Three weeks...

I have officially dubbed the next three weeks of my life my "Soul Searching weeks". I don't know much about soul searching, and I don't even know what I'm searching for so much, but it's time to find it.

I've never been "soul searching" in the official sense of the word before. I mean, sure, most people probably do something like soul searching at one time or another, but I don't think it's soul searching unless you call it that.

Why these three weeks? Well, it's three weeks off from classes and three weeks away from my new life at the Bend. I'll be travelling a bunch and seeing friends from most major periods of my life (Which, granted, are not that numerous considering I'm only 22) and seeing family.

Once I decided this and started mulling over it, I realized that sometimes when people go "soul searching" they go away... Like on a retreat, where they haul up alone in nature with a journal and some really profound book or something. My next three weeks are going to be pretty busy. So then I was thinking that maybe this past semester was really my soul searching. Can it be soul searching if you didn't know you were doing it at the time, but give it the label afterwards? I doubt it. And in any case, any soul searching this semester has left me with only a bunch of questions. That's why I need to go soul searching now, right?

I'll keep you updated on my soul searching throughout the break... Maybe I'll figure out what I'm searching for at the least (other than a tall dark and handsome, intelligent, older-than-me, eligible bachelor, that is).

Let the search begin!

My current research...

I think there's some misconceptions out there about what graduate students do. I don't really know why I think there's misconceptions; I just get the impression that most people think grad students sit around on their butts and read books and drink coffee... I just finished most of my finals and junk today, so I thought I'd let you know what projects I've been working on sociologically speaking. They all involve a whole ton of statistics... woohoo...

My advisor Michael (Emerson) and I are working on a project that looks at the causes of residential segregation (residential segregation being the vast majority of neighborhoods that are all black, or all white, or all Hispanic). A lot of times whites say they don't want to move into a black neighborhood not because of the racial composition, but because black neighborhoods tend to have higher crime or worse schools or something like it. We did a study that pulls apart these non-race factors from race, to see if the racial composition of a neighborhood really does have an effect (even though everyone claims it doesn't). We find that for whites, the higher percent black or Hispanic a neighborhood is, the less likely they are to say they'd buy a house there, regardless of whether schools are great and crime is low and home values are high.
On the flip side, some people say that racial segregation is perpetuated by minorities who want to live together. You know, blacks want to live with blacks, and Hispanics want to live with Hispanics. Our study looks at that, too, and finds that it's simply not true: blacks' and Hispanics' likelihood of buying homes doesn't change based on the racial composition of a neighborhood (unlike whites). Interesting, I think.

I just finished the first draft of a paper yesterday that looks at how the racial composition of a student's high school affects where he or she applies and goes to college. I find that for both black and Hispanic students, the higher the percent minority at their high school, the greater likelihood students will apply (and go) to colleges that are a higher percent minority. I don't know if they are avoiding predominantly white colleges or seeking out predominantly minority colleges, but that's what's going on. And it's controlling for a student's academic achievement and all sorts of other school and individual characteristics. (Sure, this seems like "duh!" but no one has actually shown this phenomenon with data before).

Today I'm working on statistics for a paper Michael is writing with a professor from University of California, Irvine. It looks at health outcomes for foreign born blacks versus American born blacks. (Did you know that America is bad for your health?) In particular, it looks at where these foreign born blacks come from, and it finds that blacks that come from all-black regions (i.e. Africa, the Caribbean) have better health outcomes than blacks from more white regions (i.e. Europe).

A paper I wrote earlier this semester looks at how first, second, and third generation Hispanics' morals and attitudes differ. (The first generation is foreign born Hispanic immigrants, the second generation have foreign born parents but were US born themselves, and third generation means having foreign born grandparents but US born parents). I looked at attitudes toward homosexuality and abortion. The basic finding is that there's no difference between the generations in moral beliefs (i.e. Homosexuality is morally unacceptable, or abortion is morally unacceptable). However, there's a huge difference in attitudes toward policy on these things. The second and third generation are much more likely to support gay rights or legalized abortion, even though they are just as likely to say those things are morally unacceptable.

One other project I'm about to start looks at how feminist attitudes differ by race. Black men tend to be much more conservative than white men in feminist attitudes, whereas black women tend to be much more liberal than white women. We're trying to figure out: why this difference?

Lastly, my big project I'm putting together looks at people we call "Sixth Americans". (we = Michael and I). Most Americans fall into one of the five big racial categories: whites, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and American Indians. Not only are most people one race physically, but most people also live in social worlds comprised of people only their race. People tend to live in neighborhoods with people their race, go to church with people of their race, go to school with people of their race, have friends almost entirely of their own race, be married to people of their own race... It's true for all the racial groups: most people just are in a social world that is almost entirely their own race. Unfortunately, tons of research shows that this segregation is what perpetuates racial inequality (for instance, differences by race in income, wealth, health outcomes, educational attainment, etc).
There is a small minority of Americans (we estimate 15% or less) who are different. These people are in diverse social worlds, including living in multiracial neighborhoods, sending their kids to integrated schools, have friends of many races, maybe even have family members of another race. We call these people "Sixth Americans" because they are living outside the social boundaries of the five big racial groups; even though they come from one race, their social lives are not contained by racial boundaries. If segregation perpetuates inequality, then perhaps Sixth Americans could hold a clue to dismantling inequality. For the beginning, I'm working on stuff that looks at how people become comfortable in multiracial worlds, why they prefer multiracial to uniracial worlds, how they differ from people in uniracial worlds, etc. This is going to be my master's thesis, most likely.

Well, I guess it's obvious that I'm up to my ears in research on race! I love it, and find it really interesting. My next entry I'll explain what "I'm working on research..." actually entails day to day.

My people WERE meant for this?

In July I wrote an entry about how white people just weren't meant to live at lattitudes like those of Texas. (See My people weren't meant for this). Well, now comes the hard truth: it's winter here, and if my people weren't meant for the scorching sun, it means we were meant for this. This = sub-freezing weather, snow, blistery wind...

If the snow just fell down from the sky, that would be fine. But snow in the Bend has a mind of its own. It likes to fly horizontal. Yes. Horizontal. It's windy like a bugger here, so instead of snow falling down on you, it flies right at you. That wouldn't matter, but when the flakes are big and a little ice-like, it feels like you're getting little paper cuts all over your face.

Next to where our printers are there are some big windows, at by these windows the snow flies straight up. It's in a corner of the building and somehow the air currents create a vaccuum updraft there, and so the snow constantly flies straight up. If I stood out there, instead of getting snow down my scarf, I would get snow up my nose. Interesting thought.

For some reason I think snow would be so much more tolerable if there were mountains. Then it's all majestic, and maybe the majesticness could help me overlook the wet jeans/ice on car/slippery walk to school/windburned cheeks aspects of the snow. Then again, I probably just think snow would be cooler in the mountains because I love the mountains, so anything there is better by association.

If one more person says to me, "But you grew up in Philadelphia! You should be used to the cold!" I might slap them. That's like saying, "But you grew up sleeping on a bed of nails! So what if now you are used to sleeping on a mattress? You should be used to sleeping on nails!" Come on, I obviously headed out ASAP to warmer climates. Life in flip flops for 10 months of the year ain't bad!

Sadly, the fact is that my people (aka the whites of the world) were designed for this weather exactly, right? The origins of us light skinned ones are north, north, and norther. I am a disgrace to my fair skinned ancestors. Then again, I'm probably a disgrace to my fair skinned contemporaries as well considering I 1-would prefer to see whites out of domination in the American government, 2-like to dance (to music other than techno), 3-don't aspire to live in Vanilla-ville, and 4-prefer pretty much any kind of Asian/Middle Eastern/Latin American food to any American or European food (The only African food I've tried is Ethiopian and Moroccan, but safe to say I be I would prefer it as well). Apparently all I've got going for my white-ness is my love of country music... and of course, my ability to tolerate snow IF there are majestic mountains around.

Grad school finals week

Well, I was going to blog yesterday, but I didn't. Thank goodness, too, since I was in the last 24 hours of writing one of my final papers. It was due at noon today. Yesterday I went to my professor's office around 2 to ask him some questions about my data. (Data that I had to run tons of analyses on, mind you. Like 100 steps worth... and I was on about #7 when I went to him).
"So, remind me when this paper is due, Valerie?"
"About noon tomorrow"
"That's what I thought, just checking."
=)

So people wonder what being a graduate student is like.

Blog-vent on blogging

I am facing a crisis in my blog life. What to blog on? My basic dilemma is that of audience. Every writer has to know who he's writing to, and that's my problem.

First, what do people want to know? I could blog about my life and friends here, since everyone who reads this (other than one person) is not at Notre Dame and knows very little of my life here. But do you care? And would that be interesting? I always aspired to having a blog that actually said something, not just was a narrative. So the question of audience here, is what does the far-away nature of my audience mean for my blog?

Second, there's the problem of the diversity of the audience and what I can write on. I've decided too many people read my blog. I don't talk about just Rice stuff, because not everyone reading is a Rice kid, and that would bore you all. I don't talk about my family, because my sister reads my blog. I dont talk about deep faith stuff like Dallas and David, because not all my blog readers are Christian so that would probably bore them. Or, conversely, I don't talk about deep faith stuff because some of my blog readers are Christian, and sometimes I prefer not talking with them about it. Thankfully only Steve from here at the Dame reads my blog, so I can vent about stupid things that set me off here, like militant Republicans and annoyingly oblivious classmates and just generally people who have never met a non-white person in their entire lives (and I know Steve won't mind, you're the coolest, Steve). But I can't shake the feeling that a blog is a one-sided conversation with everyone I know...

Third, the problem is that you all know me. Why is this a problem, you ask? Well, it's a lot easier writing to a nebulous audience than an actual audience who knows you. You can't lie, you can't make up wild pasts for yourself, you can't make yourself sound cool (because everyone reading knows the truth: you aren't). Of course, on the upside it's a lot more fun to write to an audience that knows you, and sometimes it's a lot easier because you can leave out a lot of explanations and people still understand.

Lastly, a non-audience related problem, and that is topics for blogging. There is only one time when blog topics come easily: when life is somewhat, but not very, busy. When life is very slow, it seems there is nothing to write about. When life is really busy, there are first too many possible topics to blog on, and second, no time to blog on any of them! My life has been too busy and changing in the past few months to keep up with the five thousand topics I want to blog on. I was looking through my entries the other day and there has been a marked decline in quality of writing, quality of topics, quality of blog in general in the past few months. That's saddening to me, pretty much just because I'm vain and self-centered and want my blog to be cool. That and I want to keep my loyal readers interested.

All this, and I still love my blog. I don't know if I would love it if no one read it or commented. What does that say? I don't really care, because you all are still reading it, so I don't have to think about that yet. But from one blogger to another, I'm sure you've all faced these problems. Glad to have had my first blog-vent on blogging. It makes me feel very blog-vain, but whatever.

Where do moods come from?

In my analyses of human interaction (AKA my own life and relationships), I have noticed that a good deal of conflict and trouble comes from people's moods. So sure, everyone is in a good mood sometimes and a bad mood other times. But then there are moody people. These are people who go back and forth between moods pretty often. A lot of times when someone is called "moody" it means their bad moods are particularly bad compared to their good moods. No one has called me moody lately, and I don't think people here even think I'm moody. But I'm frustrated with my own moodiness as of late.

I know I am sometimes moody, and I don't like it. I like consistency, and my moods are far from consistent. I feel bad for my friends when I get easily annoyed or pissed off because I'm in a bad mood. It's not fair to them, and I'm always afraid someday one of my bad moods will actually drive a friend away.

Plenty of my friends and people I know are moody also. Usually it seems people are wary of moody people; no one wants to say the wrong thing to a moody person when they are in a bad mood. Girls are often accused of being more moody than guys. My own experience says that's not necessarily the case, as I know PLENTY of moody guys.

So my question is... what makes people moody? And where do moods come from? Some people say that biology can affect your moods: obviously some people are crankier when they are tired or get moody when PMSing. So maybe that's part of it. Some people say you choose how you feel. When something bad happens, you can choose to be pissed off or mopey or to learn from it and move on. I somewhat agree with that. I think you do eventually make a choice of dwelling on something or moving on, but I don't think we choose our feelings most of the time.

It seems like usually when people talk about "moodiness" they are implying that it's a moody person's own fault that they are moody, that they could do something to change it. Here I see there are two sides to the moodiness coin: your emotions, and your outward expression of your emotions. Maybe we don't choose our emotions, but we choose how and how much we express them. Everyone seems to imply moody people need to learn to control and express their emotions better. There is probably some truth to that, but I have a problem with it too: it's not good to bottle up your emotions. Are we not telling moody people to be less honest when we tell them to express less? Or to bottle things up more? Ug.

So, my fundamental question: Why are some people moodier than other people? And is this choice (and so changeable) or not? So, therefore, can I somehow become less moody?
(This is NOT a rhetorical question, folks. I expect some thoughts from you all! =)

So different, so similar

One of my closest (if not the closest) friends here at the Dame is my roommate Bharti. I was very worried coming into graduate housing: given my horrible roommate experience my freshman year of college, three random roommates seemed like a gamble I was doomed to lose. But thank God it did not work out that way. Instead, I have three roommates who I love, and we all get along wonderfully. Bharti is one of these roommates.

Besides being close as friends, Bharti and I relate extremely well. It's almost uncanny how much we think alike and how similar our lives and interests are. We have had similar experiences, similar struggles, similar EVERYTHING it seems. I can't even begin to ennumerate the hundreds of similarities between us. We both love to dance and we both love to cook. We relate to our families in simliar ways. We have the same views on guys most of the time. We look for the same things in friends. We get excited about the same things and hurt by the same things. She has a group of friends in India just like my group of girls from Brown. The list goes on and on. We've known each other for only a few months, but we relate so well it's strangely like we've known each other for a very long time. Every day we are chatting and find new ways we think alike.

This is all fine, but what makes it most uncanny is how very different are lives are. Bharti is from Bombay, India. She just came to the United States 15 months ago for her program here at Notre Dame. I'm an American from Berwyn, Pennsylvania. She worked in business, and now is doing her MBA. I'm in sociology and would never want to set foot in corporate America. She's 27. I'm 22. She lived with her parents until she moved here last year (at age 26). I haven't lived at home since I left for college when I was 17. She's a not-very-religious Hindu. I'm a decently religious Christian. She's a youngest child. I'm an oldest child. In terms of upbringing and background, we are (quite literally) from opposite ends of the planet.

Circumstances say we shouldn't relate as well as we do. But I think I am more similar to Bharti than almost anyone I've ever met. So, how do two people from opposite sides of the world, from such different backgrounds end up so similar?

A brush with God?

My friend Steve (from here at the Dame) says that being at the beach is like an encounter with God for him. He just loves the ocean and the shore, and for him, being there is a spiritual experience. (Needless to say, moving to South Bend from LA has put a crimp in his style as far as being near the ocean). This has gotten me thinking about what experiences are like that for me.

A few Saturdays ago I had a brunch at my house with about 15 guests. I loved cooking and having people over, and I just really enjoyed the whole thing. When everyone left, I realized that there's a lot of diversity of people I have come to know. Of my guests, there were 4 white people, 4 black people, 4 Indian people, 1 Asian, and 1 Hispanic. People mingled and mixed, and made new friends. That night was a big Bhangra party (a kind of Indian dance) so the Indians were full force advertising while at brunch. Lo and behold, that evening several of our white guests and black guests showed up for the Bhangra. It was fabulous to see.

I am getting more settled with friends here. I've been pulled into a pre-established group of friends, more or less. What group? The second year Indian MBA students. (And by Indian, I do not mean Indian American, but came here from India a year or two ago for school). I got pulled in by my roommate Bharti. They feed me home cooked Indian food, they think it's hilarious I own Indian music, they invite me to parties for Indian holidays, and they are teaching me Hindi. I love it.

In any case, the point of this is that I have realized just how much I love being in diverse groups and having friends from other cultures. I just feel at home there. I can't quite put my finger on why completely, but I think part of it is that I love seeing boundaries crossed that aren't usually crossed in our society. For me, that situation is one where I can say I feel that "brush with God" that Steve talks about.

At the Bhangra party a few weeks ago, we danced Bhangra for three or four hours straight. (Bhangra is high energy dancing that involves a lot of jumping). I sat down for maybe five minutes total the entire evening. Afterwards my friends were like, "Don't you get tired? How can you dance without sitting the entire night?" "I don't know, I just don't realize I'm tired while I'm dancing."

Last night two of my Indian guy friends and I went to the Landing, a local club where they have salsa dancing Thursday nights. I have been to the Landing several times, and I love it. We danced salsa, merengue, and various other improvisations for several hours. My friend Prem said to me while we were dancing, "You never get tired. You should always come here with two guys, so they can take turns resting while you dance."

Dancing is my second brush. I sometimes feel I could dance forever without sitting down. I don't know what I like about it, but I always have. Pre-college, I had my dance classes I took and my classes I taught. People knew me as a dancer, even down to my screen name "danserval". In college, I danced some, but mostly I neglected my love for dancing. I don't know how that happened, but I am so happy I have gotten to dance so much more lately. Dancing is my second brush, a time when I feel I'm on a different plane or in a different world. Hans Bos said, "While I dance I cannot judge, I cannot hate, I cannot separate myself from life. I can only be joyful and whole. That is why I dance."

So diverse groups and dancing: the two things for me I can say are "spiritual experiences" or whatever you want to call them.
This blog entry was probably more for me than for you. And it's more personal "bare my soul" than I usually like to put on my blog. But hey, all I can say is that I don't think my sentiments are just my own personal quirks. I think they probably have a place in the larger human narrative. Surely, the world would be a better place if we all felt at home in diverse groups of people. I'm not sure how to tie dancing in as nicely, but I think we all would be a little better if we got to dance a little more.

I knew this day would come

Today at the gym, I dropped my discman. This isn't a big deal. I've dropped it tons of times. It's made it through some pretty hefty stuff, considering I got it sometime around my freshman year of high school, and I've dropped it countless times since then. It's also been through many, many sandy places (mostly days on the beach and the desert of Morocco), and managed to come out okay. Sure, it's a little scratched up on the outside, and it doesn't have 45 second skip protection (I think it has 5 second skip protection). It can't go with me running, but it can make it when I'm on the eliptical or the bike at the gym. (And it's been there, hundreds of times probably). It's tried and true, and doing pretty well for its age.

But today, the discman had enough. It finally threw in the towel, after nine long years. It was a very sad moment when I realized the "OPEN" (as in, it's not recognizing the CD) was not going to go away. I was attached to my beat-up-but-plowing-through-it-all discman.

So the era is over. When I think of the use I got out of that discman, I'm happy. I got some bang for my buck on that purchase. My discman lasted a long time, and it wasn't beloved because it was snazzy and cool. It was beloved because it did what it was supposed to do (play CDs), and it stood the test of time. But I've been thinking: wouldn't it be cool if this is how it worked with everything we bought or owned? Then there'd be less clutter in our lives (on many levels). That would be some wise and sustainable living.

The new house and senate

I though you might enjoy a little of my non-research-related-but-still-very-sociological fooling around.

All the stats from here: CNN.com - New Congress more diverse - Nov 5, 2004
First line of the article... "The next Congress will look slightly more like the real America, with more women, Hispanics and blacks, including the first black man to enter the Senate in a quarter century." (I think they need to emphasize the slightly in that, looking at the numbers)

These are the breakdowns on women and minorities in the newly elected Senate and Congress.

The new senate:
14 women
86 men

1 black (democrat)
2 Hispanics (1 democrat, 1 republican)
2 Asians (both democrats)
95 whites

The new house (total 435):
65 women
370 men

40 blacks (all democrats)
23 Hispanics (19 democrats, 4 republicans)
3 Asian Americans (all democrats)
1 Indian American (as in Asian Indian, republican)
368 whites


Clearly there is no race problem or gender equality problem in America anymore, right?

It wasn't meant to be

I consider the absolute ridiculousness of my situation. I am standing outside in the cold at 8 am. I have been here since 7 am. Weather.com told me it was going to 65 degrees today, and I wasn't cold when I left my house in jeans, two shirts, and a sweatshirt. But after about twenty minutes just standing, it was feeling bitter cold. I went to bed after 2 am, and I got up before 7 to stand in this godforsaken line with who knows how many hundreds of people. Not only that, but I have a big paper due today. The paper that is my entire grade in my statistics class. I have what I estimate to be about three-quarters of it done. I worked on it yesterday, but not enough, because I decided I wanted to go to the grad student Halloween party (which turned out to be very fun as it involved much dancing, but it took a few precious hours of my last 24 before the paper was due). So now I am on little sleep because I was out (not working on my paper), and I am standing outside in line freezing my butt off, again not working on my paper.

Why am I in line? I want basketball tickets. I didn't do the whole football thing here, but I like college basketball, so I convinced five of my friends to buy tickets with me. (That's right, BUY tickets. This is no Rice where turnout at athletic events is so low they have to make it free and still can't get anyone to come). I have all their IDs and checks with me in the cold, while they are probably sleeping in their warm beds. I bet none of them have a huge semester paper due today.

We have moved all of about 100 yards in the past hour. And there are still hundreds of people ahead of me. People are walking by who have gotten through the line and gotten their tickets. They all got here between 5 and 5:30 am. Well, gosh, I should've just come here after the party and slept here instead of going home. Many of them have chairs, beanbags, blankets, and pillows, apparently to help them make it through the cold wait. I apparently missed the memo on showing up at 5:30 to get tickets. Since when is Notre Dame basketball a big deal? They've only sold out the student section once in the whole history of Notre Dame. So why would I camp out?

I apparently also missed the memo on how to dress. Everyone is wearing a hooded sweatshirt. I am quite jealous of them, as the hooded sweatshirt seems to be keeping their heads nice and warm. I debate in my head whether I should have spent an extra two minutes blow drying the rest of my hair. I might be slightly warmer, but I also might be further back in line. My only consolation is thinking that being cold burns more calories, so really by standing in the cold I am just looking better and better for my bridesmaid's dress for my friend's wedding in May.
Right.

I already decided to skip my morning class to work on my paper that is due. But now it looks like I'll be skipping my morning class because of this line. Alas.

After what seems like forever (and actually is about three hours), we are very near the front. In fact, I am only ten people from the front. And then the security guards come out... "We are completely sold out of tickets. Sorry. Go home."

WHAT?!?!? I just spent THREE HOURS in line, for nothing? Three cold, cold hours, on little sleep, putting off a major paper... and they are SOLD OUT? You've got to be kidding me. If I had gotten here all of ten minutes earlier, I would in all certainty have gotten tickets. If this is someone's idea of a cruel joke, well... it sure was cruel! It's now 10 am and I have way too much to do today.

I just emailed my paper in a few minutes ago. My head hurts, probably because I'm tired and I haven't eaten anything since the Luna bar I had in line this morning around 7:15 AM. Time to go home and eat and sleep. And be bitter about psycho Notre Dame fans.

Seasons are overrated

People always say that in Houston there aren't any seasons. I always thought that was a silly statement. It still was colder in the fall and spring than in the summer, and colder in the winter than the fall and spring. In winter, Houstonians still don sweaters and for a portion of the winter even jackets. The fall and spring are warm and bearable. The summer is sweltering. Clearly, there are seasons, just tilted more towards the warm end of things.

Still, after four years of living in Houston, I was looking forward to northern seasons again. I looked forward to having a real winter wardrobe. Or more correctly, I looked forward to not having to wear my same summer wardrobe for eight months. I looked forward to leaves changing, and snow. I looked forward to enjoying warm food in the cold weather. And just, having real, northern seasons!

After 2.5 months of being here in the Bend, I am already sick of seasons. First, seasons involve cold. Cold is overrated. It's just COLD. I like my flip flops (and so do my feet!). I'm already tired of closed toed shoes. Not to mention that I don't own any shoes that will make it in winter snow. My hands already get cold when I type sometimes. I don't have thick enough warm-up pants to walk to the gym in when it's chilly. IIt's going to be a loooong winter.

Second, seasons create a lot of hassle. In Houston, I left my clothes out pretty much year round. Sure, in the summer I could put away a few of my sweaters, but most of my clothes were wearable throughout the year. (ie my short sleeve shirts still got use in January). Here, I recently had to go through the arduous process of bringing out all my sweaters and packing up most of my short sleeve shirts, tank tops, and short skirts. That's just a hassle. I also had to pack up stuff like the fan in my room (since everything here is NOT air conditioned).

In my opinions, seasons are overrated. Give me warm weather and flip flops every day, and I'll keep being happy.

A great week

(Or, What I miss about Houston)

Co, Michael, and Tammi got me... with BALLOONS! That warm (unexpected) welcome and the lively dinner at Momong's (where we managed to be talking about something inappropriate every time the waiter came by) foreshadowed the fabulous time I'd have.

Within the first 48 hours I ate tons of really good food: Vietnamese (Momong), Thai (from somewhere in the village), and good Tex-Mex (both Noche's and Chuy's).
And not to be left out, I also managed to get in some good Indian buffet (out on Hillcroft, where else?) and good vegetarian (aka The Hobbit) while in town, not to mention good homecooked meals at 3816 Community and 9449 Briarforest.

Friday morning I drove into town on Westpark. I never get to make that drive in the morning. I like the drive, because it takes me through all different aspects of Houston, poor and rich. In the morning, there are people all around, up and about. Chalk it up to my weird-ness, but it was a treat to make that drive.

At the ADVANCE meeting, I got choked up... Why, you ask? I was overwhelmed (with happiness!) to be in a room with such a diverse bunch of people. And not only that, but they actually appreciate diversity and work towards it. And they encourage and support me in my sociological work on race relations. And they immediately understand when I tell them about frustrating situations here at the dame.

I wore flip flops the whole time.

In the middle of his sermon on Sunday, Chris goes, "oh hey! Valerie Lewis is here!" And my three-year-old boyfriend hadn't forgotten me (props if you figure out which guy in the picture is the three-year-old), I got a free copy of The Message, and I heard all kinds of good news from Ecclesia friends.

At my old house (my house from the summer), Kristen was all smiles when she said "Welcome home!" as I walked in. The warmth of that house, it is like home. I made it just in time for the end of the six-hour Pride and Prejudice movie series, which I think is even better than the book.
I had a fun and particularly inspiring time with Geneva. Why? Geneva and I were barely friends when we both were at Rice/in Houston. We were friends of friends, at best. But we clicked, and it feels like I've known her for a long time, and like I can trust her, and relate to her. In the midst of my less-friend-full life here at the Dame, I was inspired to remember that some friendships come very easily and quickly.

I hung out at Taft, read a lot, got sucked in to a new reality TV show (The Biggest Loser), discovered what it was like to not check email, lamented my lack of a significant other (and lamented the prospects of being an old maid sociology professor), enjoyed the Tuesday night nubgrubber-birthed small group, and cooked soup.

Mostly, I hung out with friends, many of whom are like family. I can't sum up "friendship" in a succinct definition, but one thing I have come to appreciate since leaving many friends is that with good friends, I am free to be me, however quirky, strange, boring, opinionated, or frustrated I may be.

In H-town, I felt like ME again.
Thanks (even if I didn't see you).

"Read everything before doing anything"

Did you ever have an assignment like this in elementary school? We did. There was a long list of directons. Number 1 on the list said, "Read everything before doing anything." Number 2 said, "Write your name at the top of the paper." Those two directions were followed by a long and difficult list of tasks for third graders. Multiply 294 by 367. Draw a star around the answer. In the top right corner of the paper write out your mother's maiden name spelled backwards. Think of your favorite color. On the back of your paper, draw an animal that starts with the third letter of that color. And so on and so forth. The very last direction (number 98 or so) said, "Do nothing but numbers 1 and 2."

In third grade, I got this right. I read it all, wrote my name on the top, and handed it in to my teacher while everyone else was busy figuring out the alphabetical order of the planets and drawing various shapes and animals. I was a little confused why I was the only one turning my paper in, but my teacher reassured me in a whisper, "You're the only one who followed the directions: Read everything before doing anything!" Apparently I'm not so good anymore.

Today I got my absentee ballot for Pennsylvania in the mail. I was an eager beaver to fill it out, because for a PA absentee vote to be counted it has to be received by Oct 29. So I opened it up right away and got to work. There were several envelopes and a couple pieces of paper. I couldn't find any good directions, so I was trying to make do with what they told me. Thus started my litany of mistakes.

First, I couldn't figure out how the ballot worked. There was a paper with a list of names and numbers, and then the punchcard with just numbers. They didn't line up. Eventually I figured out you just have to punch the numbers of the people you want, without lining them up, and despite the fact there are about 20 times the amount of numbers on the card as on the list of people.

The punch card ballot was stapled to a styrofoam backing. The top of the ballot is detachable. To my credit, it was already half detached when I got it. I was paranoid to make sure all my chads were fully detached, but unfortunately in this process I fully detached the ballot. It specifically says, "Don't detach ballot. It will be detached by officials when put in the ballot box." Crap! Can I write a little note explaining? Probably not. I compromised by sticking a small piece of scotch tape on to keep it together.

Problem number 2: I have to stick my ballot in this little sheef thing to cover up the numbers I punched out. Anyways, looking at pictures explaining the process, it seemed I had to unstaple the punchcard from the styrofoam so I could put it in here. I can't find a staple remover, but I use a nail file to pry open the staples and stick the card in.

At this point, from somewhere I find the real directions. "Step 4. After voting, slip the secrecy write-in cover over the ballot card so that your choices are hidden. DO NOT REMOVE THE CARD FROM ITS WHITE STYRO-BACKER." (I didn't add those caps, they are like tha tin the directions) Crap! I already removed mine! Okay, well, I just staple it back on exactly as it was.

It is now that I notice the "Check list for voter" which says "Do not use scotch tape on ballot, tear it, or mutilate it." Crap! I scotch taped my ballot together when it came detached. I carefully try to pull off the scotch tape (that suddenly is working better than any other scotch tape I have ever used) without "tearing" or "mutilating" the ballot. It looks like I succeed okay.

I put the ballot in the return envelope and seal it, worried as heck already if I discounted my own vote. Then, of course, I notice on the directions that there are two envelopes. There is a small white one just marked "Official Absentee Ballot" that I'm supposed to seal my ballot in before putting it in the return envelope. Well, yes, you can guess what I did: sealed it in hte return envelope without putting it in the "Official Absentee Ballot" envelope. So I try to neatly open the envelope (which still rips considerably), put the ballot inthe smaller envelope, and then back in the return envelope, which clearly looks like someone opened it now. To top it off, I need to tape it closed since the licking stuff won't work twice, and I used the last bit of my tape illegally taping my ballot back together.

All this work for an absentee ballot, and it seems like the odds are stacked against me in them counting it. Sigh. Voting shouldn't be this hard! It's like they are trying to keep people from voting!

Not only that, but there is this label on my return envelope with my name and county and ward number, stuff like that. The scary part is that I noticed there is a letter on the label denoting the party I'm registered under. Now, call me paranoid, but what is keeping some mail handler/county official of the opposite party from seeing my party affiliation and then trashing my ballot before it makes it to the ballot box. I feel like this kind of kills the idea of "secret ballot", since a lot of people vote their party affiliation.

Ug. I am moving to Canada.

my racist friends

Haha, I'm going to relate a conversation some of my Rice friends and I had last year. This conversation exemplifies two great things about my friends: (1) their openness about race chatter, and (2) their biting sarcastic manner. Feel free to blast us on it, not everyone appreciates our lude remarks that are at face value pretty racist. We don't take it as racist, though, because we're not a bunch of white people making racist jokes. Maybe that's a double standard, but that's a topic for another blog entry. Onto the short scene...

Characters:
me (though I don't have a line in this conversation)
"Stumpy" (perhaps by that nickname you can already get a gist of our tone with each other) -- small Chinese girl
Matt D -- half Mexican, half white
Ian White -- 1/4 American Indian, 3/4 white

Setting: Leaving Darband, fabulous Persian restaurant, to get Boba (pearl milk tea) and play Chinese checkers. A frequent activity for us, this is a typical smack talk pre-competition convo. [Note: I don't remember all the actual lines, so this is my vague reconstruction.]

Chris (to Matt): oh Mex, go back to the fields already.
Matt D: Shut up! Your ancestors would be ashamed of you!
Ian: Yeah, Stumpy, are you ready to lose your people's game? [referring to Chinese checkers]
Chris: You mean like your people lost their land, Ian?

My dual image here at the dame

It's come to my attention that I have a particular image here at the dame. Granted, I guess I had an image in Houston too, but that didn't seem to bother me because it seemed like people had the right image, more or less. But here, not so much.

First, yesterday morning my friend John introduced me and said I was "dangerous". I gave him some flack for this. Am I really dangerous? I doubt any of you Houston/Rice friends would call me dangerous. You might say I'm obsessed with race issues, stubborn at times, hardcore about what I think, etc., but I doubt "dangerous" would come up. But then I remember, most of my Houston friends are either (a) liberals, or (b) open minded conservatives who are used to being around liberals. I got the label "dangerous" because John is a conservative (though not super hardcore about it) and has heard me engage in way too many political discussions. And since I'm usually one of the only liberals in the discussion, somehow this gets me dubbed "dangerous". (John later ammended his statement to say that I just "engage in good conversation". Euphemism at its best). Anyways, I don't particularly like this "dangerous"/flaming liberal image, but I don't think that's something I'm really going to be able to change.

Second, I have noticed people here think I'm "nice". (ahem, Steve) What the crap?? I mean, sure, I like to be a nice person. But in my book, people who get the label "nice" are usually nice and B-O-R-I-N-G. I know many people who are nice. Super nice. Oozing nice-ness. But that doesn't make them interesting, or engaging, or fun to be friends with. And nice people usually wouldn't hold up with my friends, Rice friends or Ecclesia friends. It's not that we're not nice... it's just that we like the joking sarcasm/cynicism too. And boy does it come out. Whether it's making fun of Matt D's hair, or David M's whacko "smoothies" (like cottage cheese, raisins, peanut butter, and yogurt), or Michael R's lazy-ness in trashing his book (prompting the funniest comment from Carrie), or whatever. Basic take away: I like my sarcastic, biting friends. I need to lose this "nice" image ASAP. I don't want to be considered one of those boring, dull, "nice" girls. Blech.

Please leave suggestions in the comments of how I can shed the "dangerous" or "nice" images.

The Cute Family =)

This afternoon I was studying at Barnes and Noble. The Barnes and Noble here isn't like the Barnes and Noble on Holcombe (in H-town) or the B&N I recently studied at in Georgetown. The cafes at those B&Ns are full of tables and booths, which are full of people studying. The B&N here has a cafe, but it has far fewer tables, no really comfortable chairs/booths, and pretty much no one studying (except me). Kind of weird, but whatever. I did see the cutest thing. There was a set of parents with their two daughters (about ages 10 and 12 it looked) who bought drinks at the counter then sat down, each with a pile of un-purchased books, and all read. I don't know why it was so cute, but it was! Especially because even the little girls looked totally into it. What a studious family. I bet those girls go far with their educations. And what a cool place to take your kids to read! Not just like, "Okay kids, do your 1 hr of reading today." But rather, "Okay kids, we're going to Barnes and Noble for the afternoon to read." (Even better because they were obviously there to read and not just buy books that may or may not get read.)

Two museums...

The summer after my junior year of high school I spent a little over a week on an American Indian reservation in North Dakota, called the Standing Rock Lakota Sioux reservation. I was part of a team running a week of overnight camp for middle schoolers on the reservation. It was an amazing time for many reasons. The week opened my eyes to the plight of American Indians in our country. On the reservation, the alcholism rate was 80%, and the unemployment rate was 60%. The land on the reservation was pretty much infertile. The towns in the reservation were lifeless. Beyond lifeless. They would suck the life right out of you. Feelings of uselessness, boredom, depression, and worthlessness pervaded the place. I get up in arms about blacks and Hispanics being oppressed in America, but they have it good compared to the lot we gave American Indians. Census briefs from the 1990 census report that 20% of reservation homes don't have complete plumbing, and 20% don't have complete kitchen facilities (for the rest of America numbers are about 4%). Even American language and culture have not yet come to respect American Indians: sports teams are still named the Redskins or the Braves, and caricatures of American Indians are still very common.

The Gateway Arch. Part of the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial. I wrote in a post awhile back about this museum I visited in St. Louis, on my drive from Houston to South Bend. The museum is just what the name sounds like: a tribute to American westward expansion. I found this museum to be a little bit disturbing. It narrated expansion from Lewis and Clark on, including narrating the destruction/subjugation of many American Indian tribes. There is a national park commemorating this? Co told me I should think of it in terms of the settlers, often people with little or no money, finally getting a chance to make it. Still, I have a hard time looking at this museum/national park with anything but disgust.

Last weekend I went to the polar opposite museum. The National Museum of the American Indian. The museum just opened last Tuesday in Washington DC, occupying the last available space on the mall. (I was lucky enough to land a free trip to DC for the weekend visiting a dear friend from college). There was a big festival on the mall for the grand opening, including 8 or 10 stages with all sorts of dance, storytelling, and music going on, not to mention yummy American Indian food.

The museum itself was very cool. The first exhibit we walked into was called "Our Peoples: Giving Voice to Our Histories." The first wall, there it said: "INVASIONS". It chronicled the sad history of American Indians being invaded, pushed out, destroyed by European diseases, tricked, and treatied off their land. At some parts I actually got teary reading the horrible descriptions of what happened to these people. The great thing about the museum is that they went to American Indians and had them create the exhibits, and it's a living history museum. The other two big exhibits were "Our Universes: Traditional Knowledge Shapes Our World" (about traditional beliefs) and "Our Lives: Contemporary Life and Identity" (all about American Indians today, both on and off reservations, etc).

One of the coolest things about being there opening weekend is that there were many people there who are actually American Indians. And given the cosmopolitan and diverse nature of DC, there were also plenty of black people there, plenty of white people, and plenty of Asian people. It was one of those rare times I felt good about race relations in America, like we were actually taking a step in the right direction by taking a truthful look at our past and where we are, and coming together to celebrate usually denigrated cultures.

As a footnote, I'd just like to add that I think it's a bit ironic the federal government supports both the westward expansion and the American Indian museums.

The Airport Guy

Another layover. Another time I face mild boredom in a brightly lit but rather sterile airport terminal. What to do? Well, get some food, first of all. But getting food is a relatively mindless process in the airport terminal, and it needs a concurrent activity. Sometimes I people watch. Today I'm going to Airport Guy watch.

The Airport Guy. Quite different than the Airplane Guy. The Airport Guy is more desirable, for several reasons. First, he requires considerably less commitment than the Airplane Guy. If the airport guy turns out to be a dud, he can quickly be dumped for another terminal or quick paced walk in the other direction. On the other hand, if by some miracle a conversation starts, an airport terminal is a far more desirable place for such interaction. You can sit and chat, walk, grab food, even get a drink, all considerably more conducive to a fun time than sitting in cramped coach class seats.

In the beginnings of my search for food I spot Airport Guy #1: a clean shaven white guy in a suit, with a laptop bag and PDA. Definitely a business guy, but definitely about my age. He starts talking on his cell phone, and not finding food in that direction, I about face and head the other way.

Three quarters of the way down the terminal I spot Airport Guy #2: a very good looking young black guy with a wheelie suitcase. In his "Newark" sweatshirt and me in my "Ocean City" sweatshirt, I consider that perhaps New Jersey destiny has brought us together. I head to the pizza place a few feet away, where I turn over my life savings in exchange for a ridiculously small, greasy, and squishy slice of pizza. Here, any hopes for Airport Guy #2 are squashed as I see him with Significant Other, a gorgeous black girl with a matching wheelie suitcase. (Significant Other is not to be confused with Airport Girl, who has perfectly done make up and hair and a super cute outfit, usually a skirt, always making me look frumpy in my usual comfortable plane-wear).

Hoping that perhaps the third time will be the charm, I head toward my gate to eat my bread soaked in grease (aka pizza slice). Hark! There, sitting just a few benches away, is Airport Guy #3. I see him from the back, so it's a gamble. The good haircut is what catches my notice, it says a lot. Yellow and green t-shirt, looks alright. Black backpack. He has dark hair, but he's clearly I white guy. I can deal with that.

I sit and give my hands an oil treatment trying to eat my pizza while watching the back of Airport Guy #3's head. Ah, the moment of truth! He's standing up. I've seen enough cute back-of-the-heads to be cautious, as all too often then are attached to very old, very young, or very not good looking guys. A turn of the head, and I see he's none of the above. But, wait. God, no! Is that a . . .?
Not only is Airport Guy #3 wearing a fanny pack, but he's wearing over one shoulder across his chest. I sigh a sigh of disappointment. Three strikes and I'm out. Luckily by the time I wash the grease off my hands and get back to the gate, it's time for me to board, so I can't dwell on my umpteenth consecutive strike-out among Airport Guys I've never once talked to.

The Hilarious World of Sociology

(Sorry to those who I've already sent these to)

I get a lot of mailings from various publishers with all their latest sociology books coming out.

Here was an ad in one of the recent brochures I got:
THEORY TRADING CARDS
Impress your friends and colleagues with your very own collection of Theory Trading Cards! This edition includes a set of 21 cardsfeaturing the most important social and cultural theorists of our time. Like their sports counterpart, our trading cards are designed in an easy-to-read, portable format. Each card includes a photograph, a summary of each theorist's critical ideas and essential information such as important publications and biographical material. Theory Trading Cards provide concise answers to questions such as, "What is the essence of Michel Foucault's 'oeuvre'?" "What are Bell Hooks' most important works?" and "What is Theodor Adorno's astrological sign?" Theory Trading Cards will make a handy reference guide for students, teachers, and fans of social and cultural theory, and gender, identity, and media studies.

While we're on the subject of these new books, here's some interesting titles I noticed...
"Vegetarianism: Movement or Moment?"
"Filth: Dirt, Disgust, and Modern Life."

lastly, a newly emerging field within sociology is "animals and society". i think it's bunk as social science, but apparently it's gaining steam. some of their new titles (remember, these are being promoted as *sociology* books) include...
"Cat Culture: The social world of a cat shelter"
"Introduction to animal rights: your child or the dog?"
"Understanding dogs: living and working with canine companions"

Last night's gospel choir rehearsal

If you're reading this, you probably know that I'm happiest when I have friends who aren't all like me. I don't want my friends to be all sociologists, or all girls, or all white, or all Christians like myself. The race one is a big one to me, and I loved having friends from all different backgrounds when I left Rice. Here in the Bend and at the Dame, it has been really hard to find that kind of diversity. There's just fewer non-white people in the Bend, and the area is SUPER segregated. The Dame is even worse, only 22% of the student body is non-white (as opposed to 33%+ at Rice), and among graduate students it is way less than that. So I have been looking for more creative ways to meet people, since it doesn't just happen as it seemed to at Rice.

In part of this quest to find non-white people here at the Dame, tonight I went to the Dame's gospel choir practice. I had a great time. A part of me was a little on edge, being in a big group where I know exactly NO ONE. But a bigger part of me felt a big sigh of relief walking into a room that wasn't entirely white. The choir isn't all black. There were six or seven white girls and one white guy there (there were probably 40 people there total). As I was standing there, I realized what an amazing group of people was in that room.

First, the black students. At the Dame, black students are 3.5% of the undergraduate population. That is an incredibly small minority, and I imagine these kids have faced their fare share of discrimination or being misunderstood. They are also at a top tier university that almost anyone would be proud to get into. While certainly not all blacks are extremely disadvantaged, I bet a higher proportion of these kids than the white kids had to overcome obstacles or fight through things to get where they are. To me, they represent much strength, determination, hard work, and endurance, along with the courage it takes to attend such a predominantly white university. Some people would look at these kids and think they were undeserving of being at the Dame ("they only got in because they are black"); I think these kids deserve to be here more than anyone else.

Here are the words to one of the songs we rehearsed tonight:
You don't know my story / All the things that I've been through / You Can't feel my pain / What I had to go through to get here / You'll never understand my praise / Don't try to figure it out / Because my Worship / my Worship Is for real / I've been through too much / Not to worship Him

I love those lyrics, they are so expressive especially with the music to the song. And I started thinking about the depth and real-ness of worship in black churches. When black people sing about getting through struggles and pain, they know what they are talking about. It means so much less to privileged white people. Have you ever met someone who has been through all kinds of crap? I have found that often these people are deeper, more insightful, very aware, and very purposeful in what they do. Blacks in America surely fit this bill as a group, and I think I caught a glimpse of why the black church has remained so strong throughout American history, even still today.

The second set of amazing people I saw in that room were the non-black kids who were in the choir. These white students are not the norm. Most kids at the Dame are very white, come from decently wealthy families, dress preppy, and work out constantly. I saw so much in these students, getting out of the all-encompassing white bubble that is most of the Dame. I was impressed at their boldness and courage to do that, and I was impressed that many of them have stuck around and become really a part of the gospel choir group. These kids are a testament of love and courage, going off the beaten path, being willing to put themselves out there when they could live a comfortable all-white life.

A quote from my sister's friend Janet

"It was never a question of whether or not to fight the war on terror, but how to fight it. It was never an issue of right and wrong, but how to reconcile one person's right with another person's wrong. As we point fingers and caricaturize evil, the utter lack of self introspection and will to understand the reasons for evil is something Americans should be ashamed of. I do not believe that evil exists in a vacuum. Just as we believe that poverty, ignorance, and bigotry have their roots in societal iniquities, so too we must take responsibility for the societal iniquities that cause terrorism. There is nothing to fear except the exploitation of fear. There is nothing more dangerous than the those who would have us believe that evil exists without cause, without reason, and without a claim to righteousness."

(Janet is one smart cookie if you ask me. By the way I stole this from my sister's blog, who stole it from Janet's AIM profile.)

The Medina

How I miss the medinas of Morocco. Just now I put in "Morocco medina" into Google's image search, and looking through the pictures brought back a wave of memories. Not specific event memories, but memories about the feel of the place, the sights, the smells, the sounds, the people, the routine, the mosques, the beggars, the cats, the shops . . .

Medina literally means "city" in Arabic. In colloquial language, however, medina refers to the old section of a city. Every city in Morocco has a medina, usually surrounded by high walls. These are the old cities, from hundreds of years before the modern apartment buildings, stores, and businesses built in the European tradition. The medina is a maze (quite literally) of tiny alleys full of houses, shops, schools, vendors, mosques, and hammams (public baths). The streets are lined with small "dukans", loosely translated as shops. I say loosely translated because many of these shops are little more than counters in front of tiny holes in the wall where people sell everything from chocolate to batteries, fresh mint to every kind of button imagineable, Arabic and French newspapers to head scarves, bootleg cassettes to beautiful fabric. Some dukans are big enough to walk into, often selling clothing or dried fruit and nuts. In Marrakesh the medina is full of people selling brightly colored slippers. In Fez there is much more woodwork.

The medina is the center of life. It is full of activity and commotion. Partly because the alleys are so narrow, the streets are always crowded with a great number of people walking from one place to another and a great number of people simply standing around: maybe talking, maybe watching, maybe begging. Every day I passed dozens of beggars in the medina.

The medina is also full of mosques and schools, as well as fountains where those without running water can fill up buckets with fresh water. You can never count out the motorcycles and donkeys that create extra commotion, or the infrequent cars that barely can make it between the walls.

Beyond the small shops and buildings, there are hundreds of people in the medina selling their wares in the middle of the street. There are men dressed in red with metal cups that will give you a cup of water for 1 dirham (10 cents). There are people on bicycles with baskets of fresh oranges. There are people with tarps in the middle of the larger streets selling almost anything. One alley in the Rabat medina we called the vegetable street because it would be lined end to end with people selling every kind of fruit and vegetable in baskets and on various tarps. At night, the lights come on and light up the smoke and steam from freshly cooked meat and or freshly fried pancakes and pastries at small carts wheeled in during the late afternoon. In the spring for a few weeks you can find people selling snails, either still alive or freshly cooked.

The medina has a distinct smell. There is the smell of dust and dirt, mixed with the smell of live chickens (for sale), and freshly cooked pastries and meat. The wealth of medina sounds are foreign to a western ear: the muezzin's call to prayer, vendors calling out about their wares, much loud talking, tapes playing with chanting of the Quran, children playing, beggars feebly asking for money. . . almost all in Arabic, with a little French and English thrown out to the lone tourists. It is all very loud because the walls lining the streets keep the sound in.

The medina is the poorer part of the city. People there are more traditional. It also tends to be more crime ridden (and with such crowds, it's no wonder). For awhile when I was in Rabat during the beginning of the Iraq war (April 2003), US Embassy personnel and their families were forbidden from going to the medina, because of "security concerns". My fellow students and I had no such regulations: our school was located in the middle of the medina, and about half of us lived with families in the medina. The heart and soul of the city is in the medina, in my opinion. I miss being there every day, in the middle of so much life and activity, history and culture.

I took very few pictures of the medina when I was in Morocco. The medina was a place I became very familiar with, and a home to me. We constantly saw tourists taking gawking photos of the medina, and I could never bring myself to do the same. There was too much orientalism in that act: capturing an exotic culture in an instant so I could neatly hang it up on my western bedroom wall. Given the traditional, poorer, and disadvantaged nature of much of the medina, it just didn't feel right taking a slew of pictures for myself. As a result, all I can offer you of a visual glimpse in is some pictures I found around the internet.

If you...

If you have never experienced the danger of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pangs of starvation... you are ahead of 500 million people in the world who do.

If you can attend a church meeting without fear of harassment, arrest, torture, or death...you are more blessed than three billion people in the world.

If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep...you are richer than 75% of this world.

If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish someplace you are among the top 8% of the worlds wealthy.

If you can read this message, you are more blessed than over two billion people in the world that cannot read at all.

**I'm not sure where this is from originally, so I don't know who to cite with it.

My ultra-political post

The other dayI got into a semi-intense discussion revolving around the presidential election. Or more specifically, about why I should vote conservative in the election. My lack of quick thinking during the discussion left me thinking of why specifically I will vote for John Kerry in November, barring massive changes in the current situation. Please note, I don't consider myself pro-John Kerry. I consider myself anti-George Bush. Here's just three issues I have.

Iraq.
Now granted, I was living in an Arab-Muslim kingdom when the war with Iraq first went down, so that probably skews my perspective a bit. I saw graphic news footage of the war, footage of the millions upon millions protesting around the world, and many opinions opposing the US administration (these views were heard frighteningly infrequently in the USA). Plus, exactly 0% of the Moroccan people supported the war in Iraq, as evidenced in the two protests while I was there, one of which number 1,000,000 people in a city of only 900,000.
But as I see it, we invaded a country that had never once threatened the United States (or anyone else, leading up to this invasion) auspiciously looking for Weapons of Mass Destruction, which it turns out we never had any evidence of in the first place. In the process, we scorned the entire international community (except for Tony Blair sans support of the British people) who asked and told the US repeatedly there was no justification for invasion. And in the end, we never found any Weapons of Mass Destruction (although this fact has rarely been brought up), got a whole bunch of people killed, and are now stuck being military police in a country rife with guerrilla violence.
Not only this, but in order to get support of the American people for the war, the administration led people to believe Saddam Hussein and Al-Qaeda were working in cahoots; not only was there no evidence of this, but these two guys are actually pretty much arch enemies. Maybe it's just me, but I don't like being deceived, and I don't like the arrogance of our country to decide we know what is right, even though the entire rest of the world is telling us it's not.

Life.
I am pro-LIFE. LIFE is in caps so that you don't confuse that with pro-life the abortion stance. I am pro-LIFE as in all LIFE. The current president is pro-life, but that only applies to unborn children. It does not apply to life of the environment or natural world. It does not apply to life of those convicted of capital offenses. It does not apply to the lives of innocent Iraqis killed during our invasion.
You all read my sociological facts on differences in life expectancy by race an entry ago. Pro-life does not apply to all these years of life lost due to inequality and problems indicating institutional discrimination. Several million people have lost health insurance in the past four years (ask one of your friends without health insurance what a doctor's visit costs). Now, maybe this is picky, but why are pro-life people not pro-health as well?
Given all this, I think I will call this position pro-unbornlife from now on, to avoid confusion. (and I will retain use of pro-LIFE meaning life more broadly speaking). In any case, it bugs me when I hear people talk about the administration being pro-life, when what they really mean is pro-unborn life.

Sex.
The current administration is pro-unborn life. It also supports plans that will offer Sex Ed funding only to schools that teach abstinence only, despite the fact that study after study has shown these programs are ineffective at preventing teen pregnancy (not to mention the spread of STDs). Clearly, not telling children that condoms exist will keep them from having premarital sex. So, more kids are getting pregnant and are not allowed to get abortions. This just smells of disaster to me.
The current administration also only offers money to fight AIDS in Africa to programs doing abstinence only. Again, study after study done in Africa shows these programs are ineffective in stopping the spread of AIDS. And yet, we claim to be fighting AIDS.

Explaining numbers on differences in health

As surprising as this might be, usually socioeconomically disadvantaged groups have lower life expectancy. Why? They've visited the doctor less (and when they did visit, were at poorer health care facilites), eaten worse diets (since healthy food is more expensive than crap food in our country), lived in worse housing and neighborhoods, had more psychological stress, worked in more dangerous jobs, and lived near more hazardous waste sites, to name a few possible reasons. On top of this, studies done by the National Academy of Sciences found that minorities face discrimination by health care providers and more generally receive lower quality health care, even when controlling for age, income, insurance status, and severity of health condition.

The black-white disparities in health have always existed in America, even back in the 19th century when little doctors did actually helped medically. Essentially, everyone has been getting healthier, but the gap has never closed.

An interesting fact: in countries with large disparities in SES, both rich and poor people have lower life expectancy than people in countries with less inequality. In countries like the US (where the gap between the rich and the poor is rather large), even the richest people suffer a lower life expectancy than people in less stratified societies (ie several European countries).

On particular questions: the American Indian reservations in South Dakota are some of the poorest and most disadvantaged areas of the country, hence the ridiculously low life expectancy. (American Indian reservations in general are horrible places to live, look for a post on that sometime soon). Also, differences in infant mortality rates are also due to the things I discussed above.

Life Expectancy

Here are some sociological facts for you all...

Whites have a life expectancy that is around 77, blacks around 71, and some American Indian groups in South Dakota around 55.

The infant mortality rate of blacks is three times that of whites.

My life in South Bend

I am temporarily putting aside my idealistic notions of what a blog should be (coherent, nicely edited writing on interesting topics) to simply update everyone on my life South Bend. This has been a long time coming, sorry folks. (I have also put two "real" blog entries on hold to type this, so look for those soon). Now my only problem is where to start.

I have been living for the past few weeks in a cute two story house in South Bend. Brandy lives there all the time. She is a third year sociology grad student. Her roommate was out of town for the summer, so I came in and took over for a month. They have two miniature dogs and two cats, so it's lucky I'm not allergic to animals. Brandy has been a fantastic roommate (or should I say housemate, since we don't share a room, jsut a house?). Really, I should say that Brandy has been a wonderful hostess. She has taken me out with her friends many times, introduced me to people, shown me around South Bend, hung out with me, given me advice on the sociology program, and introduced me to one of my new favorite TV shows ever: Six Feet Under.

At school, I have a super fly office on the eighth floor, looking out onto the Golden Dome that is a well known feature of the Notre Dame campus. The office I am in is practically a palace compared to the dungeon I spent the summer working in. I spend many hours in my office. I work on papers, read articles and books, type up summaries, research faculty who study race and religion, analyze data... not to mention read email, keep up on the news from the Olympics, and update this very blog. My office is my little piece of the world, it feels like.

My office is officially the graduate student office of the DuBois Center for the Advanced Study of Race and Religion. This is the center that Dr. Michael Emerson (my advisor) has just recently founded. His office is next to mine. On the other side of me is the office of our grant coordinator, a nice lady named Donna who just started today. Two doors down is Bernadette: a cute Hispanic girl who just moved here from Fort Worth and who is the secretary for our center. I love Bernadette, and I especially feel I can relate to her because we are both young (in the midst of many older secretaries and faculty members who are housed on our floor), and we both just moved here from Texas, knowing no one else around.

I have been doing various things here. I don't know whether to call my office "work" or "school" because I do a combination of both. My work for the center is often related to my school work, and they feed off each other. Things I study for school always help for work, and things I do for work are handy for my papers and studying. Recently, I have been putting together a database of questions asked about race (on any survey ever) and figuring out what questions I would like to see included on our big panel study to start in the fall. I will have to start my schoolwork in earnest tomorrow, when our classes start.

I have always called Dr. Emerson "Dr. E", but now I'm supposed to call him "Michael" since I'm in grad school (grad students all call professors by their first name. Probably because when we finish the program we are "colleagues" instead of professor/student). I find it super weird still, but here goes. It's great having an office right next to Michael. He is so helpful and always ready to answer questions or help figure out problems from analyzing data to choosing classes. I couldn't ask for a better advisor or set-up.

Last week I spent several days in San Francisco for the annual American Sociological Association conference. Imagine 5,000 sociologists going to hundreds of meetings, discussing research ideas, networking, and seeing old friends from grad school. It was a little overwhelming but a lot of fun. I went to several presentations, some about research, some discussions/debates, some on how to finish grad school or write grant proposals. Most all of them I found to be interesting, though after awhile it felt like my head might explode from so much sociology. I also had a very fun time visiting with friends. Some people I met while visiting grad schools last year were there, and it was nice to see them. We watched the Olympics, hung out with people, rode the cablecars and had dinner on the Wharf. I also got a chance to see a friend from high school who was in town, and we hiked arond quite a bit of San Francisco.
I love San Francisco. When I got on the BART (subway/train) from the airport to go to my hotel, I felt what can only be described as relief in the diverse bunch of people in the train with me. It felt like I was coming home: being back in a big city, with loads of people of different races and backgrounds all around. (South Bend is mostly biracial white/black, and at Notre Dame I see mostly white). San Fran also has tons of diverse neighborhoods, and I loved being there.

I also got to see Hannah (entry 1 Hannah) in Chicago for a day over the weekend. She was in town a few days before she started training with the Lutheran Volunteer Corps, and so I stayed with her and her college roommate (who I know from my visits to Chicago and her visits to PA). We spent a lot of time yarn shopping (Hannah just took up knitting) all over Chicago. A highlight of the trip was Friday night going to Twisted Spoke, a "family biker bar" that I have heard a lot about. The South Shore Line train from South Bend has a stop right in Hyde Park, and I decided I could definitely live in Hyde Park some day. Hannah told me it's one of the few neighborhoods welcoming to interracial families in all of Chicago.

My life here is so different than it was for the summer. I come to work, and I love my work, and stay there long hours. Sadly, I haven't cooked much, but I plan to take that up again. I miss my house from the summer a lot with such a great kitchen. I have watched so much TV recently (catching up on seasons 1 and 2 of Six Feet Under), something I did almost none of this summer! I am still working at making friends, meeting people, and finding a church, so there is not tons of time hanging out with people that so characterized my summer.
The first week or two I got into a funk at least once a day, and I wanted to jump in my car and drive back to Houston. Eventually I'd snap out of the funk and the lump in my throat would go away. Lately, I haven't had funks so much. I miss everyone and everything so much, but I have adjusted some to my new quieter life. I'm pretty busy with work, and that has helped. And sometimes I'm just too tired from missing people to be sad about it.

I met the rest of my cohort (what they call our group of incoming sociology grad students), and they seem nice enough. I also need to move into my real apartment, where I'll be for the rest of the year. I have taken most of my stuff there, but haven't unpacked or really moved in yet. I'll do that this week, I suppose.

Hopefully this is update enough on my life here. I know this was long, sorry I have hardly posted for two weeks! And if you are reading this, I probably miss you a whole lot. I'm sorry if I haven't returned your calls. (Sometimes I'm busy, and sometimes I'm worried I'll just start crying from missing you.) Thanks again for everything.

a better comparison than apples and oranges

.
Yesterday my sister and I were talking on the phone, and this was part of our conversation.

Monica: I saw A Cinderella Story the other day and realized that I really love Hilary Duff.
Valerie: What? You like Hilary Duff?
Monica: Yeah, and after seeing Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen I realized I like Hilary Duff even more than I like Lindsay Lohan.
Valerie: WHAT? Are you implying that you like A Cinderella Story more than you like Mean Girls?
[side note: Mean Girls is one of the funniest movies ever, and a new favorite of mine.]
Monica: Well, they aren't really comparable movies. Mean Girls is funny and sattirical, and A Cinderella Story is cute and sweet. That's like asking me which I like better: Florida or chocolate cake.
[pause]
Monica: Okay, so it's not exactly like that...

On the road

I have spent many days on the road. My parents were into driving vacations when we were little, so we drove to Florida many times, to Canada twice, as well as countless trips to North Carolina and Kentucky. We did fly out west a few times for vacation, to Arizona, California, and Washington state, but each time we got there, rented a car, and drove like there was no tomorrow to see all of the state.

This week, for the first time, I spent several days on the road by myself. Even before I started driving, I noticed that my car smelled vaguely like a banana (David agreed with me on this). Unable to locate the source (and being pretty confident there was not actually a banana in there), I resigned to the fruity smell for the duration of the trip. When I stopped at a Cracker Barrel in Arkansas, they had Yankee Candle scented car fresheners. I was ecstatic and bought one. It is melon scented, so now my car smells like a fruit salad.

With hours and hours on the road, pretty much every possible thought crossed my mind. Amidst periods of extreme boredom, I also had periods of deep pondering. One of my questions: is there such a thing as fate? How can I be sure to not lose my hope? Will I find friendship in this new phase of my life?
I discovered that indeed, there is such a thing as Fate: it's a small town in Texas. And never fear, I also found Hope and Friendship in Arkansas, "The Natural State".

At one point, I decided to count the number of pickup trucks I saw. I counted for ten minutes somewhere near Dallas, and saw 66 trucks (I estimate they were about 1 of every 2 cars). Six hours later in Arkansas I waited until traffic was similarly light and saw 32 (I estimate they were 1 of every 4). I didn't count again until I was into Indiana, and there I saw 16 pickups out of 100 cars.

In the midst of my deep musings, I pondered the plight of Arkansasians. For one, what do you call them? Arkansians? Arkansasians? And secondly, they seem to be not so creative in naming their cities. Texarkana. Arkadelphia. What's the deal with place names that are half their state name and half the name of some other place?

Missouri was perhaps my most eventful state. First there was the car problems and my 3 hour stay in rural Missouri (which was 3 hours too long, I might add) that left me with a messed up muffler, hundreds of new mosquito bites, and a free flashlight from a random guy who stopped to help. Next, there was the Gateway Arch (that is, Gateway to the West) in downtown St. Louis, originally built as a tribute to US western expansion. The Gateway Arch is actually part of a national park called "The Jefferson Expansion Memorial National Park". It is complete with an underground museum that documents American westward expansion. Now, perhaps it's just me, but I felt that this museum and park were both completely absurd. Westward expansion of the United States meant the obliteration and/or subjugation of American Indians (the museum clearly documented all of this, showing when treaties were formed and broken with the American Indians, when they staged uprisings, when they lost battles). Personally, I was a bit uncomfortable having a national monument celebrating that very westward expansion. But hey, that's just me.

Illinois was the least interesting state I went through. Maybe I was just so bored and tired of the inside of my car by the time I got there that I stopped paying attention to anything. The only really remarkable thing about Illinois was that when I got out of my car at a gas station, it was about 70 or 75 degrees (as opposed to the 90+ degrees it had been in Texas all the way through St. Louis); I shivered and started worrying about my next few years.

My last bit of important info I gained from my trip is that if you are looking for the largest selection of saddles anywhere, you can find it in Texas just outside Texarakana. And a sight you would never want to miss, the College Football Hall of Fame, is located right near me in friendly South Bend, Indiana.

The Hiccurp

Since at least eighth grade (and maybe before that, but I can't remember) I have made a funny little sound. If you are reading this, you have probably heard it. It sounds like a hiccup, but it stands alone. One, solitary hiccup. It's not quite a hiccup, either, because it doesn't have the accompanying uncomfortable stomach spasm feeling that goes with any real hiccup.

Over the years, "hiccurp" has been the most widely accepted name for the noise. The word "hiccurp" comes from combining hiccup and burp: it sounds like a hiccup, but there's only one, like a burp. It also sometimes has been called a reverse burp because that's pretty much what it is. Last week my friend Joanna came up with the cleverest name for it yet: a prub. (That's "burp" spelled backwards). I don't know how no one else in almost ten years has come up with that, but Joanna deserves props for her sharp thinking on this.

There have been some stellar brup moments over the years. In high school, about 100 of us were taking the AP psychology test in an auditorium at our school. The teacher proctoring had just handed out all the tests, and the room was silent, waiting for the signal to start the tests. "PRUB!" A nice loud hiccurp, echoing through the room, diffused some of the pre-test jitters as we began. My freshman year of college I took Introduction to Linguistics. We were reviewing the IPA symbols (the international symbols for writing phonetically). Our professor said, “Who can tell me what sound this symbol stands for?” And right on cue, “PRUB!” The class dissolved into laughter, and our professor replied, “Well, no, that’s not it.”

In high school, several people (including one or two teachers) suggested I should go to a doctor regarding the hiccurp. They thought it might be a symptom of some real health concern. I haven't ever gotten it checked out, and I have never even asked a doctor about it. I have met a few other people here and there who make the same sound, though. In high school, my friend Ann made it. My friend Orin claims his new co-worker makes it. Hannah (see entry #1 for who she is) has a friend Christine who makes it. My freshman year when I was visiting Hannah in Chicago, Christine informed me that she read singular hiccups can be the sign of a brain tumor. Mine must be pretty big by now.

I don’t really like my hiccurps. They are usually embarrassing and definitely not professional. I fear the day I am in a job interview or presenting a paper at a conference and whip out with a loud “Prrrrub!” Unfortunately, thus far I have not figured out how to stop the hiccurps. Theories and/or ideas on getting rid of hiccurps are welcome.

Cmabrigde Uinervtisy

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

The Melon Lesson

I should have known. The cantaloupe was on sale at Super Target for $1. I was there to pick up some washer fluid for my poor sap stained windshield, but a nice prominent table was set up in the front with melons. Cantaloupe for $1, honeydew for $2. As someone who eats at least a melon or two a week, I knew that cantaloupe price was practically unbeatable. So I bought one of each.

Melons are great to snack on or to put in plain yogurt. Yum. When I buy them, I usually immediately cut them up into pieces and put them in a tupperware container my fridge. Cutting a cantaloupe is always enjoyable for me. Cantaloupes are usually very soft inside, and so knives go through easily and make it a pleasant process. Honeydews are less soft, and more of an ordeal to chop up. As a result, I eat far less honeydew. In fact, I don’t even really like honeydew. I have a fond memory from my childhood of soft, juicy green honeydew, and I keep buying honeydew in search of that. But as of yet, I’ve only found rather crunchy, sort of green, bland honeydew melons.

Yesterday I started with the cantaloupe. I knew there were problems when it was hard to slice. By the end of chopping the cantaloupe, I was pretty tired. And I still had a freakin’ honeydew to go! I got through it, but it took me a long time, and I was not excited to eat it. I tried a piece of the cantaloupe, and I’m sure a look of horror crossed my face when I realized this cantaloupe tasted like North Servery (Rice's on-campus dining) cantaloupe: too crisp, not sweet enough, not orange enough. Yuck. I didn’t even try a piece of honeydew. I threw the tupperware in the fridge and tried not to think about how I would get through all that melon.

The obvious yet learned-the-hard-way moral of the story: if you go somewhere to buy car stuff, you probably don't want their produce.

Sad facts....

I am a dunce when it comes to economics, but there is one simple economic truth that has been on my mind lately: in a given market, economy, or planet, there are a limited number of resources, or capital. When one person has a lot of something, it means another person has little.

There are many arenas in which this simple fact becomes quite important. I recently read that Americans consume something like 30% of the world's resources. Clearly then, not everyone in the world can live like Americans, for the world simply cannot support it. Global inequality is spectacular; another fact I picked up is that American children under 13 have an average of $230 spending money per year, which is more than the 500 million poorest people in the world. (See Simpler Living, Compassionate Life by Michael Schut for more on this)

In light of staggering global inequality, many people overlook or forget about inequality that is closer to home. If you know me well, you know I rarely talk about inequality without bringing up racial inequality in the United States. One of my pet peeves is when white people claim that they aren't racist (it was just their ancestors), and they haven't profitted from racism. While we may not be racist, every white person has the distinct advantage of being white. This is a topic I will probably discuss more thoroughly in future blogs, but for now I want to talk solely about economics. The basic idea is this: white Americans today have vast holdings of wealth that have amassed over generations. White plantation owners profitted hugely from black slave labor, whites throughout the country benefited from cheap land as Indians were forced onto reservations, and whites generally enjoyed better access to jobs, property, loans, and home equity partially because discrimination limited competition and rewarded whites for being white.

Although the current generation might claim to be guiltless of racial exploitation to achieve that wealth, inheritance has left its legacy as whites have phenomenally more resources than blacks. Here are some handy facts from a book I read last weekend, called Black Wealth, White Wealth by Merlin Oliver and Thomas Shapiro. The authors did research that looked at racial inequality in wealth. Wealth is different than income; income is a rate you get paid per hour, month, or year, while wealth is the accumulation of your assets and property. Wealth is very important: a person with substantial wealth can weather a financial crisis (such as a layoff or big medical problems), while a person without wealth will probably fall into poverty.

Below is just one of their many charts illustrating the vast inequalities in wealth. Net wealth is calculated as the total of a persons assets and property (including house and car) minus their debt. NFA stands for Net Financial Assets, which simply do not include housing and car value. (And if you're not familir with it, a median is a kind of average).

Race Median Income Median Net Worth Median NFA
White $25,384 $43,800 $6,999
Black 15,630 3,700 0

And even comparing just those with college degrees...
Race Income Net Worth NFA
White $38,700 $74,922 $19,823
Black 29,440 17,437 175


The basic fact in the end is that there is limited wealth to be had in America. Those at the bottom will continue to suffer until those at the top give up some of their holdings. There are certainly other policies, programs, and approaches that will help and benefit the disadvantaged. For instance, many more black attain a college degree today and the income gap has closed considerably in recent years. The wealth gap, however, remains. Without some redistribution, other efforts and programs will all only put a band-aid on a gaping wound of racial injustice.

My people weren't meant for this

I am clearly out of my element at this latitude. Yesterday I went to Galveston, and I managed to get sunburn from being out a measly two hours (maybe less). I started thinking: what did people do before there was sunscreen? Particularly back when society was mostly agricultural, or even hunter-gatherer. They would have had to spend many an hour out of doors. How did white people deal with the sun?

Then it dawned on me: my people didn't have to deal with the sun. While white people currently reign over the United States, Canada, and Australia and currently control (or "influence") most of the world, we really come from a geographically tiny (not to mention climactically chilly) region. Certainly my Irish, Scottish, and Welsh ancestors rarely had to worry about a bad sunburn. Those countries are nice, but they don't face the blazing sun like much of the United States does. My French and German ancestors would also not have faced the sun like this. I have no Spanish blood in me, and you can tell; sunny Spain is actually along the same latitude as New York City, and Spaniards are considerably darker (and less burn-prone) than other Europeans.

Perhaps the magnitude of my displacement is best illustrated with a fact I just learned: Texas and Florida are on the same lattitude with the Sahara desert, Saudia Arabia, and Northern India. (Click here for a map to prove it)

In short, my poor skin genes never realized what they were up against. Sunburn really is the curse of the white people. Maybe it's one of our punishments for trying to conquer so much of the world. If white people stayed generally where they came from, they would never have started suffering the wretched pain and tenderness of nasty sunburns, not to mention melanoma down the line.

I can hear a faint voice coming from my red, itchy skin. "See? We told you not to take over like that. How easy is it to bear that white man's burden on a beet-red sunburnt back?"

Trees, Toilets and Sustainability

Kevin's comment on my last entry reminded me of this.

While I was in Morocco, one recurring theme was sustainability. Here are two very interesting facts I learned that made me think:
1. If only China and India (not even the whole rest of the world) started using toilet paper like Americans use toilet paper, all the world's forests would be gone in 48 hours.
2. If everyone showered like Americans shower, the supply of usable water would be gone in roughly the same amount of time.

Breakfast at the Buffalo Grill

Buffalo Grill is located at the corner of Buffalo Speedway and Bissonet in Houston, Texas, an upscale area. It’s next to West University Place, a well-manicured, attractive area of well-to-do people that managed to incorporate their town and stay relatively independent from the city of Houston. Across the street from the Grill is a shopping center with several restaurants, a signature Kroger supermarket, and many little shops. I once visited the optician in that shopping center, where they wanted $270 (at the cheapest) to replace the lenses in my glasses; the next highest price I found at local opticians was $190 and I ended up getting them done for $70. This is the area of the Buffalo Grill.

When I was in Buffalo Grill with my roommates for a roommate breakfast, I made a quick trip to the bathroom. There I noticed the sign that hangs in all restaurant restrooms, reading something like “Los empleados tienen que lavarse las manos antes de trabajar.” Employees must wash their hands before returning to work. Only in this bathroom, the sign was not bilingual; it was written only in Spanish.

This made me think: are all the people that work here Hispanic? In some of my sociology classes we discuss “ethnic niches”; ethnic groups tend to cluster in a certain industry due to a variety of factors such as social networks. Usually, however, blacks tend to be in food service and Hispanics are in janitorial positions. At Buffalo Grill, I didn’t see a single black person in front of or behind the counter.

Perhaps all or even a majority of the employees of this particular restaurant are Hispanic. I cannot decide whether I like this or not. On one hand, it strikes me as the typical scene of the rich importing the less-well-off to serve them. The employees of the Buffalo Grill most certainly do not make enough money at their job to live in the area. Does anyone else feel uncomfortable when all the customers at a restaurant are white, and all the cooks and waiters are not? Or does everyone feel that way, but some people try to ignore it?
On the other hand, it strikes me as at least somewhat positive that these people have jobs. They are not part of the crowd of day laborers on Westpark every morning, hoping to land a job that will almost certainly pay less than minimum wage.

In the end, perhaps I am happy to see these people with jobs, but I am frustrated and angered by the larger picture of vast racial inequalities, leaving many more Hispanics poor and working at stoves and registers instead of in front of computers. And I am frustrated that rich people always want to employ relatively cheap labor without having to live near their employees or see the consequences of that “cheap” in the lives and families of those people. Would the Buffalo Grill still exist if the patrons had to meet and greet the families of the employees?

Whatever solutions I come up with to these problems always seem to have hidden consequences. So, the question I always end with: What can I do about this?



**Diclaimer: I don't know the facts about the economic situation of Buffalo Grill employees, and I could be totally off base. But I have a feeling if this isn't true of the Buffalo Grill, it's true of somewhere.