatever your name is), this is a
wake-up call about your current situation with your
friend, that is a girl. That’s right, I’m saying it that way
because she is not your girlfriend, nor will she ever
become your girlfriend! If you find what I am saying to be harsh then you should stop reading NOW,
because this friendly little guide is not going to get
any nicer. I’ll give you a moment to make up your
mind....
You feel up to hearing the truth?
Good boy! You have some man in you after all.
You are most likely reading this because you are a
moodle, or because you’re a person that wants to
know what the hell a moodle is. First off, a moodle is a
man-poodle.
Women like to walk the
the moodle, and play
dle. But they will never, I
do the moodle. It is the
being friend zoned
It’s simple math
10% man +
poodle =
moodle. The
10% man is
me assuming
you can speak
a recognized
human language
fluently.
Why such a
percentage of
Because, in the
your female friend,
categorized as a
be happy, you’re a
not just some beast
around humping everysight like the average
moodle, feed
with the moorepeat, NEVER
epitome of
level 99.
really,
90%
of it this way: you are the official, straight, gay best
friend!
I know that this doesn’t sound like a very good position to be in, but you’re wrong. The reason is that one
girl’s moodle can one day be another girl’s man. Let
me explain. Like the gay best friend, a moodle is welcomed into (forgive the terminology) his owner’s inner
circle.
She may not see you as a potential in any way, but
her friends might have different tastes in men. Are
you getting the picture, or do I need to spell it out for
you? If I do, then you are reading the wrong book! You
must go find a book called Help! I Know Absolutely
Nothing About Women.
How do you know if you’re a moodle? Good question!
However, I’m sure if you thought really hard about it
you could figure it out on your own. I’ll tell you a few
things about moodles to help you out. You might be
a moodle if: She won’t go on a date with you, a hug
is as far as you
can ever hope to get, your
socialization
with each other is only
in public
or with a group,
and/or
communication is
rare and usually just
in passing.
Not all
pet
that
thing
mutt.
high
poodle?
mind of
you are
dog. But
dog,
goes
in
Think
but
has
male friends are
moodles!
This is the most
important thing
to remember.
The status of
being a moodle
depends on the
relationship dynamic
between the friends,
the average moodle
owner relationship
a more dominant
female and submis-
Continued 66
Una Gota
By Luis Lira
The smell of freshly cut cucumbers greeted my senses while my
boss gave me another assignment.
Anyone who has known Betty
Davis can tell you she loves freshly
cut cucumbers on her salad.
Before I left her office, I asked if
she had received my request to be
off the next Friday.
“I did but why do you need to be
off again?”
“I’m writing a story about
migrant students at St. Edward’s
University,” I said.
She gave me a puzzled look and
asked “Immigrant students?”
“No, migrant students,” I said.
“What’s a migrant?” she asked.
All I could do was stare at the
cucumbers and visualize migrants
picking them.
My parents were migrants. I
remembered them talking about
picking crops in the hot sun, their
hats and a little water their only
comfort.
The days
were long
and took a
toll on their
backs and
fingers. If they picked cotton, their
fingers bled from the brush, but
they kept going because they had
a family to support.
Not only were my parents
migrants, but their parents were
migrants, too. They did not think of
themselves as migrants; they just
saw picking crops as work.
Before 1972, children of migrants
had few opportunities to seek a
better life, but with social progress came new opportunities, like
the College Assistance Migrant
Program (CAMP) at St. Edward’s
University
While pursuing a Master of Arts
and Doctor of Education degrees
at Washington State University,
Gene Binder engaged in educational work with Hispanic, African,
de Esperanza
A St. Edward’s program brings a “drop of hope” to the children of migrant farmworkers
and Native American students
from migrant and seasonal work
families. His work was successful and he received an unsolicited $500,000 post-secondary
educational award from the
U.S. Department of Economic
Opportunity in 1971. He used this
award to design CAMP.
In 1972, Dr. Binder approached
then-president of St. Edward’s
University, Brother Stephen Walsh,
about hosting a CAMP chapter at
St. Edward’s.
“In 1972,” recalls Esther
Quiñones Yacono, Director of
CAMP, “St. Edward’s had money
problems and hosting a CAMP program would have indeed helped
alleviate the financial concerns of
the university. However, some of
the faculty was concerned at the
time. They did not know what to
expect from CAMP students during
that particular time in history.”
“If we go under, we go
under doing it,” Brother Walsh
responded, according to Yacono.
“After several years,” Yacono
continues, “the cautious faculty
was poised to keep CAMP. They
noticed CAMP students showed a
strong commitment to their studies.
CAMP students were like a family
and showed regular students how
to come together and help others
in need.”
And helping others is what
CAMP is all about.
“CAMP offers three types of
support,” Yacono says. “First,
CAMP offers financial support;
tuition the first year of CAMP is
two thousand dollars. After that
students are offered a financial
aid package that will cover tuition
for the next four years if the student maintains a 2.0 GPA along
with obtaining 24 credits annually.
Second, there is academic support; CAMP provides free tutoring. Third, there is moral support;
CAMP students are assigned peer
counselors and my door is always
open.”
As Esther finishes, a CAMP student walks in and says, “Thanks for
listening to me yesterday.” Esther
smiles at the young student and
replies, “Anytime.”
She looks at me after the student
leaves and says, “I told you my
door is always open.”
While Esther’s door is always
open, the door to CAMP is not.
“Not everyone is eligible for
CAMP,” Esther says. One must be
a U.S. citizen or permanent resident to qualify for CAMP. CAMP is
funded by the U.S. Department of
Education, and St. Edward’s follows federal definitions of migrant
and seasonal farm work. The
federal rules requires a student’s
parents or guardians to have performed at least 75 days of migrant
work in the last 24 months for the
student to be eligible to apply to
the program.
St. Edward’s is only allowed to
take 35 CAMP students each year,
and today, for the first time, St.
Edward’s is turning down well-qualified potential CAMP students
because of these limits. If they get
into the program, the challenges
don’t end there.
“Most of the CAMP students are
the eldest children in the family,”
says Esther. If a parent is ill or can
no longer work, some of them have
to leave school to take care of the
family. Sometimes, female CAMP
students become pregnant and are
forced to return home by their parents. Out of the 35 students taken
annually, about five drop out for
various reasons (pregnancy, death
or illness of a parent, or just being
homesick).
CAMP at St. Edward’s was the
first and is the longest-running
migrant assistance program in the
United States. The program boasts
several success stories, including
my sisters Gloria Lira Renteria and
Lucia “Lucy” Lira Cruz; and my
brother-in-law, Aurelio “Lio” Cruz.
Gloria was the first to go through
CAMP at St. Edward’s. She entered
the program shortly after graduating from Asherton High School in
1983.
I met with Gloria one recent
Saturday morning at a local IHOP.
She has a fresh cup of coffee in
one hand and a cell phone in the
other hand.
As I take a seat, she tells her
son Dave, “I don’t care if it’s
Saturday, we are going to study for
your spelling test when I get back.”
Dave is seven and would rather
play his Wii than study for a spelling test on any day.
“So, Gloria, what made you
enroll in CAMP?” I ask.
Gloria smiles and says, “It all
started in 1983 when I was a
senior in Asherton High School
and Martha Martinez, a representative from CAMP at St. Edward’s,
came to our little town. She came
to the high school and asked for
the top four students of my senior
class and told us about CAMP at
St. Edward’s.”
Gloria adds that Martha was
very humble and she will never forget the words Martha said to her:
“Gloria, how can I help you better
yourself?”
Gloria always wanted to go to
college, especially after working as
a migrant during her adolescence.
“Migrant work was not for me, I
wanted to better myself,” she said.
Gloria told Martha about her
dream of going to college and
Martha took her under her wing.
Gloria was accepted into the program later that year.
In her freshman year at St.
Edward’s, Gloria found CAMP to
be a very well organized program.
“We were given several placement
tests and assigned peer counselors to help us adapt to a college
lifestyle,” Gloria says.
She recalls how the entire staff
at St. Edward’s was very helpful
at making CAMP students feel
welcome and encouraged them to
mingle with regular students—even
though at times CAMP students
felt a little intimidated when some
of the wealthy students talked
about their fancy vacations. Gloria
noticed that the majority of the
students had two things in mind—
graduation and employment—so
she embraced friendships with
regular students as well.
Gloria earned a Bachelor’s
Degree in Criminal Justice with
Cum Laude honors in 1987. After
graduation, she found employment at Austin Municipal Court
as a court clerk and a few years
later, she became the first female
Mexican-American bailiff of
the same court. Today, she
and my other sister Lucy are
Adult Probation Officers for
Travis County. When I asked
about her future goals in life,
Gloria expressed interest in
running for city council.
To this day she addresses
her clients with something
she learned from Martha
Martinez in 1983: “Hi, how
can I help you?”
The day after my interview with Gloria, I met Lucy
and Lio Cruz at their house
to discuss their time in
CAMP. As I walk in, Lucy
greets me and offers me a
seat at the table while she
cooks dinner. My brother-inlaw, Lio, joins me while Lucy
and I catch up.
“Now I know why you’re
cooking, Lucy. Your brother
is here,” says Lio as he sits
down. Lucy replies, “You see, Luis,
the things I have been putting up
with since 1986.”
Lio grew up with his five brothers and four sisters, along with his
parents, in a small house in Eagle
Pass, Texas. Work was a way of
life for them from an early age.
The first time I met Lio’s family, his
father was selling watermelons off
his truck on the side of the road.
Lio’s nephews, who were children
at the time, would help the old man
give out change and carry watermelons to customers’ vehicles.
During his youth, Lio’s father used
to take migrants to work at various
migrant camps in and out of state.
After a brief family history discussion, the conversation turns to
CAMP.
“CAMP definitely opens doors,”
says Lio, as he tastes my sister’s
guacamole. “Who knows who I
might have married if it wasn’t for
CAMP,” he says, winking.
When Lio was a junior in high
school, a representative from Rural
Upward Bound (RUB) asked for
the top students in Lio’s class. RUB
was a program that paved the way
toward CAMP and the introduction
to RUB lead to Lio’s enrollment in
CAMP. His parents were fine with
his notion of seeking a different
kind of life in the big city, but they
were also concerned. He had
never been away from the family
until he went off to college.
Early in his freshmen year at St.
Edward’s Lio experienced anxiety
issues and contemplated going
home and abandoning his college
education. “It was my first time
away from my family,” Lio says.
Fortunately, a CAMP counselor
convinced him to stay, and helped
him overcome his anxiety issues.
After Lio conquered his
anxiety issues, he mentored at-risk third-graders at a local elementary
school. He says, “CAMP
taught me how to help
others and most importantly, CAMP taught me
how to listen to people’s
problems.”
Lio strongly believes
CAMP is a good program
for migrant students and
only sees student loans
and being away from home
as challenges. Today, Lio
is a senior Pretrial Services
Officer at Travis County.
Lucy, who was eavesdropping, was shocked
Lio never mentioned his
anxiety issues to her.
“Lio, I was your girlfriend
then and you never told
me,” says Lucy as she
approaches the table.
“I needed to talk to someone
in person and you were at Texas
State, remember?” he replied.
Lucy met Lio in RUB during the
summer of 1986. Like Lio, Lucy
was a top student in her class and
during her junior year, a RUB representative came to visit Asherton
High School. However, she had
to convince our father (Luis Garcia
Lira) to let her apply for RUB.
Once she qualified for RUB, she
was required to attend monthly
meetings, where other RUB students from the region met. She
met Lio at one of those meetings.
He offered to buy her a soda.
RUB brought Lucy and Lio to
St. Edward’s during the summer
of 1986 and introduced them to
college life. She worked part-time
while she went to school.
“I really matured that summer,”
Lucy says. “I got introduced to a
different environment compared to
my rural upbringing.”
However, Lucy was not one of
35 CAMP students chosen annually, so she ended up attending
Texas State University at San
Marcos her freshmen year. She
and Lio remained close and were
reunited when she was accepted
at St. Edward’s her sophomore
year through regular admission.
They both obtained degrees from
St. Edward’s (hers in political science and his in art).
Years later, on a hot summer day
in August 1995, Lucy and Lio got
married on the St. Edward’s campus. I asked them why they chose
to marry in the Our Lady Queen of
Peace Chapel at St. Edward’s.
“This university is what brought
us together and this university is
our legacy,” Lio says.
The following Monday, back
at work, I wander into my boss’s
office again. Once again she is
cutting cucumbers for her salad.
“Did you get all the interviews
done?” she asks.
I tell her about all the information
I found out about CAMP and my
family. She confesses she looked
up migrants in Google and was
surprised at what she found.
“Now I know why you were
staring at my cucumbers last time,”
she said. She told me how she was
starting her own garden of cucumbers and added, “All I need is a
few drops of hope.”
“Drops of hope?”
“Haven’t you heard that expression before?” she asked. I had but
I could not remember where.
Later in the evening, when I
was sorting through old photos, I
came across pictures of me at the
age of 7, wearing a three-piece
suit for Gloria’s graduation at St.
Edward’s. Then I remembered
Gloria called Brother Dunn walked
by and said, “All it takes is a drop
of hope.”
“Una gota de esperanza,” Gloria
said, hugging us both.
Gloria’s graduation in detail. My
father was so proud he grinned all
night. Toward the end of the graduation ceremony, I waited with him
while Gloria took pictures with her
friends. My mother and my other
sisters were mingling as well.
As my father and I waited
together, he turned and looked
me in the eye and said in a heavy
accent, “I hope one day you graduate from college too.”
As he said that, an elderly man
CONVICTIONS
The Story of a New College
Student
Whose Conviction for
Manufacturing and Distributing
Methamphetamines Led to
17 Years in Prison
And Whose Religious
Convictions Have Turned
His Life Around
By William Stockton
The time had come:
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Clarke.” On January
28th, 1990, in the Western District of Missouri, I stood
face to face with a dreaded future.
The courtroom was quiet. After two long weeks of trial,
a decision was about to be made. “You may be seated.”
Sitting down, I buried my face in my hands, hoping to
cover my shame. The Honorable Judge Clarke asked
the jury if they had come to a decision.
“We have your Honor. We, the jury, have found William
D. Stockton guilty of count 1, conspiracy to manufacture
and distribute methamphetamines with a sentencing
guideline of 235 months to 365 months.”
The judge turned to me: “At this time you will be taken
into custody awaiting sentencing, which is set for June
14, 1990.”
I have never swallowed a soccer ball, but my throat
had just developed a huge bulge. How did this happen?
Where did I go wrong?
I was a young man with a lot of questions, but no
answers. I was lost in my own immaturity. I was raised by
outstanding parents in a small country community. I was
the good ol’ boy that helped other parents coach their
kids. I fished, hunted, participated in rodeos, showed
livestock, and was president in FFA (Future Farmers
of America). I got along with everyone and was not a
troublemaker. What made me turn away from my family and
the values I grew up with?
On June 14th, 1990, I entered the same courtroom
I had left six months prior. The room seemed smaller,
darker, and smelled of a hospital. The courtroom had
media and others awaiting the sentencing. I had two
friends and no family. I did not want my family to see me
distraught.
“I, Judge Clarke, sentence you, William Stockton, to
235 months in federal custody.”
My mind raced, my heart pounded, and a voice
said, “End it now.” I was falling deeper and deeper. I was
listening to that voice of danger.
On June 19th, 1990, the thirty passenger club fed
bus pulled up in front of the razor wire at FCI Texarkana,
Texas. Texarkana was a medium security prison with
four guard towers and thirteen hundred convicts. I was
glad to be here after riding nine hours in handcuffs and
shackles. My wrists and ankles were swollen and bruised
from limited movement. We were rustled into a small
room called R&D (receiving and delivering), and given
our first real meal. After eating two sandwiches, one
cheese and one bologna, we were ready to be processed for the compound.
The process consisted of a strip search, questioning, and visiting with an SIS (Special Investigative
Services) officer. I was then issued my khakis, toiletries,
and bedding.
The officer walked us down a hall that had floors a
person could eat off of. The floors were like mirrors. We
entered a grilled gate the officer had unlocked and then
through a locked door.
“Welcome home,” the officer said. I was assigned
cell #204 with three other convicts. The place was loud
with dominoes being slammed, and the smell of cigarettes burned my lungs. I made my top bunk and lay
down for a hard night of rest.
Early the next morning every convict was asking
me questions. Who do you ride with? What are you
doing time for? Where did you catch your case? How
much time did you get? Do you have any documentation
showing that you are not a snitch? This prison interrogation was more intense than the Drug Enforcement
Administration (DEA) interrogation.
I produced court documents showing I was not a
snitch and that I had just received a twenty-year sentence. I was now a solid convict and cool dude. Over the
next few months I met a lot of homeboys and other convicts. We played softball, bocce, handball, lifted weights,
and worked in various jobs together. I was becoming
popular and fitting in. When tested,
I did not show weakness.
In December 1990, I was
approached by a rather large
group of convicts. They asked
me if I wanted to ride with them?
I asked them what their club was
about.
“We are federal wide with about
thirteen hundred members,” they
said. “We are a family that protects,
and it is blood in and blood out.”
At that time one of the members
stepped up and said, “I want to
sponsor you.” Tim and I had been
friends since I got there, and his
comments touched me.
“Let me have until tomorrow and
I will give you a decision,” I said.
All that night I could not sleep. My
mind was telling my birth family
bye and adopting a new family.
Morning came really soon and it
was time to decide. I met with the
group of brothers out on the weight
pile.
“I’m in,” I said. My orders were
to take an inmate off the compound who had not paid his debt
to the brotherhood. The order was
fulfilled and I did not get apprehended. I was now a proud brother
who had earned his stripes.
Over the next several years the
decision I made controlled my destiny. I was now a brother in a gang.
I was making moonshine, selling
drugs, being a bookie, running a
commissary, and moving up the
chain of command.
I used to be a kid who steered
away from trouble, but now trouble
was my middle name. I was breezing through the BOP (Bureau of
Prisons) on disciplinary transfers or
closer supervision. I left Texarkana
in 1994 for an assault and intoxication write up, arriving at Oakdale,
Louisiana. After being in Louisiana
for thirty days, I was involved in a
gang riot. I was segregated in a
small dark cell with limited lights for
ninety days. I was then transferred
to Memphis, Tennessee.
In Memphis, I received a positive drug test and was involved in
another riot (drug laws). The feds
were now getting fed up with us
gang bangers. In 1995 during the
riot, the feds sent a SWAT (special
weapons and tactics) team from
the maximum security lockup in
Marion, Illinois, to pick us up.
When the SWAT team got there,
they were pissed. We were loaded
on a bus two by two-two convicts
in one seat and two officers behind
them. The officers had their baton
rib splitters with them and had us
in handcuffs and shackles.
“You are going to be someone’s
punk in USP Marion, boy,” one
officer said. I thought, oh boy, we
are going to get killed. What have I
done now?
We arrived at USP Marion about
one in the morning and had to go
through the processing procedures. I did not get the two sandwich deal this night. We finally got
to call it a night in a small cell with
a cement bunk, and stainless sink
and toilet. This cell would be my
home for the next fourteen months.
Marion was a lockdown unit,
which meant you stayed in your
cell twenty-two and a half hours a
day, five days a week.
One day the Chaplin brought the
phone to my cell and said, “Your
mother is in bad health and not
expected to make it.”
I remember picking up the
phone and saying, “I am praying
for you.”
My mom said, “Do not worry
Bubba. I will live to see you come
home.”
Wow! My mother was being
strong and I am being an idiot. I
felt that I was the “IV” to her life
and was cutting off her feeding. I
got down on my knees and plea
bargained with God. God made
good.
In 1996 I was transferred to USP
Leavenworth, Kansas. I remember
going through the processing at
R&D and being led to the compound (Big House). Leavenworth
was like the movie Shawshank
Redemption. I was scared. Cell
blocks were eight tiers high with
convicts rattling the bars. All the
convicts looked like killers.
I went to the chow hall to find
the brothers. I was schooled on
where to sit, eat, and who was
who. After three months I was sent
on a mission to take out another
convict because he disrespected
a brother. Mission accomplished.
I was apprehended. I was found
guilty of assault and received a disciplinary transfer. I was segregated
for ten months in a small dark cell.
In 1997 I was transferred to
United States Penitentiary in
Florence, Colorado. I hoped to get
my life back on track at Florence.
While at Florence, I was extradited back to Memphis for rioting
charges. I stayed in Memphis for
two months before the charges
were dropped and I was sent back
to Florence. Thank you, Jesus.
Over the next couple of years I
stayed out of trouble and asked for
a transfer back to Texas. I told my
case manager that if they would
give me another opportunity in
Texas, I would not let them down.
In 1997 I was transferred to the
Federal Correctional Institution
(FCI) in Three Rivers, Texas, on a
lower security transfer.
Three Rivers FCI was a country club, very stress free. I got to
Three Rivers with a change of
plans. I now saw gang activity in
a different view. The brotherhood
was destroying my life, and I did
not agree with their missions,
actions, and reputation. I was
going to get killed or end up with a
life sentence if I did not change.
In 2000 I met the woman who
would become my wife, and she
traveled to Three Rivers every
weekend to see me. On February
28th, 2002, we got married. This
was a huge step in the right
direction.
My wife and I were visiting in
June 2003 when she was taken
out of the visiting room for excessive contact. I was removed and
informed that she would not be
able to visit for a year. What? I was
mad and my anger was about to
get the best of me. I had always
done stupid things in the heat of
the moment. I called my dad to try
and get him to talk some sense into
me. He said, “Go to the chapel.”
I was not trying to hear that.
However, I was walking up the
steps when I asked a friend of
mine if he wanted to go to the
chapel. He said, “Let’s go.”
We ended up going into a small
chapel room with a diverse group.
That night I was touched, but not
saved. I continued going to church
meetings, services, and prayer
groups. One day I was in a prayer
meeting asking Jesus to manifest
himself to me. I told him that I was
a sinner who is repenting for my
sins and wanted to be washed
by His blood. I kept saying, “My
grandmother believed in You and
always talked about You. I need
that same manifestation that you
gave her.”
My chair started rocking as if I
was on the sea, my mouth opened,
and tongues from Pentecost
were upon me. I was crying and
laughing tears of joy. My God had
manifested Himself and I was filled
with the Holy Spirit. That day I was
changed in Mind, Body, and Soul. I
was a new man, and the new man
was not a gang member. In August
of 2003, I turned my life over to
Jesus Christ.
In September 2003, my old
gang affiliations approached me
about my actions. They said, “You
cannot get out without blood.”
I told them God did not deliver
me today for me to die tomorrow.
Fear was not part of the new creation. I turned and walked away,
never to be touched.
I did send a letter to Tim, asking
for a release of the brotherhood.
Tim responded with a blessed
letter releasing me from any and all
obligations. This was the work of
the Lord.
After turning my life around and
changing my mind about gang
activity, I graduated from RHEMA
Bible School in 2006. I am Minister
of the Word, and God has blessed
my wife and me with a ministry that
provides for single family mothers
and troubled youths. God did not
send me to prison, but he used
prison to mold me into the person
I am today. After experiencing
eight different prisons in seventeen
years, I have seen a lot of things,
but there is nothing I cannot overcome with God. He was always
with me, but I never paid attention.
Today He leads me.
God Bless.
“Nothing
in My Way
Now”
By Fernando Mendez
Brandon Paddock sat on his
bunk in his newly appointed fiveby-ten prison cell staring at the
small window of his cell door.
He had only started to settle into
what would be his home for the
next three years when shouts and
screams erupted beyond the door.
In another cell a man was getting
the life beat out of him by a fellow
prisoner wielding a lock stuffed in
a sock.
He could hear the victim pleading for his life, begging his attacker
to have mercy and spare him. And
when the pleading and crying
stopped, all he could hear was the
weapon repeatedly smashing into
the dead man’s body and face.
Finally, the unit guards’ whistles
blew, drowning out the sounds of
hammer on meat, signaling every
prisoner in the unit into lockdown.
Brandon stared at his cell’s door,
grateful for the safety it provided.
But a hatred for that same door
began to burn inside him. That
locked cell door was a constant
reminder that, for the next three
years, his life was out of his hands.
For Brandon Paddock, life had
come to a dead end.
“You know, it’s funny. The door
to my office reminds me of the
door to my prison cell.”
Today, at age 39, and four
years removed from his incarceration, Brandon Paddock is the
manager of the Goodwill store in
Hutto, Texas. The door to his office
always remains open. He does not
want any barrier keeping his life
from moving forward.
Since being released from
prison and re-entering society,
Brandon has devoted his life to
moving forward, to always advancing, and constant self-improvement. Despite this new devotion,
Brandon does not deny himself a
peek over his shoulder to remember his past and the paths he
chose which have made him the
devoted and driven person he is
today.
“It’s a part of my life. It’s in my
past. People make mistakes. But
I’ve learned from them, and made
myself a better person. I have a
better life now because of what I’ve
experienced.”
A popular guy in high school,
Brandon was into the party scene
For a year he was held in a federal
holding facility in Los Angeles,
fighting his case and trying to work
out a deal to lower his potential
sentence of 20 years to life. After
months of waiting, he was finally
able to work out a deal and was
sentenced to 63 months at the
Federal Correctional Institute in
Phoenix, Arizona.
“I was depressed that whole
the bus to be searched and
assigned living quarters. He was
amazed at the sight of the prison.
From the outside, it was not what
he had expected. Manicured lawns
and lush landscapes made the
federal prison look more like a
college campus than a home for
convicted felons. It was a calming
disguise for the violence and madness waiting inside. As Brandon
From Crystal Meth and Prison Cells to Goodwill Manager and New College Student
"Friends of
Goodwill, be
dissatisfied with
your work until
every...person in
your community
has an
opportunity to
develop to his
fullest usefulness
and enjoy a
maximum of
abundant living."
– Goodwill's
Founder, Dr. Edgar
J. Helms, 1941
and having fun, just a typical high
school kid.
“I never had plans for a future,”
he says. “I just lived day-to-day.”
After high school, Brandon
smoked marijuana on a regular
basis before transitioning into selling it. Eventually, his drug-fueled
lifestyle led him down a darker,
more dangerous path: Crystal
Meth.
“I was over at a friend’s house
one day, and he just turned me on
to it. I loved it. I loved the way it
made me feel. I loved the high of it.
That was really my drug of choice. I
did it for a long time, probably over
ten years straight. I really abused
myself with it. Little did I know that,
like with all drugs, it’ll take you
down so fast. Sure enough, it did.”
For over a decade Brandon’s life
revolved around his drug addiction.
He had created a self-imposed
prison, unable to break from the
hold of his addiction, as he drifted
through the haze his life had
become.
Finally, in 2005, at the age of 32,
Brandon’s lifestyle caught up with
him. He was busted and charged
with conspiracy with intent to
distribute cocaine and marijuana.
year while waiting to finally hear
what my sentence was going to be.
I was pretty scared when I finally
did get it. You don’t know what’s
going to happen. You ask a lot of
questions. Then you’re just kind of
waiting for your case to get seen,
and they’re going through the
process. Then you’re wondering
how much time you’re gonna get.
It’s boring as hell. You miss your
family. I was coming off of drugs.
I ate a lot; I got overweight. It was
just a really bad time for me.”
Brandon still vividly recalls the
bus ride to the prison in Phoenix
from the holding facility.
“Man, I remember it was really
cold on that bus. I was nodding my
head to the music blasting from the
bus’s surprisingly awesome sound
system. It was the Kid Rock album
that had just come out. It had been
a long trip-Los Angles to Phoenix.
The music helped to keep my mind
off of where I was going, but I just
couldn’t shake it. The ride was
uncomfortable, I was uncomfortable, and the shackles around my
wrists and ankles kept reminding
me that I was in deep.”
He also remembers the long
walk to the annex after departing
walked into his cellblock, he could
not help but wonder how the other
inmates would react or treat him?
Would he be able to fit in? How
would he get through the next
several years confined behind the
prison walls?
Brandon was able to survive,
though. His prayers helped him
survive. He prayed for change
and forgiveness. He prayed for the
strength to fight his addictions. And
he prayed to be able to survive
his stay in prison and come out a
better person. He also survived
by reaching out beyond the prison
walls and writing to family and
friends regularly, and by reading
books checked out from the prison
library or mailed to him. Amazingly,
he credits his time in prison to
strengthening his grammar and
reading skills.
“I must have read hundreds
of books and wrote just as many
letters.”
His first letters to his mother
were barely comprehensible and
his grammar was admittedly poor.
However, by the end of his prison
sentence, his mother expressed
that his writing had “improved
tenfold.”
In 2009, Brandon’s prayers were
answered when he was released
from prison. He promised himself,
his God, his friends, and his family
that he would live his life by a new
motto: Learn from your mistakes,
better yourself, and keep moving
forward.
“Prison happened for a reason.
Prison changed my life. Honestly, if
I’d never been caught and sentenced I’d still be dealing. Hell, I’d
probably be dead.”
Brandon credits his family and
friends for giving him love and support, as well as a second chance
at creating a new life. Upon his
release, Brandon moved to Cedar
Park, Texas, where his brother
lived.
“He got me on my feet right out
of prison, and gave me a place to
stay.”
Brandon was also given the
means to build a new life when
he was given the opportunity for
a job at Goodwill Industries. For
many people who have been
incarcerated finding a job is difficult because many companies are
hesitant about hiring them. Without
a job, building a new life is virtually impossible. With limited work
options and a number of barriers
in their life, many turn back to the
lifestyle that got them locked up
in the first place. Goodwill is one
company that offers these formerly
incarcerated people a chance to
break this cycle by offering job
training skills, life skills, and job
placement.
“I heard about Goodwill through
a friend while at the halfway house
here in Austin. I met and interviewed with William Stockton.
Come to find out he had been in
prison too-17 years.”
Stockton has since become a
mentor to Brandon, helping him
transition into his new life after
prison. He was hired by Goodwill
and started at the dock, unloading carloads of donations. Prison
life taught Brandon that he never
wants his life to be stagnant again.
He works hard, putting every last
bit of effort into anything he does.
Brandon’s passion and drive
paid off, as he worked his way
up in four years and is now the
manager of the Goodwill store in
Hutto. He now sits at his desk in
his office, just several feet away
from where he started as an
unloader. He prides himself on the
fairness he displays with his team
of employees. And unlike in prison
where every decision was made for
him, now he is in charge, making
decisions, delegating duties, and
leading his team forward toward
success.
Brandon has not forgotten the
support given to him by family,
friends, and Goodwill. He admits to
taking on the mentor role to several
young members of his team who
have found themselves in the same
circumstances he was in not so
long ago. So, rather than becoming
just another statistic walking back
through prison’s revolving door,
Brandon is contributing to a much
more rewarding cycle by offering
the same care and support given
to him in his time of need.
His life is no longer as it was
before his stint in prison, where
he merely drifted with no dreams
or desires for a better life, and no
thoughts of a successful future.
Brandon is devoted to not traveling down those same dark paths
as before. In 2012, he enrolled
in the New College program at
St. Edward’s University through
a partnership program with
Goodwill Industries, majoring in
Organizational Leadership.
While he admits that it has been
hard to balance his responsibilities
and duties at work and those of his
new student life, Brandon would
not have it any other way. He has
applied the same desire and determination into his education that he
has into all facets of his new life.
“It’s hard work. I work full time.
And I haven’t been to school in a
very long time. So I have to put
everything into it. Still, I’m the type
of person where I got to do well. I
have to be satisfied with what I do,
so I strive to be the best. I want this
degree, so I put in the work.”
With so much going for him,
Brandon appreciates the life he
has built for himself. Aside from
the accomplishments in his education and work life, he also has a
wedding in October of this year to
look forward to. While he has no
kids now, he admits that he looks
forward to the prospect of being a
father. But would he tell his children
about his past?
“Yeah, for sure. I don’t believe
in hiding things like that. It’s a part
of my life. My past made me who
I am; I can’t forget that. But I’ve
changed. I’ll teach my children to
forgive mistakes, especially if a
person learns from their mistakes
and makes the effort to better
themselves.”
Whatever the future holds for
Brandon Paddock, he is now in full
control of the paths he chooses to
journey. After so many years just
drifting through life, his existence
now is about moving forward,
about bettering his life, about living
every day to its fullest.
“There is nothing in my way now,
no drugs or prison bars. My life is
in my hands, and that’s the best
feeling in the world.”
SL AMMED
By Rachel Spies
“I.D. and five dollars,” a girl
demanded. She grabbed my hand
and stamped it.
I fished out my driver’s license
and shrugged at her. “I don’t have
five dollars.”
“We take credit.” She had dead,
uncaring eyes.
Looking around all I could see
were people, darkness, and red
lights spotlighting the stage at the
front of the room. People packed
the 29th street Ballroom and I was
late. Just as I searched in vain for
the friend I was meeting and a
seat, music started blaring to signal that, apparently, something was
about to happen.
A large, make that very large
black man climbed onto the stage
at the front of the theatre. He was
pretty much the opposite of every
poetry stereotype I had ever created. He wore a bright purple shirt
that said “Killeen” in all caps in
white across the front and baggy
jeans.
The crowd began to sit down as
he took over the microphone. As
people began to sit down, I found
my friend Cat, and mercifully, she
had saved me a seat.
“Hey!” I whisper-yelled at her
as I crawled my way to her over
the crowd of people. “Hey!” She
smiled back. “Ready for this?”
Just then, huge guy on the stage
started yelling for everyone to quiet
the “eff” down. We did.
Thankfully he started with
the rules of the poetry slam for
the night. I needed parameters,
needed to know what to expect. So
far this night was nothing like what I
had thought it would be.
Each poet would get three minutes on stage and be scored by
five random judges in the audience
on a scale from one to ten. The
poets could only use their body
and the microphone. No papers,
no props, no silly costumes. Just
body and microphone and three
minutes. Points off for time over,
and the highest scoring poets
would advance on to the next
round. The last three poets standing at the end of the night would
win cash prizes.
The emcee introduced himself
as Christopher Michael and started
picking the judges for the evening.
Oh man. When he said random, he
meant random. I sent him mental messages not to pick me as I
shrunk a bit down in my chair. It
must have worked—I managed to
escape judging duty.
Finally it was time for some
slam poetry. Well, sort of time. It
was time for the “sac” or sacrificial
poet. The point of the sac was so
that the judges could get a practice round to calibrate their scoring.
I prepared myself for this sac
guy to not be very good. After all,
he wasn’t even one of the “real”
poets for the evening. He was tall
and lanky, with a hipster vibe, definitely more what I expected. But
unexpectedly, he completely blew
me away.
He presented a piece about his
sister staying with her abusive husband and how powerless he felt as
her brother. He spoke of his niece
and nephew and how he wanted to
save them. His pain oozed through
his words. I wanted to hug him. I
think I fell in love with slam poetry
right then.
The judges held up their scores
and the audience booed loudly
when one group scored the sac
too low. Loud cheers sounded
when other judges gave him high
scores. I booed and cheered right
along with them.
This was not a finger-snapping
polite scene. In fact, I would later
learn that according to most poets
the Austin poetry slam club had a
nation-wide reputation for being
one of the rowdiest clubs in the
country.
As I enjoyed the poets’ offerings
that night, some funny, some sarcastic, some sad, some searching,
some good, some bad, I had no
idea I was attending just one night
in a tradition rich with history.
Slam poetry grew out of a movement of poets, including construction worker Marc Smith, based out
of Chicago at the Get Me High
Lounge in the mid 1980s. History
credits Smith with the three-minute
format and the competition style
rounds.
The often raucous nature of the
poems and the irreverent style that
came from the stage, however,
evolved out of both the everyman
nature of the audience and the
type of venue where slams were
often held. Slams were filled with
“poets drinking booze and boozers
being poets,” as one club promoter
put it. They were a surprisingly
good time.
Strip clubs and seedy night
clubs became regular meeting
spots for slams, and it wasn’t long
before they started attracting the
attention of some mainstream
national poets, including noted
American poet Allen Ginsberg.
Slam poetry, with its mixture of
comedy, cadence, and freedom,
gained traction beyond Chicago
quickly. Soon clubs started popping up in Seattle, New York City,
San Francisco, and London. By
1994 a guy named Wammo who
played in a folksy-jazz, rootsy-comedy-rock band named the Asylum
Street Spankers, decided to start
the official Austin Slam Poetry club.
Slam poetry fit Austin perfectly.
Already a haven for artists and
musicians, the city held more
than its share of creatives up for
the challenge of a little poetry on
stage. Since 1994, the Austin Slam
Poetry has run continuously, making it one of the longest running
poetry venues in Texas history. And
it turns out, our Austin area poets
are good-really good.
Danny Strack, who now acts as
official “slam master” of the club,
has been in on the scene for quite
a while. Upon meeting Danny,
he might not mention his poetry
credentials, which are long, at
first. Right now he’s concentrating
more on breaking into the juggling
scene. He’s also working hard on
his magician skills, but insists that
is just “to help pay the bills.” He
looks like a normal dorky guy, with
huge side burn chops and clothes
he happily bought from Goodwill.
Danny, though, can throw a
mean slam poem. He was an
integral member of the 2008
Austin team that won third place
at the National Slam Poetry competition. His poems run the gamut
from humorous to serious, with an
existential edge, so I was curious
to know who and what influenced
him.
Not surprisingly he answered
“Orson Scott Card, Kurt Vonnegut-I
love Ender’s Game and Catch-22.”
More surprisingly, he also listed
off the more philosophical “Kafka,
Dostoyevsky, and the Cider House
Rules.” His musical preferences
ranged from the Dixie Chicks to
Lady Gaga to Outcast, to which
I will just throw up my hands in
confusion.
Listening to him describe his
creative process I felt like I was
listening to a philosopher whose
body had been taken over by a
hyperactive mad-scientist.
“I let my mind fill up with experiences, like a balloon does with
gas. Then I process them and
slowly exhale them into art, as the
balloon pushes the air out.”
Huh. Well, it hasn’t failed him yet,
in the art world anyway.
Other regular poets in the Austin
slam scene are much like Danny in
that they are not just poets. Many
are also in bands, theater groups,
or involved in other creative ventures. Jacob Dodson, an up and
coming poet on the national scene,
is also a puppeteer and pun-off
champion. He’d also like to add
that he “won a gift-wrapping competition this past year.” Jacob’s
poems tend to be more on the
humorous end of the spectrum,
and spending even just a small bit
of time with him, his wit and gift
of social commentary come out
easily.
Christopher Michael, the emcee
who ushered me into the slam
scene my first night, also founded
“Slam Masters,” the Killeen Slam
Poetry club. He not only took them
to nationals, at which he led them
to second place, but he’s also a
self-proclaimed Jedi. I knew there
was something up with that guy.
There is something up with this
whole slam poetry scene. It doesn’t
matter if you are girl with waistlength dreadlocks like Lacey Roop,
who will compete in the Women of
the World poetry contest this year,
or small Asian guy getting up for
his first time, speaking with a shaky
voice. The crowd just appreciates
the poet’s honesty and willingness.
Most of us audience members
don’t know the rich history of the
Austin club, the history of slam, or
much poetry history at all.
We do know a good time,
though. Even as a poet who spoke
of the suicide of her friend walks
off the stage, her emotions raw
and painful, but left on the stage
for us to hear and share and bear
together, the vibe in the room
stays positive. Truth was shared,
emotional connections were
made, a soul sung and we were all
changed because of it.
The Austin Poetry Slam is held at
the 29th Street Ballroom on Fruth,
right next door to Spiderhouse
every Tuesday starting at 8:30,
ending around midnight. Cover is
$5.00-bring cash so you don’t look
like a nube.
A T-Shirt Tale: Part 1
By Christopher M. Erdie
Few things are as American as
the good, old-fashioned t-shirt. I
buy a lot of t-shirts and I do mean
a lot. While you may argue that this
makes me a better American, all it
means to me is expression. Most
of them are black, a byproduct of
growing up an insecure chubby
kid, but every last one of them
has something on them; a design,
image, math equation, a
snarky comment. I get
them from all over
the place: comic
book stores, shoe
stores, concerts,
flea markets and
thrift shops. I have long
believed that the t-shirt was
an appropriate extension of my
personality, especially a few years
ago before being a ‘nerd’ was cool,
a way of sending out a signal flare
to others that you shared qualities
and interests best kept to yourself,
perhaps something like an affinity
for physics jokes, or a mild Joss
Whedon obsession. Things that
a passerby probably wouldn’t
notice, but a friend in obscurest
hobbies would. My closet is full of
shirts whose design and wording I
usually have to explain, exactly as
it should be. It might even be fair to
say that I have a fetish.
The cost of these shirts I had
always seen as strictly monetary,
though I knew that the process of
making and receiving my t-shirt
was more complicated than the
familiar process of buying one. The
point of this article was to expand
and deepen this understanding.
Or, as I would quickly discover,
to shatter what I thought was an
understanding and to leave me
questioning my responsibility
to the world around me and the
logic behind these processes that
were far more intricate than I had
thought-all while engaging them in
a consumerist tryst.
I set out to buy and then track a
t-shirt I
bought
from an
online
retailer
and one
I bought
from the
campus
bookstore.
From the
cotton
field
to
my
closet,
if I could. I hoped
to follow its journey from
the earth to my appreciative
embrace and I was largely successful. Several new questions
popped up along the way, like my
aforementioned responsibility in
an ever-conscious world, to the
responsibility of an institution like
St. Edward’s to labor standards
and practices. Who knew something as ubiquitous and as seemingly workaday as a t-shirt could
be so complicated? Here we go…
The idea
Finding out where your snarky,
hip, or boring (let’s be honest)
t-shirt came from sounds pretty
simple; where did you buy it? If you
want to go deeper than that, look
at the tag on the inside of the collar
and Google map that exotic locale.
Deeper still, well, that requires
some more serious internet savvy
and maybe even a phone call.
Luckily, if you want to go back to
the point where your shirt grew out
of the earth as cotton, there are
only a few places you need to lookthe United States and Uzbekistan.
If you happen to be in the United
States, fewer still. In fact, if you
have discovered that the cotton in
your shirt is American, then it more
likely than not came from a farm
outside Lubbock, Texas.
Not unlike Magellan
When I sat down to
ponder the trip a t-shirt
might make around
the world, my first
thought was of the
fantastical voyage
of Ferdinand Magellan.
Now, Magellan is known
for many things, not least of
which was his discovery of a
passage through South America
joining the Atlantic and the Pacific
oceans, after which he gave the
Pacific its name and had the strait
named after him. More than just
being the first expedition to circumnavigate the globe, his travels
covered a monumental distance
and bounced all over the map.
It should be noted that doing so
took him a really long time, just
over three years. Also, he didn’t
survive it (he died in a battle in
the Philippines, but the expedition
did bear his name). My t-shirt had
better luck in its journey, it made
it to my doorstep, after all, but it
received noticeably less fanfare
and no glory to speak of.
No one will remember my
t-shirt, except for me here, and
even then it’s more of an anecdote than a genuine appreciation
of how traversable the globe has
become. By the time my t-shirt had
reached my house from the warehouse in Chicago, Illinois it had
already been sent from Lubbock,
Texas as raw cotton to a gin in
South Carolina to be processed.
Then it headed to a textile plant
somewhere in China to be processed further, spun and turned
into fabric before it was sent to
Chihuahua, Mexico to be sown,
sized and dyed. From Mexico it
then moved on to Chicago where
it was unboxed, printed, re-boxed
and stored before eventually it was
shipped to me for a total of about
17,000 miles of travel. Not bad for
24 bucks after shipping and tax.
Now, if you were buying a shirt
from a European website, or an
Asian one, which I did at Christmas
time for a shirt my sister wanted,
then the cotton most likely came
from Uzbekistan and was dyed
in either India or Southeast Asia.
Regardless, by the time it got to my
door in Austin it had logged
almost as many miles as
Magellan had upon his
flagship The Trinidad.
That particular
shirt, which was
white with a kitten
dressed as a ninja
on the front, topped with
the heading “Awesassin,”
cost
me 38 dollars and made its trek up
and down Asia and then across
the Atlantic ocean in less than a
week.
The comparison is fitting for
me because it brings to light two
interesting points. First, not unlike
planning and executing a circumnavigation of the globe, I was
clueless about the process a t-shirt
went through before it even begins
to take a form recognizable to me.
And second, the sheer distance
a shirt travels if you follow it from
cottonseed through to delivery
No single person makes a
t-shirt
I interviewed local t-shirt printer
Donovan Blake, owner and operator of Riot Industries, about how he
manages cost and how a guy who
often fills orders of ten shirts or less
has to be savvy on global market
fluctuations and material costs.
We met at his house, a small
three-bedroom tucked on a side
street of a working class neighborhood just north of 2222. On
the dining room table sat
an open laptop surrounded
by stacks of what I assume
were bills, their office as it
were. We passed his wife, Karen,
who was in the living room watching Adult Swim, as we headed to
the bedroom reserved for t-shirt
making.
The room isn’t big, but it doesn’t
need to be: a heat press, halfdozen open boxes of black shirts
and a box or two of white shirts,
all scattered and ranging
in size, two folding
chairs
and
a laptop
reserved
for
designing
and
printing
to transfer paper.
It is a
cramped
space
and the
stacks of boxes made me feel like
I was in the back room of some
small warehouse; but it is space
enough for Donovan and his wife
to crank out between 50 to 2000
shirts a month. Their largest order
to date, 1500 shirts due three
weeks after the order came in, he
tells me, has only happened once
and they nearly killed themselves
to fill it and their other orders on
time. His preferred output is about
500 shirts a month, enough to
turn a profit, but not so much as
to make doing so a miserable and
free-time-destroying endeavor.
Donovan recently landed onetime contracts with several bars
downtown to produce their t-shirts,
which he hopes will become
long-term contracts and promises to keep him busy for the next
few months. He hopes busy
enough that he can increase
his output this summer by
taking on a part-time
employee.
What we talked
about was both inspiring
and a little intimidating. He
navigates the thinnest of profit
margins and cuts expenses in
some pretty creative ways and, if
he’s lucky, makes his mortgage
payment on time.
Donovan has the world’s
wholesale t-shirt market at his
fingertips. More so than any
t-shirt maker that came
before him, Donovan
can remain competitive and profitable
because the internet now reaches all
of the world’s suppliers and customers. And
he
can do so with very little
technical know-how and a surprisingly cheap computer.
Conclusions
Local t-shirt makers like
Donovan are certainly one part of
the equation, but in the research
of this article I found several other
areas that deserve attention. The
journey of the t-shirts I bought is
remarkable, to be sure, but more
than anything else it raised more
(Continued on 67)
freeDoom
2wheel
By Alfonso Castillo III
The cool of the evening settles
in. Sirens blare in the distance.
Lights flicker and flash, horns blast
at random and the constant movement of the city fills the night air.
The low rumbling bustle of traffic
can be felt ever so slightly. As I
ride my bicycle in Austin, I can’t
help but smile and lose myself in
the moment. The constant ballet
between a man and machine is
nothing but a calculated risk. It is
this risk that keeps the pure joy,
excitement, and fun in check.
Cycling in an urban area,
danger lurks on every street, but
cyclists enjoy riding even though
there is that danger. That constant
fear keeps the mind alert. Some
people have a special love for
cycling and they ride around in the
cities of the U.S., even with all the
risks.
The dangers of riding are also
in the hearts of men that are at the
wheel of automobiles. I think Whet
Moser said it best in his article Why
Do Drivers Hate Cyclists?
“As a driver, cyclists scare me;
they make me tense and wary,
because I know how easy it would
be for me to hurt them. I think there
are a huge number of Americans
whose reaction to being afraid,
especially in their cars, is rage.
They can’t acknowledge that
they’re afraid, so they channel it
into anger.”
It is this fear, anger, and lack
of knowledge that lead to many
motorist and cyclist accidents.
More and more people are cycling
for recreation and commuting.
Unfortunately, many automobile
drivers seem to have a giant blind
spot when it comes to cyclists;
and many others simply show
a profound lack of respect for a
cyclist’s right to ride on streets and
roadways.
I can attest to the lack of respect
that drivers have for cyclists here
in Austin, TX. I remember it clearly;
I was on my way to meet a friend
after work on a Friday. I was heading into downtown and traffic was
pretty bad, but I have also seen
it worse. I was riding in the bike
lane between parked cars and
the cars waiting for the light, but
before I could reach the intersection, an SUV pulled out suddenly
and blocked my approach and any
means of getting around him, so
I quickly slammed on my brakes,
skid, and slightly bumped into his
SUV. We exchanged words and
I proceeded to go around him
because the light was still red. As I
passed him, the light turned green
and he lunged his SUV forward
angrily and clipped my rear tire;
sending me flying toward the curb.
He drove off, running over the rear
part of my bicycle. Several people in cars saw what happened
and did nothing. It is this apathy
that makes it okay to hurt cyclists/
people. I only suffered a dislocated
toe and a hair-line fracture of my
right thumb. I called APD and I
waited 15 minutes. No one showed
up. I carried my bicycle home. This
example is more of anger not of
fear—maybe the fear that he would
be stuck behind a cyclist and that
would make him late to wherever
he was going.
Just a few days later, I was run
off the road by a motorist who was
looking at their cellphone instead
of the road. I have countless stories
of being cut off or nearly missed
as a car passed, and so do all the
other cyclists who make riding their
bicycle the primary means of getting from A to B. All I can remember during those near misses and
couple of falls were the constant
beats of my heart and the sound of
my breath. The fear is gripping; I
had to readjust myself to riding the
busy roadways again. Every horn
and every car that came close
made me tense up for a moment.
I had to remind myself that being
alert is different from being tense.
When you’re tense, accidents are
more prone to happen because
that is what you are projecting.
These moments of danger, fear,
and joy make the ride. Mark Twain
said it best; “Get a bicycle. You will
not regret it if you live.”
Mark Twain’s words “If you live;”
reverberate in my head every time
I get on a bicycle and head out to
ride the city. I am well aware that
roads, automobiles, and bicycles
are much safer today than they
were in the days of Mr. Twain. But
the truth is cycling in urban areas is
still relatively unsafe. Cyclists have
a lot on their plate when riding.
They not only have to deal with
careless motorists, but the weather
and road conditions on top of the
automobile factor. One danger that
causes many cycling accidents is
gravel. Gravel and road bikes are
enemies. With narrow tires and not
much tread, any little separation
of rubber and road can lead to
disaster. Gravel can cause minor
injuries, broken bones, or worse.
Falls are inevitable and every rider
has them. All you hope for is that
whatever is behind you is aware
of what is happening and is able
to move past you without causing injury. The whole time you are
falling, all you can do is prepare for
the hard landing. The rude awakening of hitting the ground always
reminds me of my childhood and
learning to ride. The inevitable falls
and scrapes remind me of that first
day on my bike.
I received my first bicycle when
I was 6 years old and she was a
beauty, a 20” Red Huffy BMX with
all the fixings. I remember placing
old playing cards in its spokes so it
would sound like the hum of small
engines. I can’t remember what
happened to that bike after I
got my second one but I
haven’t loved a bike
like that since.
My father
got the
BMX a little too big for me on
purpose. He wanted me to grow
into my bicycle so I could have it
longer. So, instead of putting training wheels on and taking it slowly,
he said, “Tomorrow you will learn.”
That night I remember feeling
nervous and excited. I quickly fell
asleep to the thoughts of my very
own bicycle. The next day after
breakfast we loaded up my dad’s
shag carpeted, avocado green
van and headed to my grandma’s
house in McAllen, Texas. It was a
small, two-room house near the
train tracks with a beautiful garden
filled with fruit, vegetables, and the
smell of flowers and herbs. On the
north side of my grandmother’s
house there was the vacant field.
That field would be my worst waking nightmare on the day I learned
to ride. I quickly realized that riding
was actually
hard. There
were so
many falls.
I
remember
asking my father, “Why is it so
hard?” His reply was simple. “All
things in life that are worth it are.” I
didn’t really understand then, but I
did my best and got back up every
single time I fell. I can’t remember
how many times that was, but what
I do recall is the soreness afterwards. All the aches and pains of
learning to ride come back when I
fall and remember that first time I
rode.
Although cycling is dangerous,
cycling urban areas is not unsafe
because of the sheer volume of
cars on the road today; it is unsafe
because the lack of educated
drivers. This lack of respect for
cyclists points back to education.
Defensive Driving courses do not
emphasize the importance of laws
concerning the safety of cyclists,
and Driver’s Education courses do
little in teaching the basic 3-5 foot
passing law that protects cyclists
from the proximity of moving
vehicles. Another key element is
the lack of enforcement of the laws
that protect cyclists. The truth is,
when a jury does not give any jail
time to motorists—like Gabrielle
Nestande for the hit-and-run
death of Courtney Griffin—
that sends a message
that it’s okay to be
irresponsible.
Pedestrians
and cyclists
share a
danger
and
what happens to one group affects
the other.
Recently, I was able to sit down
and talk to Lee Gresham about the
rising problem of traffic and bicycle
safety. Lee is a lifelong cyclist and
respected member of the cycling
community. He is the owner and
operator of Eastside Pedal Pushers
in Austin since 2003. Before
opening Eastside Pedal Pushers,
he worked for the City of Austin’s
Bicycle Project and was an active
member at Yellow Bike Project. Lee
and I sat down for a few hours and
talked bicycles. I asked him how
he felt about the safety of cycling
within the city. He said, “The safety
needs to be attacked at both ends.
Drivers need to be made aware of
rules, laws, and etiquette concerning cyclists on roadways. The fact
is that some cyclists need to do the
same and not antagonize motorists. That is equally important and
knowledge is key.” We talked about
stories we had heard and unfortunate situations where motorists
just had drove off after hitting or
running a cyclist off the road. There
are countless stories like this.
During our back and forth, I
remembered when I mentioned
to a fellow cyclist that I would be
commuting around Austin on a
bicycle. I asked, “How dangerous
is it really?” Their reply shocked
me. “It is not if you get hit (by an
automobile), it is when and how
bad.” The sad truth is, this happens to cyclists on a daily basis.
With this known, it should be
self-evident that the laws protecting cyclists should be taught to all
those behind a steering wheel. The
City of Austin’s Interim Report on
Traffic Fatalities reported 3 cyclists
died on Austin roads last year (up
2 from 2012) and 26 pedestrians
(up 4 from 2012).
Lee and I discussed safer roads
and bicycles and we both agreed
that there are way too many stories
to discuss. We shared our own
accident stories. I was surprised to
find out that Lee himself had been
hit twice. The sad fact most these
stories shared was the fact that
the cyclist couldn’t make a report
because the driver drove off. Why
is society allowing this to happen?
Why are the courts and lawmakers
turning a blind eye to cyclists and
pedestrians? Are we as a “community” that apathetic and oblivious to
the injustice to cyclists and pedestrians? I am still searching for the
answers to these questions. I hope
one day we all can share the road.
Bicycles unite people from all
walks of life. I remember one night
at a stoplight I rode up to a lady,
who appeared to be in her seventies, riding a sweet single-speed
free hub bicycle. A single speed
bicycle is a bicycle with one gear
and the hub can be fixed or free
hub. A fixed gear or “fixie” or
“track bike” does not need brakes
because movement is controlled
by the rider’s legs moving forward
and backward. Cyclists who ride
a fixie never stop pedaling. A free
hub allows the rider to coast when
tired or going downhill. As I passed
this lady, she asked me if I was
enjoying my ride. I replied with a
smiling yes. “I can tell,” she said. I
guess the fun I was having showed
through in the grin on my face. I
will always remember that moment
I shared with someone who has
ridden many more years than me.
As we parted ways she said, “Fun
isn’t it?!” I nodded my head and
tipped my hat to her as she pulled
off the main road to meet up with
other riders.
Riding a bicycle in an urban
area is fun and exciting. It is not
always like playing Russian roulette, even though at times it feels
that way. Cycling is exciting. No
other movement can equal its
simplicity and speed. You can run
as fast you can, but if you try to
run any faster you will fall. On a
bike you can go as fast as you let
yourself. It creates a freedom that
I can only compare to birds soaring in the sky. The love for riding
a bicycle stems back to my childhood. Once I got on a bicycle, I
discovered that cycling is as much
a part of me as I am a part of it.
The only goal I have is to enjoy the
time on my bike away from it all:
away from work, worries, and any
other thoughts that may consume
my mind. It clears my head of all
thoughts and places. What road to
take? Where do I want to end up?
What do I want to see?
The bicycle has been around
since the 1880s and continues to
be as effective as the day it was
introduced, while maintaining its
classical purity and elegance.
People have been riding bicycles
since long before I began to ride
and they will be riding long after I
am gone. There isn’t a lot of technology that can boast that many
decades of worldwide usage. From
the first recorded race in 1886
in France to the modern Tour De
France, people will enjoy the simple speed a bike offers as well as
the pure enjoyment of it.
H.G. Wells said it best in The
Wheels of Chance, “After your
first day of cycling, one dream is
inevitable. A memory of motion
lingers in the muscles of your legs,
and round and round they seem
to go. You ride through Dreamland
on wonderful dream bicycles that
change and grow.”
SAD SONG
on the Hilltop
High Above the Musical Wonderland of Austin, a University is not Singing Along
By Mark Raymond
Living in the “The Live Music Capital of the World,”
you would think that St. Edward’s University would be
tapped fully into the musical genius that abounds in
Austin. But you would be mistaken. There is no music
major at St. Edward’s University.
Austin is a thriving musical center. The city has
more than one hundred local artists, seventy-six music
venues and is home to many music festivals. Antone’s,
Doc’s Backyard, Republic Live, Speakeasy, Elephant
Room, The Broken Spoke, The Mohawk, Maggie
Mae’s and Stubb’s, to name a few. Internationally
acclaimed annual music festivals bring many artists to
Austin. The top examples include South by Southwest
(SXSW), Austin City Limits (ACL), Fun Fun Fun Fest
and Psych Fest. SXSW alone brings in more than two
thousand bands. ACL brings in almost two hundred
bands. Fun Fun Fun Fest brings in over a hundred
bands, and Psych Fest brings in seventy bands or so.
But St. Edward’s University has no music major?
In order to understand why we do not have a music
major, we must venture to the beginning of the musical offerings developed and started over a century
ago at St. Edward’s University.
The year is 1885. The year might sound familiar because that is the year that St. Edward’s was
founded, as displayed on the seal outside in front
of Ragsdale. At the same time that the university
was founded, it also had a music instructor—A.F.
Schoedler. Not much is known about him, but he
taught both vocal and instruments and we can always
thank him for becoming the first music instructor.
Beginning in 1886, chapel choirs and commencements became a yearly musical tradition, and a glee
club started in the 1920s and performed all over
Texas.
Though St. Ed’s does not have a music major, it
does have—thanks to Brother Gerald Muller—a robust
music minor. Brother Muller is largely responsible
For 35 years, Brother Muller has been the music man of St.
Edward’s University. Although he has had no luck starting a music
major, he has kept music alive and flourishing on the hill. After 62
years of teaching, he is finally retiring in the spring of 2013.
for sustaining the music department and its music
minor, which emphasizes theory, voice, and piano
performance.
In his book, The Muller Years, Brother Muller said
he changed the music department in 1978 on a limited budget of $500-$700. He made music fun and
enjoyable, and he still makes it fun, especially with
his rock ‘n roll band, Brother Muller and His Brothers.
It is thanks to Brother Muller that the university has
a strong musical presence despite lacking a music
major. Under his guidance, the music minor has
focused on student participation in ensembles and on
presenting music with a positive purpose using practical applications, knowledge and talent.
When Brother Muller stepped down as the head
of the music department in 2001, Pamela Stout took
over, on the premise that she would take students
to Austria in the summer for their first-ever international tour to sing opera. Afterwards, Dr. McKelvey
took over the music department and helped start
the music theatre major at St. Edward’s. Dr. Morris
Stevens took over a year later and is still the program
head and director of music. Dr. Stevens notes that
the ensembles are the backbones of the department.
Since Dr. Stevens became the director, the orchestra
has doubled in size thanks to the growing enrollment
rates and access to more campus facilities, yet music
has been based at the same facility—The Carriage
House—for a long time now and
the music program has long since
outgrown it.
What is necessary for a music
major at St. Edward’s? A proper
facility would have to be in place in
order for a music major to happen,
according to Dr. Stevens. It would
need to be large enough to hold
two rehearsal halls that could seat
sixty to seventy people. Right now,
there are only two dedicated practice rooms and one
teaching room.
To support a music major, the facility would also
need eight to ten practice rooms, a voice studio, and
five various applied instrument studios, i.e. string,
brass, woodwind, voice, guitar, or jazz. Then office
spaces would also be required. As of now, three
offices are shared between fourteen people. Ideally,
a new office building should hold four or five separate
offices plus some studios—which can hold office
spaces—equaling to ten potential spaces.
The music program’s performances now occur in
Mabee Ballroom on the third floor of Ragsdale, or the
Maloney Room on the third floor of the Main Building.
A new office building would need one performance
venue so that an orchestra or choir could perform.
In addition to inadequate space, there is a second
problem, according to Dr. Stevens: accessibility to
the Carriage House. It is hard to control the flow of
students in and out of the building because it remains
open for students to practice. A short-term fix, he
says, is to only allow students and faculty who are in
the music department to use the Carriage House. But
even this would require implementing an Identification
Card Access Control system (CAC) to allow access
through one’s student identification card or faculty
identification card.
The third problem, Dr. Stevens says, would be covering the additional courses necessary to change the
existing music minor into a music major. The current
music minor requires twenty-six credit hours. In order
for a music major to happen, it will have to grow to at
least forty to fifty credit hours.
“The increase would have to be two or more
classes to the Music Industry area along with adding
one class to the Fundamental of Music Theory and
Music Theory Counterpoint,” said Dr. Stevens.
In this prospective music major, juniors and seniors
would need eight to twenty credit hours of private
instruction along with six credit hours in
a secondary instrument. The music
major would be a three-pronged
degree program leading toward an
interdisciplinary studies degree.
It can be a combination of music,
education and religion, or music,
theory and management, according
to Dr. Stevens.
Another problem is that the
Carriage House has no ramps and
isn’t wheelchair accessible. This poses a problem and
discriminates against any disabled person. A new
building would eliminate such problems and provide a
much-needed facility for the music department.
Here’s an idea for university planners to consider:
Perhaps we could turn the parking lot that is located
in front of the Carriage House and next to Moody Hall
into a building with a parking garage underneath. It
would be a perfect spot to place the new facility, and
an underground parking garage would provide an
additional level or two of parking for visitors.
Having a music major would help develop local artists, help local venues, and produce more jobs for the
Austin community. It would provide St. Edward’s with
recognition for bands or artists that earn degrees at
this pristine university. The disproportionality between
Austin’s music scene and St. Edward’s accommodations is astounding, especially since music has
been an important aspect of St. Edward’s for over a
decade.
In order to be a leading-edge school, we should
accommodate the Austin vibe and provide a music
major. Many students would jump at the chance of
such a degree. It is my hope that in the next five
years, we can make this dream become a reality and
live up to Austin’s name as “The Live Music Capital of
the World.”
Furthermore, the university talks about meeting the
technology and media challenges that arise continually. Its mission is to meet and transcend the times.
So, let’s transcend to a music major and be a leader.
Sidebar: Carriage House (photo?)
Built in 1922, the Carriage House was used as a chemistry lab before becoming host to many St. Edward’s
University musical practices and preparations. It has never been used as a Carriage House, according to
Brother Muller. Rumor has it that there is a well underneath it.
[Note: There are other photos available of musical groups via St. Ed’s web site, if needed]
in the Austin music
community.
The Peach Cobbler House
By Traci Riser
I wish Walter would come back.
I peer into the bushes, hoping
to catch a glimpse of him, maybe
hidden behind a rock, studying me
with black eyes. Gingerly, I place
one booted foot and then another
onto a pair of rocks at the base of
the stream and kneel down to wait.
Still no Walter.
Gnats dance before my eyes.
Collectively they swirl and twirl,
creating improvised spirals in a
vain attempt to steal away my
attention. Fog imitates water as it
flows down the stream. I reach out
and try to touch the fog, to run my
fingers across what has no shape,
to capture what has no form. But
the fog slips its vaporous tendrils
through my grasp, teasing me with
the illusion of communion.
The stream is dark at my feet.
The rocks that lie beneath the
water are covered with a thick layer
of moss. There are fish swimming
in the darkened water, tiny fish
that are so black they are almost
invisible. Bait. That’s what they are.
Tiny bait for slightly larger, tiny fish.
A few days ago my son built an
impromptu dam at the base of the
stream to trap the tiny fish.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m setting up the rocks so that
the fish stay here,” Robert said.
“Okay. Then what?”
“I’ll use the net to catch them.”
He pointed to a small green net
lying in the grass beside him.
The one from our fish tank.
“Uh huh. What are you going to
do with the fish?”
“I’m going to use them as bait,”
he said, as if the answer should
have been obvious.
The rocks that Robert used to
create the dam are still in place at
the foot of the stream, although he
seems to have abandoned the idea
of using it to catch bait.
My knees pop as I stand up.
I’ve lingered here too long waiting
for Walter to make an appearance.
I don’t even know if turtles come
out at night; maybe Walter is just
a daytime turtle or maybe he was
only passing through. Maybe.
Standing, I’m hesitant to break
the enchantment. The babble of
cool water slipping across rock
swells within my consciousness.
I’m caught. Forever rooted here
with this stream. My stream. Our
stream.
Twilight has slipped away, leaving only hazy darkness, and so I
abandon my stream to the night,
and go inside my peach cobbler
house.
We moved into our house nine
years ago. Back then there was
no stream, no Walter, no fish. Back
then there was nothing more than
generic bushes and newly laid
sod, both courtesy of the builder.
The only truly unique feature of our
house was its variegated peachy
orange brick.
“We chose that particular brick
color because we couldn’t convince any of our customers to try
it,” our Milburn representative told
my husband and me.
And I could see why. Standing
before a wall of possible brick
color choices you would have to
be certifiably insane to pick this
one. It was just so...well, orange.
And, although the slab had yet to
be poured, Milburn had already
decided on the exterior of the
house. They wanted something
the sales people could point to
and say “Hey, look at the brick on
that house. See, it’s not so bad!”
They were right; it’s not so bad.
Of course, I can’t help but notice
we’re still the only ones in the
neighborhood living in a peach
cobbler house.
We didn’t care because buying
that house meant we were coming
home, or at least as close to home
as we could get. Less than a year
after we married, Eric accepted a
job with the Waco Fire Department.
So we packed up our infant daughter and dog and moved to a small
town nobody has ever heard of,
Riesel, Texas. After spending four
years trying our best to assimilate
into the Texas version of Peyton
Place (which never quite worked,
as we were immediately and
forever saddled with the derogatory label of “Austin People”), we
decided to go home.
Initially we thought we would
move back to North Austin, well,
to be geographically accurate,
Jollyville. But, as so often happens,
we were priced out of our chosen neighborhood. So our search
meandered north until we discovered our peach cobbler house in
Leander.
The years that followed were
filled with play dates, block parties,
birthday parties, and a myriad of
school functions. It was three years
before the neighborhood began to
shed its skin, sloughing off those
families who were unable to hang
on.
The signs went up gradually
at first, certainly nothing to cause
anyone to become alarmed. One
month would go by, then two, and
three, but still the signs remained
rooted in place. For Sale signs.
They were popping up like weeds,
seemingly overnight, in front of
an increasingly large number of
homes.
“It’s because of the 3-2-1 buy
down,” said Katie.
We were standing in her front
yard, our kids playing around us
as we each fixed our gaze onto the
latest house to sprout a sign.
“Did you guys use that program
when you bought the house?” I
asked.
“No, did you?”
“No. They tried to talk us into it
but I didn’t think that two years of
a lower mortgage payment was
worth having it lock into a higher
payment on year three.”
“Same here. It seemed like a
bad idea at the time. Guess it was.”
It took forever for the houses
to sell. The neighbors who could
hold on the longest were able to
sell their homes to investors for
less than what they paid in the
first place. They were the lucky
ones. The others, the ones who
just couldn’t hang on, lost their
homes to foreclosure. And with
that, the subtle shift began. For
three years we were neighbors, a
group of families collectively living
out our middle-class version of
the “American Dream.” We had no
way of knowing the neighborhood
would fragment and break into a
mosaic of homeowners and renters. Those of us who remained
could only watch as the rental
properties began to cycle through
a steady stream of new families.
Gradually the neighbors began
to withdraw, my family included,
into our homes and our individual
lives. Now, when there were block
parties, there was always a new
family to meet. Some we loved
and secretly hoped would stay.
Others...Well. Others we just tolerated until they finally left. After my next-door neighbor
sold her house to an investor from
California, we endured a series of
rental neighbors, each worse than
the last. At one point, there were
so many different people at the
house I found it difficult to figure
out who actually lived there. They
fought, these neighbors, swearing
loudly at each other in the driveway
until one finally sped away, only to
return later in the day to resume
the argument. I hated it. One day I
opened the front door of my house
and discovered their children playing on my front porch.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Making a salad,” Miranda
replied.
Laying on the ground was a
small pile of green pods they
plucked from my Pride of Barbados
plant.
“Do your parents let you do this
to their plants?”
“No.”
“But it’s okay to tear apart mine?
Clean it up and don’t ever mess
with my plants again. Or play on
my front porch. It drives the dogs
crazy.”
As I closed the door I made a
mental note to mention what happened to their parents, although
doing so rarely made a difference.
Over time the signs went away,
and we once again began to enjoy
the neighborhood. After receiving
an enormous hollowed out rock
from Big Bend, Eric built a stream
just outside the front window of
our peach cobbler house. He
spent hours shoveling dirt to build
artificial hills and drop points within
the stream, and even more time
creating and then perfecting the
continuous flow of water that runs
from the underground reservoir,
through the massive Big Bend rock
(which was hollowed out for just
this purpose), and into the bog.
Together we planted roses, lamb’s
ear, rosemary, jasmine, and honeysuckle that, along with other plants,
have grown together to create
a tiny ecosystem complete with
mosquito fish (aka bait), multicolored comet goldfish, frogs, and our
resident turtle, Walter.
The more time I spend in the
front yard of our peach cobbler
house, the more my affection for
the house grows. Don’t get me
wrong, I have always loved our
house, but years of sketchy neighbors can challenge even the strongest bonds. Now, when I venture
outside, I talk with the neighbors
more. I finally began the much
overdue process of getting to know
the new ones next door (the ones
we secretly hope will stay a while).
About a month ago a new wave
of migrations began, but this time
my neighbors are choosing to
leave. Some, like our soon-to-beformer neighbors from Minnesota,
are going back to the place that
they feel is their true home. Some
endured so many new neighbors, so many new problems,
they decided it is no longer worth
staying. Others are just moving on
to bigger houses and better (so
they say) neighborhoods. But not
us. Because this small by today’s
standards, funny-colored, streamfilled, buffalo grass challenged
peach cobbler house is our one
true home, and we can’t walk away
from that, or Walter.
A Square Peg
By Lucas Coyne
should be a chef, you know?”
I woke up a bit after 8:00 on
Monday. I could still hear the
constant music from the apartment
above me, but after enough time, it
was practically white noise. In fact,
the silence during the four hours he
slept every week threw me off more
than anything else. And he was
a nice guy, well-adjusted 307.42,
a code wizard at some software
company.
I smiled. “Thanks,” I said.
“Maybe I will be. I’ve got another
meeting today.”
So, being up a bit earlier than
normal, I decided to make the most
of it. Whipped up a bit of breakfast for myself and took the time
to go through the morning paper.
Perhaps I was jumping the gun a
bit by perusing the jobs section, as
I didn’t even have my next appointment with the career consultant
until that afternoon, but I was really
getting tired of the life of the unemployed. And a little bit of checking
to see what options might be open
never hurt anyone.
Suitably satisfied with my leisurely breakfast, I still ended up
with a lot of leftovers. No harm
done. Harold would probably
like something besides pizza
and Chinese for a change. I put
together a plate for him, and
stepped out to take it to him. He
lived right down the hall from me—
Apartment 512.
I put the plate into the delivery box built into his door and
knocked. He was an early riser
like me. “Hey Harold, brought you
some breakfast,” I called out.
A moment later, the green light
blinked on over the receiving box,
and I opened it. It was a note,
“Thanks for the food, kid! You
The green light blinked back on
for the receiving box, and I took out
another note. “Good luck!” it said,
with a smiley face. Yeah, Harold is
a real class act. Believe it or not,
for a 300.22 he runs a very good
accountant business over the web.
As soon as I started having taxes
to pay, I knew whom I’d be going
to.
The rest of the next few hours
were idly burnt away. A bit of
checking various websites, a bit
of watching whatever was on TV,
even some time spent on the treadmill so I wouldn’t get too out of
shape. (Found the thing on a curb,
lucky break. Someone bought it
and then decided to throw it out
pretty much immediately—half
the parts still in the original sealed
bags.)
Around noonish, I fixed a sandwich for myself and decided it was
time to head to my appointment. I
called for a cab to pick me up out
front, figuring that was the best way
to get there. I couldn’t even drive
myself until I got that business
straightened out, one more reason why I was so very ready to be
done with it.
On the way out, I ran into Mrs.
Stevens, who out of politeness, I
completely ignored. I had made
the mistake of trying to talk to her
when I first moved in, and must
have scared the poor lady to
death. Word is that her husband
is a 301.20, and with her being a
301.82, they had a happy marriage
“Yes,” I said. “Didn’t seem to do
much, as far as I could tell.”
by staying as far away as possible
from each other.
The cab driver was an interesting fellow. Shifted seamlessly
between telling me about his war
days in Eastern Europe, his grandkids, the young lady he was dating,
and a rousing account on politics.
Still, he knew his job very well,
and got me there in record time. I
always love talking to 300.14s.
I had gotten to the Career
Consultancy offices early, so after
checking in with the receptionist
(314.01— but great at multitasking), I took a seat and flipped
through magazines.
And waited, and waited, and
waited. My appointment was for
1:00, but they didn’t call me in until
1:30.
My counselor was straightening the psychology degree on her
wall when I entered. She pointedly
ignored me, so I went ahead and
laid down on the couch, figuring I
might as well make myself comfortable. When she was finally content
with that, she sat down at her desk,
getting out my file and a pen and
carefully aligning them with the
desk’s edge.
“So,” she started. “How are you
feeling?”
“A little annoyed that I had to
wait so long,” I replied, “and a little
anxious to get this over with.”
She frowned. “Mmm. I apologize. I had you wait, as I was hoping for some degree of inappropriate euthymia. Doesn’t look like
that’s the case though. Have you
tried the pills I gave you last time?”
“So, no dreams recently?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“And how do you feel about still
being unemployed? Sad? Angry?”
“Hm.” I thought for a moment.
“Well, I’m just ending up bored
more than anything else. Can’t say
I’m thrilled that the government
has made it so difficult to do much
when you’re in my position.”
“Oh, we might be on to something here,” she said hopefully.
“What are your feelings on the
government?”
I shrugged. “Well, like I said, I
wish I could just get a job doing
something. I understand the purpose of the program though, and
you can’t argue against the results.
I’ve been through the same history
classes as everyone else, and the
crime, unhappiness, and inefficiency of half a century ago just
seems crazy compared to what we
have today.”
She looked at me again and
shook her head.
“Not the answer you wanted to
hear?” I said glumly.
“Not really.” She flipped through
the pages in my file. “I’ll be honest
with you. As of now, we have triple-checked 297 major disorders,
in addition to a multitude of minor
phobias and a few of the more
esoteric ailments. As far as I can
tell, you are completely, absolutely
insane.”
I sat up on the couch. “What?
That’s crazy!”
She stared at me, with narrowed
eyes. I looked back, confused.
“See?” she said. “You’re reacting, but no destructive show of
anger, no genuine depression,
no panic attack. Nothing for me
to even go on. You’re confused,
and—”
“—And what does this mean?
What happens?” I interrupted.
“And you’re dealing with this in
a logical manner. You’re really the
first insane person I’ve ever counseled. It’s quite rare, you know.”
She saw the concerned expression on my face. “Look,” she
continued, “it’s not the end of the
world. You just need to be in a
place where you don’t upset or
harm anyone. There’s a very nice
facility out in California. Really, very
nice place—you’ll get to be with
others of your . . . disability, and
you will be treated very well. Plus,
there’s the hope that there will be
a cure. I hear there are significant
strides being made.”
She paused to press a button
on her desk. The door to the room
swung open, and two men in white
entered. I stood up to face them.
The one on the right had a noticeable eye twitch, and I envied his
easy genetic 307.22. It just wasn’t
fair.
“I don’t see what’s wrong!” I
said. “Can’t I just be allowed to do
something, anything? What harm
am I?”
The counselor looked at me with
pity. “I’m truly sorry. But you know
as well as I do. We are all human,
we all have faults, and we all are
carefully placed, so that we can
best serve society and ourselves.
We are well-adjusted because
we know how we need to adjust.
Except for you. You are an anomaly. You don’t belong. You know
this.”
I held my head in my hands.
I really had known it all along. I
had never fit in. Not with the cool
kids who everyone knew would
be 301.81. Not with the troublemakers with 312.32 and 312.33.
I was always just there, liked well
enough, but distant, unable to connect with anyone.
Maybe . . . Maybe this was for
the best. Maybe I needed to be
with others like me, other insane
people.
I stood and meekly nodded to
the men in white. “Thank you,” I
said quietly.
They didn’t bother to cuff me.
Insane people aren’t dangerous or
violent. We just don’t have a place
in society. We’re atavisms, evolutionary throwbacks that the rest of
the human race has passed by. It’s
sad, but I’ve accepted it. It’s the
only insane thing to do.
— 30 —
SIDEBAR/GRAPHIC
Mental Disorder Codes
307.42
Primary Insomnia
300.22
Agoraphobia
301.20
Schizoid Personality
Disorder
301.82
Avoidant Personality
Disorder
300.14 Dissociative Identity
Disorder
314.01 Attention-Deficit
Hyperactivity Disorder (HyperactiveImpulsive Subtype)
307.22
Chronic Motor or Vocal
Tic Disorder
301.81
Narcissistic Personality
Disorder
312.32
Kleptomania
312.33
Pyromania
My Brother Mike
By Debra Duran
I grew up in a pretty close-knit
family. Mom and Dad taught us to
look out for each other, and that
family was the most important thing
in life. The Golden Rule and the old
saying, blood is thicker than water,
were often subjects at the dinner
table. I always thought that I would
be willing and able to help my family in any way that I could, but that
all changed after my brother’s third
suicide attempt.
My brother Mike is two years
younger than I am and was always
the joker in the family. Mike could
make any situation into a fun time
and he kept us all laughing with
games he invented. One of his
favorites was called “step on toes.”
The object of the game was simple. The person starting the game
would yell “step on toes,” and
stomp on the other person’s foot.
Part of the rules was that you had
to be barefooted. We didn’t keep
score; the fun was in surprising
the other person. It was even more
fun when there were several people hopping around trying to step
on each other’s toes, all the while
trying to avoid getting stepped on
by the others. As you can imagine, this could get painful at times
because you never knew when a
sneak attack was going to happen.
Mike was also quite the little
entrepreneur. When he was in
middle school, he started a penny
candy business. He would buy
penny candy at the corner store
and take it to school to sell to all
his friends at a profit. I think his
mark-up was fifty percent, which
doesn’t sound like much. But
he did a volume business, and
made enough to buy himself an
expensive bike before the school
decided to shut him down. I think
he was cutting into their vending
machine business.
Mike developed an interest
in horticulture in junior high and
helped to plant a school garden.
My mother always had a garden,
and Mike loved to till the soil and
plant tomatoes, peppers, and
squash. We always had more than
we could eat, so Mom let Mike
peddle the extra produce around
the neighborhood. I think he might
have made a little money on the
side, too.
When he was in high school,
Mike started growing pot in his
closet. He and his best friend,
Gerome, set up a hydroponic garden with grow lights and a timer to
simulate daylight hours. I think they
had probably harvested several
crops before my dad found out
and had them busted. He had the
cops come to the house and take
the boys for an overnight stay at
the local police station. That was
the first of many run-ins with the
law for Mike.
After high school, Mike moved
back to Austin and lived with my
grandparents for several years. He
worked for a landscaping company and eventually went back to
school and got a two-year degree
in horticulture.
Somewhere in his early twenties, things started to go wrong for
Mike. He started to withdraw from
the family. He would come home
from work and hold up in his room,
play loud music, and only come
out for meals and to go outside to
smoke cigarettes. Grandma was
very against smoking and would
not permit it in her house. I don’t
think we had any idea how much
he was drinking until we found four
trash bags full of crushed beer
cans in his closet. I don’t know
how he snuck that much beer into
the house, except that no one was
really paying close attention.
Mike made his first suicide
attempt by trying to cut his throat
with a steak knife. Grandma and
Grandpa came home from the
store, found him passed out on the
floor of his bathroom, and called
911. They took him to the hospital
and then to Austin State Hospital,
ASH we came to call it. After an
eight-week evaluation they sent
him home with some meds and
strict orders to stop drinking. Mike
did okay for about six months. He
went back to work, but he didn’t
quit drinking. In fact, his drinking
got worse, and he got fired from
his job for showing up drunk.
At this point, Mom and the
grandparents knew that something
was very wrong. Mike’s behavior
was erratic and he became verbally abusive. This was not like him
at all. Mom finally threatened Mike,
that if he didn’t go see a doctor, the
grandparents were going to throw
him out and then where would he
be.
It took a while, several different doctors and several different
rounds of medication, before he
was finally diagnosed with schizophrenia. Mike was hearing voices
in his head—auditory hallucinations, they called it. He was drinking, self-medicating, trying to dull
the voices. We were all shocked.
He had told no one, not even the
previous doctors, that this was
happening.
Mike was put on some heavy
antipsychotic meds and told that
these would not mix well with
alcohol. He stayed on the meds
for a while and even found a job.
Things seemed to be getting better
and we all held our breath that the
drugs would work, that Mike would
be “normal” again, and that he
would get better and be able to live
a good life.
This was not to be. I don’t know
why, but he stopped taking his
meds and started to drink again.
Then he started to disappear
for days, weeks and sometimes
months at a time. We never knew
where he went or what he did, but
I assumed he was living on the
street, doing whatever he could to
survive. To tell the truth, it was a
relief not having to deal with him
when he was gone. But he always
came back, usually at two in the
morning. He would be hungry, malnourished and looking for a place
to stay. Grandma always took him
in, fed him and gave him a bed.
She never gave up on him no matter how much pain it caused her to
see him in such a state.
Mike also had many stays at
ASH. He would get caught shoplifting or trespassing and get
arrested. After a day or so the
police would realize that he did
not belong with the general prison
population, and he would be sent
to ASH. The judge would order
him to be medicated, and another
round of drugs would be prescribed. This cycle happened more
times that I can recall. We would
find out where he was, only if Mike
would allow the information about
his treatment to be released. There
are many laws in place to protect
patients with mental illness.
Sometimes he would ask to
come home to Grandma’s after a
stay at ASH, when he was stable,
sober and reasonably normal.
Grandma always hoped that they
would finally find a drug, or combination of drugs, that would work
for Mike. We all hoped that would
happen, but Grandma had a lot
more faith than I did.
Mike told me once that the meds
never got rid of the voices completely, just kept them in check. He
said it was like having a radio in his
head that he could never shut off.
Sometimes the announcer told him
good things and the voice was low
and barely audible, but mostly the
voice was very loud and shouted
bad things at him. Drinking could
keep the voices quieter, and
worked better than most of the
medications.
Mom was able to get Mike on
disability right around the time my
grandma passed away in 2003.
She helped him get a small apartment through the Austin Housing
Authority. It was low rent, section 8
housing, but it was better than living on the street. At least, that was
what Mom and I thought.
And it worked for a while. Mike
liked his little place and his independence. Mom took him to the
store every week. She was his
payee, and she made sure he had
what he needed. He came over for
barbecues and my husband went
over to Mike’s for lunch. They both
liked to cook and watch sports.
Mike had cable and we didn’t, so
Sunday’s were good for at least
one football game, and of course a
beer or two. Things seemed to be
going along pretty well for Mike. He
had no arrests and no stays in ASH
for about two years.
Mom decided that she was
going to go visit her sister Ellen,
in St. Louis. She was going to be
gone for about three weeks, and I
would help Mike get his groceries
and check on him while she was
gone. This had worked before, no
reason it wouldn’t work again.
I went over on Saturday and
picked Mike up to go to the HEB.
He seemed agitated about something but wouldn’t tell me what it
was. I didn’t really want to know
and wanted to get the trip over as
soon as possible. On the way back
from the store, Mike started to tell
me that if something happened to
him, he wanted me to know that he
had nothing to do with it, that if he
got arrested, he was innocent and
I needed to get him a good lawyer.
He kept talking about “them” and
how “they” were going to come for
him. I questioned him about who
“they” were and finally he told me
that Jimmy Hoffa was buried under
the floor of his apartment, and
he didn’t want to get blamed for
Jimmy’s murder.
I think I must have laughed. I
know I told him that it was not possible for Jimmy Hoffa to be buried
under his floor, and even if he was,
Jimmy had disappeared more
than 20 years ago and Mike was
not even living in the apartment
then, and the complex probably
was not even built then and Mike
was probably in high school when
Jimmy went missing, which happened in New York, or somewhere
like that, so how could he possibly
be buried under his floor, in Texas,
for 20 years?
There was no reasoning with him
when he got like this. I just wanted
to drop him off and go, and that’s
what I did. Driving home I felt bad
that I had yelled at him. How could
he possibly think these things?
When I got home, I told my
husband what Mike had told me
and we had a good laugh. I called
him on the phone later to apologize, but he didn’t answer.
Two days later I got a call from
St. David’s that Mike had been
brought into the hospital after
trying to kill himself. He had called
911 after trying to cut his throat with
a steak knife. He was going to be
there for another day or two before
they sent him to ASH for evaluation. Could I come down and bring
some clothes for him? He was
asking for me. Yes, I could come
later that day.
I went over to his apartment to
get some of his stuff. Mom had
given me her spare key, so I let
myself in. The place was a total
wreck. There was trash everywhere. Empty beer cans and
cigarette butts littered the floor and
every flat surface. The kitchenette
had dirty dishes, plates with food
half eaten, and open cans on the
counter. The light fixtures had been
taken out of the wall and ceiling.
There were bare wires hanging
out and holes in the wall where he
must have punched it with his fists.
It was a mess.
But the worst thing was the
blood. There were smears on the
wall and drops on the floor leading to the bathroom. I didn’t want
to go in there but I knew I would
have to eventually. I saw the blood
in the sink first, and the steak knife
was still there. There was blood
splattered on the wall, and bloody
fingerprints on the mirror. When I
looked up into the mirror and saw
my own reflection there, I knew that
I could no longer help my brother.
That was the moment it hit me. He
was never going to get better. No
matter what we did, how we tried to
help him, this was about as good
as it was ever going to get. This
was the best we could hope for,
and it really sucked!
I cried then, for Mike and for
myself. I cried for my mom and
for my grandma, who never gave
up on Mike. But I had come to the
point that I knew was the end of
my relationship with my brother.
That was not my brother, lying in
that hospital bed, waiting for me
to come see him. My brother, the
brother I wanted, the brother I
had loved for so many years was
gone. I would do what I could for
that other person, out of human
kindness and compassion, but my
Mike was not there anymore, and I
could not love that person. I could
no longer invest myself emotionally
in that person. I was done.
Of course, I did go see him.
I did go back the next day and
clean up the mess so that my mom
wouldn’t have to. I did do what I
had to, but I stepped back from
my brother emotionally, and I never
thought that I would do that to him.
When Mike got out of ASH, Mom
brought him back to his place. He
said he didn’t want to live there
anymore, and I guess he meant
it, because after a week or so he
took off, to where we didn’t know.
No goodbye, no I’ll be in touch, just
gone. We filed a Missing Persons
Report with APD, but we would
only know where he was if he
turned up in jail, a hospital, or the
morgue.
Six months later we heard from
a Doctor in St. Louis. Mike was
there, being cared for, in the State
Hospital. He had given his consent
for the doctor to call us and tell us
where he was. He was going to be
released into a group home, where
he would be monitored and made
to take medication. He was doing
pretty well. Mom got someone in
St. Louis to be Mike’s payee and
his checks are now transferred
up there. She hears from his
payee and a social worker from
time to time, and Mike has even
called her to talk. For myself, I am
relieved that he is not in Austin. I
am relieved that my Mom does not
have to deal with him every day.
My hope for him is that he is happy
where he is, so that he will stay
there. I know this sounds harsh,
but the reality of mental illness is
harsh. Some people with schizophrenia can function fairly well in
society. But that was not the case
with Mike. His illness took him away
from us, his family, and that will
always be painful. I will always feel
a little guilty that I did not do more
for him, but I finally came to realize
that I could do no more for him,
and I had to let him go.
IDIOSYNCRASIES
By Christopher Ashlock
Everybody has them. Oddities.
Peculiarities. Idiosyncrasies. Yet
we hide them like a crooked tooth
because we’re too afraid of what
others might think or say. Why? Is
what we do nefarious? Perverted?
Would society reject us if they
knew? Perhaps. Still, despite what
you believe, what you consider
true, it should ease your worries
that there are others. In fact, there
are too many to count.
Marilyn Monroe ate teensy balls
of toilet paper as if they were Tic
Tacs.
The renowned mathematician
Albert Einstein, who couldn’t resist
a good deal, pawned his Nobel
Prize medal for a silver mustache
comb, and a pair of sauerkraut
sandwiches.
And picture this: Jane Austen
chewed toenail clippings as she
wrote Pride and Prejudice. A
source of inspiration, she said. But
if it weren’t for the quick thinking of
her father, the Reverend George
Austen, who used fishing line and
a rusty hook to dislodge a gnarled
nail from her esophagus, Elizabeth
Bennett and Mr. Darcy would’ve
never met. Sometimes, he said,
shaking his head, people do the
strangest things without rhyme or
reason.
Another strange thing that did
not have any rhyme or reason
was Harry Houdini’s fascination
with butter. Before performing his
Chinese Water Torture Cell escape,
he’d bathe in a cast iron tub filled
to the brim with goat milk butter,
submerged like he was buried in
wet sand, sometimes spending
hours in it, under the superstition if
he did not, he would, ultimately, fail
at his great feat and drown.
While filming Jailhouse
Rock, Elvis Presley wore only
pink Argyle socks when he
masturbated.
Elizabeth Taylor spent hours
standing hunched over in front
of the TV, ironing the newspaper,
all because she was afraid of the
germs. Dressed in a floral nightgown, red lipstick, and pearls,
she’d stare down at the warm and
wrinkle-free Helvetica typeset,
counting the minutes before she
could grip the sanitary pages in
her hands. One particular Sunday
morning, while spending a summer weekend in Kennewick, WA,
she ironed the obituaries too long,
which soon ignited, causing a
great fire that burned down the lavish Columbia Hotel. Fire inspectors
blamed the fire on faulty wiring.
Outdated and too old, they said.
If only they knew.
The great researcher Jane
Goodall, squatted among chimpanzees Fifi and David Greybeard
in Tanzania, shoving bananas into
her pie hole, peel and all. This,
however, wasn’t mentioned in her
thesis.
Andy Warhol had an
intense hankering for shoplifting
soup cans from supermarkets.
The night he died, he admitted he
loved Tomato Bisque more than
painting.
Here’s a fact: at the onset
of her menstrual cycle, Cleopatra
yearned for the taste of sand. It
was an oddity she couldn’t explain
nor deny. Her stomach became a
human hourglass, dispensing her
life, one grain at a time.
Teased as a child,
Madonna Louise Ciccone feared
she’d always be flat chested. It
wasn’t until later in life that she
became convinced cone-shaped
breasts were better than no breasts
at all. Who knew?
Fidel Castro admitted while
interrogating a prisoner that he ate
ice cream with a fork. Liked how
the coldness hit both the roof of his
mouth and his tongue. Double the
flavor. No metal taste. The prisoner
was executed an hour later.
The year 1810 was the winter of doubts. Napoleon Bonaparte
was plagued by the belief he
couldn’t be taken seriously on
account of his height. He desired
to be taller. Craved it. And calcium
was the key, he thought. Before
battles, soldiers would find their
general on some farm, knelt in the
snow, lips clasped tightly around
the udder of a French dairy cow,
sucking and chugging, trying to
extract as much milk as possible.
He yearned for the taste of milk,
the nutrients, the calcium. To be
taller. A real man. Napoleon was 5
feet 6 inches when this all began,
and he wasn’t any taller or shorter
when he died.
Before he’d address the
nation, Richard Nixon snacked on
his own boogers. Played it off like
they were gum, or throat lozenges,
or mints. No one ever questioned
it.
Secretly, Coco Chanel
collected sweat from her lovers in a
crystal perfume bottle.
Monica Lewinsky considered herself a musician. Prided
herself on the ability to play the
most distinguished organ, been
around since the dawn of man,
made of flesh, muscle, blood flow.
The Yo-Yo Ma of the Trouser snake,
they said. Whenever she performed fellatio she was convinced
she could harness the power of
a nation, change the world, touch
lives, while making the most beautiful music man has ever heard, by
simply pursing her lips and blowing
. Bill swore he had visions of double rainbows, unicorns, even heard
the sound of a thousand humming
birds, hovering, flapping their
wings in perfect harmony. He’d
smile his tired smile. Unfortunately,
this was her only notable performance of record.
Bonnie and Clyde’s almost
love child, spoke in a British
accent, even though he was one
third American and two-thirds
criminal.
Jane Barnell (more commonly known as the bearded lady
or Lady Olga) invented No Shave
November. In need of a quick
buck, she quit her duties on her
grandmother’s farm, grew a fetching beard (which oddly enough
was her only true talent), and
joined the Ringling Brothers circus
in Berlin. Upon discovering Jane’s
new line of work, her mother grew
heartbroken, melancholy. Never
gonna find a man with that, she
said, referring to her dark, prominent whiskers. Toward the end of
her career, to her mother’s surprise,
she married Thomas O’Boyle, who
didn’t mind the freakish facial hair,
as he actually complimented it by
saying, I’m quite fond of it. I find it
comforting, warm, and… cozy.
Among his many quirks,
Voltaire amassed quite a collection of used linen condoms. In a
small wooden box, he’d lay them
sideways like a damp sock, leaving
them to harden, crinkle, and crack,
like crispy bacon.
Donald Trump’s first
wife relished the opportunity
to pop other people’s pimples.
Blackheads were her favorite.
Unlike her brother, Paula
Hitler collected earwax in a mason
jar. She hid it on the highest shelf
in her closet, next to her leather
suitcases and personal autographed copy of the Mein Kampf,
and told anyone who stumbled
upon the jar that it was nothing
more than honey. My treasure trove
of tawny, crusted cerumen, she
would whisper before tightening
the lid and locking it away. Imagine
the surprise when one morning, the
Hitlers gathered around the kitchen
table for breakfast, and devoured
a bag of fresh, warm baguettes
smeared with what they thought
was honey. Of course they yelled
sheisse! (shit!), blamed the whole
damn ordeal on the Jews, and sent
Paula into a panic. Ten and a half
years of accumulation had all been
for not. She eventually gave up,
and found a new hobby by turning
her attention to bellybutton lint.
What about Da Vinci? Malcolm
X? Oprah? Never mind that: what
about you? What do you do that’s
so unusual? So eccentric? Do you
count steps? Detest square burger
patties because they’re bad fast
food feng shui? Flush the commode before finishing? Ponder
that. Ask yourself that. And I promise, the answer will rouse you.
The quote “I’m quite fond of it.
I find it comforting, warm, and
...cozy” should be in quotes, not
italic. Might want to check all of the
italics.
Nagishot, Sudan: A New Place to
Honeymoon
By Fernando Mendez
At the very southwestern point
of Sudan, nestled between the
boundary lines of Ethiopia and
Kenya, set high in the Didinga hills
sits the village of Nagishot. It is a
place untouched by time, a place
free from the worries of the outside
world. Its people haven’t known of
Nazis or atomic bombs, communism or biological warfare.
Their daily struggles have
nothing to do with traffic or taxes
or rent and everything to do with
hunger and sickness and cold.
There are no cars or roads. Only a
few people have actual currency in
Nagishot.
The Didinga are known simply
as “soap and salt” people; they
still pay with soap and salt and rely
on the barter system within their
community. They are among the
poorest people group in the world.
Phillip, a young man about
nineteen, tall and handsome with
jet-black skin and bright white
teeth, owns the only bicycle on
the mountain. He is generous in
loaning it out to the village children
who use it for frequent errands and
for fetching water from the muddy
water holes where residents gather
their drinking water.
And though the people are
poor, the beauty of Nagishot is
undeniably rich. Verdant hills rise
one after another, wave upon
wave stretching in every direction,
a sea of green uninterrupted by
man. God’s promises are sought
in every new day, as the sunrise
chases the navy dawn away. His
glory is shown off in every sunset,
a palette of oranges, pinks, lavenders, and reds exploding in the
sky, a prize for those who have
survived another day.
Wild nature surrounds this
place; wildness surrounds this
place. There is little human order
in these hills. Divine order at its
best. Sunflowers bloom at their
appointed time, wild coffee cherries blossom along long-horned
cattle paths, and trees growing
since an eternity ago stand tall as
the sky to shade me on my afternoon strolls throughout the village.
At the physical center of the
village is William and Eunice Loki’s
large compound, made up of a
number of huts as well as one very
small western-style house. Other
various construction projects that
William sees fit to undertake sit
in various states of completion
around the compound. A low dilapidated fence surrounds the compound to demarcate its boundary,
though I suspect its main objective
may really be to keep the chickens
in, since the Didinga people do not
observe land ownership. William is
Sudanese, but not Didinga.
In these parts, tribes mean a lot
more than countries, and William is
a distinctive outsider. That is not to
say the people don’t like him—they
love him. But he is a Maudi and
reminds everyone of the fact daily.
He refuses to learn Didinga and
will only speak Arabic or English
or Swahili, even when he preaches
the sermon on Sunday morning.
William is the pastor of Nagishot.
His wife, Eunice, grew up in these
hills and is Didinga through and
through. She dragged William out
of Kampala to these backwoods
when Sudan opened for refugees
to return home.
Eunice felt they were called
here to preach and teach and
evangelize in her girlhood village,
despite William’s lack of acumen
for the language. Eunice translates
for William on Sunday morning.
She knows seven languages and
is working on learning two more.
They brought their youngest son,
Joshua, with them, and left their
four older children back in Uganda.
As the plane nears the Nagishot
International Airport, the only
visible sign that I am about to
land is the Loki’s compound. The
large expanse of cultivated land
and cluster of huts sticks out
against the lush green hills like an
interruption.
Finding the actual airport always
proves more difficult. It is a single stretch of flat green grass that
cattle occupy most of the time.
A piece of scrap wood with the
words “Nagishot International
Airport” painted in blue fading letters is nailed to a tree on the side
of the grass runway. And so it was
named.
Pilots have to rely on the crowd
that always gathers to greet visitors
to keep the cows off the airstrip
long enough to land their small
mosquito planes. I love the gathered crowd. I love the reception.
I love seeing my Didinga friends
cheering and waving the plane
to the ground. The clapping, the
rhythm, the holler-calling chanting
unique to these people immediately sings my heart home with
every landing of the plane.
Being a missionary in Africa is
easy. It allows me to forget about
everything periphery in my life.
Everything at home fades into the
background, including relationship burdens, money worries, and
family stresses. Only the immediate
needs, the deep, pressing needs
right in front of me stand out. The
bones of the children. The stomachs of the women.
I became a missionary in Africa
for selfish reasons—adventure,
escape, an out. I went to teach but
I learned so much more. I learned
about beauty despite weariness.
About kindness despite scars.
About hope.
Working with the women of
Nagishot is always hopeful and
sad at the same time. There are
so many mores of this culture that
laden my heart. The women are
used for labor and sex. The men
treat them as property, dowry
included. Men still practice keeping multiple wives. Women have
no power to divorce or live on their
own. They are uneducated, illiterate, and worn.
It is an extremely misogynistic
culture. And yet, the women are
so beautiful, an echo of the land
around them. Their spirits, though
little tended, are resilient, like the
land around them that has seen
drought after drought. Their smiles
are infectious. Their eagerness to
dance away troubles in a dance
circle is something I find addicting.
Many are pregnant or nursing most
of their adult lives, many are sick
most of their lives, all of them labor
the whole of their lives.
The dancing, though, it never
stops. They dance in grief. In
sorrow. In celebration. They dance
for fun. They dance to pass an
afternoon, making up silly dances
poking fun at one another—flap
like a chicken, walk like an old lady.
They look ridiculous and laugh at
each other. The young dance. The
old dance. And the very very old
dance.
Very Old Marta may be the
oldest woman in Nagishot. She is
less than five feet tall, is missing
a thumb, most of her teeth, a lot
of hair, walks with a walking stick
taller than her, and is drunk most
of the day. She smiles a slurry old
lady drunk smile to anyone who
passes her, but refuses to stop
dancing. She may walk at the pace
of a two-toed sloth, but she keeps
on dancing.
I struggle with changing this culture at times. In all of its backwards
ways, it works. Everyone has their
role and knows their role and plays
their role. It may not be my way, a
western way, but it is their way. The
culture is content.
The children watch children,
carry children, fetch water, tend
fires, carry sticks, help their mothers, all while naked or wearing
thread-bare clothing. The men
herd the cattle, drink beer, run the
village. The women tend the gardens, grow the corn, have babies.
They are a poor people, but they
are a peaceful people. Who am I,
who are we, to change them into
something else?
But then there’s Teresa and
Nadia and NuNu and PePe. They
are four of the ladies who attend
the women’s adult literacy class we
are teaching three nights a week.
They all four recently learned to
write their names for the first time.
The pride on their faces transformed their whole countenances.
They want to learn. They want
their children to have a different life.
Soap and salt no more.
“Hector, what do you want Janie
to be when she grows up?”
We are all sitting around the
fire one night at the compound
roasting corn for dinner. William is
trying to listen to the news on his
radio, messing with the dials in an
attempt to get reception. The election for Southern Sudanese independence is fast approaching, and
William is beside himself to be so
cut off from daily news updates. He
is traveling to Juba soon, the capital city of South Sudan, to meet
with other province leaders and I
know he wants to be as informed
as possible before going.
The next day is Girls School
Day, and Eunice has been preparing all day for it. Village leaders
(men) and school children from the
neighboring seven hills are coming
to Nagishot in the morning to celebrate that girls are now attending
school. Educating girls is still a new
concept up in these hills.
“I want her to be whatever she
wants to be—a pilot, a teacher,
a nurse—whatever. She can do
anything.”
I love Hector. Of all the Didinga
men, I see in him their future. He is
young, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. He is married and committed to his wife, Joyce, and is
adamantly against taking another
wife.
Together they have the cutest,
chubbiest little baby girl, Jane. She
is eighteen months old and toddles
after her mom wherever she goes.
Even though it is counter-cultural,
Hector shows Joyce affection in
public. He often watches Janie to
give Joyce a break, carrying her
around the village on his shoulders, giving her piggy-back rides
into the cornfields, taking her with
him on errands into Chickadoom,
the nearest large village that sells
supplies. His love for his family is
obvious to any outsider.
William took Hector under his
wing when he was just a teenager.
It was his influence that has made
Hector the man he has become.
Now Hector even wants to become
a preacher like William. He often
walks two hours to the next village
over, Nepep, to preach on Sunday
mornings.
“But Hector, if Janie is a pilot or
a teacher or a nurse, who will take
care of her children? Do you think
she will be able to get a husband?”
I ask him back.
He looks uncertain, but “She
can do anything,” is all he says.
I let the subject rest for the night,
but know that Eunice has a lot
more to say. Her stance on the way
women are treated in the village is
loud and forceful. Life has taken
her away from these hills and she
has seen what is possible, what a
life free from gender oppression
looks and feels like. Her spirit is
filled with the fire of the Lord, the
passion of a calling, and the voice
of a boom box.
Girls School Day proves to be
Eunice’s breaking point. Or her finest moment, if you ask her. In front
of the Loki’s compound is a large
grassy field that leads to the school
building that also doubles as the
church. It is one of the only buildings built with western bricks.
In the days when Africa was
being eaten up like a pie by
European imperialists, some British
settlers came to the region to claim
it. They built a few government
buildings and stayed for fifty years
or so. The Didinga have slowly
knocked down the buildings over
the centuries and re-used their
bricks for other purposes. The
British ruins are quite a jarring site;
rising out of random fields along
cattle paths—red, half-brick buildings with overgrown flora tumbling
out of them.
On the morning of Girls School
Day, before any of the other
villages arrive, the children of
Nagishot are out in the field en
mass with their machetes. Every
child in Nagishot has a machete.
On school days they can be seen
lining the outside of the brick
school building in a long silver line,
like a row of sharp shiny teeth. The
children carry them everywhere,
their own personal pocketknives.
They swing their machetes back
and forth in rhythm on this most
important of mornings, cutting
the grass of the field until it is
sufficiently even and short for our
visitors. By noon our guests start
arriving, chanting in long lines as
they make their way up through our
winding hills.
The village elders and leaders, all men, sit at the front of the
grassy field on tree stumps and
logs that act as chairs for the day.
Even the chief of Nagishot, usually
drunk, has graced Girls School
Day with his presence. When the
speeches start, the celebration officially begins.
The speeches go on and on and
on. Each distinguished man feels
compelled to speak. And once
compelled, feels no need to filter,
self-edit, or respect the subject at
hand, that is, girls’ education. The
men ramble on about the up-coming election, about the drought,
the famine, initiatives they support
in their own village, and the day
turns into a session in the House of
Parliament. Girls are sitting on the
ground, fetching water and tea for
the men, listening attentively.
Meanwhile, Eunice prepares to
feed the army of people gathered
on her front lawn. She has cooked
for two days with the help of some
of the village girls and Mariam, the
elderly blind cook that helps out
at the compound. At teatime, four
hours into the diatribes, Eunice
breaks up the speeches to serve
mandazis and tea. I can tell she
is tired of all the talking. As she
comes out of the compound and
walks toward the front of the field,
she starts waving her headscarf.
“Why are no women talking?”
She has one hand on her hip. She
has no problem addressing the line
of men up front. To her, they are
her equals. Actually, she may feel
superior to them on several major
counts.
“Is this not Girls School Day?
All I hear are a bunch of old men
talking about nothing but this
and that. We are supposed to be
talking about educating girls.” Her
voice keeps getting louder. Or
maybe the crowd is getting quieter.
I see William lounging on a tree
stump trying to hide his growing
smirk. He knows his wife’s gumption, but he also knows the deep
egos and prideful natures of the
Didinga men.
“Now, this food you are going
to eat. The women made it. The
clothes you are wearing, the
women made them. Women do
everything around here. You men
are lazy. You sit around and talk
and get drunk all the time. Things
are going to start changing. That is
what educating girls is all about.”
She turns and huffs her way
back to the plates of mandazis
and begins passing them to all the
women and girls first as yells of
“boo” and “sit down” come from
the line of men.
One of them gets up and says,
“This is why we do not let the
women speak. They are too emotional. They yell. They complain.
This food, of course the women
made it. Are you suggesting that
the men cook the food? That men
tend the fires?” Laughter erupts
around him at the front of the field.
Eunice seethes.
“This is one day! One day we
are having to talk about girls and
school and education. We have all
gathered to talk about this, but no
one is talking about it!” The hand is
back on the hip, ready for battle.
Yelling back and forth in a
debate of wills ensues. I know
Eunice will never back down. To
back down means weakness for all
the women of the village, and she
will not let that happen.
She cares for every girl, every
young mother, like she is their
mother. She weeps when any baby
is lost, when any mother is lost in
childbirth. She detests the men
having multiple wives. She hates
the oppression and injustices that
her sisters put up with so easily.
Eunice is related to everyone in
the village somehow or another.
Distantly or closely. She feels a
responsibility to right what she
sees as wrongs here. How she
goes, she knows the rest of the
women will go. And so she will
stand strong.
One day Eunice shared with me
one of her many schemes to get
Nagishot on the map and boost its
economy. Being a traveled lady,
she knows how unique and startling the beauty of her native hills
is.
“You know those empty huts
on the other side of your camp?”
Eunice asked me one morning
when I was teaching her how to
make cinnamon rolls. There were
three empty huts that had once
housed some aid workers in the
compound, but now sat empty. “I
want to turn them into honeymoon
huts.”
I didn’t know what to say for a
second. I honestly didn’t know if
she was messing with me, which
she loved to do, or if she was serious. When I saw how straight her
face was, I knew she meant it.
“People can come here and get
away from everything. Enjoy the
beauty. I can cook for them.”
Eunice and Mariam were really
good cooks, despite the limited
food supply. Lentils, eggs, mandazis, even banana bread somehow
came out of Eunice’s fire pit.
The honeymoon hut thing probably won’t ever take off. For one
thing, the village is a three-mile
treacherous hike from the airfield,
after two days of travel from the
U.S. One person can only bring
thirty pounds of supplies in, which
limits your packing severely. And
then, of course, there is the ongoing border war with North Sudan
now that the south has officially
become the Republic of South
Sudan.
There is also no clean water
source in Nagishot, despite four
attempted drillings. The compound
has clean water only through rainwater collection and a process of
filtration. I cannot imagine a bride
thinking it would be an ideal honeymoon spot.
But then I look around at the
beauty and I am taken somewhere
else. Always transported somewhere back in time, back before
stress, back before worry. The sky
at night, with its unfamiliar stars
and layers of inky blackness, pulls
me in and melts away memories of
a past life I want to forget.
I walk through paths dotted
with half-clothed smiling children
and smile back. Wave at Very Old
Marta. See the earth as it was
supposed to be as I watch a giant
mound of termites devour a fallen
tree. The smell of cooking fires and
tall grass mix together in my lungs,
the sound of nothing surrounds
me. Quiet.
No one is dancing quite yet.
Maybe Eunice is right. Nagishot
could be a honeymoon destination.
Surrounded by the most gracious
hills, and all the dancing you could
want.
Restoring Dignity
The Fight Against Human Trafficking in Austin
By Leslie S. Marlow
Looking hopefully as a car
drives through the Shell station
parking lot, a freckle-faced girl of
about 16 or 17 waits for her next
customer. As it passes by, she
realizes they are not in the market.
Dejectedly, she sits on the curb
near the fence that separates the
station from the Motel 6. A much
older man, possibly her pimp,
walks toward her and they speak
briefly. Moments later, he leaves
and keeps a watchful eye nearby.
It’s just another ordinary Tuesday
evening in the Rundberg Lane area
of Austin.
The blinking lights of the 24/
7 Nude Modeling Studio can be
seen in the distance and the XTC
Cabaret sign hovers nearby. Yes,
the human trafficking industry
thrives right here in Austin, Texas.
What exactly is human trafficking? The United Nations Office
on Drugs and Crime (UNODC)
defines human trafficking as “the
acquisition of people by improper
means such as force, fraud or
deception, with the aim of exploiting them.” Sexual exploitation of
women and children is by far the
greatest form of human trafficking
worldwide. Other forms include
forced labor and domestic servitude. Young women and children
who are sexually exploited or
trafficked are recruited, transferred,
harbored, obtained, or moved by
a trafficker who uses force, fraud,
coercion, abduction, threat, and
deception. Ultimately, the victims
are exploited for commercial sex
acts.
Human trafficking has existed
since the beginning of civilization,
with slavery as one of its earliest
forms. Yet, this serious issue hadn’t
been discussed or publicized
much until the last decade or so.
Because of the work of victim
advocacy groups, grass-roots
campaigns now engage the general public and help identify trafficking victims.
There are more human trafficking victims now than ever before.
The Polaris Project, an international
anti-trafficking group, reports that
the global commercial sex trade
exploits two million children annually. Further, women comprise 56%
of trafficking victims globally. Victim
advocacy group Safe Horizon
notes that of the estimated 700,000
to two million people forced into
the sex trade worldwide, thousands
of these foreign victims are brought
to the U.S. where they are forced
into sexual servitude.
In the U.S. alone, 100,000300,000 children are prostituted
daily. An additional 200,000
American children are estimated
to be at risk for sexual exploitation. Of the children taken in by
the National Center for Missing
and Exploited Children nationwide
from 2004 to 2010, 98.8% were
suspected or confirmed victims of
domestic sex trafficking and were
classified Endangered Runaways.
Regardless of those statistics,
many victims are hidden away and
moved frequently, so it is difficult to
track the actual numbers.
The horrors of human trafficking
are being exposed more and more,
thanks to the actions of grass-roots
activists who have diligently
worked to call attention to this
pervasive issue. Once perceived
as a victimless crime, human
rights activists now expose human
trafficking as the barbaric, coercive
prostitution of human beings.
Pimps enslave and degrade
women. Lives are wasted. Human
dignity vanishes.
Now more aware of these grave
injustices, governments on the
international, national and local levels have enacted legislation in the
last several years taking a harsher
stance towards traffickers and
categorizing forced prostitution as
a type of crime against humanity.
Prostitutes are now seen as victims
and pimps are now categorized as
traffickers.
Years ago, a young girl named
Jes Richardson was trafficked into
a life of prostitution. According to
her website, jesrichardson.com,
Jes was sexually abused by teenage neighbors when she was four
years old. Her father was murdered
when she was 10. As a teen, her
life began to “spiral downward.”
She ran away from home and survived on the streets.
When she was 17 and working
as a waitress in a diner, a 43-yearold customer solicited her. He told
her she was pretty and convinced
her that she should get paid to
have sex instead of “giving it away
for free.”
Unknown to Jes, he was a
“seasoned pimp.” He helped her
“create false identities” so she
could hide from police and the
private investigators hired by her
mother. She was “beaten, abused,
enslaved, and left empty inside.”
Her pimp forced her to work as a
prostitute up and down the West
Coast.
Finally, “after months of planning,
[she] fled for [her] life.” Although
she escaped her pimp, she continued working in the sex industry.
It was the only way she knew how
to make money. Jes “worked the
streets, hotels, escort services,
massage services, and [posed] for
internet porn.” When she became
pregnant at age twenty, she knew
she had to leave the world of sexual trafficking behind her.
Today, Jes speaks freely of
her former life and assists other
young victims of sexual trafficking.
Jes tours the country on speaking engagements and she also
maintains a blog about her life. As
a guest speaker at St. Edward’s
University for a panel on human
trafficking, Jes spoke passionately
about the need for awareness and
community involvement in the fight
against human trafficking.
Most of us are unaware of the
dark side of popular local events.
For example, the Formula 1 (F1)
race held in Austin in November
2012 was an event that attracted
human traffickers. The St. Ed’s
panel discussed local agencies and law enforcement forming a task force to rescue girls
from traffickers during the race.
Members of the task force stated
that besides local girls and women
being trafficked during F1, many
victims were being transported
from across the country to service
the race attendees.
Other victims are trapped in
Austin. According to the City of
Austin’s Restore Rundberg initiative, 9% of citywide crime involving
drugs, sex crimes and prostitution occurs in the I-35/Rundberg
area. In a March 23, 2013, Austin
American-Statesman article on
Restore Rundberg, reporter Dave
Harmon writes that “one of every
three prostitution arrests in Austin
over the past five years has been
in that area.” Harmon goes on to
say that on a recent evening “a few
people gathered around the taco
trucks parked next to the Budget
Lodge motel, which the city and
neighbors tried to shut down five
years ago, saying it was infested
with drugs and prostitution.” Most
of the young women and underage girls walking the streets of
Rundberg Lane have been forced
into prostitution by traffickers who
prey on their vulnerability.
Some heroic people try to
help. For example, anti-trafficking
activists seek to provide shelter
for the victims. Holly McDermott,
Executive Assistant for Restore
A Voice (RAV), speaks earnestly
when talking about girls such as
these being trafficked in the Austin
area. Holly regularly attends local
and national meetings with RAV
founder Larry Megason. They
travel around the country looking at
different models for shelter homes
for trafficking victims.
Holly tells how Larry first
became aware of human trafficking on a trip to Haiti. While Larry
was there, a man tried to sell him a
seven-year-old girl. Shocked, Larry
remembered her face long after
he returned to Austin. He began
researching Haiti orphans’ issues,
including sexual trafficking. Larry
soon found out that Central Texas
also has a tremendous problem
with trafficking.
In order to assist such trafficking victims and get them off the
streets, Larry founded RAV two
years ago. RAV is a faith-based,
non-denominational organization. It
welcomes the greater Austin community’s involvement in its mission.
According to Holly, RAV focuses its
efforts on victims who are 18 and
under. RAV’s future plan is to focus
on the Rundberg Lane area and
provide a day center that will offer
services such as education, recreation, art & music classes, food
and clothing. The plan is for the
outreach to build trust with the girls
and get them off the streets.
Human trafficking affects the
entire community. So, Holly says,
for anti-trafficking efforts to be a
success, the movement needs
community involvement. She says
that citizens need to act together
as a whole and come together to
partner against this issue. Holly
suggests that local citizens and
groups can help by raising money
and attending meetings. She says
that for now the RAV plan is to
focus on reaching out to the girlsgirls who are being trafficked every
day.
More and more people are
organizing to end human trafficking. RAV also partners with local
law enforcement and Allies Against
Slavery (Allies). Allies, a non-profit
group, also assists trafficking
victims in the Austin and Central
Texas area. Some of the services
it provides are shelter, food and
counseling. Allies has also produced a feature-length documentary Trade In Hope, which is about
American children being sold for
sex and what can be done to stop
it. The film focuses on the work of
Allies, as well as bringing attention
to trafficking victims. Allies recently
showcased a 20-minute preview
of Trade In Hope at a special night
of film, music and inspiration at
the Zilker Hillside Theater during
SXSW.
Several agencies in Austin
besides RAV and Allies are
involved in preventing human trafficking and aiding victims. Central
Texas Coalition against Human
Trafficking is another agency
working collaboratively to increase
public awareness and identification
of human trafficking cases, and to
provide identified victims of human
trafficking with comprehensive
social and medical services.
Human trafficking is a serious global human rights issue.
Fortunately, new legislation and
law enforcement now focuses on
the pimps as traffickers and sees
the prostitutes as victims. While
much work is still needed to stop
the traffickers, communities can
come together to end the crime
of human trafficking on the local,
state, national and international
levels. Through community awareness, prevention, victim protection,
and prosecution of the traffickers,
the fight against trafficking can be
won. With assistance and understanding, young girls like the ones
trafficked on Rundberg Lane can
finally restore their dignity again.
one photo of hotel in I-35
plus side bar info
The Lost Children
What should we do with undocumented juvenile immigrants separated from their
parents?
By Melissa Huff
They are children, alone, vulnerable, passing through strange
lands. Last year, 24,403 of
them-unaccompanied minorswere apprehended crossing our
southern border, according to the
department of US Customs and
Border Protection.
They are desperate youth. They
left their home countries either to
reunite with family that is already in
the US, to escape abusive relationships in their home country, or to
find work to support their families
back home.
Navigating the US-Mexican
border illegally is a dangerous
prospect for anyone, but for a
child traveling alone, it can be
deadly. With little food, water, or
shelter-alone or at the mercy of a
coyote-these children try to slip into
the United States.
Drug cartels are increasingly
brutal in their control of human
smuggling at the border. They
dictate which migrants can attempt
the crossing and when, imposing
fees and taxes on those trying to
cross.
Anyone who doesn’t pay risks
being hurt, even murdered.
Matthew Allen of US Immigration
and Customs Enforcement
(ICE) said in a field hearing for
the House Homeland Security
Committee subcommittee: “We
initially targeted human smuggling,
as this is often a precursor crime
that can lead to other illegal activities, including human trafficking.
People may have illegally entered
the United States only to find
themselves in exploitative circumstances and vulnerable to being
used by force, fraud, or coercion
for the purposes of commercial sex
or forced labor.”
Children are particularly vulnerable. Without the protection of an
adult, they are more susceptible
to traffickers, abuse and sexual
exploitation.
A little over half of the 24,403
unaccompanied alien children
(UAC) detained by US Border
Patrol were from Mexico, according
to US customs officials. Generally,
UAC from Mexico are quickly
deported back into the care of
Mexican social service agencies, which attempt to locate their
parents.
Deporting children from Central
and South America, however, is
more complicated. These children
may spend months in US custody
while their immigration status is
determined or their asylum and
special status claims can be
adjudicated. The US Department
of Health and Human Services
reported the referral of 8,327 unaccompanied minors to the Office
of Refugee Resettlement between
October 2011 and May 2012, a
number that surpasses the annual
total for the 2011 fiscal year.
Most of these children have a
strong case for asylum or some
other form of legal support. If they
are fortunate, these children might
end up with help from someone
like David Walding. Walding, a
graduate of St. Edward’s University
with a degree in International
Studies, is the executive director of
the Bernardo Kohler Center (BKC)
in Austin, Texas, a nonprofit group
that provides legal assistance to
immigrants.
Over the years Walding has
handled all types of asylum, trafficking and crime victim cases.
Since 2004, his main focus is
juvenile cases, particularly Special
Immigrant Juvenile (SIJ) status. SIJ
status can be granted to juveniles
if, among other criteria, reunification with one or both of the juvenile’s parents is not viable because
of abuse or neglect and if it is not
in the best interests of the child to
return to his country of origin.
This last requirement is what
makes SIJ status so valuable.
SIJ incorporates family law into
immigration law. “Immigration law
serves itself,” remarks Walding.
“Family law is allowed to consider
the best interests of the child while
immigration law cannot. It’s what
makes SIJ unique.”
SIJ status has other properties
that make it unique. Family court
will reunite the child with relatives,
regardless of the relative’s immigration status; often, this allows the
child to live with family instead of
entering foster care. Additionally, a
child granted SIJ status is given his
green card, enabling him to legally
work or pursue a higher education.
“SIJ status is enormously
underutilized,” says Walding. This
is likely due to how formidable the
legal process is to negotiate. SIJ
status requires thorough knowledge of both immigration and family law, two fields that are dense in
their own right. “You have to know
both areas of the law.” Walding
does. He receives requests for
help with SIJ cases from all over
the United States.
The kids who find their way to
Walding are referred by various
services. Sometimes they have
just been picked up by Customs
and Border Protection and are in
holding, waiting to meet with an
advocate. This process can take
months, if they meet with an advocate at all. The BKC website states
that over half of unaccompanied
alien children (UAC) face deportation without representation.
Walding also accepts referrals
from Child Protective Services.
Some of the children referred
by CPS have lived here most of
their lives and don’t even speak
Spanish, yet find themselves facing
deportation.
The majority of the juveniles
Walding helps are from Central
America, particularly Honduras,
El Salvador and Guatemala. They
travel 6-8 weeks across Central
America and Mexico, often fleeing
violence at home. Walding says
many of the young men he helps
left home in fear for their life, either
from an abusive family member
or from gangs that are rampant
in Central and South America.
“Gangs are a BIG factor,” he
explains sadly. “[There has been] a
very rapid gang influx into Central
America… and the gangs target
kids.”
Not everyone is as willing to
help. Walding frequently encounters those who favor rigid immigration control, who find deportation a
solution for every case.
“There are a lot of people who
think that they shouldn’t be here
in the first place. They’re not our
problem, they’re not our kids to
deal with,” says Walding.
“But [if] you deport them,”
Walding notes, “when they’re likely
to be killed, and you treat them like
criminals, show them no compassion, no humanity, . . . why would
they then, later, have a problem
doing things that might harm the
United States? Why wouldn’t they
run drugs later, or arms, or whatever it happens to be?”
But, Walding argues, if “you
receive them humanely and assist
them, make them a good member of society, of course they will
be grateful and beholden to this
country.”
Immigration has been our historical strength, not a curse. “We’re
a nation of immigrants,” Walding
stresses, “and there is a reason
historically that we’ve been able to
progress and become a leading
nation in the world.”
Cold-hearted immigration
enforcement can ruin the lives of
immigrant children-leave them
away from family, starving, subject to abuse. An expansion of the
use of Special Immigrant Juvenile
status would result in a more compassionate immigration policy. If
we remember that they are children
first and immigrants second, we
can effect a change in the lives of
thousands of children.
side bar and
kid lost in desert
The New College Tradition
By Daniel Haverty
New College thrived during the
1980s and well into the 21st century. As it faces the challenges
of higher costs and more robust
competition, it may help to put New
College into perspective.
In 1974, amid the embroiled
times of the post Vietnam War
and financial difficulties at St.
Edward’s University (SEU), the
New College adult program arose.
Coincidentally, the original name
of St. Edward’s was also New
College, as is one of the original
colleges at the Oxford campus in
Cambridge, England.
The New College program was
the brainchild of St. Edward’s
University president Stephen
Walsh’s administration and began
with only seven students and no
full-time faculty. Early classes were
discussion groups monitored indirectly by professors and structured
in a non-traditional manner.
Walsh appointed Dr. Rad Eanes
as Dean of New College, and it
was considered a part-time job,
given the low enrollment. Eanes
served as dean for two years. He
arrived at St. Edward’s University
after serving as the Chief Grand
Analyst for the Moody Foundation
and held the position of Director of
Counseling and Testing before his
New College deanship.
Following Eanes as dean was
Sister Jean Meyer, who developed
the prior learning assessment
module that still is in use today.
Sister Meyer earned a Ph.D. at
the University of Pennsylvania and
received post-doctoral education
at Virginia Polytechnic University
after her undergraduate studies at
Marygrove College and St. Louis
University. Sister Meyer also spent
time as a research scholar at the
Indian School of International
Studies in New Delhi. Sister Meyer
served as dean for eight years
and in that time the fledgling New
College grew rapidly.
Sister Meyer was rumored to
rule New College with an iron fist
and not necessarily covered with
a velvet glove. If you have seen
“The Blue Brothers,” she has been
compared to the nun with the
heavy ruler that so intimidated the
characters portrayed by Belushi
and Akroyd.
Sister Meyer was succeeded by
Dr. Joseph O’Neal, who headed
the program for nine years. The
first flowering of New College
emerged in the O’Neal administration. In his nine years of service
as dean, Dr. O’Neal relinquished
some control to the faculty and
conveyed a more liberal sense of
leadership. By allowing the faculty to contribute their thoughts
and ideas to the creative process,
improvements were facilitated with
relative ease.
O’Neal’s leadership style was
an excellent fit for New College.
He began his long tenure at SEU
after completing his graduate
studies at The University of Texas.
According to O’Neal, he saw an
advertisement for faculty to teach
Anthropology at SEU and had not
only followed up on the advertisement, but also removed said
advertisement from the corkboard
on which he found it, thus removing any other unnecessary competition for the position.
More faculty were added and
the student population grew.
Some of the present faculty that
has served as dean are Dr. John
Houghton, Dr. Paula Marks, and Dr.
Ramsey Fowler, and current dean,
Helene Caudill.
The tuition reduction under Dean
Fowler helped a broader range of
students take advantage of New
College. Dr. Fowler is presently
heading up the Graduate program
for Liberal Arts and is a continued
contributor in curriculum and development. Dr. Houghton has served
in other administrative capacities
and continues to teach classes
and develop critical thinkers.
As New College has grown, it
has slowly become more and more
integrated with SEU proper and
added its own professional recruiters and marketing. By the 1990s,
New College was operating a complete class schedule and the longterm goals of increased affordability were becoming a reality.
Although the New College
program at St. Edward’s has been
a pioneer in adult education in central Texas, emerging competitors—
online-based for-profit universities,
in particular— have cut into New
College’s dominance in the adult
education market.
Though these competitors provide more choices for students, the
quality of their services and academic programs are questionable.
New College has had to keep
a relatively high tuition to fund a
strong academic program, which
includes superb library support,
academic advising, and faculty.
New competitors often operate online and provide limited
support. Others, such as Western
Governors University (WGU Texas),
are able to under-price New
College.
WGU Texas charges a flat rate
per semester, which is great especially if one can take advantage of
their online, competency-based
approach.
Meanwhile, New College keeps
developing new strategies to deal
with new times; after all, it began
as a new strategy for a new time
in 1974 and pulled it off rather
well. New pricing options, cohort
education, and more effective
marketing strategies are among
its approaches to the new wave
of online education sweeping the
country.
The Future of New College
Challenges keeps arising, but the 40-year-old adult program at St. Edward’s University
seeks to adapt and survive in a new competitive environment
By Bridgid Bender
“Brilliant college lectures in your
home or car!”
Foundations of Western
Civilization taught by an Award
Winning Notre Dame professor,
available for the “special sale
price” of $44.95.
Fantastic claims like these arrive
as crumpled catalogs and glossy
postcards in the mailboxes of
most adults who have shown the
slightest interest in continuing their
college education.
Lectures by professors from
well-known universities like Baylor
College of Medicine, Colgate
University, Duke and UC Berkley
are available on DVD or CD at
rock-bottom prices. What sort of
merit does this unconventional
learning method hold? Can investing in these courses lead to credit
for prior learning? Or should they
be dismissed like an “As Seen
on TV” miracle stain remover—a
nice idea that doesn’t live up to its
claim?
Our dynamic high-tech society is pulsating with innovative
ways to deliver higher learning.
Strange acronyms enter the academic scene—MOOC, for example. It stands for “Massive Open
Online Courses” that are available
from major universities (Harvard,
Stanford, Duke, and many others).
Most are free, but they are not usually accredited courses and will not
apply directly to a degree.
Then there are the for-profit institutions, their names evident in your
internet searches or on buildings
along IH-35 or Mo-Pac: Strayer
University, South University, Virginia
College, University of Phoenix,
National American University, and
others. Their internet advertisements promise affordable tuition,
quick program completion and job
placement.
Reputable and established
non-profit adult programs like St.
Edward’s New College are challenged to maintain a sustainable
market share of non-traditional
student enrollment.
The rumors are out there: New
College’s days are numbered. The
adult program is not sustainable.
These rumors seem at odds with
a growing tide of older, working
adults returning to college. News
articles report that adult learners—
students who, in the words of an
Adult Education Quarterly article,
must become wizards at “balancing multiple demands at work, at
school, and in their personal life”—
are becoming less of a minority on
college registries.
Many universities are now
catering to the 25 or older adult
learner. The Council for Adult
and Experiential Learning (CAEL)
has developed a comprehensive
initiative to encourage colleges to
become more accessible to adult
learners. It provides an ALFI (Adult
Learning Focused Institution)
Assessment Toolkit with surveys to
analyze what the current program
is doing right, and to identify areas
where it could do better. If you
remember that long survey that
New College asked its students to
complete a while back, then you
helped New College become an
ALFI.
The adult student population is
a moving target, so it is no surprise
that competition among non-profit,
for-profit, and online programs is
so fierce. What is it that makes an
adult student who is brave enough
to take on more daily responsibility choose one institution over
another?
“There isn’t anything that’s
across the board. Everybody has
unique, different reasons,” says
Dean of New College, Dr. Helene
Caudill.
New College student, Kiva
Navarro, is one example of those
unique and different reasons. Her
educational background is not
radically different from most New
College students. Kiva gained a
love for learning in nursery school
and would teach her dolls and
teddy bears the alphabet. A good
student throughout school, after
graduation she decided to take
classes at Austin Business College
to gain footing in the workforce.
After her enrollment, Kiva was
surprised to find out that the credits she earned at the vocational
school would not be transferrable
to many universities.
“Students don’t know that,” Dr.
Caudill explains.
It is not surprising that student’s
don’t know that. In addition to the
dozen and a half regional accrediting bodies, there are three times
as many specialized accrediting
agencies. The U.S. Department
of Education website describes
accrediting agencies as “private educational associations
of regional or national scope.”
Their website (ope.ed.gov) has a
searchable database of accredited
institutions, as well as the option
to download a full list. For-profit
colleges are often accredited by
credentialing bodies that aren’t recognized by traditional institutions,
leaving students with credits that
aren’t transferrable for a bachelor’s
degree. That ambiguity can be
confusing and frustrating for students entering New College.
“They can try to portfolio,” Dr.
Caudill points out. “New College
provides that option. You’re not
going to see that in the for-profits.”
Kiva successfully found jobs
after attending Austin Business
College, but she never forgot her
love of learning. The memory of her
grandfather offers special encouragement. Her grandparents quit
school in third grade to work in
cotton fields to earn money for their
families.
“My grandfather was a big
advocate for school. Because I
loved school so much, he would
ask me every single day, ‘How
was school?’ He got Alzheimer’s
and he couldn’t remember faces
or names, but he could always
remember to ask me about
school.”
Although Kiva’s inspiration for
staying on the college track is
unique, the selection process she
used for choosing a college is
common to most adult students.
She joined a transfer club at Austin
Community College to tour local
universities. Kiva missed out on
the traditional college experience
straight out of high school so it was
important she find a school that
had the right feel.
“I really liked St. Ed’s campus
the best. I liked the way it was
smaller. It was easy to find things. I
found out that St. Ed’s had the New
College classes and I went to an
informational session. At the time
I wasn’t working. I took two years
off just to go to school and I knew I
would have to go back to work. So
I knew I needed somewhere to go
where I can work during the day
and that was a big deal.”
With its small and attractive campus and the availability of an adult
program with evening classes, it
turned out that New College was a
perfect fit for Kiva.
But for New College, the challenge is finding enough students
like Kiva Navarro. How does a program with a history of educational
success communicate its unique
benefits in a saturated and competitive market?
“Specific to New College is that
we hit a peak in our enrollment
about ten years ago and other
competitors have entered the market and chipped away at our market share, which is normal if you
are number one in the area, which
we have been for a long time,” Dr.
Caudill says.
Competitors like Huston-Tillotson
and Western Governors University
can market the rapid growth of
their adult programs. Their claims
sound impressive to prospective
adult students.
“If they started out with twenty
students and they double that,
then they have only forty but then it
sounds like they’ve improved, and
gone up 100 percent,” Dr. Caudill
explains.
New College isn’t just standing
aside to let the competition win
out, though. It has made strides by
becoming an ALFI and has hired
consultants to do market-based
research to enhance the growth of
the New College program.
“It’s really hard to convince anyone before they come what they
may get out of it in the end,” says
Dr. Caudill.
That difficulty is partly because
adult students must weigh the
benefits of continuing their college
education against a different scale
than traditional students. Motivators
for earning a degree, such as job
promotion or career change, or
fulfillment of a life goal, are often
unique to adult students and cost
is a deciding factor when choosing a program. And New College
costs—almost $800 per credit
hour in 2012–13.
New College does have options
to ease adult students’ concerns
about cost. Dr. Caudill explains
that in order to get a degree from
New College you must take at least
ten courses or thirty hours. That
means that the remaining ninety
hours required to earn a bachelor’s
degree can be earned elsewhere.
The options include CLEP, DSST
tests, as well as courses at ACC or
UT Extension. The academic advisors are whizzes at finding affordable course options for satisfying
degree requirements. There is also
always the “portfolio” (aka PLA or
Prior Learning Assessment).
“If you were to do the portfolio,
that counts as St. Edward’s hours,
so we definitely encourage the
portfolio,” says Dr. Caudill.
The MOOCs (Massive Open
Online Courses), mentioned earlier,
are not necessarily a threat to New
College. Some MOOC courses
can be incorporated into a New
College degree, and a greater variety of accredited MOOC courses
will certainly appear in the near
future. Dr. Caudill has taken some
MOOCs herself and is impressed
with their quality.
“The American Council for
Education (ACE) has already
approved five MOOC courses .
. . . You prove that you’ve taken
them and we accept their credit as
transfer. And we’re allowing people
to include MOOC material—any
pre-learned material, so to speak—
into their portfolio. It’s all just come
about this past year. It’s really
disrupting, that’s what everybody’s
saying—higher ed is finally having
disruptions,” Dr. Caudill explains.
Those disruptions are making
college administrators and board
members take notice of the growing population of adult learners
and their expectations of easy
access to quality education. New
College is no exception. The disruptions inspired some changes
to the degree offerings for adult
students.
“Adult programs are leaning
more toward professional degrees
with a liberal arts perspective . .
. . We’re removing some of our
majors. And that’s uncomfortable
at the same time as necessary.
Organizational Leadership is our
newest degree and has increased
significantly. [New College] has
more students in Organizational
Leadership in a two year period
than what we have ever had in our
English major or our History major
and more than both of them combined right now,” Dr. Caudill says.
She is quick to stress that
English and History aren’t going
away, though.
“The one degree that we’re
hoping to make a splash with a
little bit more is our Interdisciplinary
Studies. That’s a degree that you
could mix a History and English
major. You could mix Psychology
and English.”
The final decision to commit
energy, time, and hard earned
money to an institution like St.
Edward’s New College often rests
heavily on what is not written upon
the parchment of your diploma.
For example, just ask Kiva
Navarro if she would choose New
College again.
“I would definitely do New
College. Yeah,” Kiva responds
enthusiastically.
She explained that the benefits
that set New College apart are her
professors and that they are “available and willing to help. And willing
to share what they know and offer
up their experiences. I love that
I’ve always been able to contact a
teacher.”
Not only professors, but the staff
and amenities have garnered her
loyalty as well:
•The IT staff fixed her computer
for her.
• The librarians are knowledgeable and helpful.
• The writing lab and the OWL
that she uses “profusely” add
quality to assignments.
College.
“Success is based on what
y’all do. We don’t like to base our
success on how many students
we have; it’s what we do with the
students that we do have. So we’re
definitely here to stay. People are
always asking about that, I don’t
know why. We just have some
changes, very positive.”
The future of higher education
has a path of change ahead of it,
but that change can make degrees
more accessible to students
and students more accessible to
universities. With innovations like
MOOCs, blended degrees, and
online degree programs as well as
the more traditional options such
as New College, adult students
face many choices—some choices
with and some without an established track record. The changes
are running fast, and universities
and students have to tighten their
laces to keep up.
What sets New College apart
from the competition? Dr. Caudill’s
response is that there is a connection between what the students
value and what the faculty perceives as important.
“What you get that’s different
here for sure is you know your faculty. I hope that all the students that
come out are comfortable with asking for references, and that helps
you get jobs later . . . . I go back
to the faculty being stable, unique
and committed,” she says.
Dean Caudill emphasizes that
there will continue to be a human
focus to the mission of New
At What Cost, Education?
With a Degree Comes Greater Income Opportunity--and Greater Debt
By Christopher Ashlock
Although she’s a sharp 16-yearold, Valentina Tovar will in all
likelihood graduate college with
student loan debt. The question is:
How much? Because for Valentina,
like almost all students who attend
college, the answer to this question
will shape the quality of her life
after college.
Just after sunrise, when the
school is quiet and empty, high
school student Valentina Tovar—
currently ranked number one in
her sophomore class—knocks at
my door. She marches in slumped
over from the weight of her backpack, holding a tennis racket in
one hand, and a medium-sized
black case containing a clarinet
in the other. She carefully places
all her school paraphernalia on
the floor, and climbs atop a desk.
Pushing her straight dark hair
behind her neck, widening her
dark egg-shaped eyes, she finishes the conversation we started a
day ago.
“Study internal medicine or
molecular physics,” she replied,
when asked about what she
wanted to do after high school.
“Maybe Baylor, Columbia, NYU,
UT, or A&M,” she added, just a
few of her favorite college choices.
Naturally, she listed colleges
that are not just prestigious, but
expensive.
“Student loans are scary,” said
Valentina, her eyes wide. “I need
scholarships so I don’t have to deal
with them.”
Valentina’s older sister, Maria,
won’t need them. A freshmen at
Texas A&M University studying
business, Maria earned a $40,000
scholarship her senior year of high
school, a gift that should prevent
her from ever having to deal with
student loan debt.
The same can’t be said about
Valentina.
Unlike her sister, Valentina is
without scholarship; therefore,
student loans remain a strong possibility and, based on the current
trend of college tuition prices, an
almost certainty. A commitment, if
handled irresponsibly and heedlessly, can make life after college
problematic.
Here’s an unsettling fact:
According to American Student
Assistance, 20 million Americans
attend college each year, and of
these students, 12 million—or 60
percent—borrow to help cover
costs. Also, with the cost of a
college degree increasing astronomically, the weight and pressures of student loan debt are
burdening more and more young
professionals.
The numbers don’t lie. The thin
piece of paper, also referred to
as a diploma, costs more today
than it did yesterday, or twelve
months ago, or even thirty years
ago. Statistics show that, in 2011,
the average student loan debt was
$26,600, a five percent increase
from 2010.
But do students really have a
choice? Take a look, for example,
at some figures reported by the
U.S. Census Bureau:
Annual Salary Average
Differences Between Educational
Levels:
• High school drop outs: $18,734
• High school graduates $27,915
• College graduates (bachelor’s
degree) $51,206
• Advanced degree holders:
$74,602
Based on these numbers, what
choice do students really have? If a
student wants to compete for jobs
and make an adequate living, a
bachelor’s degree is almost essential. Consequently, it makes student loan debt a necessity.
Surprisingly, this wasn’t always
the case. There was a time, not
long ago, that a student could go
to college, earn a degree, and live
comfortably with minimal or no
student loan debt.
Take Dr. Robert Ross, for
instance. I met him recently at a
local restaurant, the Egg and I,
where we discussed his college
experience. Dr. Ross—owner of
Kerbey Lane Vision and alumnus of
University of Houston—sat across
from me, munching on his turkey
apple butter croissant sandwich.
After chewing for a moment or
two, he spoke: “In my final year of
college I took 21 credit hours, five
were labs [notably more expensive
than regular classes], and it cost
no more than $315.”
He paused, sipping from a glass
of ice water, then added, “I probably finished college and medical
school with a total of $2,000 or so
in debt.”
Then he smiled.
Sure, like you, I didn’t believe
him either. But his wife, Brenda,
who accompanied him to our lunch
rendezvous, brought all of his
tuition receipts to prove it. Among
them was the receipt he spoke of,
and in the bottom right-hand corner, written neatly in black ink, was
the total: $315.
Furthermore, Dr. Ross explained
that most students didn’t pay anything higher than $315. This was
the cutoff for students, allowing
them essentially to take as many
credit hours as they wanted. Today,
this exists for students at most colleges, albeit at a more expensive
price.
So, how does Dr. Ross’s tuition from 1980 compare to tuition
prices in 2013?
Currently, tuition at the University
of Houston (a combined 30 credit
hours for the fall and spring semesters) would amount to $9,318.
Of course, this does not include
room and board. That would be an
additional $8,753. In other words, if
a young student, 18 or so, wanted
to live on campus while taking
classes, the total cost of the first
year would come to a whopping
$18,071. Oh, and that doesn’t even
include food, often considered a
necessity.
So, what’s the point?
Well, if Valentina—a young student aspiring to become a doctor—chooses to go to UH, she’ll
have to pay $8,438 a semester,
or 27 times more money, in order
to obtain the same title Dr. Ross
earned 30 years ago. But, unlike
Dr. Ross, Valentina must face
the difficult decision of whether
accumulating such an excessive
amount of debt to obtain her dream
is indeed worth it.
When I asked Valentina if
she thinks it will be worth it, she
answered, “I guess. What choice
do I have?”
Unfortunately, Valentina recognizes debt is an inevitable part of
the college experience.
Perhaps Valentina is smarter
than the rest and knew this all
along. Maybe carrying around
all those books in her backpack,
slumped over, is her attempt to
practice, rehearse, and condition
herself for the hefty financial debt
she will bear one day? A modern
slave of American education, if you
will.
Just a thought.
College debt is inevitable for all
but the very rich. Not just a little,
but a significant amount. With each
passing day, due to rising interest
rates, that debt will increase, and
increase, and continue to increase,
until eventually, the amount owed
may outweigh its original worth.
The burden of student debt
is rapidly increasing and now
approaches $1 trillion dollars,
according to the Federal Reserve
Bank of New York. In fact, student
debt now exceeds credit card debt
in the United States and trails only
home mortgage debt.
In other words, more and more,
students mortgage the quality
of their future for the right to buy
books, attend lectures, and write
essays. Although he or she may
be chasing a dream, a question is raised which needs to be
answered: At what cost?
Most alarming, colleges, banks,
and credit card companies are not
shy about placing money into the
hands of students. It’s not uncommon for students to get awarded
the maximum amount of money to
pay for a semester’s tuition, an act
Dr. Ross labeled unethical, abusive, and even criminal.
“To offer students that much
money at such a young age, when
their brains aren’t even fully developed to make such a decision, is
flat out wrong,” Ross says.
Despite what you may think,
Dr. Ross was on to something.
According to research, the frontal
cortex, the part of the brain that is
responsible for making difficult and
logical decisions (also called the
“CEO of the brain”) isn’t fully developed until a person is 25 years old.
If true, then why are young people, 18 or so, faced with such an
important decision at such a young
age? And it’s a decision, thanks
to technology, that takes only a
click on your computer and a brief
thirty-minute counseling session to
accept upwards to $8,000 in debt,
each semester, for four or more
years.
One University of Texas at
Austin student, a friend of mine,
graduated in 2009 with a business
degree—and more than $60,000
in debt. Four years later, flip-flopping between careers, he works as
a real estate agent, which is a job
he loves, but could have had without a college degree, and not to
mention, without $60,000 of debt.
He has had a monthly student
loan payment in the neighborhood
of $650, which his wife, to her
chagrin, helps him pay. He admits
that if he were single, the payments
would be too high for him to live
comfortably.
“No way,” he said, laughing, “I’d
have to move back in with my parents, or get a second job.”
Move back in with my parents.
Words all college graduates fear.
Like numerous other students,
most of my friend’s debt had been
built by living on campus, eating
extravagant meals, like lobster
and steak, and routinely going
on mini-vacations when school
let out. His debt was a product of
being over-zealous, impaired by
the sheer amount of money he
was offered in financial aid. He
was another victim of clicking the
button, I’m afraid.
But someone else offered a
unique perspective. “Sometimes
students need that money when
they are working full-time, living
off campus, and going to classes.
That’s what I had to do,” said
Anastacio Gomez, 40, a high
school English teacher.
Anastacio attended Austin
College, a private university in
Sherman, Texas, in the early ‘90s,
and graduated $20,000 in debt,
which took him five years to pay
off, with minimum monthly payments of $350.
“I didn’t really think about student loan debt,” he added. “My
parents didn’t go to college, so I
didn’t know what to expect.”
Currently, Anastacio is attending
graduate school at Texas State
University to earn a degree in
Educational Leadership. Again,
he faces the reality of student
loan debt, as he will owe another
$20,000 upon completion of his
two-year degree.
“Yeah, they gave me more than I
needed. And, yeah, I accepted it.”
After he paid his tuition for the
semester, Anastacio candidly
confessed to buying a pair of Crate
& Barrel bookshelves, tile for his
kitchen, and a new flat-screen
television.
“They gave me more, so I used
it,” he said, grinning.
I don’t blame him. Nor should
you. This person spent most of his
younger life climbing out of a pit of
debt, and for once he had money.
Money sent to him with a simple
click of a mouse button.
But when I asked him what he
thought about giving this kind of
money to 18-year-olds, he said,
“It’s wrong that they do it. I’m 40.
I can make that decision knowing
the consequences. But an 18-yearold kid, no way.”
Which is precisely part of the
problem. In addition to the soaring tuition prices, colleges supply
students with outrageous sums of
money, which force them to make
irrational and irresponsible decisions; decisions that will shape
their futures for years to come.
So, college students take notice:
Beware of college degrees, they
come with a hefty price.
Yet, sadly, the trend shows no
signs of slowing down. Because in
hallways across America, students
like Valentina clamor to class, trying to chase their dream, carrying
those heavy backpacks, conditioning themselves for the right to
sign their name, click that button,
and carry that inescapable burden
which is to come.
Sidebars/Graphics
Statistics about College
Education and Student Debt
20 million Americans attend college each year, amounting to about
11.5 million full-time equivalents.
(Chronicle of Higher Education)
and Employers)
48% of employed U.S. college
graduates are in jobs require less
than a college education. (Center
for College Affordability and
Productivity)
About 60% of those attending
college annually (12 million) borrow
to cover costs. (Chronicle of Higher
Education)
Outstanding student loan debt in
the U.S. is about $1 trillion, which
is more than U.S. credit card debt
and second only to mortgage debt.
(Consumer Finance Protection
Bureau)
Outstanding student loan debt
nearly tripled from 2004 to 2012.
(Federal Reserve Bank of New
York)
The average student loan
balance is $24,301, as of 2012.
(Federal Reserve Board of New
York)
19% of U.S. households in 2012
owe student debt—double the percentage in 1992. (Pew Research
Center)
Nearly one-third of the borrowers
in repayment are delinquent on student debt. (Federal Reserve Bank
of New York)
Annual average tuition for a year
at a university in the U.S. has risen
68% over the last ten years; the
current average is $7,792 per year.
(College Board)
Average starting salary for 2012
college graduates is $44,482.
(National Association of Colleges
Devout and Coming Out
One man’s quest to reconcile his faith and his sexuality
By Kiva Navarro
The first kiss should be feverish.
It should have driving passion and
a dash of magic. But for Javier
Fuentes, it didn’t.
In 1996, Javier was seventeen
years old and no stranger to the
bar inside the Bombay Bicycle
Club in El Paso, Texas. His sister, a
server there, introduced him to the
bartender. They came to know one
another through casual conversations. They inquired. They joked.
They drank. They mingled like most
new acquaintances do.
One casual day, as Javier left for
the bathroom the bartender followed suit. Just as Javier reached
for the restroom door, a strange
pair of lips took him aback.
The kiss was quick, and for
Javier it felt foreign—masculine.
Javier did not know how fast his
hands could shove someone’s
chest until that very moment.
“Dave, what the hell are you
doing?” he yelled at his bartender
friend.
Startled and apologetic, Dave
stepped back.
“Look man, I respect your
lifestyle, but I am not gay!” Javier
hurled.
Dave sank against the wall in
embarrassment. Javier stormed
outside. It was their last encounter
for months.
That day, not only did Javier
leave behind the comfort of friendly
bar conversations and casual
drinks, he also left behind the
certainty of his sexuality and his
religion.
********
Javier loves everything about
Catholicism. For him it brings a true
sense of tradition. It brings fond
memories of his grandma close
to his heart. It brings him a sense
of home and a sense of traditional
Mexican culture.
He admires the magnificent
décor of Catholic Churches. He
dazzles at the beauty of large
religious statues, tall windows and
anointed crucifixes. He gasps at
the overwhelming feeling of holiness that the upscale walls contain.
He loves the feeling he has when
he prays inside church. It’s as if he
is talking to God directly—a real
spirit-to-spirit encounter.
*****
In 1995, El Paso, like most
of America was no gay haven .
The predominantly Mexican city
along the Rio Grande was rich in
machismo. Open homosexuality
incited taunts, curses, and often—
physical assaults. Sixteen-year-old
Javier knew. He knew it well. After
all, he had been a jerk, an insulter,
a taunter himself.
His father was out the family picture when Javier was three and his
sister eleven. As the only male in
his Catholic family, Javier knew that
he was supposed to be the man
of the house but wondered how he
could do it if he were a gay man.
If Javier came out to his family, he knew that his mom would
be disappointed, but hoped she
would not take the blame. He knew
that life in general might turn into a
traumatic experience. And he knew
that his closest friends, the ones
who helped him insult other gays,
would never accept it .
What Javier did not know was,
why, from the ages of twelve to
eighteen, he developed crushes on
boys his age. He did not know if it
was normal—just a part of growing
up and being curious. He did not
even know if he was gay—and if
he was gay, he did not know how
his beloved church would react. He
did not know what his priest would
tell him after confession, or if he
would even confess to his priest.
Most of all, Javier did not know
how God would see him as a gay
man. What worried him most was
that he did not know if being gay
meant giving up his most prized
possession—the Catholic Faith.
********
In the spring of ‘97 came the
second kiss. His sister graduated
from the University of Texas at El
Paso and a celebration followed
at the Fuentes’ home. At the party,
Javier once again encountered
Dave the bartender, one of several
gays his sister invited. When Javier
saw Dave, he was neither angry,
nor confused. In the time after
Javier cut off communication from
him, Javier struggled with his feelings toward males, but the night
of the party, he finally accepted
the truth that he did not want to
acknowledge.
After a few drinks, Dave and
Javier talked privately.
“Look man, I am really sorry about
what happened. I really didn’t
mean to disrespect you,” Dave
said.
Javier stared at him, then kissed
him. This time it felt right. This time
Javier was not confused. This time,
Javier knew that he was gay too.
Before the party was over, Javier
pulled his mother into her bedroom. He could not let any more
time pass by without telling her the
truth.
“Mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Que tienes, mijo (what’s wrong,
son)?” He sat her down.
“Mom,” he paused, “I’m gay.”
Another pause, “I like boys.”
She sat quietly and looked him in
the eyes.
“Well…I’m glad you can be honest
with yourself.”
Tears slowly fell down her cheeks.
“Is it my fault?” She sobbed. “Is
it because there is no male role
model?”
“No mom, you taught me more
than a lot of fathers teach their
sons.”
“Was it the midnight runs to WalMart and all the remodeling we
did? The bathroom remodel—we
looked at curtains and patterns…”
He laughed. “No, mom.”
Silence.
“Are you disappointed? Do you
hate me?”
“Nooo, mijo…te quiero mas (son…I
love you more ). You are going
to face so much hate and prejudice with your lifestyle. I have to
make up for all of that. Te voy a
querer mas (I am going to love you
more).”
Eventually, Javier shared the news
with his best friends, but they
reacted as he feared they would—
with a knife in his back. In a town
like El Paso, news traveled fast and
hard. Javier’s house was egged.
People called him faggot. He felt
rejected by the whole neighborhood. He felt as if he was indeed
living a lie and wondered once
again—how did God see him?
To avoid more harassment, Javier
fell off the grid—secluded from
everyone, except his family. He
even stayed away from his beloved
church.
*****
The decision to move to Austin
was a healthy one for twenty-yearold Javier. His sister had already
moved there in November 1999,
and she encouraged him to leave
El Paso. In October 2000, Javier
arrived in Austin. He found a stable
job at Goodwill Industries, where
he met new people. He instantly
fell in love with the city. With fresh
air to breathe and time to heal from
the hurt he left in El Paso, Javier
felt the need to thank God.
His life was good again. He had
friends, a support system, and
a blessed family. He yearned to
make peace with God, because
he felt guilty for leaving his faith
and church for so long. After many
searches and trial runs, Javier
found a new home at St. Ignatius
Martyr Catholic Church. It was here
that he met Father Joe, and it was
Father Joe who forever changed
Javier’s life.
During his four-year absence
from church, Javier felt that even
though he abandoned God, not
once had God abandoned him.
Javier decided it was time to go
to confession. Not only was this his
first encounter with Father Joe, but
it was also the first time Javier confessed to being gay to any priest.
He was terrified. But when the time
came, Father Joe welcomed Javier
with an open heart.
“We are all God’s children,” he
said. “There is no sin greater than
the other. If you find a partner that
you can love, then be committed...
be faithful. It is the act of adultery…
the act of sex before marriage that
is wrong, but if you love someone,
then love them.”
Javier was overcome with
surprise. He suddenly felt valued,
worthy, welcome. Father Joe lifted
Javier’s insecurities, including his
unease with the church. In fact,
Father Joe’s guidance helped
Javier fall in love with Catholicism
again.
The single, strongest impression
occurred during the Eucharist service one day. Javier stood with his
head bowed in prayer and just as
he looked up, Father Joe motioned
for Javier to take part in the
Eucharist. Javier pointed to himself, looked around, and mouthed,
“Me?”
Father Joe nodded yes. Javier
responded with a wrinkle in his
forehead and a forward tilt of the
head, “I’m gay.”
Father Joe motioned him forward
again and when they met face to
face, Father Joe lovingly said, “You
are still worthy.”
Side Bar A
“Homosexual acts… are contrary to the natural law. They close
the sexual act to the gift of life”
(Catechism of the Catholic Church,
2357).
“The number of men and women
who have deep-seated homosexual tendencies is not negligible…
They must be accepted with
respect, compassion, and sensitivity” (Catechism of the Catholic
Church, 2358).
“God does not love someone any
less simply because he or she is
homosexual. God’s love is always
and everywhere offered to those
who are open to receiving it”
(Always Our Children).
“With the help of God’s grace,
everyone is called to practice the
virtue of chastity in relationships”
(Always Our Children).
“The Church…(makes) the important distinction between [homosexual] behavior and a homosexual
orientation, which is not immoral in
itself” (Always Our Children).
“Though at times you may feel
discouraged, hurt, or angry, do not
walk away from your families, from
the Christian community, from all
those who love you” (Always Our
Children).
“54% of Catholic voters support
same-sex marriage, compared to
47% of American voters” (Quinton
University Poll)
“In Catholic belief, ‘marriage is a
faithful, exclusive and lifelong union
between one man and one woman,
joined as husband and wife in an
intimate partnership of life and
love,’ the 47-bishop committee said
in a statement released Sept. 10”
(Catholic News Service).
SIDEBAR B
Priest to Catholic Gays
Father Peter Walsh, the director
of Campus Ministry at St. Edward’s
University, previously served as
parochial vicar at St. John the
Evangelist Catholic Church in
Viera, Florida, for one year. Before
that, he spent five years in campus ministry at Yale University,
serving as assistant chaplain at
Saint Thomas More, the Catholic
Chapel and Center at Yale.
instruction from the Catechism of
the Catholic Church: “Homosexual
persons are called to chastity”
(2359), but notes that it is important to remember that all persons
are called to chastity, not just
homosexuals. People live out chastity differently according to their
state in life—married or single.
Father Walsh urges gays to
persevere: “Don’t go. Stay with
it—with your own practice of
Catholicism, with its traditions and
celebrations. We need you in the
Church. Stay.”
“Don’t give up,” he adds. “It gets
better. Find comfort and support
wherever it is—in your faith, spiritual life, or other resources. And
get rid of people who persecute
you—sometimes that might include
friends. Christ was rejected too, so
use Him as a model. And remember that we are always God’s
children.”
Like all Catholic priests, Father
Walsh encourages congregation
members to live a life of spiritual
growth, chastity, and healthy
decisions.
“Who you are and what you
do are different, “ he says. “We
cannot change orientation, but we
can counsel people to make good
choices with their sexuality.”
Father Walsh refers to the
Damaged
Anonymous
Dearest Wolfgang,
It’s been a very long time since
we’ve spoken. We used to speak
everyday when I had just moved to
Texas. Probably one of the hardest
days of my life, leaving you behind.
Everything was a restart. New
friends, new house, new school,
new faces. Everything was new.
Stockton beach
the stronger one. Despite the pain,
you never gave up. You changed
my life. That’s why I gave you that
pin. Because you were the one that
gave me hope.
Not me? I still can’t fathom the
idea. The thought of you, the strongest woman I know, contemplating
suicide. And me, the insecure introvert, saving you from the decision
to end your life.
I’m sure it was hard for you to
adjust to it all. Especially since high
school wasn’t the best for you at
Oz. You would tell me stories about
how these bitches would continue
to hassle you.
How? I don’t think I’ve ever cried
so much. I suppose that’s it, isn’t
it? Both you and I are drawn to
each other’s pain. Our friendship
depends on it. We seek to save
each other, regardless of time.
Every moment that caused you
pain, I wanted to be there to save
you. I wanted to be a super lady.
You know? The ones in the comics that would dress in super tight
costumes and have no fear.
Wolfgang, it’s been a while. I
miss you.
I just wanted to take all your pain
away. The pain that caused you so
much. The pain that caused you
to contemplate suicide. The pain
that caused you to cut, to break,
to scream. The pain that took your
trust. Your passionate love. Your
vibrant soul. That pain.
Yours,
P.
Daniel Haverty
The water looked like a maelstrom of micro rainbows and arced splashes,
and yet there were patches of open water, still and
shinning like glass.
Visions of celestial hail storms with crimson sashes.
The scent of lilac permeates the salty air.
Oceans transcend into rivers that refract the sky
with cloudy patches.
A hum of voices eclipses the silence.
Light penetrates the mirror surface with prismatic
rods and crystal lashes.
These visions of buried thought are apparent to
those without despair
Fading
Annonymous
He once said his favorite color was freckle.
That was a long time ago.
And now it’s hard for him to remember
How the dots connect
Around my face
On my arms
In my mind.
He hardly ever looks my way.
I wanted to be there to save you.
Be there for you when you needed
me. Speak with you when you were
torn apart. But no. I was pulled
from that all. To this day, I still can’t
believe you thought I saved you. I
mean that’s all I ever wanted to do.
But to truly save you? That’s
hard to believe. You were always
Wendell Mayes
Wendell Mayes
Photo Essay
Photo Essay
Temporary holder for content jumps.
(Continued from 5)
sive male. And No, I’m not talking
about any S&M crap, just that
the guy does not have much of a
backbone. He may not act like this
around other people, but definitely
around her. Because of this, she
doesn’t see him as a boyfriend
contender, and in her mind, will
most likely categorize him as a
moodle.
There are generally two types
of owners, Alpha Females and
Queen Bees. The Alpha Female is
the type of girl that can be assertive. This is normally the girl you
see hanging out with guys. Most
of those guys are her moodles. It
is important to remember that she
is not dominant over all males, just
her moodles.
The Queen Bee, on the other
hand, is the lead bitch of a clique
of girls. She is the center of attention and likes it that way. Her
moodles are her playthings and
she likes to use them to get what
she wants. Queen Bees are usually
more manipulative in this way than
Alpha Females.
All my female readers will get
this simile. The guy of this story is
like a little dirty puppy that shows
up on your front porch in the middle of a rainstorm. Of course, the
puppy is too cute to completely
ignore, so you take it in.
Out of the kindness of your
heart, you feed it, give it some
water, and provide it with shelter.
Once the rain has passed, you
send it on its way so that it can
return to its family. However, the
pup keeps coming back, won’t
leave you alone, and eventually
gets the nerve to try and hump
your leg. This is the point in time
when the moodle turns into a
stalker, or the not-so-affectionately-named drooler.
Meet Sam, the not-so-manly
man. And meet Emma, a sweet
girl with a dormant alpha personality. Sam thinks he is in love with
Emma. The poor boy has no clue
that Emma has no interest in him
and only sees him as a friend. He
has been moodled.
Meet Sam, the not-so-manly
man. And meet Emma, a sweet
girl with a dormant alpha personality. Sam thinks he is in love with
Emma. The poor boy has no clue
that Emma has no interest in him
and only sees him as a friend. He
has been moodled.
Thoughts of a Moodled Man
Well, that is complicated, and
rather ineffectual. For if you suspect that you have been turned
into a moodle, then you most certainly have been. It is not a mere
suspicion that you happen to be
a moodle, it is confirmation by the
simple fact that you are claimed in
absentia by one or more women
to have the above-mentioned
characteristics.
You are too comfy around her,
while at the same time you know
there is a reason to deny that you
are more than just affectionate
toward her. This is a critical point.
This is when you think she has feelings for you, but in fact, there are
none save in your own imagination. If you have no feelings for the
woman, other than platonic, then
you may be able to make a case
against your own moodledom.
Being theoretically moodled
is not enough. You have to be
confirmed as a moodle by more
than one associate, as well as
one non-associate. This is highly
unlikely, and so you are ostensibly at a much lower risk of being
a moodle than many of your girl
friends will lead you to believe.
For instance, if you’re the puppy
in a rainstorm, you are highly susceptible to moodilation, and this
may lead to a situation of being
brought in under the roof by the
scent of a woman whose home has
too many characteristics of your
own. You feel at home immediately
after being led in on a leash, or led
in on the mere words of temptation.
It is not that these temptations
will actually amount to anything,
but your dog-slobbering brain
leads you to the conclusion that
you have a chance at anything
bigger and more substantial than
a hug. You have only met her once
or twice, yet think of her constantly
in your free time, and it is worse
after a simple short-term exposure,
similar to smoking pot.
The only way I can tell you this,
is because I am a moodle, having
been moodled on probably more
than one occasion. There was one
instance that I am certain of, but
I would deny all other possible
occasions. You are officially a moodle if you
are on a virtual leash, yet still are
not a drooler. Being a drooler is an
impending disaster, because most
women observe your weaknesses
and conclude that you are useless.
This is a rough spot to be in.
At least I’m only a moodle.
(Continued from 21)
questions than it answered about
the earlier parts of the process.
What it did was fuel further interest
in the cotton fields themselves and
the conditions under which the
cotton is produced. The domestic
processing mills and the foreign
textile factories and the conditions
under which the worker’s operate.
Hundreds of people in a whole
host of countries have handled
our t-shirts before a designer or
printer like Donovan even gets his
hands on it. Thousands of gallons
of water are used in the production,
dozens of chemicals are used to
treat, wash, bleach and then color
them before they are assembled in
that familiar (and for me, comforting) form. Then, and only then, can
someone affix that super-hip catch
phrase so that I can put it on a
hanger and place it delicately into
my closet.
I started out just curious to
see where my shirts began, but
stumbled onto an enormous and
complicated industry that spans
the entire world. I’m going to dig
further and write more. Start at the
beginning, see what happens next.
dozens of chemicals are used to
treat, wash, bleach and then color
them before they are assembled in
that familiar (and for me, comforting) form. Then, and only then, can
someone affix that super-hip catch
phrase so that I can put it on a
hanger and place it delicately into
my closet.
I started out just curious to
see where my shirts began, but
stumbled onto an enormous and
complicated industry that spans
the entire world. I’m going to dig
further and write more. Start at the
beginning, see what happens next.
What it did was fuel further interest
in the cotton fields themselves and
the conditions under which the
cotton is produced. The domestic
processing mills and the foreign
textile factories and the conditions
under which the worker’s operate.
Hundreds of people in a whole
host of countries have handled
our t-shirts before a designer or
printer like Donovan even gets his
hands on it. Thousands of gallons
of water are used in the production,

SOCIAL ISSUES - St. Edwards University Sites

Transcription

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