More than half of Latinas get pregnant before they are 20.
There are a laundry list of reasons for this: the Latin population is generally poorer, less educated, more religious, and carries different social values than the rest of American society. These reasons are not excuses, but the cause of the high pregnancy rate (82 per 1,000 Latin teens give birth between 15-19). Latin culture is extremely macho. In many cases the concern with appearing macho overrides anything else, including rational thought. It's the real life version of Dave Chapelle's "Keeping it Real" sketches. The lack of education is a cycle - 69% of Latina teen mothers drop out of high school, which in turn means they can't support their multiple children, which in turn grow up poor and also do poorly in school (the single largest indicator of a student's success is their socio-economic status). A highly religious culture means students are less likely to use contraception and even less likely to get an abortion. And because Latin culture places more value on family than anything else, including education, there is always the safety net to fall back on when dropping out of school, making the loss of education seem less important in the immediate, but of course that has enormous long term consequences. This pattern has been seen before - when the Irish came over, they were cranking out babies as fast as their Catholic lust would allow. But that was 200 years ago - this is no longer an agricultural society. You must have an education in order get by in this world, and the current cycle of Latin teen pregnancy is troublesome because it makes up such a significant portion of the population. Of the 45 million Latinos in the U.S., barely half have a high school diploma. In 2025, Latinos will make up a quarter of the population - will they be a prepared?
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Jab #1
Tuesday President Obama announced he was raising the national mileage standards to an average 35.5 mpg by 2016, with a required 5% increase each year leading up to 2016. This is the same law that was already in place, but just moving the deadline up 4 years. Automakers obviously fought the changes, saying among other things that it would increase the initial cost of a vehicle by $1300. Here's the thing: right now, I am driving a car that gets 36 mpg highway, 33 road. It's 8 years old. THE AUTO INDUSTRY ALREADY MAKES CARS THAT MEET THIS STANDARD. THAT'S NOT THE PROBLEM. The damn problem is that no one will buy a car that gets good gas mileage!! My car has a V4 engine. It does not accelerate very well. It's small. There's not a DVD player installed. It's gas tank is barely 13 gallons. BUT - I've never gotten a speeding ticket. I've never dangerously cut someone off. I've never tailgated someone, or blocked someone's view of the road. I've never ran a red light. I've never been in an accident. I've never paid more than $50 to fill up my tank, even last summer. I've never done these dangerous, wasteful things mostly because my car CAN'T do those things. And it doesn't need to! Nobody needs a 300 horsepower engine. The problem isn't that we don't have the technology, it's that we don't have the will to live greener, be thriftier, and be more aware of our place in the world.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Dropping the Hammer
On Wednesday I told my first group of students that I was leaving over the summer. Even though I received my non-renewal notice in March, I figured there was no point in letting the students know. What would that accomplish? If anything, I figured it'd make teaching more difficult. So I dodged their questions, always answering in a vague and noncommittal ways. But Wednesday after school was one of the final meetings for the FCC (Fontana Conversation Club), the paper recycling club I had re-purposed from its original bland "Science Club". Started in December with a trip to see Bill Nye give an environmental talk, the club had quickly grown to 24 members. Requirements were simple: to be in the club you had to help collect and recycle paper. This involved customizing a collection box using construction paper, glue, and paint, and getting another teacher to agree to keep it in their room and fill it. Once a week these boxes were collected, the paper sorted into white, mixed, and newspaper, and then I would haul it to the recycling center about a mile away where our club earned a few dollars (they paid by the ton - a typical load for us weighed between 60 - 100 pounds).
A slow start eventually grew into having recycling boxes in over 50 classrooms, raising enough money to throw a pizza party, plant and maintain two new trees on campus for Earth Day, and purchase custom made t-shirts. My trips to the recycling center earned me a VIP card there - I'm not quite sure what that means, but when the recycling center recognizes your small Corolla showing up three times a week amid tractor trailers and pick-up trucks hauling cardboard, you're making an impression. Typical loads now usually run between 100 - 200 pounds, sinking the frame of my car as we load it up. As of Friday we had recycling 2,250 pounds of paper.
So it was with some anxiety that I told this group of hard working students that I wouldn't be around next year to help the club continue its rapid growth. Many of these students I had last year as freshman, and now they were working with me outside of school as sophomores. But despite the history there I was still taken aback by the strength of their reaction. The guys were pissed, but the reactions of the two girls who played the biggest role in the club's growth, having been there from Day One, struck me the hardest. They both cried - one had to leave the room. It was then that I realized that a teacher isn't just an academic instructor, or even a role model for students. A good teacher helps students become better all-around individuals, not just in the classroom. And in doing so you become looked up to - which is really weird to think about, if you know me - and being someone that the students can look up to I now realize is very important to me. And now I feel as if I'm abondoning them at this relatively vulernable time in their lives.
This weighed heavily on me. So much so that I bailed out on a planned baseball game the next day. Instead of calling in sick and spending the day at an Angels game with another teacher, drinking beers and getting a tan, I found myself wanting to go back to school to be there for my students. The other teacher was understandably pissed - he had taken the day off in advance and I bailed around 6pm the night before. But what it came down to was a self-indulgent act or continuing my role as a teacher. And I found myself wanting to be the teacher much more than wanting to be self-indulgent.
Now when summer comes around, that'll be a different story...
A slow start eventually grew into having recycling boxes in over 50 classrooms, raising enough money to throw a pizza party, plant and maintain two new trees on campus for Earth Day, and purchase custom made t-shirts. My trips to the recycling center earned me a VIP card there - I'm not quite sure what that means, but when the recycling center recognizes your small Corolla showing up three times a week amid tractor trailers and pick-up trucks hauling cardboard, you're making an impression. Typical loads now usually run between 100 - 200 pounds, sinking the frame of my car as we load it up. As of Friday we had recycling 2,250 pounds of paper.
So it was with some anxiety that I told this group of hard working students that I wouldn't be around next year to help the club continue its rapid growth. Many of these students I had last year as freshman, and now they were working with me outside of school as sophomores. But despite the history there I was still taken aback by the strength of their reaction. The guys were pissed, but the reactions of the two girls who played the biggest role in the club's growth, having been there from Day One, struck me the hardest. They both cried - one had to leave the room. It was then that I realized that a teacher isn't just an academic instructor, or even a role model for students. A good teacher helps students become better all-around individuals, not just in the classroom. And in doing so you become looked up to - which is really weird to think about, if you know me - and being someone that the students can look up to I now realize is very important to me. And now I feel as if I'm abondoning them at this relatively vulernable time in their lives.
This weighed heavily on me. So much so that I bailed out on a planned baseball game the next day. Instead of calling in sick and spending the day at an Angels game with another teacher, drinking beers and getting a tan, I found myself wanting to go back to school to be there for my students. The other teacher was understandably pissed - he had taken the day off in advance and I bailed around 6pm the night before. But what it came down to was a self-indulgent act or continuing my role as a teacher. And I found myself wanting to be the teacher much more than wanting to be self-indulgent.
Now when summer comes around, that'll be a different story...
Thursday, May 7, 2009
I gotta get to bed!
Tendons creak and crack. Ligaments slide across muscle, kinking into cramps. The unexpected pain so sharp you yell, wanting to grab the wretched calf while fearing movement will aggravate it further. You bite off your cry and keep your teeth grit, arching your back until your crown is pressed into the couch. Ten, fifteen seconds later the muscle unwinds just the slightest amount and you breathe again. It'll be days before this pain retreats fully, but right now you're concerned about walking again. Time passes. Bending your toes back becomes a three-act play, maneuvering tiny muscles to extend the injured calf a millimeter at a time.
I would like to see the tide come in and go out again. I haven't been to the beach for a vacation in years. I want to plant myself in a low chair with an easy book and soak up a morning and afternoon on the sand. The ocean's slow march up and down the beach would be the only way to mark time. The endless soft sounds of the breakers banishing thought. Staring out at the sea, a blank landscape holding my attention for far longer than a television or movie, letting my mind float atop the ocean's depths... Getting so hot that you don't feel hot anymore. Feeling the physical pressure of the sun on you, washing out stress... The two glasses of ice water and an afternoon nap in preparation for a night of silly drinking with friends. Romping on the beach at night, stumbling through sand and surf. Crashing into the ocean chest deep and noticing the bioluminescent plankton that swirl around you, electrifying your every motion with an orchestra of living, glowing creatures. They flash and light up the dark water as I swirl my arms and legs, twisting and turning through the sea trying to excite all the life I can reach! At the beach, your own life is ironed out, pressed flat and clean by the depth of the ocean.
I would like to see the tide come in and go out again. I haven't been to the beach for a vacation in years. I want to plant myself in a low chair with an easy book and soak up a morning and afternoon on the sand. The ocean's slow march up and down the beach would be the only way to mark time. The endless soft sounds of the breakers banishing thought. Staring out at the sea, a blank landscape holding my attention for far longer than a television or movie, letting my mind float atop the ocean's depths... Getting so hot that you don't feel hot anymore. Feeling the physical pressure of the sun on you, washing out stress... The two glasses of ice water and an afternoon nap in preparation for a night of silly drinking with friends. Romping on the beach at night, stumbling through sand and surf. Crashing into the ocean chest deep and noticing the bioluminescent plankton that swirl around you, electrifying your every motion with an orchestra of living, glowing creatures. They flash and light up the dark water as I swirl my arms and legs, twisting and turning through the sea trying to excite all the life I can reach! At the beach, your own life is ironed out, pressed flat and clean by the depth of the ocean.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Listening to NPR on the Way Home
Today the first U.S. citizen died from the H1N1 virus, or swine flu. The 33-year-old teacher lived in Mercedes, Texas, a border town in the Rio Grande valley. Authorities were quick to calm fears, explaining that the person has several other medical conditions which made her susceptible. Soon enough, the initial panic over the swine flu subsided and the world shrugged it off as another pandemic false alarm, much like the bird flu and SARS before it.
But a virus is a beautiful thing. It exists in a strange limbo between life and death. As nothing more than DNA enclosed in a simple protein coat, a virus is incapable of surviving independent of a host. A virus cannot reproduce, it cannot actively seek out prey, and it is so vulnerable to changes in the environment it is the rare virus that can maintain it's physical integrity if exposed to air.
But its simplicity is what makes it so dangerous. Once inside a host cell, it replicates itself extraordinarily quickly, overwhelming the cell until it literally bursts from its sudden lethal pregnancy of new viruses. This swarm attack is very effective. The larger the swarm and faster the replication, the more damage is done to the host organism. If the host organism cannot find the correct antibodies or medicine in time, the virus will have reached a "critical mass" of sorts, where it will be able to destroy enough of the host's cells so as to kill the host.
If that weren't enough, the virus' simplicity is a double-edged sword: because it has no cellular membrane or nucleus, and its DNA is often exposed, the virus can undergo dozens of mutations as its replicates millions of times in a few days' time. HIV is incurable largely because of this. It also explains why there is no cure for the common cold, although that is typically bacterial.
So as the summer of 2009 drags on, several more people die from the H1N1 virus. This goes largely unreported. The world views swine flu as no worse than the regular flu, and while its unfortunate that a few have died, well, people die from the flu all the time. In March of 2009, the swine flu became transmissible by human-to-human contact, instead of swine-to-human. In May 2009, a Canadian farmer re-transmitted the virus back to his herd of swine. Other reverse transmissions occurred: in June, a Mexican cattle rancher and a New Zealand shepard infected their respective stocks; in August, a U.S. farmer infected a poultry farm.
As the H1N1 virus was passed back and forth, it continously mutated. Being exposed to a variety of organisms, with different but similar enough immune systems, encouraged the evolution of several strains. When these virus strains once again made the leap to humans, the results were quite different than earlier. In the winter of 2009, as the typical flu season rolled around, governments around the world were reporting huge increases in flu outbreaks. Almost before the numbers could be processed, people began dying. There wasn't anything grotesque to these deaths, like the pus-filled boils of the plauge or the spontaenous hemorraghing of Ebola. Rather, people simply exhibited the typical flu symptoms - fever, chills, headaches, coughing, sneezing - but at the end of the week, instead of recovering, they simply died. The virus overcame their body much too quickly for medicine or their immune systems to respond.
Chaos ensued. People no longer trusted hospitals, governments, doctors, or each other. The slow onset of the flu meant individuals were contagious for days before they knew they were sick. Communities saw deaths occur in waves. The first infected group would unwittingly pass their viruses onto others. When that group died, the second group followed a predictable 5-7 days later. The reaper's scythe swung in back and forth over the world's population centers once a week.
They fled the cities. Urban areas were deserted as survivors sought to avoid crowds, where the virus could be transmitted effectively. Small country hamlets were under assualt by caravans of SUVs and imperious or panicked city-dwellers needing sanctuary, a place to hide. But inevitably one flu carrier would get in, often unknowingly a carrier, and another commuity would fall before Death's touch. Some small towns barricaded the roads leading in, guarding their health by whatever means necessary.
The virus, of course, didn't care. Its simple existence centered soley on replicating itself. There was no consciousness, no intent. When a host died, the viruses could not survive. Eventually, the population of humans became so spread out and isolated that the virus could not reach another host before it disintengrated. Humans, having reached a population critical mass, exploded. The population crash in fact insured their continued survival. Resources were abundant again. Earth, having the cancerous tumor of humanity excised, began recovering its ecosystems. Birds sang, rabbits hopped through a meadow. A bee buzzed lazily. Other pastoral images. Adam and Eve, Garden of Eden type thing going on. Maybe the human population returns but shuns clothing as a divisive symbol that encourages hate of the other! The whole human population becomes nudist! Ah, I like you better when you're naked anyway.
But a virus is a beautiful thing. It exists in a strange limbo between life and death. As nothing more than DNA enclosed in a simple protein coat, a virus is incapable of surviving independent of a host. A virus cannot reproduce, it cannot actively seek out prey, and it is so vulnerable to changes in the environment it is the rare virus that can maintain it's physical integrity if exposed to air.
But its simplicity is what makes it so dangerous. Once inside a host cell, it replicates itself extraordinarily quickly, overwhelming the cell until it literally bursts from its sudden lethal pregnancy of new viruses. This swarm attack is very effective. The larger the swarm and faster the replication, the more damage is done to the host organism. If the host organism cannot find the correct antibodies or medicine in time, the virus will have reached a "critical mass" of sorts, where it will be able to destroy enough of the host's cells so as to kill the host.
If that weren't enough, the virus' simplicity is a double-edged sword: because it has no cellular membrane or nucleus, and its DNA is often exposed, the virus can undergo dozens of mutations as its replicates millions of times in a few days' time. HIV is incurable largely because of this. It also explains why there is no cure for the common cold, although that is typically bacterial.
So as the summer of 2009 drags on, several more people die from the H1N1 virus. This goes largely unreported. The world views swine flu as no worse than the regular flu, and while its unfortunate that a few have died, well, people die from the flu all the time. In March of 2009, the swine flu became transmissible by human-to-human contact, instead of swine-to-human. In May 2009, a Canadian farmer re-transmitted the virus back to his herd of swine. Other reverse transmissions occurred: in June, a Mexican cattle rancher and a New Zealand shepard infected their respective stocks; in August, a U.S. farmer infected a poultry farm.
As the H1N1 virus was passed back and forth, it continously mutated. Being exposed to a variety of organisms, with different but similar enough immune systems, encouraged the evolution of several strains. When these virus strains once again made the leap to humans, the results were quite different than earlier. In the winter of 2009, as the typical flu season rolled around, governments around the world were reporting huge increases in flu outbreaks. Almost before the numbers could be processed, people began dying. There wasn't anything grotesque to these deaths, like the pus-filled boils of the plauge or the spontaenous hemorraghing of Ebola. Rather, people simply exhibited the typical flu symptoms - fever, chills, headaches, coughing, sneezing - but at the end of the week, instead of recovering, they simply died. The virus overcame their body much too quickly for medicine or their immune systems to respond.
Chaos ensued. People no longer trusted hospitals, governments, doctors, or each other. The slow onset of the flu meant individuals were contagious for days before they knew they were sick. Communities saw deaths occur in waves. The first infected group would unwittingly pass their viruses onto others. When that group died, the second group followed a predictable 5-7 days later. The reaper's scythe swung in back and forth over the world's population centers once a week.
They fled the cities. Urban areas were deserted as survivors sought to avoid crowds, where the virus could be transmitted effectively. Small country hamlets were under assualt by caravans of SUVs and imperious or panicked city-dwellers needing sanctuary, a place to hide. But inevitably one flu carrier would get in, often unknowingly a carrier, and another commuity would fall before Death's touch. Some small towns barricaded the roads leading in, guarding their health by whatever means necessary.
The virus, of course, didn't care. Its simple existence centered soley on replicating itself. There was no consciousness, no intent. When a host died, the viruses could not survive. Eventually, the population of humans became so spread out and isolated that the virus could not reach another host before it disintengrated. Humans, having reached a population critical mass, exploded. The population crash in fact insured their continued survival. Resources were abundant again. Earth, having the cancerous tumor of humanity excised, began recovering its ecosystems. Birds sang, rabbits hopped through a meadow. A bee buzzed lazily. Other pastoral images. Adam and Eve, Garden of Eden type thing going on. Maybe the human population returns but shuns clothing as a divisive symbol that encourages hate of the other! The whole human population becomes nudist! Ah, I like you better when you're naked anyway.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
A Few Sentences
Treading through the hallway, almost awake, she trips slowly over the undulating floor. Pitching forward softly, she breathes out to slow her descent, resting her hands and forehead gently among the carpeted waves. Alas, to be at last down here, knowing rising again is not needed. She lies there, just enjoying the movement, because there is nowhere that needs to be moved towards. Not tonight. The ocean kneads her body, stretching her like dough over a dozen baker's fists, coated in flour and pushing out the original forms and releasing the stress within. The intended form is free to exist now, drenched over her present and soaking, slowly, seeping into the future.
Full Circle
My first month in California I lived by myself in a spartan one bedroom apartment. Because I drove from Atlanta to Riverside, I only brought what I could fit in a 1991 Honda Accord, which amounts to a few boxes of clothes, some pots and pans (but no dishes or silverware), a TV, and a cat. Because I didn't have a job yet, I was very concerned about money. I ate out of Tupperware, leeched internet access from the rental office, and didn't hook up my cable. I was so frugal that I didn't even buy a bed, instead spending what was at the time an exorbitant $30 on an air mattress from K-Mart.
The cat I brought with me is a very loyal, and very tailless, breed called a Manx. This cat and I had been together for several years in Atlanta before I shanghaied the poor thing across the county. Being very alone and in a new place, the cat would follow me closely around the small apartment, even waiting next to the tub while I showered. And when I would go to bed on the air mattress, the cat would plop herself on my chest!
Well, one morning I awoke to find my ass touching the ground through the mattress. It being early, and there being a severe lack of caffeine in my system, I found this perplexing. My air mattress was, well, squishy. It felt like I was on an under-filled water bed. Before going back to bed that night I blew the thing back up, waited for the familiar weight to settle on me, and drifted off. But the next morning, there I was, being uncomfortably unsupported. It actually took me a whole other day and night to figure out what was going on - the damn cat's claws had poked a small hole somewhere in the mattress, and over the night the air would leak out, slowly contorting my bed and my back.
Well after that I began sleeping the second-hand couch I'd picked up. For an entire month I would settle down onto the couch, never thinking of a mattress because it existed outside my "price range" of single purchases. Eventually I did bite that bullet, and that bed is still around today.
The reason I'm telling this story is that now, at the end of my time in California (it feels great to say that!), I've just spent another month sleeping on a couch. Crashing on couches are the bookends of my two-and-a-half year trial out here. With one more month left before I leave, I am back to living in a spartan one bedroom apartment, leaving the way I came in. Over the next few weeks I'll be selling the remaining pieces of furniture, including that mattress and a second-hand couch. I'm shedding the remnants of my time here. When I return to Atlanta, the first thing I'll buy is a good bed.
The cat I brought with me is a very loyal, and very tailless, breed called a Manx. This cat and I had been together for several years in Atlanta before I shanghaied the poor thing across the county. Being very alone and in a new place, the cat would follow me closely around the small apartment, even waiting next to the tub while I showered. And when I would go to bed on the air mattress, the cat would plop herself on my chest!
Well, one morning I awoke to find my ass touching the ground through the mattress. It being early, and there being a severe lack of caffeine in my system, I found this perplexing. My air mattress was, well, squishy. It felt like I was on an under-filled water bed. Before going back to bed that night I blew the thing back up, waited for the familiar weight to settle on me, and drifted off. But the next morning, there I was, being uncomfortably unsupported. It actually took me a whole other day and night to figure out what was going on - the damn cat's claws had poked a small hole somewhere in the mattress, and over the night the air would leak out, slowly contorting my bed and my back.
Well after that I began sleeping the second-hand couch I'd picked up. For an entire month I would settle down onto the couch, never thinking of a mattress because it existed outside my "price range" of single purchases. Eventually I did bite that bullet, and that bed is still around today.
The reason I'm telling this story is that now, at the end of my time in California (it feels great to say that!), I've just spent another month sleeping on a couch. Crashing on couches are the bookends of my two-and-a-half year trial out here. With one more month left before I leave, I am back to living in a spartan one bedroom apartment, leaving the way I came in. Over the next few weeks I'll be selling the remaining pieces of furniture, including that mattress and a second-hand couch. I'm shedding the remnants of my time here. When I return to Atlanta, the first thing I'll buy is a good bed.
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