South African Articles Are Now Available Online

You've already read them, of course, but I'm so excited to see that the Cape Chameleon is up and running online. Straight from the internets, here are my old articles in all their glory:

Our Contributors

Katherine Barry, USA

Issue	Articles
5	Houses of Sand
7	White Wine

Katherine Barry, from Denver, Colorado, USA, is a recent graduate of Loyola University Chicago with a degree in Communication Studies. She enjoys excellent adventures, particularly road trips, and hopes that she will one day find a job that will her allow her the luxury of world travel.

Houses of Sand

THE FUTURE OF ECO-BUILDING

Issue No.52010

Words : Katherine Barry

A pile of charred wood is all that’s left of the shacks. The sand where they sat is littered with burned belongings: a blackened Bible, an office chair, clothes no longer usable. The metal sheets that had once been walls have been salvaged, taken for use in new shacks, the obviously burnt edges blending in amongst the rust.

The first fire broke out three weeks before in the same shack that would be the ignition point of the second fire, which would tear through the informal settlement of Village Heights in Cape Town, depriving 15 families of their homes.

Fires in informal settlements – like Village Heights – represent one of the biggest dangers of living in such a community. Even with attempts to build with space on all sides, fires such as the one that destroyed those 15 shacks can spread quickly since the materials used to construct the homes are highly flammable and unregulated.

‘It was better under apartheid,’ says Bernadine, the community leader who has created and maintained the Village Heights library, and who is the recipient of the first Projects Abroad sandbag house in South Africa. ‘At least then we all had our own homes and jobs. Now we have nothing.’

Government response

According to residents, after the first fire the government offered four wooden posts, five pieces of metal and some grounding plastic as a replacement. However, the metal went to the construction of a roof and the residents were left to use plastic to create walls. During the second fire, a woman was badly burned when the plastic melted onto her skin.

Proper housing is something that many people living in South Africa lack, for a multitude of reasons, including long waiting times after application for government housing. ‘I’ve been on a waiting list for twenty one years,’ says one woman who lost her home in the fire. ‘My daughter is 20 now.’ She went on to detail her experience, saying that she makes regular visits to go check on the status of her application, only to be told that she is indeed still on the list, but that no further information can be released about the status of the application.

While debates rage about governmental involvement and personal contribution for houses, the issue remains that people lack proper living quarters. Residents of the informal settlements around Cape Town and throughout South Africa are forced to create homes using materials that they can find, salvage, or buy, resulting in homes that often lack even basic features such as a floor. Security measures are an afterthought as well, allowing for criminal activity to flourish in the crowded neighbourhoods. Where to go from here?

Sand is nearly ubiquitous in Cape Town and the surrounding areas. It also might present a feasible solution to the problem of the shack homes in the ever-expanding informal settlements. Filling bags with sand and then stacking them within a frame can create a solid structure that is built both efficiently and quickly.

Beginning with materials, construction with sandbags can be a cheap alternative to traditional building methods. Since all that is needed to build a sandbag structure are bags, sand, cement and wooden and metal framing, the cost drops significantly due to the lack of construction equipment needed. No cranes, no stacks of bricks and no heavy vehicles entering or leaving the construction site.

20% of the materials need to be allocated for the construction of the frame of the sandbag building, but there is a certain amount of flexibility as to what those might be – including the use of wood or tin. Bricks can be used as well, but in order to maintain the eco-friendly atmosphere, they should only be implemented if they are within reach to avoid the entrance of trucks and other machinery in to the site.

Benefits of sand building

This cost effective creation is incredibly ecofriendly. Since most of the building can be done with materials found on-site, the need for waste is nearly eliminated. This waste elimination plays a large factor in the ecofriendly nature of the sandbag buildings.

Builders who choose to use sandbag building as an alternative to conventional construction methods also stand to gain carbon credits for their choices. Carbon credit programmes offer financial incentives for companies to build in keeping with the ‘green’ trends and for waste elimination and recycling of materials.

This waste elimination and recycling process, presents an opportunity for those who are economically disadvantaged. By being able to build effectively and also save money, they can increase community bonds and safety.

Structural soundness

Besides being fireproof, the sand structures also present an element of soundproofing not found in the corrugated iron structures, which currently make up most of the homes in the townships and informal settlements in the Cape Town area.

They are also not easy to deconstruct or demolish, in essence creating a lasting home that won’t be victim to natural disasters such as flooding or tornadoes. The solidity of the sand as it is packed and stacked neatly to create walls allows for an element of indoor climate control that supersedes that provided by the corrugated structures as well. The sand essentially insulates the home, keeping it warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer.

Spreading the word

The surmountable caveat to sand building is that it is not well known as a possible method for creating homes. The newly homeless fire victims had never heard of sandbag building when asked about it, yet were curious as to how it might work. They eagerly agreed that the community would want to be involved in such a building plan, given the right materials.

Based on the readily available materials and the community mentality that many of the neighbourhoods have, it seems that if sandbag structures could catch on, they might make a wonderful improvement for communities who are underfunded and under protected.

Projects Abroad began constructing their first sandbag house at the site of the Village Heights Library in August of 2010. While normally the construction of such a building (one room) would take less than a month, due to staggered volunteer arrivals, the project has continued for more than three months. Nevertheless, the house is beginning to take shape.

Bernadine hopes to show off the building project as a model of sustainable building. As of the beginning of December, the structure was complete and the roof had been added and finalisation of the exterior decoration was beginning. The hope is that the building will remain a long-standing testament to the possibility of creation from local materials and community involvement.

The project supervisor – Deen Singh – remains optimistic that the sandbag building will be used for the betterment of the community. He explained that everything must be done to help the children. The building has been designated for use in a crèche, or a childcare centre, one that will hopefully create a safe haven for children from all over Village Heights. Currently there are five volunteers working on the building. Rick, a German volunteer, feels that the building he is helping to construct will last, showing immediate change in the place that he came to volunteer. ‘It’s nice to leave something behind,’ he said.

Perhaps this sandbag building can be a model of change for a community that is desperate for change, but lacking the resources with which to create it.

White Wine

A LOOK AT SOUTH AFRICA’S WINE INDUSTRY

Issue No.72011

Words :Katherine Barry

The clink of glasses and the soft murmur of conversation fill the air with the sounds of a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Searching for looming mountains, lush vineyards, and quiet roads, families and groups of friends flock to the wine lands in the Western Cape for vacations, day trips and evening meals to sample wine and pass time under the South African sun.

Behind the idyllic fields that birthed the South African wine industry, lie the lingering oppression of apartheid and the pain of extreme poverty. South Africa, which wasn’t known for being a world exporter of wine until post 1994, when apartheid induced international boycott ended, had eighth largest wine producer as of 2005, according to a report published by the South African Wine Industry Council in 2007.

Industry history

South Africa entered the wine industry long before 1994, however Jan van Riebeeck planted the first vines in South Africa in 1655 and the first wines produced from those grapes appeared four years later. After initially planting vines in what is now Wynberg, the wine industry began to flourish in Constantia.

It was soon after the French Huguenots settled in the Cape area during the late seventeenth century; the wine trade began to flourish. Exports from Constantia became well known in Europe, creating the market for South African wine. However, Phylloxera, a disease that kills grape vines, was discovered in 1886 and caused much of the vineyards to suffer heavy losses.

The twentieth century was one of the most important centuries for South African wine. In 1925, Stellenbosch University Professor Perold was able to blend Pinot Noir with Hermitage grapes to create the Pinotage. The Pinotage wasn’t marketed until the late 1950s, but has since become South Africa’s most famous and successful cross-pollination.

Economic impact

As of 2008, the wine industry grossed 2.2% of the country’s GDP, which was about R26.2 billion. The latest numbers, coming from the wine industry, show an increase in production, up R4 billion from five years earlier. The industry also provides 275,600 job opportunities as well, according to South Africa information (www.southafrica.info). Wine tourism draws a steady stream of people to the winelands in the Western Cape. Stellenbosch and Paarl are among the most popular destinations.

Economic problems

The problems plaguing the heavily white wine industry are most certainly correlated to other social problems in post-apartheid South Africa, and while they do not necessarily have their origins within the industry itself, it is apparent that the industry is feeling problematic reverberations throughout its entire structure.

The antiquated ‘dop’ (meaning ‘drop of alcohol’ in Afrikaans) system, under which black and coloured workers were paid in alcohol, usually wine, rather than cash or other goods, led to high rates of alcoholism among the workers, whose consumption of the wine left them tethered to the farm that they worked on in order to maintain a continuous flow of alcohol from the farm owners, who were (and still are) overwhelmingly white. Even though the ‘dop’ system has been abolished, and reforms are in place to ensure that the workers are compensated legitimately, alcoholism remains one of the main social problems emanating from the Western Cape wine industry.

Alcohol-related problems

Shebeens, or other illegal liquor establishments, are often hotbeds of alcohol-related activity. The farm workers, who often lack other means of entertainment and suffer from geographically induced social isolation and lack the money as well as other resources needed to overcome these obstacles, have easy access to the Shebeens.

Since these Shebeens often act as community centres, the presence of children is common. Some mothers even put wine into their babies’ bottles in order to keep them quiet, according to Professor Dennis Viljoen as quoted in an article written for VOAnews.com (Voice of America) by Darren Taylor.

Another of the far-reaching social problems stemming from the South African vineyards is Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (FAS). FAS and other alcoholrelated developmental problems occur when the mother ingests large quantities of alcohol during pregnancy and is the most preventable cause of mental retardation. Many mothers continue to drink throughout their pregnancies, due to a lack of education about the ill-effects of drinking during pregnancy as well as disregard for that information.

Estimates of FAS in South Africa, average around 45 cases per 1000 (suggests Jake McKinstry in the American Journal of Public Health, 2005). Compared to rates of one case per 750 infants born in the United States, (according towww.kidshealth.org) the rate of the South African FAS is staggering. The country has one of the highest FAS rates in the world. Children who suffer from FAS often suffer from symptoms such as: a low birth weight, developmental delay, learning disabilities, behavioural problems and poor social skills.

All of these symptoms could be easily avoided if mothers would abstain from alcohol while pregnant, making FAS the most preventable cause of developmental problems. In South Africa, awareness of FAS is limited, but attempts to spread information have begun. International Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) Day in on 9 September. Despite the fact that attempts are being made to quell the rise of FAS in South Africa, it cannot be achieved without support from the systems that have contributed to the spread of the problem.

Economic diversity

Alcoholism is not the only problem plaguing the South African wine industry. The lack of diversity may seem inconsequential, but in order to maintain growth rates that mirror those of the population of the country, it is imperative that more black wine farms be created. A black economic empowerment (BEE) charter drafted in 2007 attempted to address the economic disparity and to create a more diverse industry has failed to move through governmental channels. However, there has been promising, albeit slow, growth within the industry. According to the Wine Industry Development Association (WIDA) 38% of ‘wine operations’ have programmes in place for black empowerment. Another positive indicator of progress is Thandi, now an independent company that was started under Paul Cluver Vineyards. Thandi began to show profit and has also been able to pay dividends to its shareholders. However, it appears that Thandi might be an outlier rather than part of a growing trend. BEE research shows that only 2.26% of vineyards are operated under black ownership. Growth and change may be coming to the South African wine industry, but it’s coming slowly.

Putting it all together

The South African wine industry mirrors the rest of the country quite clearly in racial breakdowns and social problems, but it also mirrors the positive impact that time seems to be having on those same issues. Racial integration has been slow coming to South Africa, particularly the Western Cape, but it seems as though the tides are slowly changing as the workforce becomes a more integrated, educated place. The determination of industries to diversify has only added to the sense of hope being fostered among communities of all race, socio-economic, age and demographics.

On Stealing Children and Chain Emails

Preface: I have nearly 100 posts that I've started and then abandoned. Most of them are blank. Some of them are legitimately ready to post, but for some reason or another, I never did it. This is one of those posts. It's originally from October 2011.



When I was little, we had a big discussion about "safe words." (January 2012 edit: "Safe words" was entirely the wrong phrase to use there, but I keep giggling every time I read it, so I'm keeping it. Jacob would have given me a point for this one. Safe words are actually words or phrases that are used to protect participants during crazy yet consensual sex, so they can just yell "pineapple!" or something equally weird and everything will stop. "Passwords" is probably a much better word choice.) It probably stemmed from a Dateline episode we had watched, but we created a password so that if someone came to steal us from school, they wouldn't be able to do it unless they knew the password.

One day, Mom ended up in the hospital or something, and no one could get us from school. This lady showed up to pick us up and since I didn't know who she was, I refused to go with her and I wouldn't let Mike go either. As it turns out, she was totally legitimate and our parents had completely forgotten about the password. She was my mom's cousin, or something. She turned out to be very nice. I remember feeling very flustered as I eventually got in her car, still mostly convinced I was being kidnapped by a stranger driving a Saturn.


A Mom’s Real-Life Guide To Health And Safety

OCT. 4, 2011


By GABY DUNN


An E-Mail Forward Will Save Your Life

My mom is a fan of sending along e-mail forwards with dubious cautionary advice that Snopes — and anyone with more than one functioning brain cell — has already debunked. For instance: Did you know if you put your ATM password in backwards it alerts the police that you’re being robbed? Did you know that sugar causes cancer? Did you know that dialing *677 tells you if the unmarked police car trying to pull you over is actually a rapist?

You didn’t? That’s because none of these are true. But they have been forwarded to me by my mother as if they contain life-saving advice.

Other scary emails instructed me to never get out of my car to get a paper from the windshield because a car-jacker is waiting to get inside and that hotel room keys can steal your credit card information. Also, this isn’t advice but did you know George W. Bush makes the same face as a monkey sometimes? That was from a chain letter, too.

PLEASE PASS THIS ON TO SOMEONE YOU LOVE.
All Serial Killers are Pizza Delivery Men or Ice Cream Truck Drivers

When I was in second grade, an ice cream truck started a new route down my street. Every day, I would hear the jovial music begin as every kid would stream out and line up to purchase ice cream. Every kid except me. My mom was convinced that “ice cream truck driver” was the perfect undercover job for a pedophile kidnapper.

Her other reasoning? Quote: “Gabrielle, you were just a little kid. How were you gonna know the difference between a regular ice cream truck and a pedophile in his car offering you ice cream?”

That’s right, guys. My mom thought I wouldn’t notice that one was a big, white musical ice cream truck and one was a guy holding a popsicle next to a grungy El Camino.

Similarly, I was never allowed to open the door for a pizza delivery man. Instead, I had to slip the money through the mail slot and tell him to leave the pizza on the welcome mat. Then, my mom told me to watch through the front window to make sure the delivery van pulled away before I opened the door to retrieve the pizza. I did this well into my teens. It was like a reverseSilence of the Lambs every time we got Papa Johns.
Never Trust a Boy with Dirty Fingernails

This is the one piece of dating advice I can remember my mom giving me. Her logic was that a boy who couldn’t be bothered to clean his fingernails, didn’t care about the details and would therefore make a terrible boyfriend.

If he shows the initiative to clean his fingernails then this boy is probably ambitious, hard-working and conscientious. He has goals, he cares about how he presents himself and he probably calls his mother once in a while.

That’s some flawed logic, Mom. You know who else probably cleaned his fingernails compulsively? Patrick Bateman. Sure, he had ambition. But it was murder ambition.
No Wire Hangers

In no way is my mom comparable to Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest but they did share one non-negotiable tip: No wire hangers.

“They’ll put ridges in your clothes,” she says. Right. On the shoulders. Shoulders are the body’s natural ridges. Last I checked, clothes change shape when you put a person in them.

Never Keep Your Money in Your Backpack or Purse

This is because a pick pocket could easily steal money from your backpack or your purse without your feeling it. You know, if you had the nerve endings of a frozen pizza and the thief had the stealth of Fagin or Aladdin.

According to my mom, it’s much safer to keep your money in your front pocket, a fanny pack or better yet, in a pouch inside your underwear. Yes, she actually suggested an underwear pouch.

Doing any of those things will surely prevent anyone from ever reaching into your underwear ever again.

Don’t Go to Sleep with a Wet Head

“It’s the quickest way to catch the flu and die,” she says, despite raising her kids in the humidity cloud that is South Florida. That’s some 18th century medical advice. If I did get the flu from wet hair, would we cure it with leeches?

A Piece of Paper in Your Shoe is Good Luck

Any time I had an exam at school, my mom would tell me to put a small piece of paper in my shoe. The superstition is that the piece of paper would help me remember what I’d studied.

There’s no secret Mom logic behind this one. It’s a trick my grandmother believed in and passed on to my mom, who passed it on to me. Somewhere along the way, I think they lost a step: maybe the step where I write the answers to the test on the paper first.

In Case of the Apocalypse, Rent a Helicopter

This is by far the most outlandish bit of safety advice my mother ever gave me. About a year ago, she called me and my sister to tell us she wanted to book us plane tickets home for December 21, 2012 because she’d heard on TV that this was the date of the end of the world. She wanted us both, and I quote, “home for the apocalypse.”

The plan she’d devised was to rent a helicopter way in advance and fly around until the flood waters have subsided. Then, we’d float inside the helicopter until we found land or other refugees. I am not sure why she was convinced a helicopter would float. Until we were rescued, my whole family would just stick together in the cramped space.

I told her I’d rather just go out with the fiery asteroids. Thanks.

If You Get Kidnapped, Kick Out a Tail Light

When I was in elementary school, we lived in the same city where Adam Walsh, six-year-old son of America’s Most Wanted host John Walsh, was kidnapped from a local mall. After that, my mom was convinced every stranger we saw was planning on walking off with me the minute she turned her head.

When I was three, she taught me how to sing my full name, address and telephone number so that I could tell the police where I lived. (I still remember the made-up song.) She brought me down to the police station to give them fingerprints and a cheek swab, just in case, and we made a home video of me stating my height and age in case one needed to be given to local TV stations. Even though, according to her logic, I wouldn’t know the difference between a police officer and a guy in a sailor hat holding a popsicle.

Then, when I was about seven, my mom put me in the open trunk of my dad’s car and taught me where to kick so the tail light would burst if I were ever abducted. Then, I could stick my hand through the hole and wave to passing cars to alert them that a kidnapped child was inside.

She’d heard about the technique in an e-mail forward.

source: ThoughtCatalog.com

On Death, Eventually

I fear greatly the answers to the questions surrounding death. It pains me to think too much about any of it. Rather than the belief in something after, I believe solely in attempting to make the best of these precious earth-bound moments. And yet, usually catching me entirely unaware, the thoughts creep back into my brain. What lies after? How can we succinctly tie our own spiritualities with the scientific, with the known, with the cold reality of it all?

I remember the immensity that was the moment - that singular moment - when we put down our beloved golden retriever. His head coming to rest for the last time on my shoe. My jerky response as I stood, smashing into the paper towel dispenser. The nurse (nurse? vet tech? lady in scrubs?) attempting to comfort me and me pushing her away because the tears were coming too fast and I couldn't wait to break away and be alone, where no one would see me crying. I realize that this is in no way comparable to the deaths of those humans we come to love so much, but then again, I think perhaps that even those mammalian deaths hold the keys to true humanity. The singularity that ties us all together: love.

No matter how it happens, death holds some sort of quiet whisper, a moment in which time stops rushing and instead, lingers for the exhale. It's not something that will ever leave you. (I do not speak as one wizened by so many experiences, thankfully, although the few that I have had with death have been personally profound.)

I was reading in the bathtub (now that I'm taking baths again, my reading material has multiplied immensely) and I found myself falling in love with the protagonist of the book I'd just started - it's been languishing in one of my book suitcases (yes, I have those) for ages and I've just now gotten around to picking it up. She embodies, for the moment, everything I find wonderful: strength, intelligence, determination, the juxtaposition of masculine and feminine, beauty, courage. And yet, I found myself terrified that she'd die before the end of the book. In that moment, I was certain of her death. I flipped to the last page (a terrible habit, but one I take great comfort in - I even do it with romance novels, and you know from the third page how those are going to end) and sure enough, she dies. It's a beautiful death, really, her soul personified by birds. But now I'm happier to read about her life. I can take comfort in the fact that I already know how she dies, yet I've not at all ruined the book for myself.

This is the point of all of this, I guess: even though you can not know the exactness of your own death, you know that at a certain point, it must come. I look at those yellow feline eyes that I love so much and realize that I can't keep them forever. I push away the melancholy thoughts, realizing that loving him now is so much better than focusing on the pain I'll feel when he's gone. I circle back, from time to time, working myself up thinking about the emptiness that the deaths of those I love will leave. I think it stems from the knowledge that one day, I will be without my mother. In my attempts to soothe myself, I have begun to steel myself against the void I know will exist. Void is inadequate. It will be like a roaring vacuum. It will pull at the edges of my soul.

But it is natural. (I remember this book they got us to teach us about death. I'll never forget how incredibly mystified I was when I read it. I hated the book and yet something drew me to it. It calmly taught children that everything must die, and yet it horrified me. I hated connecting dead leaves to people. Something resonated somewhere deep inside of me. I often think of that book and wonder what it would be like to read it again now. I wonder if it's in a box somewhere in a basement.)

Death and taxes, they say. But they're not wrong. To know the eventuality of it before it happens is to hope that one will be able to fully embrace everything that is life knowing the finality of it all. The chance to struggle and create, to learn and understand, to think, to feel, to be, to love passionately and freely is a gift. Those moments are the footprints we leave behind. To love deeply and live fully are my only goals. If at my funeral, people don't laugh and tell horrifyingly embarrassing yet endearing stories, I will be incredibly bummed.  Life is a wild adventure. It's beautiful and bittersweet.

Either way, it is certain. It's comforting, in a way, to know that everyone has to do it. Someone's doing it right now. Someone did it yesterday and someone will do it tomorrow. We are all born and we will all die, but what we do in between belongs solely to us. That's the best part.

Mom, Don't Read This, You'll Gag.

I sincerely hope that parenthood is as satisfying as pet ownership.

Everyone I know makes fun of me for loving Carlos so much. I understand. Cats are weird. Black cats are weirder. People who own cats are obviously incapable of any sort of normal social interaction. We spend all day locked in our houses, knitting or just rocking back in forth in creaking rocking chairs tapping our nails, occasionally reaching for the remote because the Price is Right has ended but Judge Judy has not yet begun and we need to watch some Cops to fill the time.

Okay, so it's not quite like that.

After Africa, Carlos didn't speak to me for the better part of a month. I am still not sure if he didn't remember me or if he was that mad at me. Even now, whenever I pack a bag or something, he wants to get in and inspect it. He'll crawl right into my backpack or jump into a suitcase, determined not to be left behind.

So after being gone for six days, I was worried I'd be hearing some complaints from him, or at the very least, the silent treatment. (Mike sent me a picture of him and the cat snuggling. I was worried that the cat had switched sides - Carlos usually avoids Mike, even though Mike wants to be friends with him. This is tentative proof of Carlos' food-for-love program in which he switches allegiances strategically depending on who's in charge of feeding him.)

I got home. I was checking email and Carlos came over to sit on me, so I moved the laptop off my stomach and let him knead himself into a ball. His soft cat sigh as he fell asleep on me was all the assurance I needed. Last night, I could tell he was feeling particularly possessive: I woke up several times during the night to find him curled on my stomach, on my back, across my feet.

There's something oddly wonderful about this sort of love. Of course he's stressful. Cat AIDS is a running joke now, but I'm sure that when he gets sick at some point, I'll be a giant ball of stress and worry. Of course people think I'm an idiot for owning a cat. (I will argue that this cat has all the perks of a dog - minus the walking and fetching bit - without the 8 hour time limit. I can leave Carlos alone for a day or so and he'll manage by himself just fine. I don't have to worry about being home to feed and walk him at 6pm sharp. I don't have to worry that he'll make a mess in my living room if I'm not home to let him out. I consider that winning.) But it feels good knowing I have something that really loves me waiting for me when I get home.

On the un-Resolution

I'm not a great maker of resolutions, particularly those that feel pressured in by the new year. Why make some sort of promise to yourself that is going to fall apart before the end of winter?

But this year, I would very much like to fall in love with reading again. Somewhere along the way (ahem, college) I stopped reading for pleasure - unless you count cheap romance novels procured at the used book store. But those don't count. Those are bathtub books, downed in an afternoon. 

I want to love stories the way I used to. 

So there you have it. 

An un-resolution for a new year. 

The ski trip is about to commence.

Stress is high.
Work today.
Appointment tonight.
I will somehow manage to find time to shower, pack, and clean before I leave for the airport.
I'll pick up Kevin.

Tomorrow, we will pile into the car and drive up.
Snowboard. Hot tub. Sleep. Repeat. x 5.

See you Tuesday!

Also, Happy Birthday Mom! I love you. I can't believe you're turning [  ]  this year!!

On Accomplishments, Mostly

It's the 149th post for the year!

Why does that matter?
That means that 2011 was officially the most-blogged about year.
This post beats the previous record of 148. Take that, 2010!

Thank for for reading!

(Arguably this post does not actually have any valuable content and therefore, doesn't really count. But whatever. I do what I want.)

I'd also like to remind that you if you have Death Pool 2012 submissions, please send them to me before the end of the year!

Remember, you only get 10 - they have to be notable people, but can be sports players, politicians, celebrities, etc.

Aunt Jan, I'm looking forward to your submissions!

On Christmas Pictures

I have always loved this chandelier. 

Maddie made me a romance novel Christmas ornament. I love it! One of the best gifts I've ever received. 

My favorite wrapping paper. 

View from my snow-covered street. 

Cate loved playing with Mike. 

Mike and Jan - that's teamwork!

On Christmas

This Christmas business is quite hectic.
All of this running around leaves little room for blogging.

The holiday itself is such a horrid excuse for a day of celebration that I rarely have high hopes for it. However, it passed with great incident - one meltdown on my part that Grandma Mary managed to contain by giving me a prolonged hug.

Alas, Christmas Eve was wonderful. We lingered at the dinner table and listened to stories about the past and the people who inhabit those memories. It was lovely to listen to stories of love and war, loss and hardship, magic and romance. I am reminded, again, how truly lucky I am to be a part of such a wonderful family.

Christmas Day was.

I got to see all of the cousins, which was so wonderful. They wrapped us up in hugs. Two cousins near our ages are in from California, and it was so nice to sit and talk and catch up with them.

Hectic day.

I was glad to get home and find the cat and fall asleep.

On my Hair. A photo essay, sort of.

My hair has been a constant source of dismay for me.

I believe it started somewhere around birth. I was quite bald. Even as a toddler, people would say, "My, what a cute boy you have!" (Sort of like the Red Riding Hood - Big Bad Wolf exchange: "My, what big teeth you have." "All the better to eat you with, my dear." Except not exactly like that.) And finally, after a few years of this gender confusion, I grew hair, cementing my place as a female member of society. 

Did my parents ever worry about alopecia? Maybe not, as I'm sure they don't subscribe to my worst-case-scenario-projecting-is-the-only-way-to-look-at-life philosophy. (For the record, I don't worry about alopecia. Not yet, at least. And by the time I start to worry, there will be science-miracle cures that I can buy on TV for easy payments of $19.99. Done! Alopecia problem solved! Thanks future hair plugs/miracle creams/sweet interchangeable wigs.) 

(trade this dress for a tux, and you've got an adorable future George Clooney)

After hair comes bangs. 

My mom knew I was going to cut my hair soon. I'd been cutting grass, the dog's hair, paper. So one day, I came flouncing down the stairs with crooked bangs. They were completely diagonal. I'd cut them with safety scissors and then left the hair behind a chair upstairs, as though no one would ever find it. There was no fixing it, so they just had to grow out. 

Any mother's worst fear is the years and years it's going to take to grow our a small child's bangs. It took years. It was a source of stress. When I was in first grade, my mom told me that I wasn't allowed to have bangs again until I was 18. 

So I didn't.


When I was little, my mom would try to put my hair in a ponytail. I was never happy. There were always bump when she'd try to pull it up. I'd reach back and feel it and tell her that there was a bump and so I'd make her redo it. To this day, I still redo my hair when I'm worried that there's a bump. She'd get exasperated. "There's no bump!" (Just to be 100% clear, there were bumps. I am not wrong.)
A few months ago, she was walking past a mother doing her daughter's hair. She said that she was tempted to walk up to the daughter and whisper, "There's a bump!"


I went through my ugly duckling phase (era, actually - it was like a decade from awkward hell) with no discernible hair style. I really didn't do anything to it - I don't even think I had approached a hair dryer at this point. It just lived in a ponytail at the base of my neck. Every day. All day.

There was one day where we tried curlers. Like a 50s housewife, I slept in rollers. When I woke up and took them out (Mom was at work, so Dad may have had a hand in the meltdown that happened immediately after I realized I looked like young Frankenstein), I freaked. 

(me, at age 8)

One of my worst memories of 6th grade is the day that I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair. All day, I was greasy and gross and miserable. I now triple rinse, without fail. In South Africa, long after the water had gone cold, I'd be under the shower head, rinsing. Triple checking that no traces of conditioner remained. 

It gets worse. 

Remember high school? (This is still part of the era of awkward.)

The only rule was that I couldn't dye my hair black. So of course, I dyed it black the first chance I got. Mom has a sixth sense about these things (either that or I'm a terrible liar), and I hadn't even finished drying it post-coloring when she was on the phone. "What color is your hair?!" she said, in her terrifying phone/teacher voice. (I should add that my mom isn't really that scary - and I'm grateful that she let me do so much experimentation during those years. I may not have looked great, but I was figuring myself out. I respect her willingness to let me try that, just like when she would let me wear her high heels and my play dresses to church when I was little.) 

   

(This is what I'm talking about when I stress the importance of inner beauty.)

Those were interesting years. I cut my bangs myself. They were always horrifying. Short, uneven. Not really bangs. Not really side bangs. For evidence of this bad bang cutting, see my sophomore year school picture - it's still on display at Mom's house. Compounded with my ever-changing hair color, I was not my best self. It's a good thing that there are still people on this planet (my friends) who value inner beauty. 

College. I chopped off all of my hair. I looked like a goon. (That's not entirely true. It was actually sort of cute.) I spent the next three years in various stages of hair length, usually around my chin. Sometimes adorable, sometimes not at all. 

(I have horrible posture, but hey, it makes me look like I have boobs, so that's not all bad.)

Cut to Africa. Mama P wanted me to have fringe. So I sat on one of her kitchen chairs and her daughter took shears to my hair. Full fringe. I kept that until this spring, when I grew them back out. 

So of course, December rolls around and what do I want to do again? (I haven't gotten any tattoos or piercings in years, so I get the urge to do something drastic every six months or so.) Bangs. My super ego was telling me no, but my stubborn self was saying yes. 

Jacob wants me to go crazy short on the sides and back, and keep the front long. I was trying to find images for this, so I googled "hipster haircuts." Bingo. 

(I actually think this would be fun. But what if it didn't work? Then I'd be SOL in a big way.)

But I was waffling. I didn't know. I looked back through pictures, realized I couldn't find a single one with bangs that I liked, and then thought, let's do it again! (That is nothing if not sound logic right there.)

(That's a lie - I like this picture. Long Street, 2010.)

So I'm back to half-bangs. But I swear, I am growing all of it out and just having hair that's one length. 2012 is the year of less hair cut, more learning how to style the hair I have. Curling irons? I can master them. Learning to love my curly hair? I can learn that too. I have taken baby steps - I own good hair products. I am open to re-embracing hair spray. 

(Imagine if I wasn't doing the mickey ave - I'd look adorable.)

Moral of this story? Stop messing with your hair. Learn how to style it. Stay away from the scissors. Curling irons are your friend. Your natural hair color is that way for a reason. Listen to your mother, at least when she tells you to stop trying to rock bangs. She might be right. 

Other moral? Pick friends who will still love you when you look ridiculous. Or just make sure you pick ridiculous friends. 

On the Celebration of Life

It's days like Saturday that make me realize that the human capacity for emotion is much deeper than we could possibly even realize. Necessities like food, water, and shelter are nothing without love.

Brian and I are standing by his golf clubs. I'm asking what the difference between a wood and an iron is. He tells me that woods are made out of wood. Then he pulls out a club. "So that's an iron?" I ask. (The club is not made of wood.) No, he tells me, it's a wood. We laugh. I understand the difference now. If you can imagine that it might be made of wood, it's a wood, even if it's made of metal. Irons are more like fireplace instruments. Heavier. Deadlier.

Brian is fiddling with the cover. "Grandpa never had the right covers for his clubs," he says. And that's when I feel it. His loss is so palpable in that moment. The fact that everything Brian knows and loves about golf, he got from Marshall. The fact that Marshall and Brian used to go golfing and then go get lunch. It was his childhood. He and his grandpa were inseparable, even at the end.

I don't know how to say I'm sorry. I do know how to learn about something that they both loved, so I ask more golf questions.

"I'm only telling you this because I know you'll appreciate it," said Juanita, leaning into me. She introduces me as her adopted granddaughter. I am so happy in that moment. She didn't want them to bring that picture, she says, but she's glad they did because it's one of her favorites. She tells me that on their wedding day 63 years ago, there's a picture of him looking at her exactly the same way. My eyes were on her sweater, rhinestones at the wrists. I didn't dare look up. My eyes were already full. She tells me that even though he was a quiet man, he always reminded her that he loved her. "And he really did love me," she says. I smile. I mean, I really smile. My heart is full of love and a little bit of hurt - the pull of the sadness of a great loss.

(I couldn't get a picture of the picture without the glare! I'm sorry for the poor quality!)

The speeches are beautiful. There is nothing better than honest memories. Laughter fills the space. When one of my cousins gets up to say something, I feel my eyes start to fill up again. Even though this is sort of the worst part of life, the saying goodbye, it's also the best. It reminds you how much love you have surrounding you. It reminds you how much every single person can mean to you, how much they can impact you.

My adopted grandparents. My other grandparents. My spare grandparents. My not grandparents. We never could figure out just what to call them. So we threw terms out and tried them on. They mean just as much to me as my actual grandparents. And I mean just as much to them as their grandchildren. Mom tells me that when I was little, we were leaving Grandma Mary's house and I asked her, "Who are those people?" They've been a part of my life since I was little, since before I could figure out how they fit into the scheme of things.

And I'm so grateful for that.

Marshall was a wonderful father, a wonderful husband, and a wonderful grandfather. I am so happy that I got to be a part of it. And I promise to help take good care of Juanita.

"I was born a poor black child"

Sometimes I'm grateful that my attention span is equivalent to that of a golden retriever. It leads me places I never expected to go. Today, I was reading about legal issues involving lawyers accessing sensitive information from their iPads, smartphones, etc and I got sidetracked, thus stumbling on this gem of an opinion piece from Gene Marks in Forbes.

Marks spends two pages talking about how he's a lucky white man in his mid-40s, reaping the benefits of his white privilege, and then he decides to posit that black kids from the inner cities are going to be fine if they just learn how to read, and learn how to write code, and somehow stumble on the right answers and the right direction. 

He gets points for freely admitting that it's circumstance that places kids on such separate paths from birth - the circumstances of color and economic standing. But he fails so hard at realizing that what he's trying to get across - this idea of the self-made man, the epitome of the American Dream - is just that, a pipe dream. 

He starts out just fine here:

The President’s speech got me thinking.  My kids are no smarter than similar kids their age from the inner city.  My kids have it much easier than their counterparts from West Philadelphia.  The world is not fair to those kids mainly because they had the misfortune of being born two miles away into a more difficult part of the world and with a skin color that makes realizing the opportunities that the President spoke about that much harder.  This is a fact.  In 2011.
I am not a poor black kid.  I am a middle aged white guy who comes from a middle class white background.  So life was easier for me.  But that doesn’t mean that the prospects are impossible for those kids from the inner city.  It doesn’t mean that there are no opportunities for them.   Or that the 1% control the world and the rest of us have to fight over the scraps left behind.  I don’t believe that.  I believe that everyone in this country has a chance to succeed.  Still.  In 2011.  Even a poor black kid in West Philadelphia.

But that's also where he starts to go wrong. Sort of. I'm not wowed by the fact that of course it's the poor black kids in these inner-city neighborhoods - I realize that to make his point he has to give an example that's stereotypical enough to make sense to a wide variety of readers, but then again, he's just reinforcing the lack of expectations that we have for our black citizens. He's unintentionally setting "poor black kids" up for failure based solely on their color. This annoys me - there are a ton of white kids who come from wealthy neighborhoods who somehow manage to never make anything of themselves, just as there are a ton of kids of all colors who do the same. Just like there are a ton of motivated, successful, intelligent people who come from diverse backgrounds. 

But his article ends without ever really exploring the real obstacles to success.  Marks completely ignores entire segments of life that can't be forgotten when trying to figure out why inner-city kids are so screwed. 

President Obama was right in his speech last week.  The division between rich and poor is a national problem.  But the biggest challenge we face isn’t inequality.   It’s ignorance.  So many kids from West Philadelphia don’t even know these opportunities exist for them.  Many come from single-parent families whose mom or dad (or in many cases their grand mom) is working two jobs to survive and are just (understandably) too plain tired to do anything else in the few short hours they’re home.  Many have teachers who are overburdened and too stressed to find the time to help every kid that needs it.  Many of these kids don’t have the brains to figure this out themselves – like my kids.  Except that my kids are just lucky enough to have parents and a well-funded school system around to push them in the right direction.
Technology can help these kids.  But only if the kids want to be helped.  Yes, there is much inequality.  But the opportunity is still there in this country for those that are smart enough to go for it.

Marks touches on the sociological impact that the neighborhoods these kids are growing up in has on them, but he doesn't explore it, and that's where I find the most fault with this article. He's looking at his "poor black kid" self without realizing that there's a lot more to it than desire. There's a lot more to it than drive, than ignorance. I mean, yeah, not knowing what's out there can really hurt you. But Skype-ing with other students in your school who want to succeed just like you do is a dumb suggestion.

That's never going to fly. Why is that? Because of the expectations of masculinity that we place on our boys. We've been hearing all about how black men are falling behind black women as black women become more and more educated; we hear about the decline of the black family, caused by the decline in marriage. We put this on the black women, some of whom don't want to marry a black man based on the fact that she's out-earning him and that she's far more successful. We have completely forgotten about our black men. We don't want them to be super nerdy, we don't want them to be thugs, we don't value them if they don't conform to the white elite's expectations of what a black man should be.

But all of that starts at a much younger age. These black kids - who grow up to be black men - are receiving mixed messages. They're watching the glorification of gangsters in pop music, in pop culture, in movies and tv shows. They're watching their friends and relatives go to prison (the odds are that 1 in 5 that a black man will go to prison at some point in his life). But more than that is the fact that to fit in and thrive in this social environment - the entirely socially constructed idea of "black", they must mirror the actions and behaviors of their peers as a way to earn respect. This is where the problem of black being equal to ghetto becomes problematic. There is no need for such associations, and yet we all make them. And kids grow up thinking that to own their identity is to engage is behaviors that correspond with the perceptions of what that identity is.

White people - men, specifically - don't have to work for that respect as hard because they have it. Their power is less tangible. It's in their jobs. It's in their suits. It's in their bank accounts. But for a black man, one who is going to be targeted and profiled by police and just about everyone he'll meet in his life, power and respect have to be earned in a more physical way. This is where the violence begins. To be super brainy and black in an inner city school isn't going to make you friends. And the kind of bullying that goes on there is much different than the kind of bullying we are seeing at upper-class white middle schools.

Kids who are smart and well-read are still going to fall through the cracks, even if they have the support systems that Marks assumes they lack. He's correct in bringing up that they may not have the family backing - but he seems to be negating the importance of familial expectations and involvement. There is no way that a 10 year old kid who has to make sure his siblings have dinner, get baths, and get into bed on time is going to have time to seek out extracurricular scholastic help. And he's not going to find leadership and mentors through sports programs - the gear and economic involvement required to be a part of the team can't possibly be met by a struggling family.

So let's not assume that Skype, EverNote, etc. are going to be the tools that launch this hypothetical "poor black" Marks into the 1%. He talks about private school scholarships and how black kids just need to get on the internet and let these elite school boards know how they can improve the appearance of diversity for only the cost of reduced tuition. Wow. Let's talk about devaluing personhood for a second.
No poor black kid should have the self-awareness to use that angle. No kid should have to use their skin color as a bargaining chip. By doing so, they are saying that they are not worth the same amount that those rich white kids are. That's already the message that the white elite is hammering home, let's not force kids to have to de-value themselves in order to get a better education.

We haven't even covered college yet. But wait, Marks does. Just for a second.

There is financial aid available. There are programs available. And no matter what he or she majors in that person will have opportunities. They will find jobs in a country of business owners like me who are starved for smart, skilled people. They will succeed.

Oh, how could we have forgotten? Financial aid. The magical salve that heals all and makes dreams come true. I'm calling shenanigans. Financial aid and programs aren't going to send you to the Ivy League school of your dreams, the ones those "poor black kids" might be reading about on their low-cost computers that they manged to buy (how, again?). Even if you end up at your local community college, your success is in no way guaranteed. Financial aid only gets you so far. And then you have travel expenses. And then you have books. And pens. And those stupid class projects that require the purchasing of dumb materials. And then there's eating. And oh, wait, not again - that whole fitting in thing. Being a poor kid at a rich school is not a cakewalk.

Having a college degree doesn't make you successful. Wanting something better for yourself doesn't guarantee that you'll find it. Yeah, the dream is alive. But that doesn't meant that we should assume that it's attainable. It's not just as simple as, "Oh, I want to go to college and learn stuff so I can get a great job!" and pow! Holy shit, that's one successful middle-aged black dude right there.

There's a lot more to it. Being white and assuming that everyone will be afforded the same luxuries as you isn't helping anything. Being white and segregating isn't helping either. You're putting black kids into a box that it's really hard to get out of. You're making nasty assumptions. You're fostering racist attitudes that have perpetuated social and racial problems in the US for too long.

This isn't about the 1%, or the American Dream. This is a sad excuse for technology-based journalism.

(By the way, most of the commenters didn't take too kindly to the article either.)


Source: Forbes 

On the Game

Warm December days are the best days for football. Denver is one of those truly magical places - warm weather for late season games. I don't know how we keep winning (we really shouldn't win some of these games), but we keep doing it. The atmosphere was electric, especially once the Bears fans fell silent. I love the camaraderie. The cute elderly couple who sits in front of us always leaves at the beginning of the fourth quarter - they go and get dinner on their way home - stayed until the very end of overtime. She had her blanket wrapped around her, but put it away so that she could stand and cheer. She was high-fiving the little girl in front of her, and hugging the Kid Who Drinks. It was really cute.

It was a good time. Check the facebook for the pictures!

On my toes

Life goes on, whether or not you're ready to go with it.

The past few weeks have been a blur of wonderful newness, of comfort and bliss. They've also been full of stress, cancer, death, uncertainty, and pain. But that's how life goes. Sometimes it throws everything at you at once, just to make sure you're on your toes. So that's where I've been. On my toes.

The first funeral was on Friday. I put on the black dress only to find that I had shrunk (or it had somehow stretched two sizes) and it wouldn't be suitable. So instead, I found another black dress. This one still fits. (I really do need to start with this eating business. I'm a little bit bony.) I wasn't going to go, and I didn't tell Dad that I was going until I was on 6th Avenue, headed west, but I feel like I was in some ways obligated to go. It was good. Merrilee was such a funny person, and the last time I saw her was at Jeanie's graduation party earlier this summer. It was good to meet the people who meant so much to her. They had pairs of nose glasses that she used to wear on a board, along with pictures of people wearing the nose glasses. It was good that I went because that meant that I got to chat with Jeanie while Dad talked to everyone else. On a nearly irrelevant note, they had mini quiches. I am such a fan of any party that has mini quiches.

But mini quiches aren't the point. (Unless they are? Wouldn't it be so nice if the entire meaning of life could be reduced to mini quiches? I could get down with that.)

Life doesn't last forever.

Marshall died late Thursday night. He is now listening to the harp music at the great golf course in the sky. (What? It could totally happen. Maybe my personal heaven is bubble baths and wine.)
I sat next to him at Thanksgiving and watched as Juanita fussed with him about whether or not he was happy and comfortable. I was really touched by the fact that after so many years together, they were still taking care of each other. He was constantly aware of her presence and she always made sure that he had what he needed - although there was that one time when someone was missing a cup of coffee and she just grabbed his and said, "Here, have this one." That's the kind of love that everyone should be looking for. It might not always be the most effective, but at least it's real.  They are seriously the best non-grandparents I could have had. (Although, now it's our turn to make Juanita cookies just because.)

Cancer cancer cancer cancer. I've not got a lot to say about this one. Seriously, every time I turn around, someone else has it. We've got two at work, two on one side of the family. I was talking to Mom about this and she reminded me that this is just a bad spell. I warned her that she wasn't allowed to get any more cancer just because everyone else was doing it. So we go on. I come from a family of tough people, particularly the women. We've got this. We'll tackle it like we tackle anything else. Everyone will help where they're needed. We'll cover the gaps and everyone will emerge alright. I promise. And if anyone wants a healing animal, they're welcome to borrow Carlos for a few weeks. Nothing will make you want to heal like having the very grumpy Carlos around. (He's currently at the bottom of my bed with his his paws wrapped around my foot. I love him so much. Best worst decision ever.)

Got an email from the other side of the family today. God, I hate holidays so much. When I am ruler of the universe, there will be no family obligations unless, of course, you want to. I am already stressed at the thought of them cornering me. I'm already imagining it happen. And I'm already tense and terrified. Gross.

The grad school application is limping along, coming together bit by bit.

The giant proposal due at work remains unfinished. Tomorrow will be the ultimate race to the finish line.

But those things don't really matter. I mean, of course they do. I'd be an idiot not to get my application in, since I still have a month left. And I'd be an idiot if I didn't bust my ass to get that proposal done. But in the larger scope of things, there is so much more that matters, well, so much more.

On the brighter side, guess what's awesome?

We went up to Keystone yesterday. Day 5 of snowboarding this season. I'm starting to get it. I did a Blue run with the boys then headed back up to find Emily. Spent the rest of the day on some long greens. It was good. Kevin and his brother came down from Vail to meet up with the group. The boys that we went up with are fun - one of them is in town from Boston, and he'll be on our New Year's trip. I'm starting to be able to do my toe side stuff, which means I'm actually able to snowboard properly. Pretty soon I'll be doing sweet jumps! (That's actually what I dream about.) Mom, best Christmas present ever. Without your insistence, I'd never be doing this. And I think it's pretty rad. Also, pass is officially paid for now. Be stoked on that.

I have a boyfriend-thing going on. That was unexpected. I blame the Real World for making me question our relationship situation. So I asked him if we were dating. He said yes. Apparently, that was enough of an exclusivity conversation for him. (We later discussed all of this and figured everything out. It was very reminiscent of our first date.)
I am so ridiculously happy. He's wonderful. He's smart, funny, sarcastic, sweet. We are different enough that it will continue to be interesting for me. But we are similar enough that we just mesh well. He takes good care of me. The thing that I think I like the most is that he's up for anything. When I'm like, let's go to this concert (I've done that twice so far), he's always open to it. He likes the random adventures that I like, which is good.

Broncos game today. I realize that the tickets came to us in the midst of sadness, but on the plus side, Mike and I are sort of going on a double date. I am bringing Kevin, who is awesome and driving back from family vacation in Vail in time for this. Mike's bringing a girl! I think I'm probably more excited for this than I am anything else.

This is not one of those "live every day like it's your last" posts, because those are dumb. But seriously, if you're not doing something awesome, or something that you love, or something that's wonderful, what are you doing with your life? After babysitting, I slept for nearly twelve hours last night. (that's the something wonderful I was talking about.) That was exactly what I needed to do after being an idiot and going out with Katie before I went snowboarding. So today is marching forward and if I don't hurry, I'm going to miss all the excitement.

I almost forgot: I started writing about being on your toes and life and then I looked down and remembered all the bandages on my toes. Yesterday morning, sometime in the pre-dawn hours, while I was frantically searching for snowboard gear in my room, I somehow managed to step into the side of a laundry basket, taking skin off of two of my toes. I didn't think anything of it until I saw little bloody toe-prints. As it turns out, sometimes being on your toes doesn't quite work out the way you'd planned.

Have a beautiful day, world, you deserve it.