I have been so very incredibly fortunate to have embarked on an adventure of some sort each summer since my move to Santa Cruz in 2010. My first adventure was the cross-country road trip; next was the Great American South road trip; and, of course, last summer was Micronesia. This summer, since my budget is pretty much nil and I have no prospects of coming into big money any time soon, I had resigned myself to staying in Santa Cruz while working and taking classes. I am still working at a really awesome internship at UCSC's Long Marine Lab (in addition to the internship I'll be starting soon with IOWP), and I also work part-time in the university library, but I didn't get the really competitive internship I'd applied for, and I also didn't get one of the big grants I needed to go back to Micronesia. I was feeling a little depressed about staying here all summer, since I tend to go a little stir crazy when I feel like it's been too long in between adventures. I had applied for one more grant, but I was positive that I wasn't going to get it, since the Explorers Club (the wonderful folks who funded me last year) have never given a grant to the same person two years in a row (at least not according to the grant reports they have published on their website). But guess what? They gave me a grant two years in a row. They even liked my proposal so much that they gave me more money this year. A first!
So you know what that means! I'm going back to Micronesia (and in just a few short months)! I'm so excited! This means I will get to do the shark dives that I couldn't do last year because of low tides and that terrible infection I got on my hand. I will hopefully get to see the sea turtles hatch (and maybe nest) on the Turtle Islands. I will get to hang out with the friends I made in both Ulithi and Yap, and wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to see again. I may get to take the Chief we met on Yap up on his offer to chew betel nut with him (a promise I made when I wasn't sure if I'd be able to fulfill it). I can walk the entire circumference of the island (another thing I wanted to do last year but couldn't). I can dance with one of the Chiefs on Falalop without worrying about my lava-lava falling down (and can hopefully redeem my reputation). I cannot wait to sit on the ground at the women's house and listen to the women chat in Ulithian while we peel potatoes by hand and weave plates out of grass and listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival. I am absolutely thrilled to be able to go back. I fell in love with Ulithi and the people I met there, and I can't wait to see them again. I may even get to stay a bit longer (I hope), although that is to be determined. We will see.
I don't have any details at all to share with you yet, since I haven't talked to my professor much more than exchanging a few e-mails (we're going to meet to talk more formally next week), but I think going along with her and with the other members of the science team will be a totally different experience. Since I will not be coleading the trip this year, I will be able to focus on my own aspect of the project, which will contribute to my senior thesis. I will still be working with her and her team of scientists but my contribution will likely be more focused and individualized this time. I would elaborate more but I still have a lot of details to flesh out on what that focus will be! I think I will also get to visit the other islands of the atoll (at least some of them), because my professor has been working with the community to discuss the possibility of expanding the protected area to the entire atoll. I am going to learn so much from the people I'll be accompanying this year. The Ulithi Atoll is the forth largest atoll in the world, so for it to be entirely protected would be pretty spectacular!
Anyway, I just wanted to share the exciting news with you all. I will try to do something similar to what I did last year (I will journal while I'm there and then post blogs when I get back). I can't wait to get back out there! I'll update here as I get more details.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Visiting the Santa Cruz County Jail
Today, I went to visit the Santa Cruz County Jail.
I surrendered my personal belongings and, after an orientation (in which I was told how I should conduct myself), I followed a guard and a group of fellow volunteers into a cramped holding area behind heavy metal doors, where listened as they slid closed and locked heavily behind us. I waited as the guard unlocked the door in front of us, slid it opened, and beckoned for us follow her down the hallway, the second door sliding shut behind us as we walked. I tried not to make eye contact with the people who watched us from behind the glass doors along the hallway (we'd been warned ahead of time that a group of the inmates had made a batch of pruno and, because they were heavily intoxicated, had to be separated out from the rest of the population). The guard showed us the classrooms where some of us (including me) will be teaching, making sure we understood that we will be locked in with the inmates and will need to call a guard to get out, and putting extra emphasis on the location of the emergency button. She made it clear that we are never, in any way, shape, or form, to let an inmate get between us and the emergency button. If so much as a pen goes missing we're supposed to inform the guards immediately and they will toss the living quarters, maybe even strip search the inmates. (They can use pens to make tattoo guns and weapons.) I feel uneasy about having that level of power. I'm not sure if I'd feel comfortable using it, so for now I'm just hoping that no inmate ever tries to steal my fucking pen.
All of this was in marked contrast with the atmosphere of the orientation we'd had before the tour. The volunteer coordinator stressed that the people we'd be working with are just that: people. She asked that we treat them as such and be sure to show them respect. She told us that the inmates are smart and thoughtful and want to learn. While she stressed the importance of safety and awareness of where we are and who we're with, for the most part, she also stressed that many of the inmates we will be working with are victims of circumstance. Many are victims of violence, assault, and broken homes. She asked that we show compassion and understanding and that we never be judgmental. She warned that many of us would make personal connections with the inmates we work with and we would likely have our hearts broken when we would inevitably see some of them be released, then returned. To listen to the volunteer coordinator talk about the people we'd be helping and their struggles, and then directly after to take a tour of the facilitates and to see the set-up and how people were living (sometimes for years at a time), was jarring, to say the least.
To provide a bit of context: I'm applying for an internship with the Inside Out Writing Project (IOWP), a group associated with the Women's Center at UCSC. IOWP offers writing workshops for inmates in the Santa Cruz County Jail. From their Facebook page: "We seek to use these workshops as a method of transcending the social constructs that define criminality. In this way, we engender community, and build solidarity in combating the Prison Industrial Complex (PIC)." I am really excited to have the opportunity (hopefully) to work with the IOWP, particularly because it will give me a chance to confront my own biases about criminality while engaging in hands-on activism and while reaching out to other people. I've wanted to get more involved in the activist community on a number of levels since arriving in Santa Cruz, but I either haven't had time or haven't known where to start. This is clearly a step up from leading beach cleanups and lobbying on behalf of plastic bag bans. While I'm not discounting any of that work or the people who do it (I think it's important, but in a completely different way), I'm excited to finally be taking some action that will be more directly meaningful in people's lives and in combatting overarching harmful social constructs and practices.
At one point during our tour, we were taken to see the living quarters of some of the inmates. The wing we visited contained four different "pods". Two pods contained male inmates and two pods contained female inmates. We were brought to stand inside of a central control room that felt like something out of a science fiction movie. In the center was a desk with a control panel of sorts, manned by a sitting uniformed officer, who had a central view into all of the pods. The lights in the center room where we stood were very dimmed so the inmates couldn't see out (at least not well), but because the lights were on inside their pods, we were able to see them clearly. The pods each had a (very small) outside courtyard with some sort of wire across the opening at the top, which was approximately 40 feet up. There were about 30 people in each pod and they all slept in bunk beds in common areas. While the inmates couldn't see out very well, they could at least tell there was a crowd of people in the control area, so they lined up at the windows and put their hands up around their faces to try to see what they could of our group. Some of them yelled and barked at us. Some pulled off their shirts and made faces, and others flexed their muscles. Occasionally, the guard at the center desk would push one of his magic buttons on the control panel, speak into a microphone, and tell the inmates to back off the glass. At one point, the guard giving us the tour encouraged us to take a look into the inmates living quarters. She tried to persuade us that it was okay for us to walk up to the glass and look in, by telling us that the inmates wouldn't be able to get out, even as they made intimidating gestures at us. They actually wanted us to walk up and peer inside, looking past the faces staring and barking at us, to examine "how the inmates lived". It reminded me very much of the ape-house at the National Zoo. I left feeling absolutely horrified, and as if I had violated the inmates in some unspeakable way. I will never, ever feel comfortable looking at animals in captivity at the zoo again. It was a wake-up call, and one that I'm sad was necessary but am still grateful for, because it's one I think I needed to see.
It was unsettling to see how dehumanized the inmates are. Yes, there are some violent offenders there (and I will not know what offenses the people I work with committed unless they volunteer it in their writing), but the majority of the inmates are either non-violent drug offenders or participated in nonviolent crimes motivated by addiction (such as theft). Many of them have stories that are heartbreaking. I have no doubt that working with the inmates at the Santa Cruz County Jail will have a permanent impact on my outlook. It will make me confront a lot about myself, including my pre-conceived notions of what jail is like and what the people who are in there are like. Despite my feelings about the prison industrial complex and the government conspiracies that put people in jail (particularly racial minorities), I still tend to associate inmates with "bad guys," and that's something I will learn to get over, quick (and something I want to get over because I know that is is often, although not always, inaccurate). If I'm going to be leading workshops by myself, I will have to be able to set boundaries and be assertive and not be intimidated. It is hard to reconcile how to be respectful and to honor the experiences of the inmates while still making sure not to let them get in between me and the emergency button, or while refusing to let them use my pen.
I'm not going to lie, I am scared, of a lot of aspects of participating in IOWP. I'm scared of becoming immune to that environment and having it become normalized to me. I'm scared of failing to make a difference. I'm scared of not being able to control the situation well enough. I'm intimidated by the inmates. I'm nervous about having to be assertive (particularly in response to inappropriate sexual comments, since the women volunteers were warned we would inevitably get them, and I've found them to be potentially triggering in the past). Most of all, I'm scared of the magnitude of the experience. I think working with inmates as a way build solidarity and to overturn the prison industrial complex (something that I know is exceedingly problematic and has to go, but have only experienced personally on an abstract level) has the potential to shake my foundation to my very core. That is fucking scary as shit, but also exciting, because I know I will grow as a result and can hopefully help to enact change, even if it's a painful and emotional process. I think it will be challenging, but I will need to remember that my experiences are not the most important ones here. I'm doing this to learn and grow on a personal level, sure, but more importantly, I am hoping to help other people find their voices and to empower them in the process.
If I get the internship, I hope to use this space as a place to write about my experiences. This is something I will only do if I get permission from IOWP, and I will not use any identifying information about any of the people I work with. I should have an interview sometime soon and hope to have clearance from the jail to work there on a regular basis within the month. I'll be sure to keep you all posted.
I surrendered my personal belongings and, after an orientation (in which I was told how I should conduct myself), I followed a guard and a group of fellow volunteers into a cramped holding area behind heavy metal doors, where listened as they slid closed and locked heavily behind us. I waited as the guard unlocked the door in front of us, slid it opened, and beckoned for us follow her down the hallway, the second door sliding shut behind us as we walked. I tried not to make eye contact with the people who watched us from behind the glass doors along the hallway (we'd been warned ahead of time that a group of the inmates had made a batch of pruno and, because they were heavily intoxicated, had to be separated out from the rest of the population). The guard showed us the classrooms where some of us (including me) will be teaching, making sure we understood that we will be locked in with the inmates and will need to call a guard to get out, and putting extra emphasis on the location of the emergency button. She made it clear that we are never, in any way, shape, or form, to let an inmate get between us and the emergency button. If so much as a pen goes missing we're supposed to inform the guards immediately and they will toss the living quarters, maybe even strip search the inmates. (They can use pens to make tattoo guns and weapons.) I feel uneasy about having that level of power. I'm not sure if I'd feel comfortable using it, so for now I'm just hoping that no inmate ever tries to steal my fucking pen.
All of this was in marked contrast with the atmosphere of the orientation we'd had before the tour. The volunteer coordinator stressed that the people we'd be working with are just that: people. She asked that we treat them as such and be sure to show them respect. She told us that the inmates are smart and thoughtful and want to learn. While she stressed the importance of safety and awareness of where we are and who we're with, for the most part, she also stressed that many of the inmates we will be working with are victims of circumstance. Many are victims of violence, assault, and broken homes. She asked that we show compassion and understanding and that we never be judgmental. She warned that many of us would make personal connections with the inmates we work with and we would likely have our hearts broken when we would inevitably see some of them be released, then returned. To listen to the volunteer coordinator talk about the people we'd be helping and their struggles, and then directly after to take a tour of the facilitates and to see the set-up and how people were living (sometimes for years at a time), was jarring, to say the least.
To provide a bit of context: I'm applying for an internship with the Inside Out Writing Project (IOWP), a group associated with the Women's Center at UCSC. IOWP offers writing workshops for inmates in the Santa Cruz County Jail. From their Facebook page: "We seek to use these workshops as a method of transcending the social constructs that define criminality. In this way, we engender community, and build solidarity in combating the Prison Industrial Complex (PIC)." I am really excited to have the opportunity (hopefully) to work with the IOWP, particularly because it will give me a chance to confront my own biases about criminality while engaging in hands-on activism and while reaching out to other people. I've wanted to get more involved in the activist community on a number of levels since arriving in Santa Cruz, but I either haven't had time or haven't known where to start. This is clearly a step up from leading beach cleanups and lobbying on behalf of plastic bag bans. While I'm not discounting any of that work or the people who do it (I think it's important, but in a completely different way), I'm excited to finally be taking some action that will be more directly meaningful in people's lives and in combatting overarching harmful social constructs and practices.
At one point during our tour, we were taken to see the living quarters of some of the inmates. The wing we visited contained four different "pods". Two pods contained male inmates and two pods contained female inmates. We were brought to stand inside of a central control room that felt like something out of a science fiction movie. In the center was a desk with a control panel of sorts, manned by a sitting uniformed officer, who had a central view into all of the pods. The lights in the center room where we stood were very dimmed so the inmates couldn't see out (at least not well), but because the lights were on inside their pods, we were able to see them clearly. The pods each had a (very small) outside courtyard with some sort of wire across the opening at the top, which was approximately 40 feet up. There were about 30 people in each pod and they all slept in bunk beds in common areas. While the inmates couldn't see out very well, they could at least tell there was a crowd of people in the control area, so they lined up at the windows and put their hands up around their faces to try to see what they could of our group. Some of them yelled and barked at us. Some pulled off their shirts and made faces, and others flexed their muscles. Occasionally, the guard at the center desk would push one of his magic buttons on the control panel, speak into a microphone, and tell the inmates to back off the glass. At one point, the guard giving us the tour encouraged us to take a look into the inmates living quarters. She tried to persuade us that it was okay for us to walk up to the glass and look in, by telling us that the inmates wouldn't be able to get out, even as they made intimidating gestures at us. They actually wanted us to walk up and peer inside, looking past the faces staring and barking at us, to examine "how the inmates lived". It reminded me very much of the ape-house at the National Zoo. I left feeling absolutely horrified, and as if I had violated the inmates in some unspeakable way. I will never, ever feel comfortable looking at animals in captivity at the zoo again. It was a wake-up call, and one that I'm sad was necessary but am still grateful for, because it's one I think I needed to see.
It was unsettling to see how dehumanized the inmates are. Yes, there are some violent offenders there (and I will not know what offenses the people I work with committed unless they volunteer it in their writing), but the majority of the inmates are either non-violent drug offenders or participated in nonviolent crimes motivated by addiction (such as theft). Many of them have stories that are heartbreaking. I have no doubt that working with the inmates at the Santa Cruz County Jail will have a permanent impact on my outlook. It will make me confront a lot about myself, including my pre-conceived notions of what jail is like and what the people who are in there are like. Despite my feelings about the prison industrial complex and the government conspiracies that put people in jail (particularly racial minorities), I still tend to associate inmates with "bad guys," and that's something I will learn to get over, quick (and something I want to get over because I know that is is often, although not always, inaccurate). If I'm going to be leading workshops by myself, I will have to be able to set boundaries and be assertive and not be intimidated. It is hard to reconcile how to be respectful and to honor the experiences of the inmates while still making sure not to let them get in between me and the emergency button, or while refusing to let them use my pen.
I'm not going to lie, I am scared, of a lot of aspects of participating in IOWP. I'm scared of becoming immune to that environment and having it become normalized to me. I'm scared of failing to make a difference. I'm scared of not being able to control the situation well enough. I'm intimidated by the inmates. I'm nervous about having to be assertive (particularly in response to inappropriate sexual comments, since the women volunteers were warned we would inevitably get them, and I've found them to be potentially triggering in the past). Most of all, I'm scared of the magnitude of the experience. I think working with inmates as a way build solidarity and to overturn the prison industrial complex (something that I know is exceedingly problematic and has to go, but have only experienced personally on an abstract level) has the potential to shake my foundation to my very core. That is fucking scary as shit, but also exciting, because I know I will grow as a result and can hopefully help to enact change, even if it's a painful and emotional process. I think it will be challenging, but I will need to remember that my experiences are not the most important ones here. I'm doing this to learn and grow on a personal level, sure, but more importantly, I am hoping to help other people find their voices and to empower them in the process.
If I get the internship, I hope to use this space as a place to write about my experiences. This is something I will only do if I get permission from IOWP, and I will not use any identifying information about any of the people I work with. I should have an interview sometime soon and hope to have clearance from the jail to work there on a regular basis within the month. I'll be sure to keep you all posted.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Fuck rape culture
Trigger warning: This post is my response to a rape that happened on
my college campus this past weekend. It may contain language that some
people would find triggering.
Update: The UCSC police issued a press release yesterday noting that the woman who was raped on campus admitted that she had made it up. I can't quite begin to process my feelings about this yet (although I believe everything I said is still valid, even if the fear I felt was unnecessary), so for now I'll just say: I strongly believe she should not be prosecuted -- that she recanted her story doesn't mean that it didn't happen, and even she did fabricate the entire thing, prosecuting her could discourage rape victims from coming forward.
Over the weekend, when I was supposed to be working at the UCSC library (but wasn't because I was out of town for my grandmother's funeral), a woman was raped and beaten on campus. It was during the day, in broad daylight, on one of the paths between the bookstore and the library. It's a path I walk often to get from one class to the next, one surrounded with redwoods and one where there are often deer sleeping quietly in the grass nearby. On a Sunday, with no classes in session, it would have been especially peaceful. The sun was shining, the temperature was in the 60's, flowers are starting to bloom. If I had been walking on that path alone (as I often do), I likely would have been contemplating how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful place and how happy I am to be there (as I often do). The victim could have very easily been me.
There are many aspects of such a horrible incident that are heartbreaking, the most of which is of course the plethora of feelings and emotions and fears the victim will have to face, likely for the rest of her life. Sadly, the consequences of this event don't end with the victim. The climate on campus has changed, and the rape apologists have emerged from the shadows. UCSC, usually a liberal safe-haven, has recently become full of people pointing their fingers and saying the victim shouldn't have been walking alone. (You only have to glance at this Facebook page to see what I mean.) These are the people who think if women dress a certain way or walk a certain way or wear our hair a certain way, we can prevent something like this from happening to us. I'm a single parent, and I live alone. How am I supposed to find someone to escort me to and from school? How can I explain to my child why we have to drive the 5 blocks to his school, so I don't have to walk him by myself? The answer is, I can't, and I shouldn't need to, and neither should anyone else, for whatever reason. No woman can constantly make decisions based on whether or not there is a chance we will be raped. When I get up in the morning to get dressed, I shouldn't have to consider how what I'm wearing may or may not tempt some man to fucking rape me. Are my pants too tight? Is my shirt too low-cut? Are my heels too high? Can I run in these shoes? Fuck you if you seriously think this is in any way acceptable. Fuck you, rape culture, for telling people that women are the ones who invite this fuckery just by existing. Fuck you for making women feel like the guilty ones, the ones who should be ashamed.
I guess I mentioned the beautiful weather and the scenery on the trail where this happened because I, and many others, tend to operate under the illusion that rapes don't happen in places like this. Rapes happen in shady alley ways, in abandoned parking garages, on dark city streets, places emerged in darkness... NOT in sunlight and nature and fresh-air. When I walk around campus alone, I have always assumed the daylight is some sort of guarantee of my safety. Even when I walked down dirt trails at night on my way home during the dark days of winter, I felt safe (although I may have occasionally feared getting eaten by a mountain lion). Since this weekend I've been taking the bus instead of walking. Obviously I can't do that forever, so I'm going to take advantage of the free self-defense classes being offered campus so I can learn how to protect myself. But fuck if I'm not angry that any of this is necessary and that the sense of peace I've felt around my home has been shattered.
I have no idea how we can end rape culture. It is so engrained in our paradigm of patriarchy that overcoming it seems monumental, if not impossible. That said, I know that being fucking angry is a good start. It will keep us fighting, even if that fighting is just by refusing to be intimidated. Walking alone to and from school and continuing my running routine have become my acts of defiance (although fuck if you think I won't protect myself if necessary). And goddamn it if I'm not fucking angry that this happened; angry both on behalf of the victim and what I know she will have to go through to get past this, and angry that the feelings of fear I thought I escaped when I moved here are back, and angry that my friends are taking precautions not to be alone, and angry that I can't let my son walk to/from school alone. I'm angry that I feel so fucking helpless to do anything to help the victim and to help keep this from happening to someone else.
I'm channeling this anger into doing something productive, which for now is my volunteer work at UCSC Women's Center, where I've found a wonderful group of strong and like-minded women (a few of which are even parents). If anyone feels like they need someone to talk to about this incident, I urge you to contact the wonderful staff who work there.
Update: The UCSC police issued a press release yesterday noting that the woman who was raped on campus admitted that she had made it up. I can't quite begin to process my feelings about this yet (although I believe everything I said is still valid, even if the fear I felt was unnecessary), so for now I'll just say: I strongly believe she should not be prosecuted -- that she recanted her story doesn't mean that it didn't happen, and even she did fabricate the entire thing, prosecuting her could discourage rape victims from coming forward.
Over the weekend, when I was supposed to be working at the UCSC library (but wasn't because I was out of town for my grandmother's funeral), a woman was raped and beaten on campus. It was during the day, in broad daylight, on one of the paths between the bookstore and the library. It's a path I walk often to get from one class to the next, one surrounded with redwoods and one where there are often deer sleeping quietly in the grass nearby. On a Sunday, with no classes in session, it would have been especially peaceful. The sun was shining, the temperature was in the 60's, flowers are starting to bloom. If I had been walking on that path alone (as I often do), I likely would have been contemplating how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful place and how happy I am to be there (as I often do). The victim could have very easily been me.
There are many aspects of such a horrible incident that are heartbreaking, the most of which is of course the plethora of feelings and emotions and fears the victim will have to face, likely for the rest of her life. Sadly, the consequences of this event don't end with the victim. The climate on campus has changed, and the rape apologists have emerged from the shadows. UCSC, usually a liberal safe-haven, has recently become full of people pointing their fingers and saying the victim shouldn't have been walking alone. (You only have to glance at this Facebook page to see what I mean.) These are the people who think if women dress a certain way or walk a certain way or wear our hair a certain way, we can prevent something like this from happening to us. I'm a single parent, and I live alone. How am I supposed to find someone to escort me to and from school? How can I explain to my child why we have to drive the 5 blocks to his school, so I don't have to walk him by myself? The answer is, I can't, and I shouldn't need to, and neither should anyone else, for whatever reason. No woman can constantly make decisions based on whether or not there is a chance we will be raped. When I get up in the morning to get dressed, I shouldn't have to consider how what I'm wearing may or may not tempt some man to fucking rape me. Are my pants too tight? Is my shirt too low-cut? Are my heels too high? Can I run in these shoes? Fuck you if you seriously think this is in any way acceptable. Fuck you, rape culture, for telling people that women are the ones who invite this fuckery just by existing. Fuck you for making women feel like the guilty ones, the ones who should be ashamed.
I guess I mentioned the beautiful weather and the scenery on the trail where this happened because I, and many others, tend to operate under the illusion that rapes don't happen in places like this. Rapes happen in shady alley ways, in abandoned parking garages, on dark city streets, places emerged in darkness... NOT in sunlight and nature and fresh-air. When I walk around campus alone, I have always assumed the daylight is some sort of guarantee of my safety. Even when I walked down dirt trails at night on my way home during the dark days of winter, I felt safe (although I may have occasionally feared getting eaten by a mountain lion). Since this weekend I've been taking the bus instead of walking. Obviously I can't do that forever, so I'm going to take advantage of the free self-defense classes being offered campus so I can learn how to protect myself. But fuck if I'm not angry that any of this is necessary and that the sense of peace I've felt around my home has been shattered.
I have no idea how we can end rape culture. It is so engrained in our paradigm of patriarchy that overcoming it seems monumental, if not impossible. That said, I know that being fucking angry is a good start. It will keep us fighting, even if that fighting is just by refusing to be intimidated. Walking alone to and from school and continuing my running routine have become my acts of defiance (although fuck if you think I won't protect myself if necessary). And goddamn it if I'm not fucking angry that this happened; angry both on behalf of the victim and what I know she will have to go through to get past this, and angry that the feelings of fear I thought I escaped when I moved here are back, and angry that my friends are taking precautions not to be alone, and angry that I can't let my son walk to/from school alone. I'm angry that I feel so fucking helpless to do anything to help the victim and to help keep this from happening to someone else.
I'm channeling this anger into doing something productive, which for now is my volunteer work at UCSC Women's Center, where I've found a wonderful group of strong and like-minded women (a few of which are even parents). If anyone feels like they need someone to talk to about this incident, I urge you to contact the wonderful staff who work there.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Remembering Margaret Cannon (Grandma Cannon)
Today, my grandma ended her battle with cancer. We have known this day would come for the past few months, but even though we were prepared, her absence is still strongly felt. My dad recently told me I got my fiery spirit from her, and I can only take that as the highest compliment.
Grandma Cannon was small in stature (she was only about 4'11), but what she lacked in size she made up in spirit. She was the most vivacious, determined, courageous woman I have ever met. She gave birth to, and raised, 13 children (who went on to give her 47 grandchildren and 32 great-grandchildren, and counting). Her marriage wasn't an easy one; my grandpa was an alcoholic and my understanding is he sometimes took his anger out on her (and my aunts and uncles). To help make ends meet, she worked in the cafeterias of Montgomery County Schools for over 16 years. Despite a difficult marriage, all of her thirteen children are successful, caring, passionate, and inspiring individuals with families of their own, and she deserves an enormous amount of credit for that. (I will be thrilled if I can do as well with just one child.)
I've heard stories about how tough she was (one of my cousins referred to her as our 'Iron Lady', which I found apt). None of her boys as teenagers, despite being at least a foot taller and probably at least a hundred pounds heavier, would ever have dared to talk back to her. Grandma's presence demanded respect. Additionally, she was brilliant; Grandma was one of the first women accepted into Georgetown University. (She was later expelled because she snuck out for a date. Doesn't sound at all like something I would do, does it?) She grew up all over the world (my great-grandfather was in the Marine Corps), including China and Cuba, and she even rode racehorses in Cuba as a teenager in the 1940's. She was very religious and she had a very close relationship with God (my dad was raised Irish Catholic). I've discussed my atheism numerous times on this blog, but while I don't share her religious beliefs, it makes me happy to know that Grandma's religion brought her peace, especially towards the end of her life.
I struggled for what I could say about my personal experiences with Grandma here, but the sad truth is, I didn't know her very well. Our family is so large and loving, a huge blessing to be sure, but to be honest, I felt lost among the huge number of grandchildren (something I that acknowledge was probably more in my head than anything). Grandma (amazingly) sent all of her grandchildren birthday and Christmas cards every year, a pretty incredible feat when you consider how many of us there are (especially considering great-grandchildren). We usually only saw her at the annual holiday get-together, and my siblings and I all grew older and moved away, we started skipping those more often. I wish I had made more of an effort to get to know her and to ask about her extraordinary adventures and life experiences. There are so many things I wish I had asked her. I'm sad for the world's loss of such an amazing woman, and I'm sad that I've lost the opportunity to get to know her. That said, I am thankful for the incredible influence she has had over my family, for the wonderful man she helped to shape my father into, and for each and every one of those cousins, second cousins, aunts, and uncles, all of whom wouldn't be here without her. I am resolved to make a better effort to spend time with my family while I can; while I can't go back and get more time with Grandma, at least I can ensure that I don't feel similar regret when it comes to the rest of my family.
Grandma will continue to inspire me and to influence my future. I like to think her bravery and her spirit are alive in me (and our family). I am so proud of her life, her backbone, her character, and I'm proud we share the Cannon name. I can only hope to one day be as positive an influence on the world as she has been.
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| Grandma and Aunt Jean at Uncle Kevin's 60th birthday party (August 2012) |
Grandma Cannon was small in stature (she was only about 4'11), but what she lacked in size she made up in spirit. She was the most vivacious, determined, courageous woman I have ever met. She gave birth to, and raised, 13 children (who went on to give her 47 grandchildren and 32 great-grandchildren, and counting). Her marriage wasn't an easy one; my grandpa was an alcoholic and my understanding is he sometimes took his anger out on her (and my aunts and uncles). To help make ends meet, she worked in the cafeterias of Montgomery County Schools for over 16 years. Despite a difficult marriage, all of her thirteen children are successful, caring, passionate, and inspiring individuals with families of their own, and she deserves an enormous amount of credit for that. (I will be thrilled if I can do as well with just one child.)
I've heard stories about how tough she was (one of my cousins referred to her as our 'Iron Lady', which I found apt). None of her boys as teenagers, despite being at least a foot taller and probably at least a hundred pounds heavier, would ever have dared to talk back to her. Grandma's presence demanded respect. Additionally, she was brilliant; Grandma was one of the first women accepted into Georgetown University. (She was later expelled because she snuck out for a date. Doesn't sound at all like something I would do, does it?) She grew up all over the world (my great-grandfather was in the Marine Corps), including China and Cuba, and she even rode racehorses in Cuba as a teenager in the 1940's. She was very religious and she had a very close relationship with God (my dad was raised Irish Catholic). I've discussed my atheism numerous times on this blog, but while I don't share her religious beliefs, it makes me happy to know that Grandma's religion brought her peace, especially towards the end of her life.
I struggled for what I could say about my personal experiences with Grandma here, but the sad truth is, I didn't know her very well. Our family is so large and loving, a huge blessing to be sure, but to be honest, I felt lost among the huge number of grandchildren (something I that acknowledge was probably more in my head than anything). Grandma (amazingly) sent all of her grandchildren birthday and Christmas cards every year, a pretty incredible feat when you consider how many of us there are (especially considering great-grandchildren). We usually only saw her at the annual holiday get-together, and my siblings and I all grew older and moved away, we started skipping those more often. I wish I had made more of an effort to get to know her and to ask about her extraordinary adventures and life experiences. There are so many things I wish I had asked her. I'm sad for the world's loss of such an amazing woman, and I'm sad that I've lost the opportunity to get to know her. That said, I am thankful for the incredible influence she has had over my family, for the wonderful man she helped to shape my father into, and for each and every one of those cousins, second cousins, aunts, and uncles, all of whom wouldn't be here without her. I am resolved to make a better effort to spend time with my family while I can; while I can't go back and get more time with Grandma, at least I can ensure that I don't feel similar regret when it comes to the rest of my family.
Grandma will continue to inspire me and to influence my future. I like to think her bravery and her spirit are alive in me (and our family). I am so proud of her life, her backbone, her character, and I'm proud we share the Cannon name. I can only hope to one day be as positive an influence on the world as she has been.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
The Intersection of Feminism and Science
This quarter I'm taking (in addition to physics and biology classes) a fascinating course called Feminism and Science. If you're like me, you're probably wondering what one has to do with the other; I was, too, when I first came across the course listing in my UCSC catalog. When I first decided to go back to school, I struggled with choosing between a science major or a humanities one. So, when I saw this course, I became really excited about the possible intersection of two of my passions. I can do both!
I have not been disappointed; this class is by far one of the most fascinating and life changing courses I've taken so far. It's taught by Karen Barad, a theoretical particle physicist/queer and feminist theorist (and quite possibly my new hero). Though I've only been in the class a few weeks now, it has already had a major impact on the way I look at the world around me. What originally drew me to science was it's objectivity. Results should be reproducible no matter who is doing the experiment; there is right and wrong answer. Things are the way they are for a reason and we can come up with evidence to explain why. If we don't have the evidence to explain it, it's because we don't yet have the understanding we need (but we will someday). However, I've quickly learned that objectivity in science is a not much more than an illusion, even when it comes to the more "hard" sciences like physics and mathematics. And just like that, BOOM: the bottom of my understanding of the world dropped out from beneath me. It was frightening, to say the least, but also strangely exhilarating to stumble on a new and challenging aspect about something I thought I understood so well.
We recently read an article by the evolutionary biologist, Stephen Jay Gould, in which he critiqued Samuel George Morton's infamous ranking of races by intelligence using craniometry (measurements of the cranial cavity of the skull). Morton's papers were, needless to say, horrifying to read, and the only thing that makes his work relevant to us now is that he was so widely lauded as the objectivist of his time. Morton published all of his measurements and notebooks so that future scientists could review his work openly. Gould used Morton's own measurements to redo Morton's calculations that lead to his ranking system (Morton claimed his work showed that Caucasians were the race with the largest cranial cavities and therefore the highest intelligence and people of African descent had smallest cranial cavities and the lowest intelligence). What Gould found when recalculating the averages of Morton's measurements was pretty much what we would expect: there was actually no difference worth mentioning in the size of the cranial cavity between races. Morton made a number of elementary mathematical errors in his calculations, all of which were in favor of his personal racial biases. Gould asserts that Morton made those mistakes unconsciously; why else would he make all of his measurements public? Morton got away with his mistakes because his results were in line with the beliefs of the group in power at the time; no one ever thought to question him.
The case of Morton's numerous mathematical errors just goes to show how even the most "objective" of scientists can be influenced by bias. As a science major I can relate; I know for a fact I didn't check my chemistry or physics calculations in my labs unless they were way out of range from what I expected and they therefore seemed unreasonable. If you ignore the fact that Morton was a racist shithead, his mistakes were probably made in a similar manner to my own (he didn't double check the calculations that were in line with his own biases). Our background assumptions come with us in everything we do, even mathematics. Even what we constitute as evidence is dependent on our different world views and for that reason, two people can take the same data as evidence of two conflicting hypotheses. So is science really objective? The answer is, as much as we may not want to hear it: No, not really.
So what does this have to do with feminism? Well, a number of things. We will never be able to make science completely objective; everyone has different experiences that result in different ways of viewing and understanding the world, and that is unavoidable. Background assumptions are not bad, per se; in fact, they are necessary because they're what lead us to ask certain questions. If we have more women in science, it will diversify the way we ask questions and will go a long way towards challenging the background assumptions that tend to be more common when only one demographic controls the field. Obviously this does not only apply to women, either; the more people of different races, socioeconomic backgrounds, and genders we have in science, the more we can question each other's biases, and the closer we will come to making science truly objective.
I'm greatly oversimplifying the class here, sadly, because 1) I could write a book on what I've learned so far, and 2) I'm only a few weeks into it and stil have ways to go. Regardless, I hope this has given a general overview of why I find feminism in science so important and am so in love with the concept. In addition to discussing race and objectivism, we've also talked about relativism, gender and sexuality, the gendering of scientific language, among a whole range of other things. It's been fascinating and eye-opening, and I cannot wait to work what I learn into my career as a scientist and academic. Scientists have a unique set of social and moral responsibilities; we owe it to the world to make our work as objective is possible. I think this class is helping me to understand and accept how I can work to make science as a whole better, even while advancing my own specific field.
If only every science major were required to take this class.
I have not been disappointed; this class is by far one of the most fascinating and life changing courses I've taken so far. It's taught by Karen Barad, a theoretical particle physicist/queer and feminist theorist (and quite possibly my new hero). Though I've only been in the class a few weeks now, it has already had a major impact on the way I look at the world around me. What originally drew me to science was it's objectivity. Results should be reproducible no matter who is doing the experiment; there is right and wrong answer. Things are the way they are for a reason and we can come up with evidence to explain why. If we don't have the evidence to explain it, it's because we don't yet have the understanding we need (but we will someday). However, I've quickly learned that objectivity in science is a not much more than an illusion, even when it comes to the more "hard" sciences like physics and mathematics. And just like that, BOOM: the bottom of my understanding of the world dropped out from beneath me. It was frightening, to say the least, but also strangely exhilarating to stumble on a new and challenging aspect about something I thought I understood so well.
We recently read an article by the evolutionary biologist, Stephen Jay Gould, in which he critiqued Samuel George Morton's infamous ranking of races by intelligence using craniometry (measurements of the cranial cavity of the skull). Morton's papers were, needless to say, horrifying to read, and the only thing that makes his work relevant to us now is that he was so widely lauded as the objectivist of his time. Morton published all of his measurements and notebooks so that future scientists could review his work openly. Gould used Morton's own measurements to redo Morton's calculations that lead to his ranking system (Morton claimed his work showed that Caucasians were the race with the largest cranial cavities and therefore the highest intelligence and people of African descent had smallest cranial cavities and the lowest intelligence). What Gould found when recalculating the averages of Morton's measurements was pretty much what we would expect: there was actually no difference worth mentioning in the size of the cranial cavity between races. Morton made a number of elementary mathematical errors in his calculations, all of which were in favor of his personal racial biases. Gould asserts that Morton made those mistakes unconsciously; why else would he make all of his measurements public? Morton got away with his mistakes because his results were in line with the beliefs of the group in power at the time; no one ever thought to question him.
The case of Morton's numerous mathematical errors just goes to show how even the most "objective" of scientists can be influenced by bias. As a science major I can relate; I know for a fact I didn't check my chemistry or physics calculations in my labs unless they were way out of range from what I expected and they therefore seemed unreasonable. If you ignore the fact that Morton was a racist shithead, his mistakes were probably made in a similar manner to my own (he didn't double check the calculations that were in line with his own biases). Our background assumptions come with us in everything we do, even mathematics. Even what we constitute as evidence is dependent on our different world views and for that reason, two people can take the same data as evidence of two conflicting hypotheses. So is science really objective? The answer is, as much as we may not want to hear it: No, not really.
So what does this have to do with feminism? Well, a number of things. We will never be able to make science completely objective; everyone has different experiences that result in different ways of viewing and understanding the world, and that is unavoidable. Background assumptions are not bad, per se; in fact, they are necessary because they're what lead us to ask certain questions. If we have more women in science, it will diversify the way we ask questions and will go a long way towards challenging the background assumptions that tend to be more common when only one demographic controls the field. Obviously this does not only apply to women, either; the more people of different races, socioeconomic backgrounds, and genders we have in science, the more we can question each other's biases, and the closer we will come to making science truly objective.
I'm greatly oversimplifying the class here, sadly, because 1) I could write a book on what I've learned so far, and 2) I'm only a few weeks into it and stil have ways to go. Regardless, I hope this has given a general overview of why I find feminism in science so important and am so in love with the concept. In addition to discussing race and objectivism, we've also talked about relativism, gender and sexuality, the gendering of scientific language, among a whole range of other things. It's been fascinating and eye-opening, and I cannot wait to work what I learn into my career as a scientist and academic. Scientists have a unique set of social and moral responsibilities; we owe it to the world to make our work as objective is possible. I think this class is helping me to understand and accept how I can work to make science as a whole better, even while advancing my own specific field.
If only every science major were required to take this class.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Dad's diagnosis, part 2: Reality sets in
For a while, it was easy for me to ignore the reality of Dad's diagnosis. Even when I was home in August and accompanied him to chemo and radiation appointments, there was very little noticeable evidence of his illness. Once I returned to the west coast, it became even easier to foster that denial. I talked to my dad every day, and (aside from the occasional coughing), he sounded fine. He claimed he was feeling okay, and he wasn't losing any weight. The lack of negative reactions from the treatments lulled me into a false sense of security, and started to believe that everything would be okay.
Then, a little over a month ago, Dad started losing his hair. As a result, he decided to preemptively shave it off. My big sister, the one who practically raised me and has been the absolute rock of the family through all of this, called me crying. Dad was feeling bad about himself and told me he thought he looked ugly. My little sister shaved her head in solidarity, and my brother started disappearing more than usual. My family is clearly in pain and using their own mechanisms to cope, and I'm here, 3,000 miles away on the west coast, looking at pictures of my dad on Facebook. I feel guilty for not being there, but I also feel relieved to be spared from facing it. Then I feel guilty for feeling relieved. It's a terrible cycle that I can't seem to put an end to.
Earlier this week, Dad's coughing intensified and he started feeling sick. He had originally contributed it to his body adjusting to the end of the daily assault from radiation, but when he started coughing up blood he went and had a chest x-ray done. It turns out that he has an infection in his lungs, and the doctors are very concerned about the possibility of it advancing to pneumonia. They are treating the infection with antibiotics, and he's feeling better already, so hopefully no further treatment will be necessary, but everyone at home is keeping a close eye on him. As is typical of Dad whenever he goes to the doctors alone (which is why we usually try to get a family member to go with him), information about the implications of this infection/the possibility of pneumonia was not forthcoming. Determined to find out what an infection/pneumonia would mean for Dad, I turned to my old friend Google, and searched for information. It turns out that more cancer patients die of the complications of chemotherapy than of the cancer itself. The number one cause of those deaths? Pneumonia. While I'm trying to remain optimistic that his treatment is working, what if it didn't? Is it possible that a bad case of pneumonia could come through and wipe him out before he's even done with the chemo? What if something happens and I'm not there?
There is no more denying that my dad is sick, possibly dying. Even from far away, I can no longer ignore this. Am I still angry? Yep, but now the sadness is creeping in. Still acting like a lunatic? If my ranting and raving on Facebook is anything to go by, absofuckinglutely. I find myself getting annoyed over the stupidest shit, like college students who won't shut the fuck up in the library and the overly-cheery messaging that surrounds cancer websites. The one thing that I've been able to do to contribute is to update Dad's website, and keeping an upbeat tone on the messages I post for our family and friends (and in real life for Danny) is draining the fuck out of me. I am unable to ignore the sadness any longer, and that is so, so much worse than the anger. Anger is my only coping mechanism. What do I do when it's gone?
I'm going back to the east coast in a few weeks to visit my family for Thanksgiving. While I'm really looking forward to the visit, I'm also afraid. Being far away, while exceedingly difficult, seems much easier than being there. My dad has changed so much, and has gone through so much, in just the few short months I've been gone. If it's been this hard to accept from afar, what is it going to be like when I have to process those changes face-to-face? More importantly, how will Danny respond to Dad's changes? I've tried talking with him about it, as I want him to be prepared, but he seems to be taking a note from me and firmly sticking with denial. How can you prepare a 9-year-old for the serious illness of a loved one, and what will happen when he can't deny what's happening anymore, either? I have no idea how to minimize the pain Danny will feel, and that breaks my heart all over again.
I know we're not the first family in the world to go through this, and sadly, we won't be the last. It seems that most families somehow find a way to cope with the havoc cancer has wreaks on their lives, and I know we will, too. Blogging about it seems to be a good release, since vocalizing my feelings is tough for me (and always has been). While I've decided to give up on the denial, I'm not quite ready to start the process of accepting. I will get there, eventually. Just not today.
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| My little sister and Dad sporting their shaved heads |
Earlier this week, Dad's coughing intensified and he started feeling sick. He had originally contributed it to his body adjusting to the end of the daily assault from radiation, but when he started coughing up blood he went and had a chest x-ray done. It turns out that he has an infection in his lungs, and the doctors are very concerned about the possibility of it advancing to pneumonia. They are treating the infection with antibiotics, and he's feeling better already, so hopefully no further treatment will be necessary, but everyone at home is keeping a close eye on him. As is typical of Dad whenever he goes to the doctors alone (which is why we usually try to get a family member to go with him), information about the implications of this infection/the possibility of pneumonia was not forthcoming. Determined to find out what an infection/pneumonia would mean for Dad, I turned to my old friend Google, and searched for information. It turns out that more cancer patients die of the complications of chemotherapy than of the cancer itself. The number one cause of those deaths? Pneumonia. While I'm trying to remain optimistic that his treatment is working, what if it didn't? Is it possible that a bad case of pneumonia could come through and wipe him out before he's even done with the chemo? What if something happens and I'm not there?
There is no more denying that my dad is sick, possibly dying. Even from far away, I can no longer ignore this. Am I still angry? Yep, but now the sadness is creeping in. Still acting like a lunatic? If my ranting and raving on Facebook is anything to go by, absofuckinglutely. I find myself getting annoyed over the stupidest shit, like college students who won't shut the fuck up in the library and the overly-cheery messaging that surrounds cancer websites. The one thing that I've been able to do to contribute is to update Dad's website, and keeping an upbeat tone on the messages I post for our family and friends (and in real life for Danny) is draining the fuck out of me. I am unable to ignore the sadness any longer, and that is so, so much worse than the anger. Anger is my only coping mechanism. What do I do when it's gone?
 |
| Dad getting some poodle love |
I'm going back to the east coast in a few weeks to visit my family for Thanksgiving. While I'm really looking forward to the visit, I'm also afraid. Being far away, while exceedingly difficult, seems much easier than being there. My dad has changed so much, and has gone through so much, in just the few short months I've been gone. If it's been this hard to accept from afar, what is it going to be like when I have to process those changes face-to-face? More importantly, how will Danny respond to Dad's changes? I've tried talking with him about it, as I want him to be prepared, but he seems to be taking a note from me and firmly sticking with denial. How can you prepare a 9-year-old for the serious illness of a loved one, and what will happen when he can't deny what's happening anymore, either? I have no idea how to minimize the pain Danny will feel, and that breaks my heart all over again.
I know we're not the first family in the world to go through this, and sadly, we won't be the last. It seems that most families somehow find a way to cope with the havoc cancer has wreaks on their lives, and I know we will, too. Blogging about it seems to be a good release, since vocalizing my feelings is tough for me (and always has been). While I've decided to give up on the denial, I'm not quite ready to start the process of accepting. I will get there, eventually. Just not today.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
The day I spent 10 minutes on Google to disrepute Stephen Joseph of the 'Save the Plastic Bag Coalition'
This blog post was written for the fabulous nonprofit Save Our Shores, where I interned last summer. It was originally posted here. Check it out!
The other day I was doing what I typically do on any weeknight: being productive (and by “productive,” I mean avoiding being productive by aimlessly perusing the internet). Anyone who has spent more than five minutes online knows there is no shortage of things that will motivate you to spontaneously bang your head against the wall.
This video, unfortunately, is no exception, and should come with a warning label.
San Francisco attorney Stephen Joseph is leading a lawsuit on behalf of a coalition of plastic bag manufacturers against the cities of San Francisco, San Luis Obispo, Carpenteria, and Marin County in an attempt to repeal their plastic bag bans. I think he’s right up there with evil attorney John Milton from the Devil’s Advocate. I mean, check out some of the things he says (cited below), all of which are easily refutable. They’re so obviously (almost laughably) wrong, it’s hard to even take them seriously.
Unfortunately, while he actually hasn’t won any lawsuits to block plastic bag bans, the threat of the money it takes for a municipality to go through a lengthy court battle has scared some cities away from enacting bans of their own (or, as in Santa Cruz, has caused them to water the bans down by taking certain provisions out). These lawsuits are a waste of tens of thousands of Taxpayer’s dollars, and by preventing more cities from enacting bans and watering down existing bans, they are actively contributing to the degradation of the environment in those cities. I only have one nice thing to say about Mr. Joseph: dude deserves an Oscar for his acting skills. There’s no way anyone who actually passed the Bar Exam could believe the crap that he’s spewing.
Please, allow me to demonstrate:
1. He says there is no evidence that plastic bags harm wildlife. I quote, “How come after having plastic bags in circulation since the 1970’s, we have 4, 5 or 6 photographs at most worldwide” (emphasis mine). I’ve taken more photos of plastic bags harming wildlife than that personally, in less than a year. If Mr. Joseph could be bothered to pull his head out of the sand and spend five minutes or so online, he’d find ample evidence to disprove his claim. If you do a quick Google image search for “Plastic Bags Harm Wildlife”, there are about 126,000 results. Mr. Joseph, hasn’t anyone told you that a good attorney does research? If you’re going to make stuff up, you should at least make it plausible. I’m almost embarrassed for you. Almost.
2. He claims the “Great Pacific Garbage Patch” is a hoax. Ironically, in the news clip, Mr. Joseph challenges believers to do the exact thing he failed to do about his last claim: spend five minutes online searching for a picture. Everyone knows the Great Pacific Garbage Patch isn’t actually a solid mass of trash the size of Texas (no one ever claimed that it was); we’re not in Waterworld (although if folks like Mr. Joseph have their way, we’ll get there). When I was interning at SOS, I did presentations for elementary school children who had a better understanding of the gyres than this guy. I will explain this in terms that even someone so purposely dense should be able to understand: In every ocean, there is at least one huge circular ocean current (the Pacific and Atlantic both have two). These are called gyres. These circular currents force trash to accumulate in their centers. The Great Pacific Garbage Patch refers to the trash that has built up in the center of the North Pacific Gyre. (For the record, trash accumulates in all the gyres, not just that one.) You can’t see the garbage in satellite images because it’s primarily made up of suspended particulates (little grains of plastic) that float in the upper water column. It’s not like you can just go out there and walk across the Great Pacific Garbage Patch – Although, maybe Mr. Joseph should try it. However, just because you can’t see it from space doesn’t mean it’s not there. You also can’t see the crushing amount of student loan debt I’m in, but trust me, it exists. That said, you actually can see the Great Pacific Garbage Patch… just not from space. I just spent another few seconds typing in “Great Pacific Garbage Patch” into Google Images, and I got 262,000 results. That’s a heck of a lot for something that doesn’t exist. As an added bonus, there are even MORE pictures of wildlife being harmed by plastic mixed in there. That should make Mr. Joseph happy. There are even videos of people sailing through the garbage patch on YouTube. Mr. Joseph, before you challenge people to do something that you think will prove your case, you might want to make sure it actually doesn’t disprove it. Whoops, indeed.
3. He seems to think that President Obama being given a plastic bag at a dim sum restaurant in San Francisco means something. “When President Obama came to San Francisco, he was given plastic bags for his dim sum. Why? Because that stuff’s hot.” Um, what? You can put hot stuff in paper bags, too. Or is he trying to say that plastic bags are hot, as in cool? This guy wouldn’t know cool if it punched him in the face. I don’t get it.
4. He sued San Francisco for its litter problem in the year 2000, saying: “I find it fascinating when people walk down the street and they see a plastic bag. They don’t notice the 100’s of cigarette butts, the cans, the bottles, the paper bags.” Obviously, there’s actually a pretty good explanation for the focus on plastic bags. As someone who sued the city for their trash problem, I have no doubt Mr. Joseph more informed than he lets on (he knows better). While cigarette butts are an ugly (and gross) problem, they take up to 7 years maximum to degrade. Paper bags take up to two weeks. Bottles and cans are recyclable, and because you can turn them in for cash, there are way less of them on the ground than plastic bags. Plus, they’re heavy; cans and bottles don’t just blow away like plastic bags do. (They’re like the balloons of the underworld.) Now, plastic bags, unlike cans and bottles, are a hassle to recycle. You can’t just stick them in your recycling bin with your cans and bottles; depending on the rules of where you live, you have to bundle them a very specific way, and then take them to the recycling center yourself in bulk, or return them to your local supermarket. You can’t often reuse them for anything other than picking up after your dog because the manufacturers have made them so cheaply (probably in an effort to save cash so they can pay their expensive lawyers) that the bags rip really easily. Now, when your crappy plastic bag inevitably blows away accidentally, guess how long it takes to decompose? The answer is we don’t know, because the first bags that were put into circulation in the 1970’s are still here. It’s been estimated it will take up to 1,000 years. More conservative estimates say it will take up to 500 years. For each bag. Yet, here we are, still making them, with people like Mr. Joseph fighting to keep them in circulation.
Says Stephen Joseph, “We are about getting the truth out and making sure that any ban of plastic bags is based on facts.”
It appears that Mr. Joseph just got truth-bombed. How do you like them apples?
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