Picking Bell Peppers: Money in Flux

We worked late yesterday, until dusk. The evening winds had begun to blow and in the distance I could see the dust rising like foam. I needed a sweater again, and it was curious to end the day the way I had started it—picking peppers. I didn’t get a sweater; instead I was overcome by a strange feeling. I was thinking about it, kneeling on the sand coating the dirt, when people began to whistle a tune and Chano began to dance—“this is how you dance” he hollered, shaking his body from side to side. Then he kneeled to continue picking peppers. Chano is an old man in our crew who has a loud, raspy voice. Sometimes he sings, often talks to whoever is around, and has a tendency to talk back to the foreman. “Turn on the lights,” Chano yelled at the operator of the machine. I kept trying to understand the feeling. It was like being suspended in the air, as if everything that mattered had been eroded and all that was left was that moment in the fields. It was resignation, yes, but more than that, it was the embracement of life as it is. Then it hit me—the sand, the sinking sun, the cold breeze, it all reminded me of the beach. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Money is always in flux here. All get paid minimum wage, $8.00. After deductions, the check comes out to $200 or $350, depending on the number and length of the days. But what has struck me is how fast money goes when there is so little of it. Every day, a worker begins with a deficit. He has to pay for his ride and his food. The ride is around $6, the food, we’ll say, another $6. The soda, or the Monster, will add a few more dollars. So the first two hours of work go towards this deficit—to pay off the chance to be there. If you are a mother and left your child with a babysitter, you have to factor that in as well. Another thing, there is no work during the winter, which is about three months, so I am told one has to save around $1,500 to make it through the winter. Again, that is if you are single and don’t drink, which is rare here.

There is a price to pay for being poor. The children in the house rarely eat fruit; I have never seen their parents buy it. And it is expensive. I buy it every week, but if I were not used to it, I would consider the price excessive. For the most part they drink soda or juice that is little more than water and sugar. Instant soup is popular, as is sweet bread. Tortillas are abundant, which makes for a lopsided diet. There is no thought of doctor visits—with one caveat. One of my cousins has tuberculosis. Someone comes every day (except weekends) to help administer his medicine. A while ago, when he told me what he doctors said, he paused and added, “but I don’t believe in that.” Witchcraft is the culprit.

There are two stores here called La Princesa, The Princess. The owners are Middle Eastern, which seemed odd when I first went into one of them, since most people here are Mexican. The other day I went into one and asked whether he offered cash back. He looked at me first, then asked me how much I wanted. I said I needed ten dollars. He said there was a two dollar charge or something. When I tried to clarify that cash back would be a part of a purchase, he asked me how much I would buy. I left frustrated by him; it was clear he wanted to charge me one way or another. My uncles and cousins cash their checks at one of these stores. There is a 1% charge—which I was told was the policy. But the guy behind the counter always rounds up or down to their advantage; if the check is for sixty dollars, he will charge you a dollar (1% would be 60 cents). If your check is for $302.56, he will round it to $302. Fifty cents from one person is not too much, but from ten, twenty, fifty people—it adds up. Perhaps they are simply good businessmen. In my view, they are taking advantage of hardworking people. Naming their store something innocent like “Princess” and writing in Spanish on the windows are all intended to lure the unsuspecting. In the window there is a promise that you’ll get a free six pack of soda with a purchase surpassing a certain point, and that you will get a free ride if you spend over $100. But I have not verified this. I have not gone back to this store. A friend reminded me that we vote with every dollar we spend, and I can’t vote for stores like these.

Two uncles are departing for Mexico today. They are very happy to go back. One plans to come back soon, the other does not. One of my cousins was asked to go along. But he shook his head no, “what am I going to go do there?” he asked. His parents and brothers are here, so nothing. Thoughts of leaving are ubiquitous. Being here seems like being at the beach at sunset—you don’t plan to stay for the night. Still, their departure saddens me. The apartment will not be the same without them. Toujours à cause de l'habitude.

Reader—there are many good moments that have been gluing my stay here. I will share those as well, as not all here is bad. Hard, sure, but not bad. I hope you continue to come back.

Picking Bell Peppers: Notes on a Party and a Trilingual Boy

Dear Reader, there are moments when it is very difficult to be here. The small challenges—the cold, the pain, the relentless similitude— accumulate into a Sisyphean rock. I wake up a few times in the middle of the night—I am not sure why. I would say it is because I sleep on the floor, but everyone else here sleeps similarly. When it is time to get up, I discover that the pain in my back has receded some, but it is definitely not gone. The joints in my fingers ache from clenching and unclenching red peppers. My thighs are sore, as are my calves. It hurts when I stretch my arms or my legs. After packing our lunches, we travel in the dark to the peppers, listening to songs about drinking, drugs, or unrequited love. When we get out of the van, the cold of the dark morning radiates throughout my body from my fingers. We leave our shoes outside because of the mud, so they offer no comfort for my feet. We line up by the foreman’s car. Some smoke. There is splintered chatter. Then, when there is a bit more light, we march towards the machine, buckets in hand, to begin another day.

***

Today we did not go to work because it is raining. We didn’t work yesterday either, but we all still woke up, hopped on the vans, and went to the fields. The owner was hoping we would go in; otherwise some peppers would rot with the rain. Besides, we were almost done with the current lot. The foreman was walking outside, bracing himself against the strong wind as he made his way from one van to the other, explaining the situation. In the end, the decision was made against going in to work, so we all turned back. As we found our way out over muddy roads, we saw men picking cabbages in the rain. Besides the mud, I am not sure why we did not go in to work. But I did not protest, since I was quite sick. My voice was gone, as was my will to work— the drops of water stung against my skin.

It is strange—the picking of cabbages and lettuce; that they also do it during the night. I was told that the machine that follows them has lights so they can see. After being told this, I looked out into the darkness and sure enough, they were in the distance, illuminated by their conveyor belt. We pick peppers next to a lettuce field. After the lettuce heads are cut there are still a lot of leaves left on the rows. We ate lunch by this field the other day, and someone remarked that in Mexico those leaves would also be picked. I gathered some, which were in pretty good condition, and began to count the number of sandwiches I could make with them. I glanced at the field; there were miles and miles of scattered leaves. In a few days the leaves were mostly dry, and in no time there was a Caterpillar turning over the earth, leaving a huge brown patch. Some lettuce leaves were still sticking out from the dirt as we drove back home.

Dear Reader, I have found myself amazed many times here. I want to share two of those times. One took place last Saturday, when one of my coworkers had little party in honor of his son’s birthday. The curious thing is that the young boy (turning eleven) did not seem to be the focus of the party at all. Guests trickled in at various times; I was one of the first. Each was served a plate of mole (thick chili sauce) and chicken. There was no dinner “time”; it was dinner each time a new guest arrived. Besides, the small table could only hold three or four people at a time. The only entertainment was a small stereo brought out into the large living room. Besides a couch next to the dormant fireplace, there was no furniture in the living room. The walls were also empty. A string of balloons hung diagonally, but it was low enough that I had to duck to get across. At one point a little boy pulled a string that caused the string of balloons to fall. It was quickly tied back into place, as if it was the only thing that declared the gathering a party.

The moment when most were celebrating together was when the cake was cut. Pictures were taken of the young boy, who didn’t smile, and his father. Others took pictures with the boy. Then all dispersed back to corners or the couch to continue drinking. Beer—that appeared to be the heart of the celebration. It was beer that finally got the guys to get up and dance some. It was beer which facilitated conversations. It was beer that caused Eloy, an older gay man, to cry. “I cry because I am alone,” he whispered at one point. When the beer ran out, more was brought. What surprised me is that the boy’s mother was the one passing them out. She would walk around handing them to each little congregation. The birthday boy’s appearance was ephemeral, and besides a few presents I did not see much attention on him. The place seemed to be more of a fractured reunion of drinking men.

The other took place yesterday. I was observing my little cousin, Marcelo, play when it hit me that he, at ten years old, is trilingual. He knows Mixtec, Spanish, and English. When I shared my amazement, he replied that he knew a bit of Triqui as well (Triqui is another dialect from Oaxaca). Two of his brothers, refusing to be outdone, began listing the languages they know. When they ran out of familiar ones, they began making up languages, laughing. But one of them, 12, has expressed shame in knowing Mixtec, which is usually associated with ignorance and indians. The other, 15, does not practice his English very much and runs into trouble often. But Marcelo, he commands them all; he speaks to his mother in Mixtec, then moves into Spanish to translate for me, and later will be speaking English as he does his homework or speaks to others. This young boy has become acquainted with three different linguistic worlds. I thought about how amazing this is. It stayed on my mind when I went to the laundromat and walked down the single main road here. But it reflects adaptability. His mother, father, uncles, cousins—they all also speak Mixtec and Spanish, even if their Spanish is a bit fractured. But they don’t do it to impress a college counselor or to beef up their résumé—they do it to be able to survive. They learn Spanish because it is necessary for commerce in Mexico, to be able to get jobs as maids or other labor.

There are so many things I am missing. At times I wish I were more observant; I wish I had better eyes and ears to see more and to learn Mixtec faster. I hear laughter and anger, I see smiles and tiredness. I see my aunt eating steamed broccoli with mayonnaise; my cousin feeling his loose tooth, which he caused by opening a beer bottle with his mouth—but I do not understand most of what they say to each other. But again, there is always tomorrow.

Thank you for reading. It really means a lot.

Picking Bell Peppers: On Silence

Dear Reader, today is Friday, October 9—it marks the end of my third week picking bell peppers. I want to tell you about silence. Its pervasiveness has struck me during this short time.

When I first started working in this, I was in a lot of pain. My back, my thighs, my fingertips, my feet… As the pain brought to my attention more parts of my body, I felt compelled to share this. My coworkers found it humorous. I then found that a young boy, fifteen years old, had started a day before I had. Yet he never complained about anything. Upon speaking with him, I found his name was Jesus, that he speaks Mixtec and some Spanish, and that he has been in the country only for a few months. He is a shy boy, so that certainly contributed to his silence over the pain, but he is not the only one. One woman told me she had been working in this for nineteen years. Others have been doing it for seven, four, ten. At times I work next to women, and they may say something like, “ya me cansé” (I got tired), which means their back is killing them. You won’t hear anything like that from the men. I was the only one saying things like that before I stopped.

It is no secret that many of those working in the fields are undocumented. Living in such a state is to live in silence. There are limits to what they can say, and who they can say it to. Of course, I have not seen any abuse. I would call it tolerance—the workers are tolerated. The bathrooms are always adequate. Gloves are provided, as are hair nets and beard nets—but those things appear to me to be more for the protection of the company. In the mornings, the workers line up by the passenger window of the foreman’s car and give their name to a lady who writes them down. On two occasions there have been additional sheets to sign on the hood of the car—one was for heat exhaustion training, the other for training on what to do with wrist sprains. I never got any training, but we all signed our names. Some of the men asked me to sign their name, as they cannot write. We ran out of space and wrote on the margins of the page.

There is silence, too, in the home. As I mentioned, I live in a crowded place, with many children and adults. Yet they spend their afternoons watching telenovelas, or maybe a movie. They don’t go out—except to fetch something at the store or to do laundry. The men drink beer often. One of the young men is sixteen. His name is Sergio—he is often drunk or high. My cousin told me today, “quiero pistear”, I want to drink. He can, as he received a paycheck today, and will. Besides, there is nothing else to do. There are gangs here as well. My uncles are afraid, urging me to stay off the streets after it gets dark. The other day my cousin and Sergio wanted to get beer. I decided to walk with them. They were all ready to beat up any thugs who got in our way. We didn’t run into any trouble, but as we reached our apartment, my cousin pulled a knife and scratched a car that belonged to a Triqui—another indigenous group in Mexico. Situations such as these leave me at a loss for words. I must remain calm, but what to do? what to think?

The silence of the home is most apparent when I see the children. One of them, Rosalina, is four. He parents go to bed by seven or eight. But she stays up, at the mercy of her cousins, who call her names. She is unfazed by now, she calls them names back. They don’t intend to be hurtful, since they too have been treated like this. But this surprised me a lot when I first arrived. When Rosalina did something I did not like, like tickle my feet as I tried to sleep, I asked her to stop. But she was not used to being asked to do something, so she ignored me. It is similar with all the children. They are not asked how their day went, whether they have dreams or hopes, whether they are happy. They are commanded, told to get out of the way, or are threatened with a belt. Of course, this is one household. I extrapolate with caution. But the fact remains—speaking about feelings or things that may be too intimate is taboo. One of my cousins, a twelve year old boy, is gay. It is known because he is a bit flamboyant. Yet no one uses the word “gay”. It is faggot. And it is not done openly, but in whispers. Another cousin asked me in the fields the other day, “isn’t is true that x is a faggot?” In the home, the brother of this boy always disowns him. “Look at your brother,” he tells me. “He is your little brother,” I tell him. “No, he is not.”

I was told when I first started that the difficult days were the first three. I waited for the pain to go away, but in the fourth day it was still there. Then it hit me—the pain would not go away. I would merely get used to it enough to stop thinking it such a big deal. As Albert Camus put it— toujours à cause de l'habitude. It is always due to habit. During the first few days the thoughts that ran through my head were about how I needed to be broken, about capitalism, communism, socialism, about the white powder on the leaves and how it could kill me. I was worried about getting sunburned and about breathing in too much dust. But now, now it is different. I don’t care about the white dust or the dust or the sun. I have a job to do—we have to keep filling in the buckets and piling them on the insatiable conveyor belt.

Thank you for reading.

Picking Bell Peppers: A Taste of Life in the Fields

For the past two weeks I have been picking bell peppers near Salinas. My mother advised me against it, so did my brother who has done this before. My mother’s reason was that she wanted me closer to home. My brother’s, that it would be way too hard. Stubborn as always, I stood my ground and left San Diego for a small town in coastal California. For the past two weeks my determination has been tested to its limits. I have been in constant pain and out of my element. But why would I, having a college degree, come to work under the sun for up to ten hours a day?

There are a few reasons. At Bennington College we have Field Work Term, a period during which all students are asked to find a job related to their fields and do that from January to mid-February. Some go to Chile to teach English or research education, others to France to record music—whatever we do, we all dispersed across the world trying to find what mattered most to us. Field Work Term was always an opportunity to live—to struggle, sure, but the underlying premise is that the world, too, is a classroom. I thought about Field Work Term as I listened to my brother and my mother offer their reasons for which I should not pick bell peppers: it is too hard, you will be in pain, there are other things you can do, we need you here, you will be unhappy.

By the time I graduated from Bennington College I had forgotten that I once wanted to do a Field Work Term in the fields, picking something. My mother picked grapes and tomatoes when we first arrived in the States, and I wanted to go back as an adult to do it too. I was in a private college, where life was relatively easy. Bennington College is an amazing place intellectually, but it does offer privileges that can distance one from the lives we left behind. I was never hungry, as food was provided all the time, nor cold, as the heaters always worked. If something broke, we just had to make a phone call. The classrooms were comfortable, coffee was available throughout the day, there was a gym, there were concerts, and the beauty of Vermont. However, before all that—a long time ago—I lived in a small bedroom with four other people. One of them was a drunk angry with life. Another a struggling mother. And I, a confused teenager, was unable to appreciate everything that I had back then. Now that I am older—now that I have the tremendous abilities that Bennington provided me with—it was time to go back to the fields to remember where I come from.

On my way to this small town, I stopped in Los Angeles to give a presentation to a Board of Directors. The air conditioner was off, but fans were brought in to keep us comfortable. There was coffee, sweet bread and fruit. The very next day I was in the fields, bent over a little plant with red peppers, thinking myself the stupidest person for having chosen to come here. The thought was perhaps inevitable. Yet for a moment I regretted having come. When I arrived on Saturday night (the 19^th of September) I was asked by my uncle whether I wanted to start the next day. “There will be work tomorrow if you want to come.” Not wanting to delay the inevitable, I agreed to go. I woke up at 4:45 a.m., put my boots on, wore something with long sleeves, gathered my handkerchiefs, borrowed a hat, and drank coffee. But nothing could prepare me for the shock that I would experience throughout my body as I forced it to endure eight hours under the sun. We began at 6:30 a.m. sharp, as soon as there was enough sunlight to see the plants. We got a fifteen minute break at 9:00 a.m. I took off the blue gloves we have to wear and they were drenched in sweat. My back ached, as did my legs. The pain would not subside. The curious thing about the 9 a.m. break is that people eat their lunch at that time. And they drink a lot of soda. It is also a bad idea to eat too much, as you may throw it up. I didn’t have it happen, nor did I see it. But right after eating you go back to the rows of peppers and work bent over, and thus the position combined with the effort can make you sick. The next break is at noon, for half an hour. Some take a nap, others sleep under the machine.

Let me tell you, dear reader, about the machine. It is what marks the start of the day, the breaks, and the end of the day. It is a conveyor belt about sixty feet long. At one end there is a rise where a section similar to an escalator dumps the peppers into a large box pulled by a tractor. The conveyor belt follows, or rather pushes, all the workers down the rows of peppers. The more I have observed the machines, the more amazing of a production it appears to be. There are machines that plant the peppers, machines that set up the irrigation systems, machines that bring and carry equipment, a huge truck that travels up and down the dirt roads pouring water—that is all it really does, splashes water on the road. It is a beautiful sight in the mornings to have the lights of the car turn in to the darkness to illuminate the falling water from the sprinklers briefly before they once again disappear into the darkness. The machines (tractors, trailer trucks, trucks, vans) are all on when I arrive in the morning, as if they didn’t sleep at all. When I see how much the process is mechanized, I think of how we, the workers, are almost a mere extension of the machines. At other times I feel like cattle. You see, there are a lot of little flies that converge over some fallen, rotting peppers. And as we travel down the rows they cling to us. Drawn by the pepper juice collected by our clothes or by the sweat on our faces, they follows us. When I try to work, searching for blood red peppers, these little pests come to my eyelashes, my ear, my nose, but I cannot stop and swap them, for I have blue gloves on my hands, so all I can do is shake my head like a cow flicks her tail.

I wish I had more time to tell you about my fellow workers, the people I live with, the cousins I have discovered, a young Mixtec man whom I teach Spanish to, and many other things. But I live with twelve other adults and many other kids, so there is little time to really write. Often when I write in my journal I have a few kids staring at my screen, one or two reading it aloud. Today I took the day off to finally find internet and be able to post this. Tomorrow is back to work at 4:45. Hopefully I can update you soon and tell you more about how surprised many are that I am here after graduating college. What is clear is that I am not very good at this. My aunt, who is less than five feet tall, can pick bell peppers much faster than I can. In closing, let me say that I came wanting to experience the same life that my uncle has lived for years. I wanted to really be here and experience what my mother lived many years ago. What has become apparent is that I am awkward in this setting. My cousin asked me the other day whether I could do this for two years. “Not at all,” I answered before thinking about it. It is true. I am hoping to make it until the end of the season, which ends in about a month. After that I’m not coming back. In that sense this experiment—of living like them—is not very real. As I get to leave, to really get out of this life, and I know it—everyone knows it. My cousins, my uncle, and many others, they don’t have that luxury.

Mexican Independence and the U.S.

Today is September 16—Mexican Independence Day. (Yes, Cinco de Mayo is not Independence Day.) Inspired in part by the United States’ plight for freedom, Mexico launched their struggle for independence in 1810. The initial leader perished in the decade that followed, as well as many other Mexican leaders. The Mexico that emerged in 1821 was finally free, but it was also broke, confused, and had suffered a significant loss in population. Mexico opened its northern border to American settlers to help populate the area. Large land grants were given to white settlers who agreed to 1) pledge allegiance to the Mexican republic, 2) embrace Catholicism, and 3) renounce slavery, which had been outlawed in Mexico. Many settlers came, and by 1929 Mexico realized it had made a mistake. It closed the border, but it was too vast to patrol. So American settlers continued to cross into Mexico—illegally. Several years later Mexico attempted to consolidate its Republic, similar to what the U.S. did when it dissolved the confederation in favor of the current Constitution. Several parts of Mexico revolted—among them the area called Tejas. Faced with Santa Ana’s military, all abandoned their complaints. But a group of tejanos did not, accusing the president of tyranny. A number of them still had slaves, were protestant, and were challenging the President of Mexico. Thus, Santa Ana marched on Tejas. The dispute with Tejas in 1836 eventually led to the U.S. declaring war on Mexico—despite the dissent of congressmen like Abraham Lincoln. The two nations have been tied together since their birth, which is important to remember. When debates about immigration take place, all parties should remember that we, as neighbors, have been good to each other, but also cruel. At times, injustice has reigned. I mentioned to a friend the other time that some people still care a lot about this. “Really?” he asked perplexed. Yes, really. Slavery, even though it is extinct, has left deep scars in the lives of people. It is a bit similar with others who have felt ignored. My view is this: let’s not dwell on what we cannot change—but let us learn about what we can change and why it matters that we do. One thing we can do is remember a day when a forlorn priest declared Mexicans a free people.

A Reflection on a Book Title

I have read the title over and over in my mind, but I have not read the book. The title rushes back into my consciousness at moments of disappointment to remind me that the feeling has been discovered before and provoked agony. It is a wonderful title: No one Writes to the Colonel (by Gabriel García Márquez).

As Fitzgerald wrote, reserving judgment is a matter of infinite hope. Given that suspension of judgment can only occur when knowledge is lacking or seriously limited, the same concept can apply to my situation: Reading the title is a matter of infinite hope. But hope is an empty word—empty because of its scope. All wishes have objects. And the object of the wish changes all the time, thereby requiring specificity in order to have meaning. Here is the meaning I attribute to the title; the hope it gives me: It begins with an image—conjured up by fragments about the book I have floating in my memory. The image is of a famous military figure—like Simón Bolívar—who sits in an old cabin on a mountain awaiting acknowledgement from the outside world. He has tried to do good things for people, and as his death approaches he desires some sort of validation and appreciation. He waits patiently but nothing. The weeks pass. The years. Then he experiences it both as a steady stream and a rushing current—no one is coming. It is both a realization and a resignation. No one will come. The sense of irrelevance is overwhelming at first, but soon it becomes bearable, and then logical. No one writes to the Colonel because no one needs to; his value to others has changed, and they don’t care to be troubled by the old man secluded in the mountains.

In my mind it is an epic title, as others have been. (The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway, used to inspire a similar condition.) Soon I will read the novella by Márquez and the agitation it causes me will change. What won’t change is this moment, when self-disappointment settles in my mind and invokes the company of another being, imagined to keep me company and push the feeling away.

Meet the Press: Some Comments on Presentation

Health care reform was the topic of today's Meet the Press. I'll make a few observations--not about the issue at hand, but the presentation.

Measured Speech: In listening, I felt myself most attuned to Tom Dashle, because of the way he measured his speech. At various points, Dick Armey seemed to get yell a little, which distracted me from his message. Thus, controlling one's voice is a strategic element to keep in mind while debating. It reminds me of the clip where Secretary Hillary Clinton responds, irked, to someone who seems to ask for her husband's view. Her response stole her Africa tour a bit, and it has to do with the way she presented her response--her body language and her diction.

Look Present: At times, Rachel Maddow was not looking at the people she was responding to, which was also distracting. She may have been reading, since she did appear prepared with additional sources, but, obviously, it made me wonder why she was not meeting them eye to eye. Again, looking present is extremely important. Addressing the whole group is important, focusing on the one asking the question, of course.

Ground Rules: The session was difficult, in part because the issue is a complicated one, but also because the people involved have such egos. This was most evident when Congressman Rangel is interviewed--he seems to have one message in mind (that negativity should be avoided), and had a hard time answering the questions posed. The point is that all involved in such a high-profile debate of an important issue should establish and follow some ground rules. However, this is not enforceable, for it depends on individual sense of decorum. And big egos often do not pay attention to that.

What did you think?

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On Desire

Originally posted on anything YOU like.

I work in the basement of a building, where it gets really cold. The other day I walked out to get some sun. My workplace is near the capitol, and there is a small plaza nearby. Small coffee shops, sandwich places, a light rail stop, and a church adorns the streets.

I crossed the light rail and entered the church. I am no longer Catholic, but I have always remained fond of churches. To my surprise, mass was ending. The priest at the head of the church, the parishioners on their knees. Then it hit me—this, too, is desire.

Desire is a driving force. It is a fire. Manifesting itself as an impulse—almost a need, it locks our commitments. But if we pay attention, we can see how we generate our own desires. Financial desire, emotional desire, sexual desire—they come from the same place. We are hungry. We are hungry in more ways than one. One of those hungers is for comfort; we desire to know that things will be alright. Enter God. We surrender before him, “commend our lives”, commend whatever freedom is to this all-powerful entity. At the church, the priest said something, everyone responded, Amen. Desire.

I, too, have desires. At times they have not been fulfilled and I have been left feeling empty. The feeling of forlornness calls for company, and it generates additional desires. One way to think about it is like this: imagine yourself in an office, that is in the basement, with the AC on. It gets cold, you get cold. You want—no, need—something. Warmth, yes, the sun, sunlight. So you walk out in search of it.


I have been reading Bertrand Russell’s Why I’m Not a Christian. He helped me with this piece.

Sacramento & Post-College

I first came to Sacramento by accident.

A high school mentor came across an application for the Chicano/Latino Youth Leadership Project (CLYLP) Summer Conference and shared it with me. (She did not come across it again.) It was 2004, and I was a mess. Confused and disillusioned with my personal and academic life, I applied for the statewide Conference. The Conference brings students from across California to Sacramento for one week during which the students learn about Chicano culture and visit the Capitol building--they are among the few groups allowed on the Assembly floor.

After that week I started calling myself Chicano. In part because nothing else seemed to fit. I was no longer Mexican, and not quite American. But also because I connected with other Chicanos. At the end of the Conference I was elected Student President, which allowed me to serve on the Board of Directors of the organization for the next year. Because of that position I learned to wear a tie and a suit. I also learned which fork is for the salad and which is for dessert. Gaining access to a completely new sphere of influence and circle of power was...like opening the right door after many, many disillusionments. Suddenly the domestic violence I left in San Diego could stay there, the questions of identity did not have to be overwhelming, the uncertain future did not have to arrest my education. In the company of supportive professionals I began to believe in myself.

Now I am back. After years in the East Coast, I have returned to the CLYLP as Program Coordinator for the inaugural CLYLP/Comcast Fellowship, supervising and mentoring six Fellows who comprise the first class. It is the hardest job I've had. More than a full-time job, it is an all-the-time job.

But Sacramento is also reminding me of the things that matter and the things that don't. Such a quest--for meaning--is not resolved in one summer. But I am happy to be continuing this in Sacramento. I am fortunate to come here for my first job after graduating from Bennington College. To be sure, it is not a return to the beginning. It is another visit--on purpose this time.

Rachel Maddow: Auto-Tunes in the News #3

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