Christine Joy Ferrer (Journalism Portfolio)

Site Moved

2010-10-25T01:13:00.000-07:00

Please visit www.eyesopenedblog.com to view my updated portfolio and bio.

Thank you,

Christine

2009-02-18T14:59:00.000-08:00

Call For Submissions
Oscar Grant Memorial Arts Project
Creative Expressions, a Catalyst for Social Change

People are angry. Thousands have been appalled by the Oscar Grant shooting and have taken a new stand to fight injustice. Many have chosen to creatively express their stance through art. Songs have been written and dedicated to Oscar Grant. Poems, paintings and posters have been created. Graffiti artists have painted murals.

Race, Poverty, & the Environment journal and Media Alliance are gathering creative works dedicated to Oscar Grant from artists, musicians, writers, photographers and others. Any form of creative expression will be accepted. It could be a video of a dance work, audio, song, poster, photo, art project, links to web pieces, etc.

Selected portfolio work will be featured in several Bay Area publications (print and online). If you have any questions or would like to contribute to this project please contact christinejoy@urbanhabitat.org. All submissions should be sent to artwork@urbanhabitat.org by March 21, 2009.

To view the project's beginnings please visit: http://urbanhabitat.org/rpe/oscar

We also plan to publish a 1,000-word article including interviews with participating artists exploring how creative expression can be a catalyst for social change. The artwork will be distributed for non-profit only use via Creative Commons licensing.

This project is co-sponsored by Media Alliance and Race, Poverty and the Environment. We invite the participation of other publications in collecting and publishing the work. Please post or publish this call and we will be in touch to offer the collected works.
Current partner publications include: Urban Habitat's Race, Poverty & the Environment Journal, Media Alliance, http://media-alliance.org, InColor magazine http://In-Color.net, and Street Spirit Newspaper. This work is supported by a grant from the Akonadi Foundation.

For those outside the Bay Area news sphere: Early morning on New Year's Day, 22-year-old Oscar Grant III was shot and killed in Oakland, California by a Bay Area Rapid Transit agency police officer. Grant was unarmed. The young black man's arms shackled behind his back. His face—pressed down against the cement. Onlookers video-phoned the horrific spectacle as his life was taken from him.

Do I look like I sell Drugs?

2009-01-06T21:13:00.000-08:00

Drug Busting Hip-hop
Blog-- Published January 7, 2009, InColor Magazine

“Do I look like I sell drugs?” I never thought to ask someone that question. I’ve never smoked or injected a narcotic. I don’t know how many different drugs exist. I can list maybe four. It took me a while to figure out what the hell NUMP, E-40 and The Federation meant when they were rappin’ “Who got purple? I got grapes.”...wait, what? I’ve never witnessed a drug deal or lived in a neighborhood infested with addicts. I doubt someone would assume that of me either. Maybe it’s because I don’t fit the “characteristics” of a dealer…that dark skinned, somewhat thuggish individual from the hood, sporting a fitted style with an abundant excess of gold, who wears baggy pants that sag from the buttock.

And even if someone were to experience all of the above, why should that make he or she any more suspect? You really never know who’s hustlin’ and who’s not. It’s time to get that imagery out your head. Anyone can be a dope boy.

For all the plenty of young colored folks that get dirty looks and don’t deserve it, DJ Al Azif does a smashing job of knocking a social construct while remixing Adam Tensta’s latest single “Dopeboy,” a Sweden-born Hip hop artist influenced by electro/house styles.

Al Alzif broke out his digitalcam and filmed a bunch of ordinary citizens rocking out to “Dopeboy” each holding a piece of paper that reads the song’s hook, "Do I look like I sell drugs?" The home video features various individuals—from artists, the homeless, to Paris Hilton blondes, nurses and small business owners—poking fun at that very question. And while the straight lyrics, beat, and rhyme intoxicate, it’s just damn entertaining. You’ll laugh at the sight of the bald, ripped white farmer on the tractor and smile at the little kid flinging the crinkled inquiry over his head.

Ridiculous isn’t it? And yet, it ironically caused me to think critically about the world around me—about the bias we have, the assumptions we make and the institutions that continue to perpetuate racial stereotypes and profiling.

All over the world, those that are the most disproportionately impacted by drug control are not the major drug traffickers or ‘kingpins.’ Instead, the victims are the peasant farmers, small time dealers, low-level drug offenders, and its users. According to the Beckley Foundation Drug Policy Programme, the majority are poor, ethnic minorities who come from marginalized communities.

The stereotype of drug dealers is that they are people of color. In the United States research by Human Rights Watch has shown that African-American men are sent to prison on drug charges at 13.4 times the rate of white men. Furthermore, 63 percent of all drug offenders admitted to state prisons were African-American and only 35 percent of whites are locked up, according to the Physician Leadership on National Drug Policy. African American’s make-up 13 percent of our U.S. population compared to the 80 percent that is white (Whites are the majority of drug users/dealers).

Major props to Al Azif for shooting a creative home video that doesn’t discriminate. Whether you intended to or not, you moved me. So once again I must reiterate, this is for all people, especially colored people, who get dirty looks and don't deserve it. Bob and groove to this.

To find more info and music by Adam Tensta and the funky DJ skills of Al Azif hit up:

http://www.alazif.se/

http://www.myspace.com/adamtensta

Contributing Writer for inColor

2009-01-06T20:59:00.000-08:00

I am now a contributing writer for InColor. To see more of my work, visit:
http://www.in-color.net

About InColor
Mission
To present topics in art, design, fashion, music, and entertainment in color, meaning from the perspective of people of color worldwide. Serving as a network between artists, designers, musicians, entertainers and the rest of the world.

What Is in COLOR
IN COLOR will be more than just another website. It will feature a daily updates on what's new in the world of art, design, fashion, music, and entertainment, alongside editorials written by those who give a fresh and intelligent view from the prospective/retrospective of people of color. It will also feature photography in forms of mini photo editorials and tutorials, as well as street life. Alongside the photography will be interviews and features on people of color making moves in the art, design, fashion, music, and entertainment worlds. As well as presenting the view from the frontline of the latest events as they happen. Last but not least create a community for discussion, sharing of knowledge and entertainment. All in all IN COLOR will be a lifestyle magazine in website form.

What is in COLOR not
It isn't anti- any race. Rather it is giving an opportunity for color to shine everyday, in every and any way.

Who Is in COLOR
IN COLOR is a group of like minded or non-like minded professional individuals who share a love of what they love. IN COLOR is an arena that gives the opportunity for young creators, writers and photographers to share their talent with world. If you are interested in contributing or being featured on IN COLOR, or just want to know more about what exactly IN COLOR is, email info@in-color.net

Life is Still Beautiful: One Woman Prevails Over Modern Plagues

2008-04-25T12:32:00.000-07:00

Photo by Dulce Baron
Life is Still Beautiful: One Woman Prevails Over Modern Plagues
FEATURE-- Published April 24, 2008, [X]press Magazine

Above the bustling sounds in the restaurant’s kitchen is the contagious laughter of a tall, slender, waitress named Kristi Kissell. She quickly replaces her smile with a serious visage but can’t help but grin again when a familiar face walks through the door. After removing her clear rimmed, black glasses, she slips them into her pocket. The pretty bleached blond is self-conscious about her appearance. She covers the scars of weariness on her face with foundation. As she carries two plates on one arm, she holds a drink with her free hand. Her toned physique reveals her strength, but the inner burden she bears has muscled more strength out of her than the number of plates she could carry in a lifetime.

Life changed for Kissell at age twenty-five when she contracted HIV. At thirty she developed cervical cancer as a result of the virus. Depression and anxiety now drown her mind.

“I’ve missed out on a lot because of the AIDS. It’s like I’m an empty glass, and now I have to fill it up again,” says Kissell, now forty-five. “But when the doctor told me I had cancer and only six months to live, I was in total fear—I was more hopeful about being HIV positive.”

The unknown can hold nothing but fear for many in her shoes. And yet, she is woman who refuses to allow her agony to kill her spirit. With every blow, she fights back harder ten times more.

At around seven a.m., her painkillers have worn off from the night before. Lying in bed, still too groggy and weak to function, she takes her first round of ten pills. By the end of the day, she will have taken twenty more—AIDS medications, doses for those medications’ side effects and past side effects, pain pills, and eight different anti-depressants.

Kissell’s immune system began deteriorating after she contracted HIV. Medications caused nerve damage. The bone in her left foot is disintegrating, making it difficult for her to walk for long periods of time. She’s constantly anemic and fatigued, having undergone six different surgeries for cervical cancer and three blood transfusions.

“I wanted to have kids, a family, a partner, but I won’t have that. I have hardly any cervix left,” she says. “I wouldn’t even have any muscle to hold the fetus.”

Like a prisoner bound to her bed, anxiety restrains her. By 11 a.m., she forces herself to find the strength to stand.

"She knows when she's depressed and tends to withdraw herself," says Franzie Latko, who's been a customer and friend since she started working at the restaurant five years ago. "But she also knows when it's time to get herself up and out and be with people, and she does it."

She perseveres by going to every monthly doctor visit and therapy session, regularly taking her medicine and nutrition supplements, and engaging in what others could otherwise neglect. With no health insurance, she lives off of public assistance, her meager wages as a waitress, and help from her parents. Her pills cost over two-thousand dollars a month.

"You can either give into it, or you can fight it," says James Lyon, her roommate and best friend. "[Kissell] chooses to fight."

The day she was tested for HIV, she walked in the clinic alone. Her husband waited for her in the car. He never told her he was HIV positive and refused treatment for it. She cared for him for two years when his health failed, but when Kissell became ill, he didn’t give a damn. His usual consolation was “I love you so much. I want to bring you down with me.” He'd threaten, "If you leave, I'll kill myself...when you go home you'll find my brains scattered all over the walls."

She’d sit in her bedroom in utter darkness with the blinds shut for days. For nine to ten months, she suffered from migraines, vomiting, diarrhea—banged her head on walls. The sight of her ingesting medicine angered him. "You can't pretend it doesn't exist!" she yelled at him one day, near tears. He choked her in their kitchen until she collapsed.

After twelve difficult years together, she had enough courage to leave him and moved to San Francisco. She never learned how her ex-husband contracted HIV. Before he passed away three years ago, her animosity towards him died quietly, with her forgiveness in its purest surrender. “There was no way he could be true in this lifetime, so all I could do was be true to myself,” she explains. “I let go of his responsibility to me.”

Three years ago her T-cells were below one-hundred. The lower T-cell count, the greater an opportunity there is for an infection. With her new medications, the count has moved up to five-hundred. A normal T-cell count is between six-hundred and sixteeen-hundred. Her cancer has now stabilized and her immune system is slowly regenerating.

These days, the littlest things matter: the thrill of hunting for a good deal with her best friend, visiting with her nephews, watching old films, walking her dogs, getting hugs and kisses from her customers, and eating peanut-butter chocolate ice cream.

The day she was leaving for San Francisco, Rocky, her nine-year-old, Chihuahua/corgi canine companion, sneaked into her green Mazda, hid in the backseat, and wedged himself between suitcases. He's been her faithful little baby for eight years. She added a new addition to her family six months ago, another mixed breed dog, named Charlie. They've brought joy and healing to her existence.

“HIV has become so prevalent in my life that it’s changed who I am, but maybe for the better,” says Kissell. “I’ve never felt like giving up. I’m not sure how confident I am, but I know HIV is not gonna kill me. It’s not in my heart to be negative anymore.”

In her living room, she sits on a floral sheet-covered couch adorned with ten pillows. Her two dogs snuggle up to her, licking her lips, whimpering. Her laughter brightens the room once again. She’s still alive.

My Mother, a Paranoid Schizophrenic: the Stigma of Mental Illness and America's Inadequate Mental Health Care System

2008-02-17T22:33:00.000-08:00

Photo by Melissa Funk
My Mother, a Paranoid Schizophrenic: the Stigma of Mental Illness and America's Inadequate Mental Health Care System
FEATURE-- Published December 14, 2007, [X]press Magazine

A middle-aged Filipino woman stood in her bedroom, naked for the third time that day, her body curved slightly to the right from stress. Her face was ashen as she wailed that bugs were crawling up her legs. They had somehow managed to inhabit her room and embed themselves in her clothes. She swatted the vermin away with her hands and stomped the floor trying to kill them. But no matter what she did, she could never be rid of these pests that haunted her. The bugs she saw were all in her mind.

That woman was my mama, who had been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic when I was in high school. Unlike my two-decade-older siblings, remembering my mother for her charm, intelligence and beauty, I've known her only as a woman haunted by hallucinations, insistent about locking every door in the house and paranoid that others were trying to steal the money she didn't have.

And yet, unlike my brother and sister, I'm not afraid or ashamed to face it. I'm not afraid to talk about it. We've sought treatment for my mama, and we take care of her at home. But in their eyes, her illness is not open for discussion among friends or family.

Other families in similar situations also have this sentiment. But I can't get over the power of the cultural and social stigmas surrounding mental illness in America. We openly speak of AIDS, cancer, and other illnesses and fight for their cures, but why not mental illness? America has the resources and the power to improve mental health care and soften the tainted notions that loom over mental disorders but has yet to do so.

By failing to address these attitudes, those who are mentally ill are prevented from seeking the treatment they require, and their families are inhibited from finding the support they need.

Our country controls how we view mental illness—the diagnostic manuals, the clinician training, the journals, and the established psychiatric institutions. We set the bar for how those with mental illness are treated and talked about, and we are teaching the rest of the world to do the same.

If you were to grade the national mental health system, its grade would be no better than a D, found a study conducted by the National Alliance on Mental Illness in 2006. Mental illness causes more disability than any other class of medical illness in America. The mental and physical health of immigrants and their children deteriorates with increasing assimilation to a U.S. lifestyle, a U.S. Center for Disease Control and Prevention survey revealed.

Jails and prisons have become psychiatric treatment facilities for the mentally ill by default. In November, a high-security inmate who stabbed and nearly killed a teenage girl in San Francisco had a documented history of bipolar disorder but was never treated or medicated in prison, reported the SF Chronicle.

Maria's Madness, Her Family's Shame
The living room reeks of body odor and two-week old garbage. Piles of dirty laundry mixed with old newspapers and coupons cover the chairs and sofa. Dead strands of hair are scattered on the floor, and dead skin cells pervade the air. Violet's* mother showers only once every other month. She washes her hands for more than ten minutes and switches the lights on and off just to make sure they're off.

"Like the movie 'Gattaca,' her body particles are everywhere—from her hair and skin," says Violet, 25. Her mother, Maria*, battles depression and obsessive compulsive disorder. Her family believes Maria is also bipolar. Her one pleasure: ridiculing her daughter. "I'm so much more educated than you," she's hissed. She's also called Violet a demon and a whore, "spreading [her] legs to many dicks."

"I'm not in denial [about my mom's illness], but other people are," says Violet. "They know it's wrong to ignore but they're not doing anything because she's family or they feel sorry [for her] or they're embarrassed."

Historically, the role of families in the treatment and recovery of mentally ill relatives has been overlooked, even taken for granted. But they are more than just the people who can answer psychiatrists' questions. Families function as the primary caregivers, directly affected by those for whom they care. But it can be very difficult for family members and others to see past the stigma of treatment.

Ana's Addiction, Her Culture's Discrimination
Elena* spent hours sitting in the same spot by her living room window waiting for her mother, Ana*, to come home.

When she finally arrived after several days, Ana was drugged up on heroin again. She had an evil stare in her eyes, frustrated by the presence of her two daughters. She slipped off her pair of stilettos and without hesitation began beating her girls with its heel. They screamed, horrified. Fighting for their lives, Elena's older sister flung a punch at her mother's face while 7-year-old Elena bolted to the phone.

Nearly twenty years later, Ana is no longer addicted to heroin but has been diagnosed with depression, tested positive for Hepatitis C and HIV, and has Crohn's Disease. But Ana's addiction to heroin started when Elena was just four years old.

The first time Ana started envisioning apparitions and hearing voices, she checked herself into a mental health clinic. However, the rest of her family remained in denial for years, convinced she had been faking her mental illness.

"Mexican families don't want to believe anything's wrong but [want to believe] that everything's all right," says Elena. "They think we've had to struggle and don't want people to know we're weak or that there's any weakness in our family."

Our nation lacks cultural sensitivity in the way we approach mental illness, says Dr. Jei Africa, a Filipino clinical psychotherapist. "Stigma is the number one deterrent that prevents many cultures from seeking treatment."

In the U.S., diverging racial attitudes about mental health care run deep. African Americans are 2.5 times more likely than whites to fear mental health treatment. Overall, 26 percent of whites mention their mental health problems to a friend or relative while only 12 percent of Asian Americans do the same. Mexican Americans born outside the U.S. are less likely to seek treatment than Mexican Americans born here, found a Los Angeles Epidemiologic Catchment Area study. Because of their hesitation to pursue a remedy, Latinos are less likely than whites to receive appropriate care and treatment.

One size cannot fit all. "We must be open to more culturally appropriate ways to deal with illness," explains Africa. "[We can use] herbal remedies, community and family-based care, group and psychological therapy, traditional healing methods and not just medication."

Many American psychiatrists believe that mental illness is viewed the same way in all cultures, but they may be wrong. Ethan Watters is a journalist who is currently working on a book about mental illness and cultural differences. "Mental illness is different to different cultures, in how they express their symptoms and their outcomes," he says. "In another culture paranoid schizophrenia maybe defined by catatonic behavior, going blank, but here in America, it is paranoia—seeing and talking to things and people that aren't there."

Samantha's Denial, Her Son's Sadness
Imagine being a senior in high school, you're your parents favorite child, the star at everything you do, top student in your class, and an amazing athlete—with 14 varsity letters: more than one varsity team per season. You're accepted to Dartmouth College. But then your life is suddenly disturbed, when your mother, who was misdiagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, dies from mistreatment.

You never graduate from Dartmouth.

This happened to Edgar's* mother, Samantha*, who now suffers from severe depression. Edgar's grandmother passed away during a time when shock therapy was administered and mental institutions existed before President Regan closed them down.
All his mother's siblings saw psychiatrists after their mother's death, except for Samantha, who still refuses treatment.

"It's not what she did but what she didn't do that showed me that my house was different than most kids," Edgar says. Samantha couldn't hold down a steady job, killed time watching movies, and regularly picked her son up and hour or two late from school. She would rarely cook or eat the food she'd buy. Instead it was left to rot on the kitchen counter or spoil in the fridge.

"I spent a lot of time at my friend's house—come home as late as I could," he adds.
With the poor understanding of mental health as a "mental issue," and the tendency to categorize those suffering as "crazy," patients and their families become reluctant to seek help. When they do, only about one in three receive treatment in any given year that meets minimum standards of care. Paralyzed by fear and shame, many remain in denial, are unaware, or fail to acknowledge their mental illness.

And yet, those who are severely, clinically depressed can still live healthy, happy lives and work stable jobs with proper care and treatment. Over 80 percent of people with schizophrenia can be free of relapses at the end of one year of treatment with antipsychotic drugs combined with family intervention, reported the World Health Organization.

Danielle's Death, Her Daughter's Relief
Sometime in the late afternoon, while driving on a New York City freeway, Monica's* mother, Danielle* flipped out, shouting that she was going to kill herself. Monica, 28, was 8 years old then. As Danielle sped towards a retaining wall, Monica's younger brother shrieked in terror from the back seat of the car. "If you kill yourself I'm gonna kill myself," he screamed. "Don't say that. She might actually kill herself and then you're gonna have to live up to your word," said Monica, turning to her brother. She then leaned forward and calmly whispered in her mother's ear, "Mom, you can kill yourself another time, but you can't do it now because if you kill yourself now, you're gonna kill all of us." Within seconds, her mother steered clear of the barrier and began crying. "I'm sorry," she said.

Danielle was one of six siblings diagnosed with a mental disorder. She was diagnosed bipolar.

"My mom was really beautiful, good at reading and talking to people. Her personality was magnetic. She was passionate, and knew so much about so many different things," says Monica. "You'd have to really know her to know exactly who she was. People who really knew her knew she was a disaster."

Although Monica and her two younger siblings are half-Italian and half-Jewish, they were raised in a Muslim commune for most of their childhood where rules were strict. Her mother didn't have any control over her life. However, Danielle was able to paint and draw without destroying herself. Once they left the commune, her mind began to unravel more and more.

"Before she got really bad, she spent a lot of time painting, sketching, and sculpting or crying. In her own world, she was unavailable, and it just got more and more frequent to the point where you couldn't catch her," says Monica. "She was in and out of mental institutions, [would spend] two weeks sobbing and then the next week she'd be on top of the world."

The stigma against treatment may be even greater than the stigma against the disorders themselves, with most Americans taking years, even decades, to seek treatment, if they seek treatment at all, according to a survey by the National Comorbidity Survey Replication.

"We think it's just an illness, that you can get over it," says the journalist, Watters. "We believe we're de-stigmatizing it, but it's its own stigma by medicalizing the problem." If someone mentally ill goes untreated, it can prove to be dangerous and detrimental to that person and to his or her loved ones.

***

Dawn was fast approaching, as the street lights continued to illuminate the sidewalk. Danielle awoke her youngest daughter, who was 3 years old, to tell her goodbye. Even though she was so young, she knew her mother was about to execute what she had threatened to do for such a long time. She went back to sleep. Later that morning, a family friend found Danielle's body in the garage. She had hung herself.
"Life doesn't get any easier, but we do get better tools," says Monica of her mother's death. "But we only get better if we learn to face ourselves—face our experiences."

My Closure, My Acceptance
So here I am facing my experience. My mama can't cook for herself or wash her sheets. Every morning after I wake up and before I sleep each night, I give my mama her medication. I change her diapers daily and shower her every Sunday. If ever she relapses and sees the bugs on her blankets or worries that the world has gone into disarray, I pray with her, and she calms down. I don't consider her a burden. Since she began receiving treatment, she's more mellow compared to before and less argumentative. I love her for her toothless grin, and she often reassures me I'm "the best in the west."

Phobia, like a suffocating fog, chokes the families of the mentally ill in America and silences their voices, experiences and questions. Sadly, I feel that I'm the only one willing to share my story, here and now—with my face uncovered, my name unchanged, and my words unblemished.

**Name changed for privacy reasons.

The Poor Man's Stuggle: America’s Social Hierarchy Depicted through Dance

2008-02-17T22:19:00.000-08:00

Photo by Ross Chassy
The Poor Man's Struggle: American's Social Hierarchy Depicted through Dance
FEATURE-- Published: December 14, 2007, [X]press Magazine

I am that poor man often stared at oddly/You spy me slovenly as poverty draws me camouflage…I am that poor man you don't understand/or ignore this but sometimes you pour porridge that meets these orphaned lips/and others see me as a torn page from a script of laziness to teach their children not to be like me/but as society denies me livelihood and sobriety and longevity so my children don't have to live pathetically/before your eyes do the judging and condemning/know that you too can be that poor man.
– Vejea Speaks on Poverty, by Souljahz

A light from offstage casts a shadow on a young black woman's face, Dachelle Johnson-Burke. Its glow burns bright enough to illuminate her dark complexion. Hypnotized, she dances to the rhythm of a spoken word on poverty. Her intensity and passion remain steadfast in each movement. Her thoughts revert to that of a poor single mother, working three jobs to feed her three children. She embodies the character's mentality. You see her strength. She slows down and takes a deep breath. In that moment, you sense her weariness, before she begins again.

Two other dancers, once motionless in the dark, now move. One of the pair, Vanessa Sanchez, stares at Dachelle with disgust and arrogance. She represents society's wealth, decked in gaudy jewelry. From an upright stature, she looks down at Dachelle, beating the ground with her fists. The other dancer, Tiffany Burnoski, mirrors her counterpart from a distance.

Photo by Ross Chassy

These three dancers represent the social hierarchy of America: the working class poor, the middle class, and the wealthy. An obvious inequality exists between them, and the lower class is affected the most by the power of the elite.

For the New Moves Dance December Showcase at SF State, I choreographed a piece that unmasks America's classism. I called it "The Poor Man's Struggle."

Class struggle becomes easy to overlook when its smothered by America's so-called prosperity. Fighting poverty does not seem to be a major campaign issue. The working class poor population is expanding, the middle class is shrinking, and the upper class remains disproportionately small. It is the poor who suffer the most under this hierarchy. In my piece, two dancers represent the middle class, three are poor, two are rich. In the end, a middle class becomes poor.

"It's a little scary just thinking of the shrinking middle class," says Vanessa Sanchez. "Where am I gonna end up with that shrinking?"
America's poor do not get enough resources to alleviate their problems. The top one percent earn more money than the bottom 40 percent, and the gap wider than it has been in 70 years, found globalissues.org. The U.S. also has the largest gap in wages and inequality between the rich and the poor when compared to all other industrialized nations, reported Corporate Planet Magazine. Today, 37 million Americans are impoverished. Poorer communities are denied access to adequate education. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, 73 percent of Americans do not have government health insurance. Instead of health care being a privilege, shouldn't it be a basic human right?

I started choreographing in the summer, and chose seven passionate dancers in the fall to represent each class: Tiffany Burnoski, Stephanie Castillo, Stephanie Hyland, Alexis Johnson, Dachelle Johnson-Burke, Jenna Lahm and Vanessa Sanchez.
To get them to really connect to their respective characters, I gave them movements—jumps, kicks, falls; and words—struggle, wealth, limitation; allowing them to create their own dance phrase. I asked them to consider the residents of Visitacion Valley, a section of San Francisco where many minorities live and violence is common.

"I imagined being frustrated, I thought of how frustrated it can be when I'm trying to get somewhere and just can't get there," said Alexis Johnson. "And I thought of my personal frustration of being a college student and trying to pay for school myself."

In selecting the classes the dancers would represent, race played a key factor as it does in reality. Blacks and Hispanics suffer higher rates of poverty than whites and Asians. Around 25 percent of blacks live in poverty, as do 22 percent of Hispanics. The poverty rate decreased for non-Hispanic whites and increased roughly two percent for Asians from 2004 to 2005, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.

"I think [dancing in this piece] definitely exposed me to the frustration of the system and the struggle of what poorer classes have to go through," explained Johnson. "I learned the structure of the economic system, how shameful it is, and how much people need to be educated about it, so they can learn to make better decisions—it makes sense why there are so many problems with poor families."

In the choreography, the battle is obvious. The classes fight each other, but it's no doubt the rich are still in power. In the end, the rich have total control over the poor, and survive although the lower classes have fallen. "Before, I was able to forget about it," says Stephanie Hyland. "And now, I never realized how messed up [the class system is], how unfair and how it really affects life."

Photo by Ali Thanawalla

"The Poor Man's Struggle" is an amalgamation of many dance styles: hip hop, modern, Capoeira, and Haitian. All are derived from the histories of peoples living in arduous, oppressive conditions. Enslaved Africans on the Caribbean island of Haiti developed Haitian dance as a means of expressing themselves and maintaining their sacred customs and beliefs.

African slaves brought to Brazil in 1630 developed a system of fighting called "jungle war," or Capoeira, to use against their Dutch and Portuguese colonizers. Capoeria, done to the rhythm of music and song, disguised the fact that the slaves were practicing a deadly martial art. It became their weapon of freedom and symbol of emancipation.

In the 1970s, Hip Hop culture was born in the Bronx neighborhood of New York City. As a marginalized group, black and Latino youth didn't have any formal way to express themselves. They developed Hip Hop as a way to have fun, communicate their experiences, and criticize social inequality and poverty. One woman's rebellion against ballet's strict postures and steps gave birth to the modern dance self-expressive form.

I'm sick of our country's relentless pursuit of capital, the idea that anyone can make it America, our individualistic mentality, how we exploit other countries for our own benefit, and how we overlook our own impoverished citizens, considering them lazy.

My firm belief in the teachings of Jesus Christ is what inspired me to create my dance.

Our American mentality is a far cry from what Christ stood for and a far cry from democracy, justice, and freedom. If you want to ask what Jesus would do, ask if he would give tax cuts to the rich. How can we claim as our nation's slogan that it is God in whom we trust? If the U.S. was truly based on the Gospel, it would abolish the modern day capitalistic financial system.

We have forgotten Jesus' heart for humanity and the common good, who fought to bring salvation and hope to a people oppressed by their religious institutionalized system. He reprimanded their leaders, constantly taught his followers to reach out to those in need and condemned those with a love of money.

How can we breed people into different classes, judge others by their skin color, deprive them of the bare necessities of life—food, shelter, clothing—and expect them to thrive?

No matter how hard a poor person may work, he can't always 'pull himself up from his bootstraps' when a dominant power structure within society suppresses him. Someday, I hope this won't be true anymore.

Maybe then, we'd be living in a country where all men are created equal, endowed by their Creator with certain, unalienable rights; the God-given rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Judge a Mag by its Cover: Magazine Survey Reveals White Privilege at its Finest

2008-02-17T22:07:00.000-08:00

Image from http://shinymedia.headshift.com
Judge a Mag by its Cover: Magazine Survey Reveals White Privilege at its Finest
OPINION-- Published: October 1, 2007, [X]press Magazine

Jane Doe: “There are not enough people of color represented in mainstream media.”
John Doe: “But that’s what ethnic news is for.”

I can’t pinpoint exactly what urged me to count the number of white faces vs. minority faces on the cover of random magazines at Borders. But I knew I just had to.

It took me half a dozen ethnic and media diversity classes, a conscious white boyfriend who fervently blogs against modern-day white privilege and supremacy, and an open mind to educate myself. Now it eats at me daily whenever I notice how a minority is under represented, drowned out by a sea of white faces.

Borders Book Stores houses well over 500 magazines. I jotted down and categorized the faces on the cover of magazines as I saw them, choosing random shelves in the Women’s Interest, Culture Eclectic, Culture Society, Sports Teams, and General Interest sections.

Out of 177 magazines, 143 of the glamorous Photo-shopped portraits feature white men, women, teens and children. From Cosmo to Vogue, Shape and Swindle, from Maxim to Newsweek and ESPN, people of color adorned the cover of ethno-centric magazines, but not in the general, mainstream public interest publications.

These images only perpetuate white privilege within our society – one dominant culture in a nation that supposedly represents equality for all. Hell, not including African American representation, there were even more graphics, art work and weed photographs than other minorities represented.

Why is there such an under representation when in 2006 the nation’s minority population hit over 100 million? It increased more than 1.7 million the year before, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. That’s one-third of the U.S. population today, larger than the total population of all but 11 countries, and more than there were people in the United States in 1910.

If you’re constantly bombarded with white images (not forgetting the uncountable white images in movies, television, books and advertising) it becomes ingrained into the American psyche to the point that no one questions it. Everyone must emulate this status quo that has been pervasive throughout American history for hundreds of years – beauty lies in the image of a tall, slim, ivory-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed female and her counterpart, a clean-shaven, blond-haired male with six-pack abs.

Ethnic media shouldn’t make up for what the mainstream media should already be accomplishing, but instead should reinforce it like a sidebar that compliments a well-written feature. More than 500 new ancestries were reported in 2006, and these magazines represented only nine groups of people of different colors.

This type of imagery also perpetuates stereotypes. Light skin individuals always win over dark. I found more black faces in sports, as if that’s all black Americans can excel in. Covers embellish their bling, Du-rags, sagging pants, ripped guns and abs on Hip-hop magazines. What happened to the black woman’s God-given fro and kinks? It’s been replaced with a relaxed, straight coiffures and bodices that lack curves.

It’s not about having one token black, Asian or Latina girl on the cover of the latest tabloid alongside white profiles. Rather, it’s about equal opportunity for ethnic minorities in media representation. On the cover of Empowering Women, four white women and one Asian woman are dressed in business suits. Who is really being empowered?

After three hours at Borders, my eyes grew weary. I had to take a step back from my hunt for the beautifully colored faces –sun-kissed tan, golden-yellow, chocolate, and caramel. I cringed. I couldn’t look anymore. I could predict the skin color of the next person I’d see on the cover of a magazine, and there would be close to an 85 percent chance that I’d be right — they would be white. But what’s worse is that most readers probably wouldn’t even notice.

The Faces We See
No. of Magazines 177
White faces – 143
Black faces – 60
(Sports magazines account for 29 of them)
Latino- 9
Asian- 4
(Two women were mixed with Asian and European).
Middle Eastern – 2
Sri Lanka – 2
Native American –1
Armenian -1
Ottawa Native, Canada – 1
Food and Graphics – 20
Unknown biracial- 2

Hate Street: Driving While Black May Increase the Risk of Citation

2008-02-17T22:02:00.000-08:00

Photo by Amanda Rybarczyk
Hate Street: Driving While Black May Increase the Risk of Citation
FEATURE-- Published: September 17, 2007, [X]press Magazine

The San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) police officers that pulled over Cassonova Tiger at around 1:30 a.m. didn’t tell him why they were searching his car. Instead, the routine was hashed out: step out of the car and put your arms behind your head. He fit the description of an alleged suspect. The police officers said witnesses pointed to a black Honda as Tiger drove past the scene of a crime near San Francisco’s Mission district. But his Honda was gray.

Over the police intercom, the dispatcher said the suspect had stowed away a sawed-off shotgun in the trunk of his car. Seconds later, Tiger’s arm was twisted behind his back, his feet swept from under him, and his head driven into the pavement. The cop’s knee was jammed into his neck. The other cop checked the trunk, but it was empty.

Tiger, 21, who was young and black, was not their man. But he was taken to the Hall of Justice anyway and questioned by a detective. He might know something about the suspect who stabbed someone at the club City Nights earlier that evening, an event that occurred in June of this year.

“All this for a gun I don’t have and the description of a person that I don’t even know,” Tiger says, reflecting on the event.

San Francisco, a city applauded its diversity, also conceals another face – one that sizes you up by what you wear, the friends that you roll with, the car you drive and the color of your skin. It’s the same place where many people of color have experienced racial profiling by the SFPD and have been illegally searched during traffic stops.

“[The police] see me like I’m some type of low life. Even those people who do sell drugs, you don’t know what they been through to make those decisions,” says Tiger. “They think I beat women, that I didn’t go to school — whose only goal is to sell drugs and use them.”

In 2002, the American Civil Liberties Union of Northern California (ACLU) found that the SFPD had failed to adequately address the issues surrounding racial profiling. African Americans and Latinos were 3.3 times and 2.6 times more likely, respectively, to be searched following a traffic stop than whites. SFPD police officers were also significantly less likely to find any evidence of criminality in searches of African Americans or Latinos, according to the ACLU.

Five years later, it seems nothing has changed. A month after the ACLU report, the Police Commission required the department to make monthly reports on race, sex, and age of motorists they stopped and whether or no their vehicles were searched. This past March, the San Francisco Chronicle found that the police have failed to accurately report traffic-stop data. They stopped writing the required summary reports more than a year before The Chronicle’s investigation, and the data collected from 2001 through November 2005 were incomplete.

One of the first times Tiger was profiled by an SFPD officer, he wasn’t even in a car. At 17, he was standing on 6th Street waiting for the #14 bus with his friends when a police squad car pulled the infamous U-turn in their direction – the U-turn that makes black brothers nervous. Even if they’ve done nothing wrong, they know they’re about to be fucked with. The officer asked them if they had anything – weed, coke or any illegal drugs. They weren’t. The next thing they knew, the officer told each of them to open their mouths as he stuck a pen down each of their throats. He was trying to make them gag — searching for any remnants from consumed illegal drugs. For some reason, he didn’t stick a pen down Tiger’s.

“A lot of times black males don’t know their rights. It’s just a reality. [The police] use that to their advantage,” says Tiger. “I always have to have my shit together and can’t even afford one parking ticket.”

Squad car officer Anthony Holder, who has worked for 16 years with the SFPD and is black and Mexican, disagrees and says racial profiling cannot exist in a city that is as diverse as San Francisco.

“In the earlier days, I’m sure [racial profiling] is there or if you go out into the suburbs where they don’t have people of color,” says Holder.

In June, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that police who illegally stop a car cannot hold the passengers for questions or possible searches in California.

In July, an officer in the San Francisco Bay Area in Daly City, Calif. pulled Tiger and his cousins over for a crack in the windshield, loud music and unfastened seat belts. But none of the listed conditions for the arrest were true.

“I can’t even see [the crack], unless he got cat vision or bionic eyes or something,” says Tiger.

They weren’t speeding, but the cop said they were dancing. Their music wasn’t blaring because they were talking amongst themselves, predicting what this cop was going to do when they first caught a glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror. They were detained for an hour and a half, handcuffed, patted-down and manhandled by their shirt collars. His cousin’s car was also towed for three parking tickets.

“I stand by the department’s policy. [In our bylaws] there is a section called ‘Discrimination’…we can’t give preferential treatment for one group over another on the basis of color,” says SFPD Public Information Officer Dewayne Tully. “If a car is stopped and the driver is African American, that is beside the point. There has to be a reason why we stop the car. If it turns out they are disproportionate, it simply means they were committing more violations.”

In the 1970s, the War on Drugs hit its peak with Americans fighting to keep drugs from entering their communities. In the 1980s, President Ronald Reagan advised the country to “Just say No” and catapulted racial profiling into the limelight before the term was even coined. A 1980s Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) study showed that most drugs were imported into the communities through highways. The DEA informed U.S. citizens that those distributing the drugs were Latinos and Blacks, ages 18-30.

“So officers at checkpoints weren’t looking for speeders, they were looking for the description: ‘oh he must be drug dealer. Pull over. If you don’t have anything on you then you shouldn’t worry, and you should let us [question and search you],’” says Kenneth Meeks, the author of the book Driving While Black and editor of Black Enterprise magazine.

“And when they’d [find] someone who was a drug dealer, with $30 million worth of drugs in their trunk, these paydays were reasons to continue the practice,” says Meeks. "They think, ‘We stopped 15 cars, sure it was an inconvenience to all the other drivers, but we got this one guy so it’s worth it.’”

* * *

Born and raised in San Francisco, Mexican-American Julio Ibarra, 29, estimates he’s been profiled more than 100 times in the city.

“If you’re anywhere from 18 to 25, don’t look professional, [driving] in an Escalade with a couple of your friends, then they’ll fuck with you — because if the car looks that good, either it [has] stolen parts or the person’s dealing drugs," says Ibarra.

Most, if not all, of Ibarra’s and Tiger’s friends, colleagues, and family, who are mostly people of color, have been racially profiled by an SFPD police officer. For the few who are white, they’ve been mistaken for “white-trash” because of one-too-many tattoos.

A year ago, Ibarra was driving downtown with one male and two female friends in his ’96 candy-apple red Chevy Impala. The car’s interior was newly finished and the exterior and rims were also new. When the cop pulled him over, he didn’t ask for ID. But Ibarra didn’t hesitate to have all his paperwork in hand — registration, insurance and valid ID.

“I asked if there was a problem, and he said to step out [of] the fucking car, asked me where my shit was, and from who and what location did I get my brand new paint job,” says Ibarra.

Everyone stepped out. The cop started tapping the car with his baton, hitting its side panels, and even sat on it. He then searched the car for five minutes and came out with a bag of weed. Ibarra said it wasn’t his.

“I don’t bring that shit in my car, and my friends know if they do, they’re gonna get their asses beat,” he says. “I told [the officer] if he goes and gets that shit fingerprinted, I bet you won’t find mine.”

The cop let them go.

“Good cops are dead cops, but then you know what, they’ll get away with murder,” he says. “A cop is just like another gang member…part of a well-organized gang that’s well protected by the law.”

Ibarra's criminal past only makes his situation more difficult. He has been charged for possession of a fire arm, a high speed chase, two attempted murders, assault with deadly weapon, and gang-related rival fights as an ex-member of one of San Francisco’s notorious gangs, Barrio Grande Excelsior. Ibarra lost count of his times to jail after the 20th trip.

“Damn, but just because I’m labeled doesn’t mean I’m an animal,” he says.

* * *

The night Tiger was mistaken for the perpetrator of the club stabbing, the detective at the station complimented his hat, asked him where he usually hangs out and if he uses dope.

“He kept patronizing me, trying to say that I’m a drug dealer. Like I can’t work to get clothes or that I don’t have any other way to get my shit besides selling drugs,” says Tiger.

The SFPD ran a background check on him. Today, as it was then, his record is clean.

The Police officer, Holder and Tully all claim there isn’t any credible evidence that racial profiling exists. Police officers who are found guilty will be disciplined, SFPD says, but to their knowledge, they do not know of any officers who have been disciplined for racial profiling.

Within recent months, racially profiling accusations towards the SFPD have subsided, explains Tully. Its fire may have slowly burnt out from media attention, but does that mean profiling has ended?

“If people are racist, they keep it hidden…they’re not gonna say it. Can you prove it? No," says Holder. "But you know they’re racist. A gut feeling tells you they are. You get that little hair that sticks up on the back of your neck."

Both Ibarra and Tiger know this gut feeling very well. It’s the same feeling that haunts them whenever they look in their rear-view mirror and a police squad car trails close behind.

Before Tiger left the cold, foreboding station around 4 a.m. and added this event to the other numerous times he’s been harassed, the detective asked him if he ever thought about joining law enforcement. Tiger answered: “Hell, no. Why would I want to be like you?”

Jail Walls Can't Confine Teens' Expressive Voices

2008-02-17T21:52:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of thebeatwithin.org
Jail Walls Can't Confine Teens' Expressive Voices
FEATURE-- Published: April 22, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

Before the age of 15, Will Roy would write love poems to girls for recreation. But when he was faced with six years in juvenile hall for robbery, it became his survival mechanism, he said.

After being introduced to the writing program The Beat Within while in jail, Roy, an undeclared student at SF State, was able to continue expressing his reality apart from the stigmatized personae that accompanied incarceration.

“[Writing] was a liberating experience,” said Roy, 25.

Now, as a free man motivated by what had once helped inspire him to change when he was behind bars, Roy –– along with criminal justice major Perry Jones, 25, and business management and entrepreneurship major, Nick Jones, 23 (not related) –– is helping to produce and facilitate The Beat Within.

“In jail, everyone you talk to is virtually telling you stuff that you need to do or should have done. But [The Beat Within] is all about helping [the teens] get their experiences out,” said Roy. “They’ve been told that they haven’t had anything to say for so long that now they have a chance they take it and run with it.”

The Beat Within is a writing and conversation program in Bay Area juvenile halls that allows incarcerated youth to write for the weekly magazine that has grown out of the program.

“It’s like an out-of-body experience for me [going back to juvenile hall]. It’s where my journey started at… I don’t consider them as ‘them.’ I see them as me,” said Perry Jones, who was found guilty by association to an accidental killing and served nine and a half years. “But then it motivates me ‘cause I know how much work needs to be done. [The youth] are dealing with a lot of trauma and they don’t always have opportunity to heal up those wounds.”

The Beat Within was founded in 1996 as part of the Pacific News Service, after a social worker inside San Francisco’s Youth Guidance Center, SF State alumnus David Innocencio, realized a vital need for the voices of the youths he worked with to be heard.

“[Innocencio] noticed that all these kids, supposedly the ‘outcasts,’ ‘fuck ups’ of the community, were dying to say something,” said Nick Jones, 23, who served three and a half years after being convicted as an accomplice to a shooting.

An hour-long workshop is held every week at 50 different juvenile hall units in San Francisco, Alameda, Santa Clara, San Mateo, Marin and Santa Cruz counties in California, as well as in the Walden House Facility, Natural Bridge Juvenile Correctional Center in Virginia and Maricopa County in Arizona.

“We watch many of [these youth] fall in and out of the system… grow up in the system. The Beat Within is the most consistent thing in their lives,” said Innocencio.

The program also reaches out to juvenile halls in New York, Rhode Island, New Orleans, Los Angeles and New Mexico, according to Innocencio.

“They get a sense of joy and self-respect when they see their writing,” said Nick Jones. “They can take [the magazine] to their moms and are hella happy, which helps them mentally, paints a picture in their heads that ‘I am capable of anything.’”

With about 100 pages of writing from over 500 to 1,000-plus contributors per week, the magazine includes the contributions of other imprisoned youth and adults around the country who have discovered the Beat through its Web site, outreach and word of mouth.

To protect their identity, some writings are published anonymously or go unnamed. But most are published under a nickname that the teen creates for himself or herself.

The Beat’s program facilitators encourage the youth to tell their personal stories and be as real as possible.

“They’re our greatest facet to what’s going on in their communities, what’s going on in society today, telling you what’s missing, what’s needed and what’s wrong with the family dynamic,” Innocencio explained.

“Some stuff is disturbing, but it lets them get it off their chest," said Perry Jones.

Every week, three topic ideas are pre-selected for participants to choose from and write on during the session, although they are not limited solely to those topics.

“‘If you had 24 hours to live what would you do?’ to serious topics that delve deep… ‘What was your earliest memory of violence?’ ‘Why do you feel the system is broken?’ ‘Why do you feel like you got locked up?’… and a light topic, that’s usually universal, like ‘What would you do if you had three wishes?’” said Roy.

The magazine has a readership of a couple thousand, it circulates to participating juvenile halls and is sent to parents, judges, parole officers and to subscribers across the country.

“It gives others a better understanding of who they are as a person, instead of seeing them as just a case,” said Perry Jones. “Many people want to do so much for the youth; be the Good Samaritan, but most people are reluctant to actually face the harsh reality that [incarcerated youth] want to express and just listen.”

“Growing old behind bars/ Only build inner scars/ They always want to/ Get in your face/ Shakin’ up that stupid mace/ But if they were here in our place/ They could never/ See us face to face.” This is an excerpt from a piece written by an incarcerated youth pen named Aleshia, titled “A Lot of Things Happen Behind Bars.”

Every Thursday, from 3 p.m. to 4 p.m. in Humanities 283, Beat Within workshops are held at SF State for those who wish to contribute to the Beat Without, a section in the magazine containing writing from those who are still incarcerated, but no longer participate in the workshop and from others beyond juvenile and prison walls.

Visit The Beat Within at http://www.thebeatwithin.org and subscribe to the Beat for free.

What You See is What You Get from Rolling Stone Intern

2008-02-17T21:44:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of Rolling Stone
What You See is What You Get from Rolling Stone Intern
Published: February 10, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

Krishtine de Leon, 24, a former SF State student and section editor for [X]press, has perplexed viewers by calling herself “ghettoized” and has been stereotyped as an “Asian with a Latin accent.”

Bloggers have written disparaging remarks about her and she has responded in kind. She's been ridiculed for not knowing Jann Wenner’s name, called out for her grill, and declared a “poser bitch” by one blogger. People can’t seem to figure her out, she said.

After being chosen as one of the six interns featured on MTV's "I'm From Rolling Stone," it's not a secret that de Leon has catapulted into a surreal reality as a pseudo-celeb, with fact competing with fiction. With a couple episodes left, the new series documents young journalists competing to win a yearlong editor position at Rolling Stone magazine.

At times, the show portrayed her as a ghetto caricature who cussed people out, she said. They sensationalized what made for good TV and omitted the hard work they all put into their stories.

However, learning how to deal with it is just part of life, she said.

“You want someone to stop hiding behind words of a blog,” said de Leon. “It makes you just want to kick their asses, but you can’t fight every battle like that.”

Just think, they’ve never influenced you on your path to accomplishment, so what the fuck? Why does it matter? What motivates me is when people underestimate me.”

For some, her words reflect her strong confidence.

“Everybody knows she has a big-ass ego, but that's just how self-confident she is," said Mark Cunanan, 19, de Leon’s cousin and a psychology major at SF State. "She knows what she wants and is not afraid to run after it."

When they were little kids, he remembers her calling the shots among the cousins of whom to pick on next. Cunanan remembers being the butt of the jokes. Now he looks up to her like an older sister.

“She’s tough. She doesn’t just talk out of her ass,” said Cunanan. “She understands what it means to be underprivileged and struggle. She would always tell me this is what people are going through … she taught me that there’s more to life than just school and work; you gotta do stuff within our community.”

De Leon said she is out to make herself known and hopes to represent those who are underrepresented.

Zoniel Maharaj, 23, who was one of de Leon's magazine editors on [X]press, also applied for the internship with Rolling Stone. He passed de Leon on the way out of the building after his on-camera interview.

“I saw her and was like, ‘damn, she’s gonna get it,’” said Maharaj.

With her grill in, de Leon sported an airbrushed hoodie for her interview.

"They asked us guys to look GQ and the girls to look hot, but [de Leon] wasn’t about to compromise her style for MTV," said Maharaj. "I give her a lot of respect for that."

One thing she strives to do, de Leon said, is to challenge the status quo. She wore her grill for the interview to make a statement.

“A Filipino with a grill, no one has seen that,” she said. “When I was there, no Filipinos were working for Rolling Stone. If they were, they were janitors cleaning the bathrooms … but if a Fil-kid in Oakland wearing grills sees someone like them on TV, they’ll have hope to become someone because I can identify with their struggle.”

A couple of weeks ago, the journalism department told her she is technically not a university graduate because she failed a publication laboratory, she said.

However, de Leon does not see herself as anything less than who she sees herself as now.

"I hustle. My drive to succeed is my testimony and has served me much more than just trying to get a degree as a journalist,” said de Leon. “I must be doing something right if everyone is trying to figure out how I've gotten this far. I don't know exactly what my destiny is, but I'm someone who will always hold their nose above water.”

Originally from San Francisco, De Leon is now living in Los Angeles and freelancing for different independent publications. She has come a long way from the days she began freelancing for Bay Area magazines like Mass Appeal and held the position of editor at Ruckus Magazine when she was just 16.

Her first couple of weeks in Los Angeles she met up with Roscoe Umali, Clyde Carson invited her to check him out at the House of Blues, and she interviewed Estevan Oriol and Tech N9ne.

Eventually, she will be moving to New York to pursue journalism, from magazine to music writing, and anything else that comes her way, she said.

“If it wasn’t for this opportunity, I’d still be a struggling journalist,” de Leon said. “And now at the end of the day, I’ll be paid attention to.”

Blinded by Subconscious Racism

2008-02-17T21:34:00.000-08:00

Comic by Barry Deutsch
Blinded by Subconscious Racism
FEATURE-- Published: April 24, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

While the rest of the students in her class giggled, liberal studies major Michelle Rodriguez remembered sitting in shock at what had transpired.

Rodriguez, an American Indian belonging to the Picayune Chukchansi tribe, said her Archaeology of California professor explained the controversy over what happened to the remains of early Native American bodies buried beneath shell mounds found throughout the Bay Area.

Rodriguez said a white female student commented that she didn't realize American Indians had burial grounds, but thought they were all trying to eat each other before the Europeans came to America.

The professor replied “no” to the student; then the class moved on as if nothing had happened, said Rodriguez, 21.

SF State is recognized as one of the most diverse campuses in the United States and has at least 25 cultural student organizations. Yet, students argue, that does not mean SF State is colorblind when stereotypical attitudes about people of other cultures haven’t changed and our society fails to confront on-going racism that exists on a subconscious level.

“Everyone is so clique-y [at SF State]. I have never been to a school that was more divided… we are very acceptant of others’ cultures, but don’t really inter-mix so there’s still a lot of misunderstanding,” said Palestinian ecology major Somer Aburish, 22.

In fall 2006, the undergraduate profile of 23,843 students at SF State consisted of 0.8 percent Native American/Alaskan Native; 6.8 percent African-American; 9.6 percent Mexican/Chicano American; 7.3 percent Latino; 24.5 percent Asians; 10.7 percent Filipinos; 1.0 percent Pacific Islander; 34.0 percent White/Non-Latino; and 5.2 percent other.

When SF State President Robert A. Corrigan first came into office in 1987, various student groups claimed that they were suffering from institutionalized discrimination, racism, sexism and unfairness on religious and other beliefs, according to Jamie Newton, a social psychology professor. In response, Corrigan established a commission of 50 people, including students, faculty, staff and administrators, who were responsible for investigating the claims.

The survey that is conducted every four to six years has found that a substantial number of minorities –– not more than 50 percent –– said they sometimes or often felt mistreated on campus because of their affiliation with racial, religious, or sexual orientation, etc. groups.

"What people believe to be true does matter," said Newton, who helped to produce and conduct the research since its inception.

Laura Head, an Africana studies professor who is black, said that within her classes she's found that students have very little knowledge and/or interaction with their own culture or anyone else's.

“I’ve had white [students] in my classes who don’t understand slavery, others who don’t understand the effects of Japanese internment… or know the history of U.S. Native Americans,” said Head.

Shanina Shumate, 25, a black college and career counseling graduate student, said she's experienced subtle racism on campus numerous times, from a variety of races -- Asian, white, and even black.

"I remember during my undergrad. I would always get these small side comments from people. It didn’t matter what race...they would say, 'she’s too dark,' 'she’s too chocolate,' 'she’s not right for me,’" said Shumate.

She said that stereotypes create order.

"With them, everyone knows where everyone stands. It may not make sense, but it makes order," she said.

The illusion of race seems like it is natural and common sense, but in reality it’s socially constructed, explained Asian-American studies professor, Russell Jeung who is Chinese.

People use what is called schema. When people see something, they have a set of associations connected to what they perceive and along with that, they hold certain assumptions about race that’s reinforced by what they want to see, Jeung said.

“As a culture, we don’t spend time de-constructing our thought processes. We all have the same stereotypes, but people who are prejudiced just look at race and don’t stop to think of the context," he said.

However, Jeung added, the consequences of subtle racism are equally significant, if not worse than blatant racism because it’s harder to distinguish and therefore, harder to address and confront.

"People just don't know what they're looking at... blatant racism is not socially accepted, that's why it comes in these covert forms," Head said. "Also, people think that because they're liberal they can't be racist, but that's not true."

Most students who admitted experiencing or witnessing subtle racism said they didn't know what to say when the situation occurred.

"You feel like you’re gonna be shunned by others if you say something, that they’ll discredit what you say and tell you, ‘Don’t be so sensitive,’” said dance and humanities major Dominique Nigro, 20, who’s Italian and Armenian.

Undeclared major Max Gerhardt, 18, of French, German, Belgian, Russian and Native American descent, pointed out that people may not realize that what they’re saying is racist or stereotypical. Many grow up around very subtle innuendos that people don't consider racism because it's not as blatant as seeing someone being attacked for it.

"Being white in this society, I'm benefiting from racism... a lot of white people don't think they're racist and therefore it's no longer their problem. I'm not saying everyone who's white is a bigot and a racist," he said. "But it makes you just as racist if you don't do something about it. Even if you're joking... eventually it convinces you that there's some truth behind it."

Beyond the scope of what we can do as individuals to address racism, educating ourselves about other cultures, interacting more with others outside of our own racial/ethnic groups, we need to look at how our institutions perpetuate racial privilege, explained Head.

"Racist ideology is so pervasive in our belief systems that it reinforces white privilege," said Head. "The problem is not for people to be more culturally sensitive, we just need to analyze and change our institutions that are structured to support all forms of racism."

"People’s mentality has been shaped by the system… I don’t think there can be any equality within a system that’s based on race, class, that keep people at a certain spot,” said Rodriguez. "You have to change [the system] completely… because there’s no room for cultural sensitivity or antiracism.”

Petite Gators Create Tiny Fashions

2008-02-17T21:31:00.000-08:00

Petite Gators Create Tiny Fashions
FEATURE-- Published: March 16, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

Petite women usually face one of three choices when choosing fashion apparel:

1. The outdated petite section of a department store.
2. The hyper-trendy junior’s department for teens.
3. The vast selection of clothing for the average 5-foot-6-inch woman.

SF State fashion student, 5-foot-3-inch Pamela Borja, 22, and her older sister, 5-foot-2-inch fashion alumna Sheena Borja, 25, grew tired of the minimal clothing selection offered to them.

They decided to do something about it.

Their clothing line, Tamiece Petites, made its debut last year, with clothing proportioned to fit and accentuate the female bodices of those 5 feet 4 inches tall and under.

“A lot of people are looking for petite clothing, but it’s hard to find, so they end up having to alter their clothes. We wanted to fit that niche,” said Sheena Borja. “Our clothes are fitted for petites 5”4’ and under. Style-wise, it’s very feminine with urban influences.”

“Having a sophisticated twist,” added Pamela Borja.

Tamiece’s ready-to-wear line has the average inseam of 30 inches, with sizes running from X-small to large.

The sisters’ vision, cited from their Web site, states, “Instead of constructing clothes that make us women taller, as what some petite lines try to accomplish, we design with no boundaries and allow petite women to feel stylish and proud of being shorter than the rest of the world.”

The Borja sisters work out of their quaint, small studio space on the lowest level of their parents’ house in Daly City. Design sketches grace the walls, along with photographs of their spring 2007 line, Mestiza — launched during SF Fashion Week last year — and fabric is scattered everywhere throughout the room.

While sketching out their designs, the sisters blast different types of music. It’s the music, they said, that inspires their creativity and sets the tone for each collection.

“What inspires me is not really visual, it’s more [auditory],” said Sheena Borja.

For their new fall/winter 2007 line, they listened to mellowing sounds of Electronica music. This influenced the “casual, but sophisticated, chilled street mode” of the new collection, said Pamela Borja.

“We’ve toned down to more everyday fabrics, rather than nighttime, occasional wear,” said Sheena Borja. “We used a lot of sweater and metallic knits, silk jersey material…. The color palette is black, gray and eggplant.”

For spring 2007, they used silk jersey, charmeuse, chiffon and stretch satin material.
When creating their designs, they use each other as muses.

“While I’m sketching, I picture stuff that [Sheena] would wear, that would look good on her,” said Pamela Borja.

The sisters explain that sketching is the creative part of the fashion designing process, but the rest is all business.

“It’s like 10 percent fun and creative, but the actual clothing and marketing for your business is so technical,” said Sheena Borja. “You sketch, samples are made, [you] bring them to stores, go to a buyers’ trade show that is eight to12 months in advance, buyers place orders, and finally you deliver.”

After studying at the Paris American Academy in France in the summer of 2005, the sisters made the decision to create garments to debut for their fall/winter 2006 collection, with strong support from family and friends.

“In Paris, art was everywhere; in their culture, in their architecture, in the people. It made me want to make something that beautiful,” Sheena Borja said.

But what really inspired her, she said, was her boss, Charlene Scheil, a designer who started her own dress line called “Charsa.”

“I remember Sheena telling me, ‘we’re gonna do it, we’re gonna do it,’” said Pamela Borja. “[Charlene] really motivated her and told her you don’t have to wait till you’re 40 to start something, you start it when you feel like it’s time. Well, we felt like it was time.”

Sheena Borja currently works as Scheil's assistant.

The name Tamiece comes from the Tagalog (the national language of Philippines) word “tamis,” meaning “sweet.” Of Filipino and Russian decent, the sisters said they decided to incorporate their Filipino culture into their fashion by using Tagalog words, such as “puso,” meaning heart, and “anak,” the word for child, to name coordinating tops, bottoms, dresses, and the collections.

The Borjas have been working with independent contractors from all over the city and in the Bay Area to make their clothes. They’re currently designing their spring 2008 collection. Pamela Borja will be featuring her personal designs, apart from Tamiece, at SF State’s fashion show in May that will be held in McKenna Theatre.

The Borja’s new line, for fall/winter 2007, will hit two local stores in the city, R.A.G. on Octavia Street and Mingle on Union Street, this month. The retail price ranges from $60 for a top to $130 for a dress.

“I have sold their modal Kitana tops and long-sleeve boat-necks tops in assorted colors.... I was excited by their trend-conscious, sexy but warm, and wearable pieces,” said Blakely Bass, the owner and curator of R.A.G., who’s been selling Tamiece since 2006.

Bass was very impressed, she said, that the Borjas were two sisters working together on such a well-made and well-presented line at such a young age.

“Slowly but surely we’re getting ourselves out there,” said Sheena Borja.

Visit them at www.tamiece.com. You can also find their clothes at www.indieshopper.com.

Animal lover, journalism major killed traveling back to SF State

2008-02-17T21:26:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of VegNews
Animal lover, journalism major killed traveling back to SF State
OBITUARY-- Published: September 4, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

Nadia Harumi Smit, 26, and her mother, Nenita Smit, joked about having a goodbye party for Nadia, before she headed back to SF State to finish her last year of college. Nadia picked out the largest white cake she could find at Costco for them to share.

“But I didn’t think this ‘goodbye party’ was really going to be goodbye,” said Nenita.

While driving back to SF State with her boyfriend, Troy Miller, Nadia, an SF State journalism major, died in a car accident in Merced County last Monday, Aug. 27.

She told her mom ‘I love you and take care of yourself’ and hopped into their red, rented Chrysler Sebring. But then she opened the door and ran to hug her parents and brother goodbye again.

“We were all joking, telling each other ‘you’re sticky and sweaty’ and we all laughed,” said Nenita. “It was one of the hottest days in San Diego and [Nadia] was still wearing her black boots with pink fluorescent tape.”

Around 4 a.m. that morning, Nadia and Miller, 19, an SF State undeclared major, were driving down I-5. Tired from a long day of errands, Miller lost control of the wheel. They veered to the right and the car flipped over four times.

“When we realized what was going on, we both looked at each other,” said Miller. “I turned to Nadia and said baby just let it happen I love you; I love you.”

Without a seatbelt, Nadia had been ejected from the vehicle.

Miller raced to her side. She was lying on the dirt side of the road 12 ft from the wreck, motionless. He checked her heart rate and gave her mouth to mouth.
He didn’t sustain any serious injuries from the accident, just bruises, scraps, and burns from his seatbelt.

“It was like something out of a horror movie. If you’re okay, you call their name and you expect them to answer. I called her name, but there was no answer,” he said.

Also known for her striking tattoos, especially the one over her left forearm that depicted an intricate drawing of an old Japanese battle scene, Nadia had a thing for 60s and 70s vintage dresses and checkered gray, fake fur coats.

For the last three years of her life, she followed Veganism religiously. She’d kick anyone out her room for carrying, wearing, or eating an animal product-- even Ritz Bits sandwiches. She deeply cared about life and humanity.

On rainy days, she’d stay home all day in her pajamas, smoking cigarettes, playing Guitar Hero and other video games with her boyfriend.

After she graduated, she wanted to travel to Amsterdam and visit family, buy a house in either San Francisco, Los Angeles, or San Diego, work at a magazine, get married, and adopt kids. She was insistent about not having her own, said Miller.

The VegNews magazine summer intern doted on and fed stray cats, dogs, and even wild raccoons while tending to five cats of her own: Dolly Mama; Mongo Jerry; Annie; Tofu, and Shippo.

The funeral service was held on September 1, at the Glen Abby Chapel in Bonita, Calif.

With make-up and hair done by her best friends, said Nenita, Nadia laid in her casket, dressed in a white half-coat coordinated with a black and white stripped shirt, a pair of low waisted skinny jeans, and skull patterned tennis shoes.

As she would have wanted, her parents placed the cremated remains of her deceased cat Mama Kitty and her Boston terrier Oreo with her when she was buried.

“If it was up to her, she would adopt every cat, dog, animal…and keep them all in our room and none of them would be put down,” Miller said.

A loaf of bread and garbanzo beans was all Miller and Nadia had left to eat one day. With $10 dollars left of their money in her pocket, Nadia purchased cat litter and cat food for her feline friend Tofu. Nadia refused to doubt her animal-tarian logic. She explained to Miller: "Tofu didn’t ask for us to take care of it. She was given to us. We asked to have the cat so we need to put her first."

Nadia leaves behind her parents Nenita and Tom Smit and her younger brother Nicolai.

SF State Students Unmask The N-word

2008-02-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

Comic by Barry Deutsch
SF State Students Unmask The N-word
FEATURE-- Published: April 14, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

Jonathan Smothers, a black, multiracial student at SF State, has grown accustomed to using the word “nigga” as slang. Yet, he admitted he is ashamed of it.

The word, he said, has embedded itself within his conversational language among friends so much that he finds it hard to shake from his vocabulary.

“I use it and then I think ‘Oh damn, someone might have heard me,'” said the 22-year-old communications major, who's black, Mexican, Hawaiian, Apache, Filipino and Creole. “It’s beyond me why I’ve allowed this nigga phenomenon to be in my life… when it’s been used to harm so many people.”

In light of the recent disparaging remarks made by celebrities and others and the recent symbolic banning of the N-word in New York City, the usage of its modern-day reference as 'nigga' continues to develope into an urban culture phenomenon that has sparked much controversy.

While some see it as just a word, others view it as a reflection of societal inequalities that have been neglected for centuries.

The word “nigga” is a term that many black Americans –– and others who identify with the urban, afro-centric culture –– have attempted to redeem, and is now used in casual jest, slang and talk, according to SF State students.

“Every day I try to use it less and less. But it’s my human response to the negative establishment of the n-word,” said Smothers. “We’ll remain stuck in this self-destructive ghetto mindset that we can never get out of… or fight the oppression of it if we keep using the word.”

According to SF State Africana studies professor Antwi Akom, the use of the n-word has been used in a variety of different ways throughout history, by a variety of different people, from various racial-ethnic regional, generational and socioeconomic positions.

“[It was used] to connote anger-hatred-white supremacy, as well as in recent history as a term of endearment for some people in heterogeneous communities of color,” Akom said via e-mail.

The word is used as a form of empowerment for some blacks, said students. However, Jamaican and Irish microbiology student Macka Harper, 25, believes using it to empower oneself is a more passive-aggressive way of fighting the word instead of confronting society and saying that black people do have a problem with it.

“It’s really about [blacks] not trying to get hurt so [we] say it’s OK to use if we can own it,” said Harper, who refuses to use the word. “Women can’t own ‘bitch.’”

People, especially youth and those who aren’t black, can be oblivious to how hurtful the word is, said speech and communications professor Joe Tuman. When people use the word casually, it takes the word out of the context that has historically occupied, oppressed and marginalized people.

“If you call them on it, they say ‘I didn’t say ‘nigger’ but ‘nigga,’” said Tuman.

One student, who grew up within the black communities of Oakland and Berkley, said her environment was readily acceptant of the racial slang.

“People called me ‘nigga’ so I felt like I could call other people that too,” said Jessica Hammond, 23, who is white.

Students who hold a deeper interpretation of why it’s being used in mainstream rap and hip hop said that the media has exploited derogatory slang and coined it beneath the umbrella of hip-hop culture.

“It sprung from owning the word, instead of letting the white man capitalize… now that’s exactly how they want it. Not the black rappers, but the people who are putting up the money to produce it,” explained Hammond, an economics and political science major, who now replaces the word “nigga” with “dude.”

“It’s perpetuating the cycle, keeping [blacks] at that same mentality that was projected upon them,” she added.

This March, New York City symbolically banned the derogatory racial slur that prompted a spate of similar proposals in half a dozen local governments across four states.

Some SF State students agreed with this move.

“People know exactly what it means and they still chose to use it. We need to use force,” said Harper.

Although the ban is more symbolic than anything, the gesture is important because there is a power to language that is often taken for granted, explained Akom.

"Language is not neutral. It is political and it can be used to heal, harm or spiritually transform a social situation," he said.

Tuman noted that the closest thing we have to date that allows the banning of words is the FCC rules that limit what broadcasters say when children are in the audience, which is based on obscenity and indecency that’s not protected by the First Amendment.

“Categorical exceptions can be made to the amendment, which is regulated locally, but racial epithets, insults, are not considered categorical exceptions,” he pointed out.

Even if the word's usage is regulated, it doesn’t mean society’s mindset about the word will change, some students and professors argued.

“People don’t generally talk about why this word is used. Some just aren’t around it. Others have no knowledge about the socio-political state of America,” explained Hammond.

The history of race in America, a complex history imbued with power and privilege, has led Akom to ask why the politicians and the media are focusing on this particular issue now.

“Why are we not focusing on gender inequality, educational inequality, healthcare inequality, environmental inequality, homelessness, joblessness, differences in who has access to becoming a United States citizen?” he asked. “Why shouldn’t our politicians focus on these issues and the relationship between language and power?”

These students and professors called for other solutions besides banning.

“It should start from grassroots to say the least, from the community, to call for and perpetuate more open and social dialogue about the word in schools, on TV, in music,” said Smothers.

“If you are going to start banning things, start banning institutional inequality… bans that have a real connection towards accessing institutional resources and privileges that have been historically denied,” said Akom.

Adam Johnson, 25, a black liberal studies graduate student, said the bigger problem doesn't lie in the word itself, but is due to a whole slew of factors that have contributed to its mainstream cultural tolerance.

“It’s not just institutionalized racism, it’s all forms of racism, but the mainstream media hasn’t helped… black people, white people, peoples’ concept of concepts, stereotypes, images that portray various racial groups,” he said.

Hammond remembered the moment her attitude about the casual use of the word changed, when her black girlfriend, a close friend since high school, confronted her.

“[She] said to me, ‘Can you please stop using that word?’ It shocked me… made me think of something I’d never really thought about before: Why was I even using nigga in the first place?” she said. “You have to be on a conscious level, if you’re gonna take that step to make a change and you must also be confident enough to do it.”

Bustin' a move in Bahia, Brazil

2008-02-17T20:57:00.000-08:00

Photo by Ko Suzuki
Bustin' a move in Bahia, Brazil: SF State instructor brings love of dance to impoverished children
FEATURE-- Published: March 4, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

On a little plywood stage in the middle of the jungle in Itacaré, Bahia, Brazil, 25 Brazilian children, illuminated by a few dingy coffee can lights, focused intently on their American dance teacher’s every move.

The children, ages ranging from six to 17 years old, continued to mimic the fluid movement that was demonstrated before them, said SF State theatre and dance student Rachael Halladay-Sullivan, 23, describing one of the many times she had helped to instruct dance workshops in Brazil.

Every year for the last three years, Paco Gomes, who teaches Afro-Brazilian dance at SF State, has taken his company, Paco Gomes and Dancers, back to his homeland where they perform, take master dance classes, collaborate with other Brazilian dancers, teach dance workshops to children, and immerse themselves within African-Brazilian culture.

"These kids are like sponges. Every combination taught to them, they remember, rehearse, and want more,” said Jeni Leary, a member of the company and Gomes' wife, who taught a contact improvisation and partnering workshop. “They just soak it all up. Now that’s passion."

According to Gomes, much of the company’s work in Brazil is an effort to reach the thousands of Brazilian street children who, if not orphaned, come from poor families, and give back to their communities through the arts.

“In [the state of] Bahia, there are a lot of children on the streets. Some parents do drugs, so the children have to run way. Many are education-less, poor, not enough food to go around on the streets. But they’re not rebels,” said Gomes.

It was first planned as a vacation for Gomes and Leary to visit family, but instead it transformed into something more profoundly life changing, said Halladay-Sullivan, when she and Travis Rowland, both company members, offered to perform one of Gomes’ pieces in Brazil.

“It was totally by chance. I really didn’t think we were really going to go, but then [Gomes] booked the theater,” she said.

For Leary, 29, a dance and psychology student at SF State, it's about helping people gain exposure to something that they wouldn’t otherwise be able to access due to their conditions or lack of money, and resources.

In Salvador, Bahia, Paco Gomes and Dancers –– made up of nine SF State alumni and current students –– performed during two dance events that Gomes created a few years ago, called "Sexta Cênica (Friday on Stage)," and "Solidariedança (Solidarity in Dance)" in Portuguese. Sexta Cênica is usually performed at his school Escola de Dança da Fundaçāō Cultural do Estado Da Bahia (Cultural Foundation of Dance in Bahia, Brazil) that he helped found 23 years ago, where he remained a professor for 18 years.
During Solidariedança, the company usually performs for tourists. Admission is free, but attendees are required to each bring a kilo of food. The company then donates the food to
“Salvador Against Hunger," an organization that helps feed the thousands of street children in Salvador.

“At our last show, we raised 250 kilos of food. It went to the homes of children with cancer and sick children on the street,” said Gomes.

In Itacaré, Bahia, a seven-hour drive from Salvador, Paco Gomes and Dancers has taught dance workshops at Gomes' brother’s, Jorge de Jesus', foundation called “Casa do Bonecos” (House of Dolls). It’s a place where street children and other poor children, can go and learn Afro-Brazilian folklore, music, dance and crafts.

Almost 100 children utilize Casa do Bonecos, said Gomes.

“Travis taught hip hop, Elizabeth taught ballet, Karen taught a tap class," said Halladay-Sullivan, of the other members.

"One year [the children] had integrated the hip hop routine that Travis had taught them the year before, with their own traditional Orixá (the gods and goddesses of the African-Brazilian religion Candomblé) dances,” said Halladay-Sullivan. “Without words, you could see that they had cherished the time … and really hung on to it."

The children would learn combinations while on a dirt road or on their rickety stage that they proudly maintained, she said, wearing nothing but tiny tank tops, shorts, skirts, T-shirts and flip-flops to evade the dense tropical heat.

“They didn't speak any English. Sometimes [Leary] would have to translate in Portuguese for the children, but for the most part they just watched and followed,” said Halladay-Sullivan.

Although many Brazilians live impoverished lives in Bahia, life still remains richly abundant, according to Gomes. Poor people in America look miserable, while poor people over in Brazil smile, sing and dance as a community.

“Indigenous African spirituality and folklore is so embedded into these people’s everyday lives and extremely present everywhere, in their music, food, dances … they have a bigger appreciation for the arts more than we do,” said Leary.

“A lot of poverty is around [in Brazil]. Not all houses have windows, electricity, TVs, or running water, but life is very rich, beautiful, simple, and they’re real,” said Halladay-Sullivan. “People take the time to talk to each other. Even though they may have nothing, they are so willing to help anybody out. After being around that, when you come back, you realize you don't need any of your material possessions."

Gomes has been teaching dance for almost 30 years. His choreography fuses Afro-Brazilian folklore and contemporary modern dance. Earlier this year, on his company’s most recent trip to Brazil, they performed two Afro-Brazilian pieces and three contemporary modern pieces.

He is well known throughout his Brazilian community, as an artist and also as a community activist before he had moved to America several years ago.

"People will drop whatever they’re doing to attend one of his shows,” said Leary of her husband. "Now whenever we come his family is always expecting us to dance."

“I do this because it’s in my blood. I need to recharge with my people, feel the real sun from Brazil to talk with my neighbors,” Gomes said. “If something happens to them, it happens to me too.”

He was moved the time a 15-year-old girl with Down's syndrome performed a ballet solo in Solidariedança and thanked him after for including her in his show.

The children in Itacaré take care of him, showering him with hugs, kisses, bring him fruits and joke about his bushy beard.

“When I go back, I want to live in Itacaré to spend more time with them,” said Gomes. “I’m proud to show them another perspective. But I don’t mean look at me I’m an example from the U.S. — I say, ‘I was a kid here like you guys. Through the arts, you can be something important to the community.’”

Living on the Edge

2008-02-17T20:48:00.000-08:00

Photo by Gena Lindsay
SF State Students Living on the Edge: Campus ministry accepts those on the fringe, smites barriers
FEATURE-- Published: February 13, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

SF State students Jackie Sicard and Tia Kilpatrick are part of a large segment of the Christian population who do not fit the stereotypical, traditionally conservative mold.

They are liberal, Christian, lesbian and a couple.

Sicard and Kilpatrick met through a Christian student organization called The Edge Campus Ministry in June of last year.

Through The Edge, they said their faith in God has grown since they've become part of a body of believers who are racially, religiously, and culturally diverse that accepts various backgrounds and beliefs.

"You can talk about things like race, religion, and sexual orientation,” said Sicard, 19, an art major and active member who was raised Catholic. “No one judges you."

“It really has no set political or one denominational Christian agenda, but creates a safe environment for people who are the fringe – people of color, queer, punk, whoever – to come and worship,” said Kilpatrick, 26, a history graduate student, a Methodist, and president of the organization.

Kilpatrick came to The Edge after her father died, looking for support. Ever since then it has empowered her life, she said. Pastor Carolyn Talmadge, a Methodist minister, who’s been The Edge’s chaplain since July 2005, played a pivotal role in helping Kilpatrick through her father’s loss and coming out to her family.

“God extends no barriers. We are all part of God’s creation. We must accept people as they are because God accepts us as we are. If we do, people can move forward and grow,” Talmadge said.

The Edge Campus Ministries is located in a three-story house just across the street from SF State on Denslowe Drive. In 1961, six denominations bought the house to use as offices for different campus ministries and called it the Ecumenical House. Of the original denominations, the Episcopal Church, the United Methodist Church, the Presbyterian Church and the United Church of Christ are still part of the ministry.
In 2003, it became The Edge and now houses SF State students who are part of the ministry.

The Edge houses a diverse group of seven students. Sicard is one of them. Their backgrounds vary from race, culture, and sexual orientation, from conservative to liberal, from people who are still searching for a religion to people who are unabashed Jesus-lovers.

“Erica is a Goth, she has a lot of piercings, and wears huge boots, (Kilpatrick) is like high-energy, there’s Noel who’s a black Rastafarian-looking man,” Sicard said. “Yet, all are connected by their faith.”
“You wake up in the morning and everyone has their own spiritual way of going about the day,” Sicard said. “I like lighting sage, Noel likes lighting incense, Erica plays the French horn.”

Sicard and Kilpatrick met at The Edge’s regular Monday dinner and discussion night. Everyone at the dinner went around the room sharing his or her “God moments,” when he or she felt God’s presence during the week. Kilpatrick told the story of her father's recent passing.

“At that moment, I felt her pain. My mother passed away from cancer a month after I was born,” Sicard said.

They exchanged numbers, went on a date a week later, and have been together ever since.

“God has brought us into each other’s paths. We talk about God, pray together, go to church together, study, work-out, share our problems, give each other feedback,” Kilpatrick said. “We live intentionally.”

They both possess a strong faith in God that they said has nothing to do with their sexual orientation. God's love, your love for him, and the love you share is all that matters, Sicard said.

“I pray. I read the Bible for myself. You can't just go off what others say. It’s not something that can be taught, it’s what I feel," Sicard said.

“When they say ‘you’re committing a sin,’ I don’t let that hold me down. My sexual orientation has nothing do with the connection I have with God. There are people who are straight who meet the Christian quota but do not have faith as strong as I do, (but) in society they’re more honored.”

The number of people who come to Monday night dinner and discussion and Tuesday night Bible study varies each week, but the organization has around 25 regular members, all from different backgrounds.

“Our broad initiation to students of all types: LGBT students, straight students, students of color, white students, differently-abled students … reflects how God calls us to be as a community,” Talmadge said.

The organization strives for social justice and takes action on its stance at local, nationwide, and international levels.

Previous retreats included working with Habitat for Humanity and serving the homeless at St. Anthony's. This last weekend, six Edge members went to UC Davis to learn about sustainable agriculture and environmental issues. It has supported ending the genocide in Darfur, as well as the effort of a couple hundred Methodist churches to reconcile homosexuality and Christianity.
Edge participants made prayer cards for members of the United Methodist Delegation who left for the Philippines on Wednesday to draw attention to the numerous killings that have occurred in that country since 2001 under Philippine President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo.

"The best work … is creating good nurturing spaces where people have opportunity to explore and affirm their faith," Talmadge said. "It’s about developing your relationship with the Lord, with your community, and seeing where God’s presence is moving you to where he's called you to be.”

Professor Crusades for Global Justice

2008-02-17T20:30:00.000-08:00

Photo Courtesy of Zita Cabello-Barrueto
Professor Crusades for Global Justice
PROFILE-- Published: February 1, 2007, Golden Gate [X]press

Zita Cabello-Barrueto's coffee cup shattered to the floor.

The next thing she knew she was running home.

It was a chilly, hazy October morning in Copiapo, Chile in 1973. Barrueto was having a caf.. latte with a friend, when she had told her she had heard rumors that Barrueto's brother had been killed.

A little over a month earlier, 28-year-old Winston Cabello, a government economist under Salvador Allende, was among the many imprisoned as possible dissidents of the coup led by Gen. Augusto Pinochet.

Barrueto swallowed her tears.

"A part of me couldn't understand why a civil, democratic country that was so proud of its heritage could one day transform into a place where Chileans killed other Chileans," said Barrueto. "Another part, wouldn't allow myself to believe that there was even a grain of truth in what she said."

The Chilean-born SF State International Relations professor, has spent the last two decades of her life conducting interviews, researching, and gathering evidence to confirm the facts of her brother's brutal death as well as others who were murdered or disappeared under the Pinochet regime and won her fight in a United States court in 2003.

According to Barrueto, the day she lost her brother, she lost part of herself, and wanted to find meaning through her pain.

The only girl out of three boys, her and Winston possessed a closer bond apart from the rest.

"My brothers were my protectors. But unlike my other brothers who didn't include me in what they did, Winston included me," said Barrueto. "He taught me how to play ping-pong, fly kites, to swim, all the things little girls weren't suppose to do."

The newspaper said the Winston and 12 other Copiapo prisons had been shot while escaping. However, she later learned from Ximena de la Barra, a former colleague, that this was a lie and Pinochet operative Armando Fernandez-Larios killed Winston. De La Barra was a friend of his therapist.

The prisoners were driven in a truck to a field and ordered to get out so that they could be shot while running away, said De La Barra. However, Winston was the only one who refused to get out of the truck. Because of his defiance, rather than a quick death by a bullet, Fernandez-Larios slashed his abdomen and throat with a corvo, a curved blade that can leave a victim in up to 8 hours of intense pain.

Fourteen years later, in a mass grave in the Atacama Desert, his body was the only one different from the others, making him easier to identify.

A Miami jury found Fernandez-Larios guilty, in his role as a member of the "Caravan of Death", liable for torture, crimes against humanity, and extra-judicial killing of Winston Cabello.

With her gentle, non-accusatory persistence, Barrueto traveled back to Chile, numerous times, knocking on doors of victim's families, military officers, former ex-political prisoners, and others, persuading many of them to talk. All of whom, who would have rather not recall, but forget the past genocide that killed tortured and killed thousands of Chileans.

Barrueto has also been examining the wider effects of torture and disappearances on the social fabric of Chile and has interviewed survivors of Pinochet's inhumane policy.

These encounters have become the basis for a film documentary that she produced in 1998, "Never Again Shall We Say 'Never Again" dedicated to her brother.

"People would tell me, 'why bother, you can't', I say why not?" said Barrueto. "Winston taught me to trust myself and always believed in my ability. He would have never said, I couldn't."

Her unrelentless pursuit for justice was never a question, it was the answer.

"She's so empathetic to others suffering and societal injustice that it affects her soul so much to take action," said her son Felipe, who's accompanied her a few times in her visits back to Chile.

In her classes, Barrueto finds way to incorporate her brother's story into her lectures as an example of why social justice and universal human rights are important.

"She had the ability to teach impartially Chilean history when her own life was so intimately intertwined with the information we were receiving in our text books. It must have taken a tremendous deal of strength," said Brendan Greene, who took "Chile, de Allende al Presente" with Barrueto at UCSC in 2000. "You could sense a deep resolve that she had within herself to help us to better understand the impact of the coup on the nation, but also in people's everyday lives."

This semester, Barrueto has taken a break from teaching to focus on finishing her book about her research and will soon be filming another documentary about the Chilean judges prosecuting crimes committed under the Pinochet regime.

As a filmmaker, activist, professor, and soon to be published author, Barrueto's pursuit of justice continues, but it all began with her brother's memory.

"Yes, a person may not have the choice of whether to live or die. Winston knew he was going to die, but he chose how to die. That is the most powerful," she said.

This Teen's Life: Growing up in the Vis means being on guard 24/7

2008-02-17T19:57:00.000-08:00

Photos by Jack Stephens
This Teen's Life: Growing up in the Vis means being on guard 24/7
PROFILE-- Published: January 2007, http://www.cityvoices.org

Kenya Taylor was fed up with the gang he rolled with in Visitacion Valley and wanted a change. Realizing that no good could come from the dangerous lifestyle he was living, he wanted out, made the decision to move to Louisiana near family, and buy a house.

On June 24, 2004, before he had a chance to follow through with his plans, 24-year-old Taylor was gunned down by a member of his own crew.

That day, part of Terry Rollins’ innocence was lost. Taylor was Rollins’ cousin, best friend, and sole male role model. After experiencing the tragic killing of his cousin, Rollins chose to avoid the thug life from then on. He was only 16 years old then, but he might as well have been 30.

Rollins, now 18, is a young man of the streets, trapped in a world where violence is so prevalent that it seems like the only option is to be violent yourself in order to survive. One disgruntled look at a passer-by could cost you your life. Gangbanging is no joke when a case of mistaken identity could lead to a bullet wound in an innocent victim’s arm or worse, to his or her death.

Rollins was 15 the first time bullets flew in his direction. Though he has been shot at a few times since, he has yet to feel the penetration of a bullet through his skin. In his short lifetime, he has experienced the loss of more than a dozen people, especially youth 15 years and older who have either been murdered or shot at within the neighborhood. He wonders if he will live beyond the age of 18.

“Living in this area has taught me to be on my stuff. Anything could happen anytime, any second,” said Rollins. “You never know if somebody gonna’ hit the corner, never know, you can just roll over and die, it may be the last blunt I smoke. So I just live life like a fast car…make no U-turns.”

Violence and crime are two of the prominent elements that comprise his reality. When they lived up the hill, in the outskirts of the Sunnydale projects, before his family entered their house each night, his mother had to check the house for intruders while he and his siblings waited at the front gate. The moment he would hear gunshots or the sound of sirens blaring, his phone would ring. His mother or someone would be calling asking, “‘Where you at, bra…you good?’”

The second time Terry was shot at a couple years ago, he had been riding his bike outside his house. A red light flashed, then he dove to the ground. His mother found him with his knees bloodied screaming and hollering. His god-brother, Devron, lay by him, blood flowing from a head wound.

“Terry had this funny look of tiredness on his face and that’s when I grabbed him and started shaking him…everyone was around looking, but no one was helping,” said his mother Sheila Hill, describing the scene. “When the police came, they threw me against a wall…’til this day I don’t know why…I pushed back and started fighting with them.”

In the Vis, it’s a fight to survive. For some, it seems the only logical solution is to drop out of school and drown yourself in alcohol, drugs, and other vices to get by and escape reality.

“It’s like you want to sell drugs, if not, you want to hold a gun, if not, you want to get shot, you want to go to school, if not, don’t go to school miss a few days, if not you just be outside, I just chose not to go to school at all,” he said.

“Some people look out for themselves [in Vis Valley], some help, others are just there. I keep everything to myself; keep everyone guessing and let them think I’m doing bad. I don’t mess with them cuz you never know what they got.”

Rollins dropped out of school for a year in 10th grade without his mother even knowing. Since she was gone for most of the day working, it was easy for him to say he had gone to school. Then, he would use someone else’s report card by changing the name label.

Hill didn’t find out until the next year, when Rollins decided to go back to school. She had sent him to live with her sister so he could go to school in Antioch for a needed “change of scenery,” she said. Her sister noticed he was missing one too-many credits and told Hill.

“I was mad, but then again, I was happy he was going to school out there. Here, you’re square punk if you go to school, but there it was cool…I still remember the day I went to visit him he was dressed different. He wore a button-up shirt, his jeans tucked in—brought me to tears, such a trip to see him hanging out with a whole different crowd,” Hill said.

Rollins left school to make money. He explained that he wasn’t using anything he had learned at school in the real world. However, eventually he realized what he was missing. “I ain’t gonna’ be able to do shit without a diploma. So I figured why not,” said Rollins. As a senior, he made up for the credits he lacked by doing volunteer work, attending night, independent, and regular school and finally he graduated at Bidwell High, in Antioch this past year with a 2.87 GPA.

It was the proudest moment of his life so far.
According to Hill, one of his previous teachers from Thurgood Marshall, “Mrs. Rojas,” traveled from Japan just to see him graduate. “Good things can come from this neighborhood,” said his mother, with a strong sense of enthusiasm in her voice. “He was the first man to ever graduate from high school in my family. I’m so proud of him, because he could have easily gone the other route…some of his friends are drug dealers, they show him their fancy cars with rims…but he doesn’t want to disappoint me. I told him if he ends up in jail, gets shot, or starts selling drugs, I’ll lose my mind.”

After all, he’s seen and heard he’s not just a kid anymore. His father went to jail a few times for drugs and domestic violence, is out, but is not around. However, Rollins’ remains devoted to his family of four that includes his mother, his younger sister and brother, Tanzania and Triaryi, and himself. Rollins has taken on the role of a big brother, daddy, protector, mentor, and provider. “A lot of times, they’ll go to him first before they ask me,” said Hill. “I do get annoyed sometimes, but I love the fact they respect him like that.”

He works two jobs, one at U.P.S. unloading packages, the other, working with his mother at the Boys and Girls Club as the social recreational director, and runs on three hours of sleep daily. “The vibe [in the Vis] has inspired him to change. It’s why he wants to give money to his brother and sister, why he works at the Boys and Girls Club and has a second job—to strive to have a different life than down here which is so fucked up,” said Sarah Schumm, 31, the art director at the Boys and Girls Club. “Now, he’s become desensitized to it. Maybe he feels angry, but it’s definitely motivated him to be good.” To cope with life, Terry smokes weed fives times a day, chills with his friends, listens to music, and spends time talking with his mother. Their solid relationship plays a major role in what keeps him going.

When Rollins was just in middle school, Hill would work from 3 a.m. to 10 p.m. However, in 2000, she quit her $42 an hour job as a foreman at the Concord Cement Company and then, began volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club. Rollins grades had been failing and he told her it was because she wasn’t home enough and that he missed spending time with her.

“I was trying to pay for this and that, just trying to provide for my family. My boss begged me to stay, but it ain’t all about money. I vowed never to be wrapped up in a job again.” Because of their consistent lack of funds for rent and other utilities, money has also morphed into an ideal aspiration for Rollins.

“If it ain’t about money then it doesn’t make sense, cuz if you ain’t doing it for money what are you doing it for? I’m not fittin’ to do it for free…life is free, but everything else ain’t free with it,” said Rollins. “I’m being here for my brother, he ain’t got no dad, same position I was in. But now he got an older brother who can buy him things, I can give him what I wanted when I was younger, like Jordans every week.” Rollins is trying to get into a university in Atlanta Georgia. If he’s accepted, his mother says they’ll all move with him.

“I want my children to know where they came from and what a challenge it was to get out, but I want them to forget about the rest,” said Hill. “I want [Rollins] to get the hell away and as far from this doggone place as he can.”

So much still binds him to Visitacion Valley. He desires to leave it, but when he does, he still wants to come back and visit. This is the place where he grew up and that is something he can never escape. His parents conceived him in the Geneva Towers. His extended family and friends live in the neighborhood. At least, the lifestyle in Visitacion Valley has enabled him to realize what he doesn’t want to become—another failed statistic. “See how high those birds are flying, I want to go to the top and get out of this area, get a house, and a good job…we’ve been at the bottom for too long,” Rollins said.

Community Seeks Bridges Across Divides: Racial and Class Divisions in Visitacion Valley

2008-02-17T19:51:00.000-08:00

Community Seeks Bridges Across Divides: Racial and Class Divisions in Visitacion Valley
Published: January 2007, http://cityvoices.org

It’s 3:30 in the afternoon, a group of children, between the ages of 5 and 11 years old, consisting of eight African Americans, one Salvadorian, and one Samoan, scurry into dance class at the Boys and Girls Club on Sunnydale Avenue. They laugh, they joke. Some poplock (or at least try), tumble and jump in excitement, while others sit wryly on the chairs that line the wall.

A group of five Chinese boys also scurry into dance class, but they stick close together and move closer to the right side of the room away from the other children. They laugh, they joke. They may not poplock, but they tumble and jump in excitement.
The obvious picture: Although, the Salvadorian boy and Samoan boy intermingled with the other African American children, the children have racially segregated themselves.

“I was told that the Asian children are paying around $300 a year to get their children to stay at an Chinese after school program that uses the Boys and Girls Club facilities, so that they can do their homework, while some of the African American children’s parents are reluctant to pay just $10 for their children to be part of the Boys and Girls Club,” said Albirda Rose PhD., who has developed dance classes and other programs in Visitacion Valley and the Bayview for the last several years.

Every year, Children from the Visitacion Valley and Bayview districts perform in the New Moves Children’s Dance Concert that’s held at San Francisco State University. Dance classes are held at the Visitacion Valley Community Center, the Boys and Girls Club in Visitacion Valley, St. Paul’s Baptist Church, and John McClaren.

The Chinese children are allowed to come to dance class, a program through the Boys and Girls Club, only after they’ve finished they’re homework. “I think the two groups should work together, because that alone is perpetuating stereotypes and setting up racial tension,” Rose said. “But the Children don’t understand.”

Rose, within her children’s dance class, has witnessed how racial and cultural stereotypes divide the African Americans and Asians within this community. The segregation has become part of everyday actions and reactions towards the other, she says. The segregation found in the center is but a microcosm of what happens in the neighborhood as a whole. And it also mirrors a larger phenomenon citywide, despite San Francisco’s reputation for diversity, where racial and ethnic groups often socialize amongst themselves and keep to certain neighborhoods.

As a whole, Visitacion Valley is made-up of African Americans, Whites, Asians, Pacific Islanders, but now it’s roughly 52 percent Asian from a neighborhood that used to be predominantly African American. The racial and ethnic breakdown of children taught at Visitacion Valley Community Center is 90 percent Asian, 10 percent black, 10 percent Latino; John McClaren is 80 percent black, 20 percent Asian; St. Paul is 100 percent black; Boys and Girls Club on Sunnydale is 90 percent black, 10 percent Asian.

The factors that affect the thriving racial tension in Visitacion Valley are many. The neighborhood has no activity related to San Francisco as a whole, no tourism; they’re at the tail end of industrialization. The many residents believe the city has neglected the neighborhood. If it’s ever on the news or brought to media’s attention, the story is usually about someone who’s been murdered or hurt.

Ethnic groups tend to keep to their own. Many community organizations cater to different ethnic and racial groups, helping them navigate within society. However, these organizations don’t always work together or communicate with other communities.

“It’s hard to bridge gaps when people isolate themselves…there are quiet Asian groups,” said Roel Blanco, who has worked in the neighborhood at the Visitacion Valley Community Beacon for four years. “The Chinese are quick to work with their communities, but not with others. The Latino population is also within themselves, there are language barriers.”

Class divisions further stratify the neighborhood. Part of the tension also rests on economic resources that vary from one group to the next, from one class to the next and gentrification has also played a role as Asian groups have had more opportunity to develop over the others, said Blanco. Multi-generational families in one unit can better provide for themselves than a single-parent family raising a couple children.

“There’s growth potential down [in the Valley] where people are striving to pay rent and hold down jobs,” said Blanco. “The government has tried to develop the area, bringing in the Third Street light rail, the neighborhood wants jobs, businesses, like any other area in San Francisco, but then money for projects ran out,” said Blanco.

And due to lack of funds, when city hall or other agencies offer grants or loans, it becomes a battle between community-based organizations for financial resources, rather than organizations focusing on working with each other for the benefit of the community, he said.

“Oooo, more money. I respect what Coleman Advocates, Haus Foundation, Weed and Seed, has done for this community…but money is willingly pumped only into certain organizations in the Vis, making people like Michael Bennett’s job harder when he has to think of “here’s an opportunity to get more money for my agency,” Blanco said.

Budgets are tight when everyone is trying to set up their teams. The Visitacion Valley Violence Prevention Collaboration almost shut down after three years of trying to establish itself. As the cost of resources and services goes up, the rhetorical question asked by the city government is “how much more are we going to put in the area if it’s not going to be effective?” he said.

Many of those who live up hill in the Sunnydale housing projects are African American. While many Asians own their homes, down below in the Valley. Asian families tend to be more economically stable because a multi-generational family lives in one house, and are able help support each other. However, that is not always the case within African American communities.

“The Black women [in Vis Valley] bear the brunt of criminality,” said Sharen Hewitt, director of Community Leadership Academy Emergency Response, a community-based organization that supports victims of violence. “Their men are missing and this is an economic hardship for them. If their boys go to jail, they pay for the bills, they have to visit them, but if after they’re out and then they got shot, their mothers are the ones who have to bury them,” Hewitt said.

This all adds an extra level of polarization, on top of the violence that already polarizes the community, she said. Tension between races intensifies into generalizations that project how “the blacks are bad; the killers must go” and that the “Asians are good so they must stay.” But, she adds, no one ever asks, “What has drove African Americans to this point?”

As an educator in Visitacion Valley, the answers for that same question have become more and more apparent to Rose. “So much pain is also being inflicted by our government (and) economic system. People in this community are not given what’s needed to maintain themselves financially, education is not there. People are stripped of self-esteem, no affordable housing, or food for their children, but people don’t talk about this issue because they’re scared…scared that they’ll have to do something. The more you know…the more you have to do better,” Rose said.

“Explain to me how when there’s two groups of people, one group scores higher than another group in their CATs (California Standardized Testing). That’s evidence of institutionalized racism right there…then there’s internalized racism, where the blacks perpetuate white racism on their own community. How can a black man shoot another black man?” she asked.

The racism, cultural barriers and stereotypes are so frequent within the community that people may not even recognize them anymore. “It all goes back to racism and our own bias that we have to get passed,” Rose said. Maybe a storeowner won’t hire a black man because his pants are hanging too low off his butt. I just don’t know how to fix this. It’s just one of those things I don’t understand. Can I move people to think differently?”

To overcome these social constructs, it must start at home, at schools, at jobs, and be more inclusive to all children. The city should invest more in its community, instead of stripping necessities, Rose said, adding that a platform should be raised for people to talk about these issues.

“Because if we could communicate, we can begin to breakdown the barriers of ignorance… We all suffer, we all die. Underneath the color, we have the same heart, the same veins pumping blood in the same way. We may have different genes, but our DNA is still human.”

Now That My Friend Is Dead, The Iraq War Hits Home

2008-02-17T19:36:00.000-08:00

Now That My Friend Is Dead, The Iraq War Hits Home
YOUTH COMMENTARY-- Published: Jul 18, 2006, New America Media (Pacific News) Republished on AlterNet and Wiretap

Editor's Note: The death of a high school classmate, the first soldier from San Francisco to die in Iraq, brings up confounding questions for Christine Ferrer, a youth commentator about what her friend was fighting for. Ferrer, 21, is a contributor to New America Media.

SAN FRANCISCO--On June 29, Army Spc. Christopher D. Rose, 21, was out on a regular day on patrol in Baghdad when he stopped near the entrance of his base to remove some barbed wire. As he grabbed the wire, he stepped on an improvised explosive device and it killed him.

Chris Rose was a friend from high school. On the afternoon of July 4 I heard about his death. An article in the San Francisco Chronicle said Chris was the first San Franciscan to die in the Iraq War. When I read this I began to cry.

Chris and I were the only Filipino-Americans in the Voice of Pentecost Academy. He was my kumpare (buddy), someone who would never stop smiling.

Chris had no enemies. He gave respect and was given respect in return. He made you feel like every word you said was important to him.

Since he graduated in 2004 we haven't been in contact. On graduation day he told me he was joining the military. Chris was adamant about serving his country, and since his father served in Vietnam, his grandfather in World War II and Korea, he, too, wanted to make a difference.

Then, just a month ago, Chris found me and messaged me on MySpace from Iraq, asking if I remembered him. He wanted to catch up. I added him as a friend, but didn't get a chance to write him back.

The war in Iraq up until then was something that happened on TV. When he died, however, everything changed: That day, the war in Iraq became personal.

My sadness turned into rage about the civilian death tolls, terrorist attacks, U.S. military, incursions, images of war. I decided to blog about Chris' death on MySpace, about how stupid, ignorant and meaningless I think this "war on terror" really is, and that I, as a firm believer in Christ and His teachings on loving your neighbor, do not believe that God is a god of war. I have had many interesting arguments online since.

The day of Chris's funeral was a cold, foggy morning. The cries of over 150 mourners could be heard echoing in the wind outside St. Augustine Church in South San Francisco.
More than three dozen Patriot Guard Riders, many of them veterans, held American flags and paid their respects.

Chris's parents placed the medals he earned in Iraq on top of his casket one by one: two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, and a Good Conduct medal. At the burial, the National Guard fired a 21-gun salute and a musician played "Amazing Grace" on the bagpipes.

As I sat there, listening to the Rev. Ramon Mores talk about death and its inevitability, and hearing his cousin read a eulogy written by his sister, Lisa, all I could do was weep to myself silently.

The military accompanied the family and offered support. Army Staff Sgt. Linda Lluberes, who was assigned to bring Chris's body back home, didn't know Chris, but spoke on behalf of his unit. I was touched by the fact she took the time to speak with his unit and learn about the person he was. His comrades described Chris as someone who "gave 110 percent all time," had an irreplaceable smile and possessed an undeniable love for his family.

Although, I appreciated the honor bestowed by the military, I couldn't help but feel like the military was trying to sell the Iraq War to us, especially when Brig. Gen Joseph Schroedel with the Army Corps of Engineers South Pacific Division spoke. He told a story of how he met an Iraqi and that Iraqi told him Saddam warned that when the U.S. invades, they would take away Iraqi freedom and rights. But the Iraqi told him that "the only thing that you've taken is our hearts."

I wonder if that is true. To me, it felt like propaganda, like the general was trying to glamorize the war and justify bloodshed in Iraq.

Too often we forget, that serving your country is not just joining the military. It's also standing up against racism, fighting poverty, breaking down stereotypes, refusing to be swayed by money in a capitalist society, and wanting nothing but the truth. Whether it is American or Iraqi, how much more innocent blood needs to be shed before we realize this war is not just?

Chris' father told the San Francisco Chronicle that near the end his son started to wonder why we were in Iraq and began to think that the Iraqi people didn't want us there. Iraqis are facing worse conditions than under Saddam since the start of the war, according to a study conducted by the United Nations and Iraqi officials in 2004. The study showed that everyday conditions for Iraqis have deteriorated at an alarming rate, with huge numbers of people lacking adequate access to basic services and resources such as clean water, food, health care, electricity, jobs and sanitation.

The last words Chris wrote to Alejandro Galicia, a close friend in high school, in his yearbook were: "Don't cry for me... Stay strong and positive. I'll miss you. Your friend, Chris Rose."

But I couldn't help but cry. Are we truly fighting for freedom and against terror? Or have we become the very entity we're trying to suppress? In my heart, Chris is a hero. But how do I justify his loss when the reasons we are in Iraq are muddied?

Collateral Damage

2008-02-17T19:15:00.001-08:00

Photo courtesy of Lauren Getuiza
FEATURE-- Published: October 2005, Filipinas Magazine

For a project in her high school Psychology class, Lauren Getuiza was required to punch holes through an index card, thread strings in an out of them, and draw a symbol representing everything she was going through and everything she still hadn't gotten over.

Once you had gotten over something, you cut a string. When the class was over, she still kept the card and continued clipping strings until she couldn't clip anymore. Her hurts and frustration amounted to far more than the number of strings she could cut.

For Getuiza, the index card represented everything she was dealing with during her parents' marriage and divorce, but it especially reflected the troubled relationship between her and her father.

It's not a mystery that being a child of divorce isn't always easy. In fact, it's a constant struggle. Getuiza, 19, is one of the many Filipino Americans who has grown up as a divorce statistic; a disease that she claims had eaten away at her heart for many years.

Although the divorce rate has leveled off, about 1 million children a year still experience divorce. "It's fine to screw up your own life, but it's different when you bring children into it," says Getuiza. Getuiza's relationship with her father is what suffered the most.

Scared to look at him, scared to pass his room, scared to talk. Life with Jose, Getuiza's father, was hell. Getuiza remembers constantly living in fear. She was a prisoner in her own home.

Jose was always angry and verbally abusive and physically abusive, He'd yell things like "Do you hear what I'm telling you or are you stupid?" or "No one would ever love you." He would push her mother around, hit walls, and throw pots and pans at her and her sisters. If one thing irritated him, he'd lash out.

Getuiza parents divorced when she was 6 years old and from that spurred a flood of confusing mixed emotions. She felt guilty and abandoned, thinking the divorce was her fault. After the divorce she visited Jose, occasionally on the weekends, but his idea of quality time was leaving her at his relatives' house while he went off somewhere.

"So many times I wish I hadn't known him, I wouldn't have the scars I have now," says Getuiza.

Children of divorce can have a hard time pulling themselves together. Parents might think the issues are solved between them, but children can suffer for many years, according to Tom Spencer, a psychology professor at San Francisco State University whose field of study is developmental psychology. Things like trust, insecurity, and anger can become issues.

Jordan Ricasa, 23, admits that his parents' divorce has affected the way he perceives relationships and how he wants to be treated. Ricasa reveals, "Like my mom, I'm very compassionate, but if someone hurts me, I'm reluctant to accept them back as a meaningful person." He's very independent of others and would rather do things on his own than ask for help.

He steered clear of serious relationships until he was 21. "I'm an observer and after seeing my parents it's like anything can still happen, even though you think you know someone" said Ricasa.

But what may have been meant as something negative can become positive if one looks at it for what it can worth. Ricasa chose to let negativity inspire him.

"At first, [the divorce] was a negative connotation, but then it gave me strength and made me understand things in a different perspective. Like if I get mad for no reason, I'm able to take a step back and check myself," says Ricasa. "I see it as strength within weakness."
In 89 percent of divorces the mother becomes the custodial parent and suddenly, she's required to transform into the role of both mother and father. And more often than not, she can prove as an inspiration to her children. If you're a Filipino mother within a separation or an annulment, you bare the brunt of shame, according to Ruth Cobb Hill, a Filipino-American family and child psychologist in Berkeley, California.

The extended family, which includes everyone in your small town, makes everything their business. People are shocked, connections are broken, and both often leave. If one stays, they are pitied the rest of their life.

The same patterns and traditions repeat itself in America; however it's not as rigid. Filipino mothers, who are usually shy, find courage in America. "They're supported by the court, lawyers and friends and tend to grow stronger, but it's the fathers who find it very difficult," said Dr. Hill. "There's a secret knowledge that the woman will somehow manage, 'Siya ang digasalo.'" While everyone is trying to save the man from falling part, the woman remains strong to survive those accusations.

For Derek Datangel, this is what he saw from his mother when his parents divorced after 23 years of marriage. At age 13, Datangel remained with his mother. Because of it, he watched how she handled the divorce and other challenges in her life (She was also blind in one eye). She overcame them with a positive attitude and an open-mind. When it was hard for Datangel to forgive his father after all he had put them through, his mom encouraged him to forgive him.

Datangel saw that it was her faith in God that helped her. "There was a big emphasis on church. At 7 a.m. every day, she'd pray "Our Father" or "Hail Mary," said Datangel. "She believed that in life you go through challenges and God sees you worthy of living up to those challenges." This is what she instilled in her son and it's what Derek believes.

"My mom taught me how to persevere, how to push through struggle and hardship. It made me think that I need to do that too," said Datangel. "Because she never gave up, I never gave up and her beliefs and values made me who I am."

All is not lost. Depending on the child, a divorce can still have a positive outcome if it's not overwhelming. Children can learn to cope better and become more self-sufficient. Some feel they'd be getting cheated if their parents weren't divorced.

According to Dr. Hill, Filipino American children can pull themselves together more quickly because there are more support systems in America. But time, along with accepting and letting go, eventually heals.

Back to Getuiza's story, Jose left Getuiza alone for the last time when she was 13 and never came back. And finally, she was able to breathe and heal. She found safety and support from her two sisters and mother. She recently changed her major from Journalism to Psychology. She wants to help other people get through divorce and understand that it's not their fault.

Divorce is something that can leave someone with a barrel of insecurities including depression, hurt, and confusion. However that same broken person can rise again. Somehow despite the intensity and aggravation of life's battles, it can make a person stronger and instill character within them.

"I went through a lot of dramatic things by myself and no one could relate to me. It was confusing, but because of it I was able to understand myself as an individual through my struggles and I'm glad for it," says Getuiza. "It may take years to realize it, but there is light at the end of the tunnel and anyone is capable of overcoming whatever situation."