I recorded the following entry while en route to my camping spot for the evening. Edited lightly for readability, coherence and, in the case of references to "Mother", content. I had a lot of riding to do, and I wasn't excited by it.
Alright, um, holy mother (mounts bike).
I'm on my way to Falcon State Park right now--'bout thirty miles away--and I think that I have about an hour and a half of light.
This is going to be a busta-BUST. Yeegh.
(sees a group of men in front a store to the right and waves) Hellooooo.
RY's Livestock Sale. You have Sam, you have sellers, you have buyers, you have the brand inspector, you have office people, you have restaurant people, and then you have the people who work out in the pens.
One guy in the pens said that...
(sees a road sign) 13 miles. Falcon State Park 28 miles. So, 41. Let's hope for no hills.
One guy in the pens said that you have to be careful because when they're coming back from the actual auction...
I'll explain to you how the auction is set up. There are two main structures. The first is the auction house, and the second is three sets of cattle pens under a big metal roof. You have one set of pens on the left, one set of pens on the right and one set of pens in the middle. All the pens in the left are cattle yet to be sold. Everything in the middle and over is already sold. This is all in the back.
In the front is the acutal closed building part of it, and they have this sort of show ring. It's a semi-circle, and in the middle sits the auctioneer. Behind him sit the bookeepers. They match the cattle with its buyer once the auctioneer has, of course, auctioned it off. To the periphery of the inner circle are people are people prodding along the cattle. They have cattle prods, they have whips, they yell, they shout, they bang on gates.
So, head come in on one side of the circle, everybody bids, there's a buyer, someone documents it, and the head exits on the other side and makes an angry dash towards the pens to the middle and the left.
As that cattle are coming out, as I was saying, one worker said that you have to be really careful. If you're not paying attention all the time, they're going to run into you. Some workers have broken arms. Others have just gotten the shit trampled out of them. That happens.
Inside, the process is really interesting. An auctioneer spits out a constant, unintelligble drone. I don't even think that he says real words. Sort of like "Heeeey, bidabadayyyyy gdabadayyyyy gdaba dibbydibby mmmmmm dayyyyyy mmmmm gabadadayyyy mmmmm thirteen! gdabadayyyyy fifteen! gdabadibbbby dibby biddy twenty-three, twenty-three ay! D.J., D.J." Every once in a while a number squeaks out, and you can actually tell what the guy's saying. Somehow people manage to buy cattle.
Two things that I found sort of comical: first, talking with this one buyer. His name was Terry. Each of these cows sells at about a dollar twenty-five, a dollar twenty-four: anywhere as low as about a dollar ninety-four a pound to a buck fifty-four a pound. So there's swing, there's a range. But he bought a particular cow for really expensive--I think a dollar fifty-two a pound--and I asked him, "so why did you buy that cow for so much?" He looked at me and he laughed, and he said "I don't know." He ended up buying me a coffee later too, so I guess he had a couple bucks to spare.
The other thing was this other gentlemen whom I was watching throughout the auction--I didn't catch his name. At the end of it all, he and I started talking about the sale. Most of the cattle that he bought ran a dollar fourteen, give or take five. That was relatively cheap, I told him, in comparison to the other cattle--HOLY MOTHER(a mac truck careens by, too close for comfort). He looked at me dead in the eye and said "cheap my ass. Ain't nothing cheap when it comes to buying cattle." It's still expensive. It's still a business.
And the head guy, Sam Rodriguez--a nice guy, a businessman, very much a businessman. In a very humanistic way though, from what I gather.
His philosophy is make a profit for his sellers and a profit for himself. And he achieves that through--(a big semi whizzes past) MOTHER, I don't want to die... He achieves that through selling his cattle, by conducting his business. Local ranchers come in and they pay him a certain cover fee, as it were. Sam earns a percentage off of each head sold (traffic becomes increasingly busy)... and so, every Friday, he has this sale, and this Friday the sale was for about five hundred head. These are cattle ranging from barren heffers to heffers, from calves to bulls--you name it, he had it. And all these cattle come from local ranchers.
So, five hundred this week, and five hundred because this is hunting season. You don't have to eat cow when you can eat deer. Either which way, Sam still made a profit--what, he didn't share... (looks to the right, at a field) There's a whole lot of food out there... onions... onions... or melons, I think those are melons. Yeah, those are melons, or squash. It would make sense for the season, huh?
So he makes a certain profit off of each head of cattle (long pause with increasing traffic). Every Friday (more traffic).
The important thing to keep in mind is that RY Livestock is the only place in the region for sales. People come to Sam's place to buy their cattle and to sell their cattle. And this is a seller's market: what's good for sellers is what's good for Sam.
Sellers earn a higher profit off of their cattle because it's sold locally. Because it's sold locally, the cattle don't have to be transported across a great distance. This means that the local market don't suffer shrinkage, bruising, death loss or freight costs--all that stuff that other ranchers who, say, import their cattle from Mexico suffer.
There is a really interesting interplay between Mexican ranchers and American ranchers because Mexican ranchers don't allow United States cattle into Mexico because of mad cow disease. From what Sam told me, the cases of mad cow disease were the result of cattle imported from Canada, not the United States. At any rate, it doesn't make a difference to the Mexicans. Mexican ranchers still ship their cattle to the United States.
From what the brand inspector told me, a lot of these cattle are heftier (yuck, yuck)... are stronger, are more durable, because they have a Burma breed. A lot of the cattle have an Indian breed of cattle intermixed at a one-fourth proportion. Those cattle are allowed into the United States (long pause). A little tougher now: the wind's all over the place (pause). And many times it's not of the same grade. A lot of that cattle is converted into ground beef because it's not of the same quality.
And then, Sam's motto: "The willingness to put our customers first in whatever we do. This is what separates true customer satisfaction from just talk."
That's it for me. Mother.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Part 1 (San Benito, TX): Walk on.
On the first and second of November, Mexicans and Mexicans-Americans alike celebrate the Day of the Dead (El Dia de los Muertos). The celebration has roots in pre-Columbian times, when indigneous persons would give offerings to their divine beings so that they may assist the dead as they walk through Mictlan, or the Land of the Dead. In more ways than one, the contemporary Day of the Dead ritual and festival joins the living with the dead in an atmosphere of communion and regeneration.
Death is something to which I am unaccumtomed. I've never really been close to anybody who has died. One of my teachers in junior high passed away years ago, and a neighbor's life was snatched away at an unexpected, early age. A young mother I worked with died. An acquaintance in high school met her end in a car accident. Still, these people seemed so far from me. That they had died was surreal. Death wasn't real. It was an aberration, an absurdity, an anomaly.
On the evening of the Day of the Dead, I found myself in oddly fortuitous company at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli, a center for traditional Aztec-Chichimec religious life and a hub for social activism. At the Calpulli I would see how others understand death and dead ones. These people would teach me.
They held a ceremony, and it was beautiful. Everything took place in front of an altar. On that altar were pictures of the deceased, sugar skulls (literally skull-shaped candies or food made out of sugar), flowers and candles. I also saw items that once belonged to the dead--his harmonica, her favorite brush, etc. The altar was colorful and festive-looking and everything on it, in one way or another, reminded us of someone who had passed away.
Someone. To me, someone.
Front and center, we gave offerings, sang and thanked the beings that be for our company. The whole premise is that offerings and song not only assist the dead in their journey throughout the afterlife but also honor them. Were the dead to walk on, they would do so with our help and blessings. They would have our respective, regardless of dimension, time or realm.
But then the questions. Whom was I to bless? Distant relatives long passed, people I had known only fraternally? People I don't know? Whom was I to honor? Anybody? Everybody?
A week later, I found my answers. A friend, Sean, died after years of complications with his heart. That's one way of saying it. His heart failed him. It was a three-year-old transplant, and it gave up and gave out. His ticker was tocked. At the time, I thought that another friend, Kevin, was soon to follow suit. He made a bad decision after a night partying, and the international grapevine said that he was hurting in a bad way. A coma way.
I spent a week with Sean as a junior in high school, and I had connected with him several times since. At the beginning of my intellectual and social maturation, he was one of the first men with whom I was intimate--and no, this isn't one of those Catholic cover-ups turned revelations. I just had all kinds of admiration for Sean. He was warm and kind, and his faith and commitment to us, his students, and his God was--and still is--endlessly inspiring. He was a supremely gentle and compassionate being.
He was also maybe one of the toughest men that I've ever met. On this service trip, our charge was to tear down a retirement home for elderly nuns so that another could be erected in its place. For a week, we took sledgehammers and picks to the rafters, dismantled the supporting crossbeams and hacked at the walls until the two-story building was little more than rubble. There couldn't have been any more than fifteen of us, but we tore that thing apart.
I remember Sean in the bathroom. Sean had been supervising us, his teenage crew, making sure that we weren't hand tools and irrigation poles at each other. Kids. With two and a half walls demolished and another left to go, he asked to take a swing at a tile-lined section of what then only resembled a shower wall. I handed him the sledgehammer I was using. I couldn't get rid of it soon enough. After a good twenty, thirty swings, I could hardly make a dent in the wall. The hammer was his.
We stepped away as Sean took the sledge in hand. Sean filled up the room--he was no small man--and the sun came down through the roof that no longer was and illuminated his figure. Dusty remnants of the building were at his feet. A carpenter's mask covered much of his face.
Sean looked at the wall and paused. He brought the head of the sledgehammer close to his face and murmured a prayer. He sized up his swing and THWACK!--brought down half of the wall. After another two or three swings, the wall was no more. He put down the hammer, turned around slowly and took off his mask. He smiled to our gaping awe.
If you were ever to ask me what I thought about religion, I'd say that that was one of the most profound religious moments I've ever had.
Kevin I met my sophomore year as resident adviser in college. We we grew up, so to speak, with Adam, Sean, Autumn and later Robin, initially as co-workers and later as members of what I playfully coined the "Fab Five". We earned Religious Studies degrees together and spoke with short breaths and long sentences about Martin Buber, Native American religion and the Gautama-Buddha. People love Kevin for his laugh and his warm presence. He himself has always been the peaceful, smiling Buddha of our group.
He's also been one to make some poor decisions when it came to post-party transportation. To make a long story short, Kevin was living in the U.S. Virgin Islands when he rolled his jeep while on his way home from a friend's Halloween party. Two other people were in the car with him--a friend and his girlfriend. The girlfriend was wearing a seat belt and escaped with nothing more than whiplash. Thrown from the back of the jeep, the friend broke his clavicle. Kevin... no one knows exactly what happened... he had more extensive injuries.
He survived. He had to have his fourth and sixth vertebrae fused together in his back, because the fifth was pulverized. He has an abrasion on his spine. His right hand was demolished. According to his doctor, the long-term outlook looks "good". With about a year's worth of effort, Kevin will be able to use his hand and walk as before.
Kevin's a fortunate man--he knows that. He also knows that we were as upset as could be with him but will do all that we can to help him out. We love him and care for him, and that's it. We'll give him our all. In weeks to come, we'll give him our company.
Although belated, that's my offering for The Day of the Dead. The day isn't so much about lamenting those who have passed on, but about celebrating what we've shared with them and those who are still with us. I have a lot of love for Sean and Kev, and I hope that they journey well.
Walk on, Sean.
Walk on, Kev.
Traditional Azteca-Chichimeca song and dance at the Narciso Martinez Cultural Center in San Benito. Two of the dancers, Gina and Rick on the right, were present at the Day of the Dead ceremony described above (peel back the fold). I should also make a note that they were all extremely generous in allowing me to stay at the Calpulli for several days.
Death is something to which I am unaccumtomed. I've never really been close to anybody who has died. One of my teachers in junior high passed away years ago, and a neighbor's life was snatched away at an unexpected, early age. A young mother I worked with died. An acquaintance in high school met her end in a car accident. Still, these people seemed so far from me. That they had died was surreal. Death wasn't real. It was an aberration, an absurdity, an anomaly.
On the evening of the Day of the Dead, I found myself in oddly fortuitous company at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli, a center for traditional Aztec-Chichimec religious life and a hub for social activism. At the Calpulli I would see how others understand death and dead ones. These people would teach me.
They held a ceremony, and it was beautiful. Everything took place in front of an altar. On that altar were pictures of the deceased, sugar skulls (literally skull-shaped candies or food made out of sugar), flowers and candles. I also saw items that once belonged to the dead--his harmonica, her favorite brush, etc. The altar was colorful and festive-looking and everything on it, in one way or another, reminded us of someone who had passed away.
Someone. To me, someone.
Front and center, we gave offerings, sang and thanked the beings that be for our company. The whole premise is that offerings and song not only assist the dead in their journey throughout the afterlife but also honor them. Were the dead to walk on, they would do so with our help and blessings. They would have our respective, regardless of dimension, time or realm.
But then the questions. Whom was I to bless? Distant relatives long passed, people I had known only fraternally? People I don't know? Whom was I to honor? Anybody? Everybody?
A week later, I found my answers. A friend, Sean, died after years of complications with his heart. That's one way of saying it. His heart failed him. It was a three-year-old transplant, and it gave up and gave out. His ticker was tocked. At the time, I thought that another friend, Kevin, was soon to follow suit. He made a bad decision after a night partying, and the international grapevine said that he was hurting in a bad way. A coma way.
I spent a week with Sean as a junior in high school, and I had connected with him several times since. At the beginning of my intellectual and social maturation, he was one of the first men with whom I was intimate--and no, this isn't one of those Catholic cover-ups turned revelations. I just had all kinds of admiration for Sean. He was warm and kind, and his faith and commitment to us, his students, and his God was--and still is--endlessly inspiring. He was a supremely gentle and compassionate being.
He was also maybe one of the toughest men that I've ever met. On this service trip, our charge was to tear down a retirement home for elderly nuns so that another could be erected in its place. For a week, we took sledgehammers and picks to the rafters, dismantled the supporting crossbeams and hacked at the walls until the two-story building was little more than rubble. There couldn't have been any more than fifteen of us, but we tore that thing apart.
I remember Sean in the bathroom. Sean had been supervising us, his teenage crew, making sure that we weren't hand tools and irrigation poles at each other. Kids. With two and a half walls demolished and another left to go, he asked to take a swing at a tile-lined section of what then only resembled a shower wall. I handed him the sledgehammer I was using. I couldn't get rid of it soon enough. After a good twenty, thirty swings, I could hardly make a dent in the wall. The hammer was his.
We stepped away as Sean took the sledge in hand. Sean filled up the room--he was no small man--and the sun came down through the roof that no longer was and illuminated his figure. Dusty remnants of the building were at his feet. A carpenter's mask covered much of his face.
Sean looked at the wall and paused. He brought the head of the sledgehammer close to his face and murmured a prayer. He sized up his swing and THWACK!--brought down half of the wall. After another two or three swings, the wall was no more. He put down the hammer, turned around slowly and took off his mask. He smiled to our gaping awe.
If you were ever to ask me what I thought about religion, I'd say that that was one of the most profound religious moments I've ever had.
Kevin I met my sophomore year as resident adviser in college. We we grew up, so to speak, with Adam, Sean, Autumn and later Robin, initially as co-workers and later as members of what I playfully coined the "Fab Five". We earned Religious Studies degrees together and spoke with short breaths and long sentences about Martin Buber, Native American religion and the Gautama-Buddha. People love Kevin for his laugh and his warm presence. He himself has always been the peaceful, smiling Buddha of our group.
He's also been one to make some poor decisions when it came to post-party transportation. To make a long story short, Kevin was living in the U.S. Virgin Islands when he rolled his jeep while on his way home from a friend's Halloween party. Two other people were in the car with him--a friend and his girlfriend. The girlfriend was wearing a seat belt and escaped with nothing more than whiplash. Thrown from the back of the jeep, the friend broke his clavicle. Kevin... no one knows exactly what happened... he had more extensive injuries.
He survived. He had to have his fourth and sixth vertebrae fused together in his back, because the fifth was pulverized. He has an abrasion on his spine. His right hand was demolished. According to his doctor, the long-term outlook looks "good". With about a year's worth of effort, Kevin will be able to use his hand and walk as before.
Kevin's a fortunate man--he knows that. He also knows that we were as upset as could be with him but will do all that we can to help him out. We love him and care for him, and that's it. We'll give him our all. In weeks to come, we'll give him our company.
Although belated, that's my offering for The Day of the Dead. The day isn't so much about lamenting those who have passed on, but about celebrating what we've shared with them and those who are still with us. I have a lot of love for Sean and Kev, and I hope that they journey well.
Walk on, Sean.
Walk on, Kev.
Traditional Azteca-Chichimeca song and dance at the Narciso Martinez Cultural Center in San Benito. Two of the dancers, Gina and Rick on the right, were present at the Day of the Dead ceremony described above (peel back the fold). I should also make a note that they were all extremely generous in allowing me to stay at the Calpulli for several days.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Part 1 (Falcon State Park, TX): Yuckers at Falcon State Park
Ryan wakes up at Falcon State Park, takes care of his personals, and packs his gear on his bike.
As he's about to pedal off, he sees three deer no more than fifteen yards away. A senior camper stands about ten yards from the animals, seemingly oblivious. Ryan waves his arms frantically in an attempt to alert the camper of the deers' presence, to no avail. The deer look around, doe-eyed (yuck yuck), and leave moments later.
(Ryan walks up to the senior camper)
Ryan: "Did you see the deer?"
Senior Camper: "You bet I did. See, my wife and I came here last year and the deer would come by every morning for a little bit of food. I have a can with a couple of corn seeds in it, and when I give it a shake they come a runnin'--sometimes seven or eight at a time."
Ryan: "That seems like a rather corny method (yuck yuck)."
SC: "Yeah, it works though. The animals really like the food we give 'em. They're such dears, y'know (yuck yuck)."
Ryan: "Ain't that the truth. Well, sir, I've got to get going. It was nice talking with you."
SC: "Where you headed?"
Ryan: "La Joya."
SC: (looks at my equipment) "By bike?"
Ryan: "By bike."
SC: (bobs his head) "Now that's something. With that tailwind, it should be a breeze (yuck yuck).
Ryan: "I sure am hoping so. Again, it was a pleasure meeting you. Time to roll out (yuck yuck)."
SC: "You mean hit the road (yuck yuck)?"
Ryan: "Yes, sir."
SC: "Then may the wind be at your back (yuck yuck)!"
Ryan: (mounts bike) "And may you be a happy camper (yuck yuck)!"
SC: "Goodbye!" (waves)
Ryan: "Adios!" (pedals off)
Yuck yuck.
As he's about to pedal off, he sees three deer no more than fifteen yards away. A senior camper stands about ten yards from the animals, seemingly oblivious. Ryan waves his arms frantically in an attempt to alert the camper of the deers' presence, to no avail. The deer look around, doe-eyed (yuck yuck), and leave moments later.
(Ryan walks up to the senior camper)
Ryan: "Did you see the deer?"
Senior Camper: "You bet I did. See, my wife and I came here last year and the deer would come by every morning for a little bit of food. I have a can with a couple of corn seeds in it, and when I give it a shake they come a runnin'--sometimes seven or eight at a time."
Ryan: "That seems like a rather corny method (yuck yuck)."
SC: "Yeah, it works though. The animals really like the food we give 'em. They're such dears, y'know (yuck yuck)."
Ryan: "Ain't that the truth. Well, sir, I've got to get going. It was nice talking with you."
SC: "Where you headed?"
Ryan: "La Joya."
SC: (looks at my equipment) "By bike?"
Ryan: "By bike."
SC: (bobs his head) "Now that's something. With that tailwind, it should be a breeze (yuck yuck).
Ryan: "I sure am hoping so. Again, it was a pleasure meeting you. Time to roll out (yuck yuck)."
SC: "You mean hit the road (yuck yuck)?"
Ryan: "Yes, sir."
SC: "Then may the wind be at your back (yuck yuck)!"
Ryan: (mounts bike) "And may you be a happy camper (yuck yuck)!"
SC: "Goodbye!" (waves)
Ryan: "Adios!" (pedals off)
Yuck yuck.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Part 1 (Elsa, TX): Vampire Nails and Yellowjackets
Today the mighty steed cracked a hoof. Today the royal chariot fell prey a well-guided lance. Today a nail pierced my tire, and I was the one who became deflated.
What a lousy day.
I just couldn't get on it today. I had intentions of going to Ed Couch-Elsa High School to meet with the director and students from Llano Grande, a program that provides tutoring, mentorship and an advanced sort of college preparation. After spending an hour and a half patching not one, not two, but three inner tubes, I finally made it to the high school.
Nothing really materialized from the meeting, however. I spent hours half-working, half-waiting for an opportunity to speak with the director that never came to pass. That I could handle. What drove me nuts was the ride southward to Weslaco soon after. About four miles away from Elsa, I ran over a nail--and not just any nail. No, this was a bloodsucking vampire nail with bulging red eyes and horns.
This nail sliced clear through the inner tube and, within seconds, my back tire was a flopping mass of vulcanized angst. After a few more turns of the wheel, I stopped, got off my bike and started to patch the tube. I thought that I was doing pretty well (I had both sides covered up quite securely, thank you) until I discovered that vampire nail had left not two bite marks upon the hapless victim but about eight--one for each revolution past the initial puncture.
To make this long, overwrought story short, I tried to McGyver another few patches with a piece of rubber from an undisclosed source. Keep in mind that I had all my belongings with me at the time. Along with an athletic tape jimmy, I had the tube functioning until I found out that there was a gaping hole underneath the nozzle of the tube as well. That damn vampire!
I walked to a gas station and waited for about an hour and half until a true saint gave me a lift back to the place I had stayed the night before. This was after two other people had pledged to me their undying allegiance--that they would go to their inner sanctums (homes, I guess) and soon return with inner tubes lathered in onions and patches sprinkled with holy water. I never saw them again, vampire cultists.
I arrived at the Llano Grande house soon thereafter, jumped on the computer, and promptly threw away two hours of my life until one of the guests offered to take me out for dinner.
I had a really good dinner. The company was really nice.
If I ever see that vampire nail again, I'm going to lop its head off.
What a lousy day.
The rub of it was that there was so much going on in the high school and community that I failed to notice. The school was almost literally buzzing, with everyone dressed in their black and yellow and talking about the "big game.” The 4A Ed Couch-Elsa High School Yellowjackets were playing a 5A team from Corpus Christi in the first round of the state football playoffs. Apparently whatever the high school officials had put in the water to help the students academically had also affected their football skills. Not only were their young scholars making headway into Ivy League universities but also their football team was undefeated, two years running.
This football game was a big deal. The district let all of the students out early for the day. When I say all the students, I don't just mean those in the high school. I mean the junior highs and elementary schools as well. The district had to coordinate bus schedules for the band, cheerleaders and football team, so they let everybody out hours earlier than usual.
Administrators might not have had to make these changes if they had played a game in the Rio Grande Valley, which would have make sense: the Valley is large enough to provide "neutral" stadiums halfway between each town. So, of course, somebody decided to play the game in Laredo instead--about sixty miles west of Elsa and a lot farther from Corpus Christi. From what they told me, opposing teams were afraid to come into the Valley and play. The people here take football that seriously.
An example: while I waited in front of a gas station for someone--anyone--to rescue me from Vampireville, I eyed an older couple that could have been sympathetic to the cause. After pitching to them a desperate plea, the driver just laughed at me. "You see, we can't take you that way," he said. "We're going this way. We're going to the game." We're going to the game? Couldn't he see that my very soul was being sucked dry at that very moment, waiting in that perilous netherworld? "Sorry. We're going to the game."
Consider also the guy with whom I spoke at a Little Cesaer's. He graduated from nearby Donna maybe ten years ago, but he could tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the only team from the Valley to ever win a state football title: the 1961 Donna Redskins. He knew the quarterback (his former coach), a running back (a relative) and the many players to come (more relatives). Football is a family affair in the area--a tradition, an heirloom passed from generation to generation.
Everybody goes to these games. Students, teachers, aunts, grandparents and the folks above. The convoy from Elsa to Laredo wasn't a spirit chain: it was an exodus. Back at the high school, a fire alarm continued uninterrupted for an hour after everyone had left. The whole school could have burnt down while everyone was at the "big game.”
At least they'd still have their football.
In the words of one woman, it's the only thing they have in Elsa. Week in and week out, the Friday Night Lights become the center of their social universe. There's nothing else to do.
"And what happens when those lights go out for the season?" I asked her.
She looked at me and laughed. "Basketball season."
I imagine that some students take a stab at their books too. Now if only they could do the same with vampire nails...
The Yellowjacket of Ed Couch-Elsa High School. That weekend the 'Jackets were victorious in their playoff battle against the Porter Cowboys, 35-28.
What a lousy day.
I just couldn't get on it today. I had intentions of going to Ed Couch-Elsa High School to meet with the director and students from Llano Grande, a program that provides tutoring, mentorship and an advanced sort of college preparation. After spending an hour and a half patching not one, not two, but three inner tubes, I finally made it to the high school.
Nothing really materialized from the meeting, however. I spent hours half-working, half-waiting for an opportunity to speak with the director that never came to pass. That I could handle. What drove me nuts was the ride southward to Weslaco soon after. About four miles away from Elsa, I ran over a nail--and not just any nail. No, this was a bloodsucking vampire nail with bulging red eyes and horns.
This nail sliced clear through the inner tube and, within seconds, my back tire was a flopping mass of vulcanized angst. After a few more turns of the wheel, I stopped, got off my bike and started to patch the tube. I thought that I was doing pretty well (I had both sides covered up quite securely, thank you) until I discovered that vampire nail had left not two bite marks upon the hapless victim but about eight--one for each revolution past the initial puncture.
To make this long, overwrought story short, I tried to McGyver another few patches with a piece of rubber from an undisclosed source. Keep in mind that I had all my belongings with me at the time. Along with an athletic tape jimmy, I had the tube functioning until I found out that there was a gaping hole underneath the nozzle of the tube as well. That damn vampire!
I walked to a gas station and waited for about an hour and half until a true saint gave me a lift back to the place I had stayed the night before. This was after two other people had pledged to me their undying allegiance--that they would go to their inner sanctums (homes, I guess) and soon return with inner tubes lathered in onions and patches sprinkled with holy water. I never saw them again, vampire cultists.
I arrived at the Llano Grande house soon thereafter, jumped on the computer, and promptly threw away two hours of my life until one of the guests offered to take me out for dinner.
I had a really good dinner. The company was really nice.
If I ever see that vampire nail again, I'm going to lop its head off.
What a lousy day.
The rub of it was that there was so much going on in the high school and community that I failed to notice. The school was almost literally buzzing, with everyone dressed in their black and yellow and talking about the "big game.” The 4A Ed Couch-Elsa High School Yellowjackets were playing a 5A team from Corpus Christi in the first round of the state football playoffs. Apparently whatever the high school officials had put in the water to help the students academically had also affected their football skills. Not only were their young scholars making headway into Ivy League universities but also their football team was undefeated, two years running.
This football game was a big deal. The district let all of the students out early for the day. When I say all the students, I don't just mean those in the high school. I mean the junior highs and elementary schools as well. The district had to coordinate bus schedules for the band, cheerleaders and football team, so they let everybody out hours earlier than usual.
Administrators might not have had to make these changes if they had played a game in the Rio Grande Valley, which would have make sense: the Valley is large enough to provide "neutral" stadiums halfway between each town. So, of course, somebody decided to play the game in Laredo instead--about sixty miles west of Elsa and a lot farther from Corpus Christi. From what they told me, opposing teams were afraid to come into the Valley and play. The people here take football that seriously.
An example: while I waited in front of a gas station for someone--anyone--to rescue me from Vampireville, I eyed an older couple that could have been sympathetic to the cause. After pitching to them a desperate plea, the driver just laughed at me. "You see, we can't take you that way," he said. "We're going this way. We're going to the game." We're going to the game? Couldn't he see that my very soul was being sucked dry at that very moment, waiting in that perilous netherworld? "Sorry. We're going to the game."
Consider also the guy with whom I spoke at a Little Cesaer's. He graduated from nearby Donna maybe ten years ago, but he could tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the only team from the Valley to ever win a state football title: the 1961 Donna Redskins. He knew the quarterback (his former coach), a running back (a relative) and the many players to come (more relatives). Football is a family affair in the area--a tradition, an heirloom passed from generation to generation.
Everybody goes to these games. Students, teachers, aunts, grandparents and the folks above. The convoy from Elsa to Laredo wasn't a spirit chain: it was an exodus. Back at the high school, a fire alarm continued uninterrupted for an hour after everyone had left. The whole school could have burnt down while everyone was at the "big game.”
At least they'd still have their football.
In the words of one woman, it's the only thing they have in Elsa. Week in and week out, the Friday Night Lights become the center of their social universe. There's nothing else to do.
"And what happens when those lights go out for the season?" I asked her.
She looked at me and laughed. "Basketball season."
I imagine that some students take a stab at their books too. Now if only they could do the same with vampire nails...
The Yellowjacket of Ed Couch-Elsa High School. That weekend the 'Jackets were victorious in their playoff battle against the Porter Cowboys, 35-28.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Part 1 (San Benito, TX): A Tale of Two Trailer Parks
"It's like you never have to leave."
Mary Green is bouncing on her toes and smiles as she's talking with me. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses and tennis shoes, she moves with a bouncing, energetic candor that you rarely witness. Mary is in her mid-fifties.
"We have shufflepuck, tennis courts, billiards, shows, wood carving, shop and sewing," Mary says. "And we have bingo, sing-a-longs, ice cream socials, donuts and coffee. We even have a Mardi Gras parade and luau..." Mary pauses. "...and a silver smith, two beauty parlors and a chapel."
Mary is also the mail-lady for Fun 'n Sun, an RV Superpark that caters primarily to Winter Texans. Mary has lived there year-round since 2003. With 1400 campsites and a peak population of 1800 people, Fun 'n Sun is by far the largest trailer park in the Rio Grande Valley. It's also one of the most "diverse".
"We have people coming from California, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, North Dakota, Canada and Washington," Mary goes on. "The majority are from the Midwest, though: Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri..." Most--if not all--of the park residents are Caucasian.
I enter the park and make my way to the billiards room. I immediately jump into a tournament and lose twice in games of Nine-Ball before I even understand the rules. I play another game and beat one of the best shooters in the hall (actually he sunk balls one through eight before shanking the nine ball. I put in the nine ball, three inches from the pocket.) Other players laugh and say that they're just "here to have fun"--"We're just a bunch of old farts that have fun."
I laugh, they laugh, and I continue on.
Gracie Cabuto is sitting on a bench and smiles as she's talking with me. Holding her baby and reaching for her two-year-old son, she moves with a maternal grace developed after years of practice. Gracie is in her mid-twenties.
Nearby, a group of teenage boys bounce a basketball on their way across the street. Families chat with eachother about weekend barbacoas. Down Gracie's street are two beauty parlors, a tire repair shop and a string of restaurants. I don't see a chapel.
Gracie is a single mother who lives with her own mother in an indiscriminate trailer park a few miles from the first. Gracie has lived there for the last year. With about twenty moblie homes and eighty residents, the park is similar to others in the Rio Grande Valley. However, it is still very much "diverse".
Aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brothers and sisters live under one roof. Grandmother and grandfathers share bedrooms with grandchildren. Most--if not all--of the park residents are Hispanic.
I enter the park and step trepiatiously into the dirt courtyard. I'm not sure whom to talk with because all the families look as though they're winding down for the evening. I meet Gracie. She tells me that the news is making a big issue of the increased presence of gangs and thieves in the surrounding community. Her mother beside her nods in agreement. "We're afraid to leave our park at night," Gracie says. "We're afraid that someone might try to rob us."
It's like you never want to leave.
I shake my head, they shake their heads, and I continue on.
Mary Green is bouncing on her toes and smiles as she's talking with me. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses and tennis shoes, she moves with a bouncing, energetic candor that you rarely witness. Mary is in her mid-fifties.
"We have shufflepuck, tennis courts, billiards, shows, wood carving, shop and sewing," Mary says. "And we have bingo, sing-a-longs, ice cream socials, donuts and coffee. We even have a Mardi Gras parade and luau..." Mary pauses. "...and a silver smith, two beauty parlors and a chapel."
Mary is also the mail-lady for Fun 'n Sun, an RV Superpark that caters primarily to Winter Texans. Mary has lived there year-round since 2003. With 1400 campsites and a peak population of 1800 people, Fun 'n Sun is by far the largest trailer park in the Rio Grande Valley. It's also one of the most "diverse".
"We have people coming from California, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, North Dakota, Canada and Washington," Mary goes on. "The majority are from the Midwest, though: Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Missouri..." Most--if not all--of the park residents are Caucasian.
I enter the park and make my way to the billiards room. I immediately jump into a tournament and lose twice in games of Nine-Ball before I even understand the rules. I play another game and beat one of the best shooters in the hall (actually he sunk balls one through eight before shanking the nine ball. I put in the nine ball, three inches from the pocket.) Other players laugh and say that they're just "here to have fun"--"We're just a bunch of old farts that have fun."
I laugh, they laugh, and I continue on.
Gracie Cabuto is sitting on a bench and smiles as she's talking with me. Holding her baby and reaching for her two-year-old son, she moves with a maternal grace developed after years of practice. Gracie is in her mid-twenties.
Nearby, a group of teenage boys bounce a basketball on their way across the street. Families chat with eachother about weekend barbacoas. Down Gracie's street are two beauty parlors, a tire repair shop and a string of restaurants. I don't see a chapel.
Gracie is a single mother who lives with her own mother in an indiscriminate trailer park a few miles from the first. Gracie has lived there for the last year. With about twenty moblie homes and eighty residents, the park is similar to others in the Rio Grande Valley. However, it is still very much "diverse".
Aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, brothers and sisters live under one roof. Grandmother and grandfathers share bedrooms with grandchildren. Most--if not all--of the park residents are Hispanic.
I enter the park and step trepiatiously into the dirt courtyard. I'm not sure whom to talk with because all the families look as though they're winding down for the evening. I meet Gracie. She tells me that the news is making a big issue of the increased presence of gangs and thieves in the surrounding community. Her mother beside her nods in agreement. "We're afraid to leave our park at night," Gracie says. "We're afraid that someone might try to rob us."
It's like you never want to leave.
I shake my head, they shake their heads, and I continue on.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Part 1 (San Benito, TX): Three Weeks in the Barrel
I'll be the first one to admit that I've been delinquent in my posting responsibilities. My excuse: writing is hard work. It's a solitary effort that demands that you find enough time--make enough time--to sit back, reflect and report on a day's worth of experiences. Sometimes there's almost too much to say, and sometimes you're almost too tired to say it.
Almost. I'll start simply.
I'm officially at the beginning of week four. If we could rewind for a moment, I cycled from a conference in Houston to Brownsville during week one; stumbled my way through culture shock and ill-founded expectations throughout week two; and met varied "success" over week three. My goal for week four is, ever so slowly, to make my way out of Brownsville/Matamoros and start in on the more Western towns of the Rio Grande Valley and their southern neighbors.
Week one you might have read about already. I was having the time of my life. I had little more to think about than how far I had to travel during the day, what route I was going to take, what I was going to feed myself and where I was going to sleep at night. The rest was all "filler"--playful internal anecdotes about vegetable stand owners who apparently think that bicycles can somehow transmit airborne viruses to their produce; beautiful, bikini-clad young women who appear in the middle of nowhere to wash their vehicles and fuel the imaginative mind of a lone cyclist for another forty miles; and, of course, ravenous packs of teeth-gnashing mosquitos bent on sanguinary world domination.
The second week was a comparative shock. Off my bike and out of my element, I had actual work to do. The first thing I noticed was that almost all the people in Brownsville were Hispanic. A big surprise, right? It was for me. I had spent in enough time in Nogales, Arizona, and Nogales, Sonora, to be convinced that, in every border town you're going to come across at least some Caucasian people. Amidst a sea of dark eyes and dark hair, I learned that this wasn't always the case.
Past the culture shock--I had just come from Austin and Houston, for the love--I met some difficulty just in getting the more formal aspects of the project off the ground. I could ride a bike, but could I actually talk with people? A lot of the time I was nervous--will potential conversants be willing to speak with me? Am I taking too much time from their day? Do I speak with them in English? In Spanish? What the hell am I doing here? It took me more than a few "interviews" to realize that not every meeting was going to be the same. In some, I had to be more formal and better prepared. In others, I needed to relax, be myself, and communicate in whatever language was necessary--thus far Spanish, English, sign and even play.
Whereas the second week I was extremely concerned about both the quality and quantity of my conversations--I would drive a borrowed car across the city numerous times each day in an effort to adhere to a strict, self-imposed schedule--I loosened up considerably during the third week. If I was able to meet with two people in one day, that was great. But If I was able to spend a whole day with only one person, that was amazing. Tangentially I would come into contact with a wider network of people that would help share a more in-depth understanding of whatever issue I had set out to tackle. Maybe just as importantly, on a personal note, I had a friend and a family for a day.
That's been a major concern since I've been in Brownsville/Matamoros: feeling comfortable enough to show up and be present in my interactions with others or, in other words, carrying with me a sense of "home" wherever I go. This task is made a lot easier when, like right this very moment, others open up their homes and extend their full trust to me. In fact, it looks as though I'll be house sitting for the next couple of days at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli while the owners are visiting a son in Tucson and another tenant left to bury her oldest sister (her words).
The capstone lesson thus far has been to be willing and gracious in accepting the help that the community has to offer. In the last two weeks, I've had a roof over my head every night. One week I had a car. This last week, a different person took me to lunch almost every day.
Giving is gratifying--we all know that. As a society, we must also learn that there is great dignity in receiving.
For me, this means that I have to take a moment to recognize each conversation that I share as a gift. I suppose this also means that I be even more patient when people don't return my calls, blow off our scheduled appointments and generally look at me, in bike helmet and all, like I've just stepped off the mothership.
If you're wondering about my general reception, I'll be honest in telling you that most people are really supportive of the project. Some conversations that I think will last no longer than ten minutes will go on for hours. But other conversations aren't so... fortuitous. It's not uncommon for some to look at me with his or her head cocked to the side like a puppy who can't quite figure out what's going on.
"Aaaaand you areeeeee..." some bark. "Aaaaaaand whooooo are you working with?" other growl. "Aaaaaand whoooose project is this?"
It can get a little predictable, and I have the response down pat. I usually end up repeating myself. A lot. Sometimes it's as though people don't actually want to believe what I have to say, so they question me over and over again to see if it's really true.
It is all true, I swear to you. Enough of this, though. If you read on you'll find posts about what's actually happened over the last two weeks. I'll have more posts coming, and I think that I've worked out a system to better document the more important events of the day. Don't tell anybody, but it's called a "D-I-A-R-Y" or, if you prefer, a "J-O-U-R-N-A-L". We should be mostly caught up now, right?
Ruff.
Almost. I'll start simply.
I'm officially at the beginning of week four. If we could rewind for a moment, I cycled from a conference in Houston to Brownsville during week one; stumbled my way through culture shock and ill-founded expectations throughout week two; and met varied "success" over week three. My goal for week four is, ever so slowly, to make my way out of Brownsville/Matamoros and start in on the more Western towns of the Rio Grande Valley and their southern neighbors.
Week one you might have read about already. I was having the time of my life. I had little more to think about than how far I had to travel during the day, what route I was going to take, what I was going to feed myself and where I was going to sleep at night. The rest was all "filler"--playful internal anecdotes about vegetable stand owners who apparently think that bicycles can somehow transmit airborne viruses to their produce; beautiful, bikini-clad young women who appear in the middle of nowhere to wash their vehicles and fuel the imaginative mind of a lone cyclist for another forty miles; and, of course, ravenous packs of teeth-gnashing mosquitos bent on sanguinary world domination.
The second week was a comparative shock. Off my bike and out of my element, I had actual work to do. The first thing I noticed was that almost all the people in Brownsville were Hispanic. A big surprise, right? It was for me. I had spent in enough time in Nogales, Arizona, and Nogales, Sonora, to be convinced that, in every border town you're going to come across at least some Caucasian people. Amidst a sea of dark eyes and dark hair, I learned that this wasn't always the case.
Past the culture shock--I had just come from Austin and Houston, for the love--I met some difficulty just in getting the more formal aspects of the project off the ground. I could ride a bike, but could I actually talk with people? A lot of the time I was nervous--will potential conversants be willing to speak with me? Am I taking too much time from their day? Do I speak with them in English? In Spanish? What the hell am I doing here? It took me more than a few "interviews" to realize that not every meeting was going to be the same. In some, I had to be more formal and better prepared. In others, I needed to relax, be myself, and communicate in whatever language was necessary--thus far Spanish, English, sign and even play.
Whereas the second week I was extremely concerned about both the quality and quantity of my conversations--I would drive a borrowed car across the city numerous times each day in an effort to adhere to a strict, self-imposed schedule--I loosened up considerably during the third week. If I was able to meet with two people in one day, that was great. But If I was able to spend a whole day with only one person, that was amazing. Tangentially I would come into contact with a wider network of people that would help share a more in-depth understanding of whatever issue I had set out to tackle. Maybe just as importantly, on a personal note, I had a friend and a family for a day.
That's been a major concern since I've been in Brownsville/Matamoros: feeling comfortable enough to show up and be present in my interactions with others or, in other words, carrying with me a sense of "home" wherever I go. This task is made a lot easier when, like right this very moment, others open up their homes and extend their full trust to me. In fact, it looks as though I'll be house sitting for the next couple of days at the Calpulli Tlalpalcalli while the owners are visiting a son in Tucson and another tenant left to bury her oldest sister (her words).
The capstone lesson thus far has been to be willing and gracious in accepting the help that the community has to offer. In the last two weeks, I've had a roof over my head every night. One week I had a car. This last week, a different person took me to lunch almost every day.
Giving is gratifying--we all know that. As a society, we must also learn that there is great dignity in receiving.
For me, this means that I have to take a moment to recognize each conversation that I share as a gift. I suppose this also means that I be even more patient when people don't return my calls, blow off our scheduled appointments and generally look at me, in bike helmet and all, like I've just stepped off the mothership.
If you're wondering about my general reception, I'll be honest in telling you that most people are really supportive of the project. Some conversations that I think will last no longer than ten minutes will go on for hours. But other conversations aren't so... fortuitous. It's not uncommon for some to look at me with his or her head cocked to the side like a puppy who can't quite figure out what's going on.
"Aaaaand you areeeeee..." some bark. "Aaaaaaand whooooo are you working with?" other growl. "Aaaaaand whoooose project is this?"
It can get a little predictable, and I have the response down pat. I usually end up repeating myself. A lot. Sometimes it's as though people don't actually want to believe what I have to say, so they question me over and over again to see if it's really true.
It is all true, I swear to you. Enough of this, though. If you read on you'll find posts about what's actually happened over the last two weeks. I'll have more posts coming, and I think that I've worked out a system to better document the more important events of the day. Don't tell anybody, but it's called a "D-I-A-R-Y" or, if you prefer, a "J-O-U-R-N-A-L". We should be mostly caught up now, right?
Ruff.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Part 1 (San Benito, TX): trials by night
Maybe the easiest way to look at the initial days of the trip is not even to look at the days all, but the nights. The days of cycling were relatively the same--almost monotonous at times--but things really picked up at night. "Picked up" usually meant that something (anything) happened in the two or three hours I had between making dinner and sleeping. The life of a cyclist is a bundle of excitement, I'll tell ya. Off the bike, I never quite knew what to expect. Some nights I'd find my way to the home of a person with whom I'd been in contact previously. Other nights were more of a karmic nature, meaning to say that a bed found its way to me. In any case, here's a[n almost overly-extensive] look back at Voluntour 1951's trials by night. For those concerned with brevity, skip to the end.
The first night. I arrived in Houston by bus and I didn't have anywhere to stay. I lugged my bike onto a park-and-ride bus to shave down another twenty miles of the cycling whittling block, and I found myself with two options: get a cheap hotel room for the night or go to the campus where I would attend a conference the next day and find some place to camp out. If you knew me well, you wouldn't even have to guess which choice I made. I pedaled straight to the university and set up my tent behind the ceramics studio. Nestled in between the studio and a patch of bayou forest, I awoke only to an armadillo coughing--better than the crocodiles that also apparently lived in the backwoods nearby.
I found a home, both literally and figuratively at the Chicano-Latino Leadership and Unity Conference the next day. I found myself among people who were doing and have done--people who understood the Latino community (or said they did) and would give me a whole slew of suggestions for my project. One of those persons was Lorena Lopez, who ended up taking her little cycling puppy home for a night and calling Univision the next day to interview him (which they did).
For the next two nights, I curled up in the home of Samantha Rainman, a junior high school teacher (please correct me if I'm wrong, Samantha) who was nice enough to respond to a petition for housing that I had made on Craigslist.org. She gave me full reign of her house, pots and cooking utensils, and welcomed me whole-heartedly into her home. That, and she played a mean backgammon.
After recovering from Samantha's board game demolition, I started the first leg of the cycling venture. On the first night, I managed to bang out a tough eighty-five miles into a mild headwind. My plan was to make it to a campsite directly south of Houston, Bryan Beach, a section of what I've aptly named "Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito" Island". As I left late in the morning, night fell upon me all too quickly. With the campsite nowhere to be found and darkness enveloping, I walked right up to an older gentlemen's house and asked to borrow a patch of his lawn to set up my tent for the evening. Stan not only consented but also granted me a reprieve from fire ants and said killer mosquitos that ate my flesh by inviting me into his house, offering me dinner and putting me up in one of his cozy guest bedrooms. I accepted and, after a balmy shower, slept like a lamb.
The next night this little lamb bleated until his good shepherd arrived to rescue him. Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito Island became Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito Southeast Texas, and those flying denziens of death attempted to suck me dry. Although I managed to find a developed campsite in LaVaca, I cursed the stars for my twisted fate, not only because of the mosquitos--oh no--but because of the insane six dollars I had to pay for an evening in a well-lit, routinely patrolled gulag replete with all the utilities that I could ever ask for. Six dollars for toilets, showers and running water--could you believe the nerve of those campsite directors? Why didn't they just ask me for a kidney?
Spewing vomitous language through gritted teeth, I paid my fee. I began to set up my tent, the mosquitos began their feast, and more cursing ensued. The camp began to stir. I watched in the distance as the camp host climbed calmly into his golf cart and grabbed a silver-looking canister to tranquilize the howling beast. "It's still got some spray left in it," he said. "Not much, but enough to cover you." I baaa-d a meek little thank-you and praised the saint for his penitent show of mercy. As I was passing out soon thereafter, I realized that I would never again put six dollars to better use.
The next morning I woke up to another ravenous pack of mosquitos and an empty bottle of bug repellant. We all had a quick breakfast to start our day.
Skip to night number seven: Mustang Island Beach. Somehow the good fortune of my meeting with the saint continued well in through the following evening. My penance paid, the mosquitos were nowhere to be found. The vicious gnawing sound of their tiny teeth with I dozed at night? Gone. Instead, I was forced asunder by the gentle lulls of the tide thirty yards to the east. I slept soundly throughout the night, blissfully comatose.
Had I known that the next hundred miles held little more in store for me than dusty farm roads and busy highways cruising through vast stretches of nothingness, I might have stayed at the beach another day. That morning I set out with intentions to ride eighty miles and enjoy a precious couple of hours of light in the late afternoon. At the eighty-mile mark, I found myself plunk in the middle of Hellifino, Texas. So I rode another twenty miles. Still nothing. Another ten: two private hunting grounds straddling the highway and no one in sight. After hoppping a gate, I found a water spigot tucked away along the backroad of the easternmost property. As I walked back to my bike, I saw a truck pull through the gate on its way out, and I managed to flag down a gentleman for three bottles of water, an orange soda and permission to camp out on the land for the night. He happily obliged.
The next morning, I woke up to the same truck clamoring its way through the gate--this time with a complement of six hunters garbed in full camo. I scrambled out of my tent, put on my shoes and, in little more than my cycling jersey and boxers, greeted them with a hearty "Good morning, gentlemen!" They whipped their heads around to see who (or what) I was, started laughing and drove off. I could have sworn I heard someone saying "we should have shot it, Jim, we should have shot it" as they pulled away. I could have sworn...
And nights nine though fifteen (or something of the like): a comfortable little nook in the home of a Ms. Elizabeth Garcia, grassroots organizer extrodinaire. Over the last week, I borrowed her car, ate her food and shared in her experience. She showed me around towns in not one but two countries and did all that she could to make my experience in the Brownsville/Matamoros area a meaningful one. At times I felt awkward by her humble shows of generosity and felt that I had very little to give in return. This was life lesson number one on the trip: be open to receive from community.
There have been more life lessons, both on and off the bike, but I'll get to those in posts to come. I realize that more and more is going to change as this trip pushes on. For example, I won't have time to write very many posts like these. To be able to sit back, write and relax was a luxury of the first few days of this project, but one that is quickly giving way to more compact organization and structure. I still have fun, don't get me wrong, but things are changing. I'll send out another post when I can.
And to let you all know, I'm now staying at the Calpulli Tlapalcalli, a center for indigenous Azteca-Chichimeca culture and community. I'm doing well--I've even managed to hijack a computer a local library--and I'll be here for the next couple of days. All told, I should be in the Rio Grande Valley for a total of three to four weeks. One conversation leads to another, and each demands that I be more considerate of the depth of these communities. This is to say that I'll be here for a while, and I'm liking it. There are some good people in the world, and they do good things--like put a wandering cyclist up for the night.
The first night. I arrived in Houston by bus and I didn't have anywhere to stay. I lugged my bike onto a park-and-ride bus to shave down another twenty miles of the cycling whittling block, and I found myself with two options: get a cheap hotel room for the night or go to the campus where I would attend a conference the next day and find some place to camp out. If you knew me well, you wouldn't even have to guess which choice I made. I pedaled straight to the university and set up my tent behind the ceramics studio. Nestled in between the studio and a patch of bayou forest, I awoke only to an armadillo coughing--better than the crocodiles that also apparently lived in the backwoods nearby.
I found a home, both literally and figuratively at the Chicano-Latino Leadership and Unity Conference the next day. I found myself among people who were doing and have done--people who understood the Latino community (or said they did) and would give me a whole slew of suggestions for my project. One of those persons was Lorena Lopez, who ended up taking her little cycling puppy home for a night and calling Univision the next day to interview him (which they did).
For the next two nights, I curled up in the home of Samantha Rainman, a junior high school teacher (please correct me if I'm wrong, Samantha) who was nice enough to respond to a petition for housing that I had made on Craigslist.org. She gave me full reign of her house, pots and cooking utensils, and welcomed me whole-heartedly into her home. That, and she played a mean backgammon.
After recovering from Samantha's board game demolition, I started the first leg of the cycling venture. On the first night, I managed to bang out a tough eighty-five miles into a mild headwind. My plan was to make it to a campsite directly south of Houston, Bryan Beach, a section of what I've aptly named "Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito" Island". As I left late in the morning, night fell upon me all too quickly. With the campsite nowhere to be found and darkness enveloping, I walked right up to an older gentlemen's house and asked to borrow a patch of his lawn to set up my tent for the evening. Stan not only consented but also granted me a reprieve from fire ants and said killer mosquitos that ate my flesh by inviting me into his house, offering me dinner and putting me up in one of his cozy guest bedrooms. I accepted and, after a balmy shower, slept like a lamb.
The next night this little lamb bleated until his good shepherd arrived to rescue him. Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito Island became Flesh-Eating Killer Mosquito Southeast Texas, and those flying denziens of death attempted to suck me dry. Although I managed to find a developed campsite in LaVaca, I cursed the stars for my twisted fate, not only because of the mosquitos--oh no--but because of the insane six dollars I had to pay for an evening in a well-lit, routinely patrolled gulag replete with all the utilities that I could ever ask for. Six dollars for toilets, showers and running water--could you believe the nerve of those campsite directors? Why didn't they just ask me for a kidney?
Spewing vomitous language through gritted teeth, I paid my fee. I began to set up my tent, the mosquitos began their feast, and more cursing ensued. The camp began to stir. I watched in the distance as the camp host climbed calmly into his golf cart and grabbed a silver-looking canister to tranquilize the howling beast. "It's still got some spray left in it," he said. "Not much, but enough to cover you." I baaa-d a meek little thank-you and praised the saint for his penitent show of mercy. As I was passing out soon thereafter, I realized that I would never again put six dollars to better use.
The next morning I woke up to another ravenous pack of mosquitos and an empty bottle of bug repellant. We all had a quick breakfast to start our day.
Skip to night number seven: Mustang Island Beach. Somehow the good fortune of my meeting with the saint continued well in through the following evening. My penance paid, the mosquitos were nowhere to be found. The vicious gnawing sound of their tiny teeth with I dozed at night? Gone. Instead, I was forced asunder by the gentle lulls of the tide thirty yards to the east. I slept soundly throughout the night, blissfully comatose.
Had I known that the next hundred miles held little more in store for me than dusty farm roads and busy highways cruising through vast stretches of nothingness, I might have stayed at the beach another day. That morning I set out with intentions to ride eighty miles and enjoy a precious couple of hours of light in the late afternoon. At the eighty-mile mark, I found myself plunk in the middle of Hellifino, Texas. So I rode another twenty miles. Still nothing. Another ten: two private hunting grounds straddling the highway and no one in sight. After hoppping a gate, I found a water spigot tucked away along the backroad of the easternmost property. As I walked back to my bike, I saw a truck pull through the gate on its way out, and I managed to flag down a gentleman for three bottles of water, an orange soda and permission to camp out on the land for the night. He happily obliged.
The next morning, I woke up to the same truck clamoring its way through the gate--this time with a complement of six hunters garbed in full camo. I scrambled out of my tent, put on my shoes and, in little more than my cycling jersey and boxers, greeted them with a hearty "Good morning, gentlemen!" They whipped their heads around to see who (or what) I was, started laughing and drove off. I could have sworn I heard someone saying "we should have shot it, Jim, we should have shot it" as they pulled away. I could have sworn...
And nights nine though fifteen (or something of the like): a comfortable little nook in the home of a Ms. Elizabeth Garcia, grassroots organizer extrodinaire. Over the last week, I borrowed her car, ate her food and shared in her experience. She showed me around towns in not one but two countries and did all that she could to make my experience in the Brownsville/Matamoros area a meaningful one. At times I felt awkward by her humble shows of generosity and felt that I had very little to give in return. This was life lesson number one on the trip: be open to receive from community.
There have been more life lessons, both on and off the bike, but I'll get to those in posts to come. I realize that more and more is going to change as this trip pushes on. For example, I won't have time to write very many posts like these. To be able to sit back, write and relax was a luxury of the first few days of this project, but one that is quickly giving way to more compact organization and structure. I still have fun, don't get me wrong, but things are changing. I'll send out another post when I can.
And to let you all know, I'm now staying at the Calpulli Tlapalcalli, a center for indigenous Azteca-Chichimeca culture and community. I'm doing well--I've even managed to hijack a computer a local library--and I'll be here for the next couple of days. All told, I should be in the Rio Grande Valley for a total of three to four weeks. One conversation leads to another, and each demands that I be more considerate of the depth of these communities. This is to say that I'll be here for a while, and I'm liking it. There are some good people in the world, and they do good things--like put a wandering cyclist up for the night.
Part 1 (cycling to Brownsville, TX): stray thoughts and animals
COWS. It's funny. How many times have you gone past a whole herd a grazing cows while you're in your vehicle? You can't even get them to look at you. You "moo" at the top of your lungs out the side of the window, and they just keep on muching, bleary eyed. But I'll tell you what, when I ride by on my bicycle, those cows look at me like I'm a horseman of the apocalypse. I tell them in my squeaky mother voice "Hey, guys, don't worry about it...no, it's cool...relax, no guys, it's fine", and they take off at full gallop, although a lot of times in the same direction I'm going. They're not exactly the smartest of herd animals.
ROADKILL. It was a neck and neck race between the racoon and armadillo for the "Most Likely to Become Pulverized by Vulcanized Rubber" cup, until the snake slithered his way in between. It looked like a photo finish as the three reached the white line separating the right-of-way and the highway, but glorious victory was quickly squashed as a car edged over the painted divide and made quick abstractions of the unfortunate trio. "Don't tread on me" indeed.
YIPPY DOGS. People warned me about the dogs before I even started the trip, but I didn't believe them. They talked and talked about big, mean werewolf-dogs with sharp fangs that would gnaw my legs off while I rode, but they didn't say anything about what I really need to watch out for: little worthless yippy dogs. Yippy dogs, having been pampered all their lives by owners who cart them around in Prada purses, have no respect for cyclists, much less their owners. They leap from their owners' arms at the first sight of man and bike, scurrying as fast as their tiny legs allow and yipping like they're actually menacing. The things is, though, for fifteen seconds they're reeeeeally fast. They get too close for comfort sometimes, and I, the peace-loving veggie-eater, often hope that some vehicle (preferably a small one) puts them out of their misery and into the category above.
ROADKILL. It was a neck and neck race between the racoon and armadillo for the "Most Likely to Become Pulverized by Vulcanized Rubber" cup, until the snake slithered his way in between. It looked like a photo finish as the three reached the white line separating the right-of-way and the highway, but glorious victory was quickly squashed as a car edged over the painted divide and made quick abstractions of the unfortunate trio. "Don't tread on me" indeed.
YIPPY DOGS. People warned me about the dogs before I even started the trip, but I didn't believe them. They talked and talked about big, mean werewolf-dogs with sharp fangs that would gnaw my legs off while I rode, but they didn't say anything about what I really need to watch out for: little worthless yippy dogs. Yippy dogs, having been pampered all their lives by owners who cart them around in Prada purses, have no respect for cyclists, much less their owners. They leap from their owners' arms at the first sight of man and bike, scurrying as fast as their tiny legs allow and yipping like they're actually menacing. The things is, though, for fifteen seconds they're reeeeeally fast. They get too close for comfort sometimes, and I, the peace-loving veggie-eater, often hope that some vehicle (preferably a small one) puts them out of their misery and into the category above.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Part 1 (cycling to Brownsville, TX): the five states of cycling being
A lone cyclist thinks about many things on the road--where his next stop is going to be, how much water he needs to bring, what car is going to try and run over him next, etc. Every once in a while, however, a thought emerges that considers something outside of the routine, at times mundane circumstances in which the lone cyclist finds himself. This lone cyclist invites you into his innermost psyche--a glimpse into what a guy on a bike thinks about for hours on end.
I present to you all the five states of my cycling being:
Gritty McGriterson: I imagine Gritty as an old farmer or war veteran. Gritty doesn't complain or groan about the unfortunate circumstances that unfold in front of him. He just stares down the road ahead, steel eyed, chews on something, spits and says "well boy, it's time to get a move on." Gritty is pragmaticism meets will, and he'll never back down from anyone or anything, given good reason. Gritty is nails.
The Happy Buddha: The Happy Buddha, on the other hand, could care less about nails or will or pragmaticism. The Happy Buddha emerges as a supremely enlightened and blissful state of being most often after a good rest and a good meal. Sitting high in his seat with a smile radiant upon his face, the Happy Buddha could ride through a mine field--or midday traffic on a busy highway (almost the same)--without so much as a care in the world. The Happy Buddha is one with traffic and considers speeding, careening vehicles purely as emanations of false objective realities. He laughs at cars.
Grog: Grog grunts at cars. He is my usual morning state, arriving in the early hours as some sort of prehistoric caveman. Grog, descendant of "Grogginess", can ride for hours straight in the morning. He feels little emotion and absolutely no pain. He cycles so well because of a not-so-conspicuous lack of self-consciousness, and would respond to any vehicle or driver with an appropriate "Grog pedal" or, on his more eloquent days, "Grog pedal fast". Of all my states, I'm probably most thankful for Grog. He's always there when I need him.
Rolls: Rolls is actually cousin to both the Happy Buddha and Grog. Rolls, as his name would indicate, just rolls. He is me at my best--when my mental state is both calm and clear and my body functions with ease and fluidity. I find myself in a Rolls-state only after hours of cycling. Rolls is a man of action but always extremely considerate of the balance between his own being and the world around him. He is the patient, smiling and determined self that I strive to be on and off the bike.
The Wince: At every other moment, I'm firmly entrenched in The Wince. The Wince is a fish out of water, flopping painfully and gasping for air. The Wince is the pain in my ass traversing its way across my entire body and into my mind. The Wince is a full body-soul shudder--a punch to the gut of my very being. I despise The Wince, but I understand and value The Wince as a starting point for other, more desirable states of being.
I have too much time on my hands.
I present to you all the five states of my cycling being:
Gritty McGriterson: I imagine Gritty as an old farmer or war veteran. Gritty doesn't complain or groan about the unfortunate circumstances that unfold in front of him. He just stares down the road ahead, steel eyed, chews on something, spits and says "well boy, it's time to get a move on." Gritty is pragmaticism meets will, and he'll never back down from anyone or anything, given good reason. Gritty is nails.
The Happy Buddha: The Happy Buddha, on the other hand, could care less about nails or will or pragmaticism. The Happy Buddha emerges as a supremely enlightened and blissful state of being most often after a good rest and a good meal. Sitting high in his seat with a smile radiant upon his face, the Happy Buddha could ride through a mine field--or midday traffic on a busy highway (almost the same)--without so much as a care in the world. The Happy Buddha is one with traffic and considers speeding, careening vehicles purely as emanations of false objective realities. He laughs at cars.
Grog: Grog grunts at cars. He is my usual morning state, arriving in the early hours as some sort of prehistoric caveman. Grog, descendant of "Grogginess", can ride for hours straight in the morning. He feels little emotion and absolutely no pain. He cycles so well because of a not-so-conspicuous lack of self-consciousness, and would respond to any vehicle or driver with an appropriate "Grog pedal" or, on his more eloquent days, "Grog pedal fast". Of all my states, I'm probably most thankful for Grog. He's always there when I need him.
Rolls: Rolls is actually cousin to both the Happy Buddha and Grog. Rolls, as his name would indicate, just rolls. He is me at my best--when my mental state is both calm and clear and my body functions with ease and fluidity. I find myself in a Rolls-state only after hours of cycling. Rolls is a man of action but always extremely considerate of the balance between his own being and the world around him. He is the patient, smiling and determined self that I strive to be on and off the bike.
The Wince: At every other moment, I'm firmly entrenched in The Wince. The Wince is a fish out of water, flopping painfully and gasping for air. The Wince is the pain in my ass traversing its way across my entire body and into my mind. The Wince is a full body-soul shudder--a punch to the gut of my very being. I despise The Wince, but I understand and value The Wince as a starting point for other, more desirable states of being.
I have too much time on my hands.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Part 1 (Brownsville, TX): Made it to the next island...
Family and friends,
The Dudley Docker II and precious cargo (me) are safely in port. After five days and 450 miles, I arrived in Brownsville at 5 p.m. central time. I've already been in contact with some really amazing people, and I'm setting up a good dozen conversations for this next week.
I'll update this blog more extensively in the next couple of days.
The Dudley Docker II and precious cargo (me) are safely in port. After five days and 450 miles, I arrived in Brownsville at 5 p.m. central time. I've already been in contact with some really amazing people, and I'm setting up a good dozen conversations for this next week.
I'll update this blog more extensively in the next couple of days.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Part 1 (Houston, TX): Shipping out...
I'm leaving again for Brownsville tomorrow (Tuesday). I'll be on the road for five or six days, and I'm hoping to arrive at least by Sunday morning.
My plan is to have another couple-three posts ready for you all by the time I arrive in Brownsville. The short of it is that I attended the conference, met some really knowledgeable individuals, gained a slew of new contacts and ended up on the Houston Univision's weekend news broadcast. The DDII is ready to go, and so am I.
To the next island...
My plan is to have another couple-three posts ready for you all by the time I arrive in Brownsville. The short of it is that I attended the conference, met some really knowledgeable individuals, gained a slew of new contacts and ended up on the Houston Univision's weekend news broadcast. The DDII is ready to go, and so am I.
To the next island...
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Part 1 (Houston, TX): The Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference
The Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference was the point of departure for everything that I'm doing now. Although my arrival in Houston for the conference came about as a sort of cosmic accident (someone stole my bike and I ended up leaving Austin a week later than expected), my attendance allowed me to connect with and learn from both the upstart and mature activist crowds.
I took four things from the conference, the first of which was a more in-depth understanding of the DREAM Act (see A Real Halloween Scare and a Note on A Real Halloween Scare) over at www.theborderedmind.blogspot.com.
The second was realization of the widespread impact of the Minutemen across the United States. We see burgeoning groups as far north as Michigan, patrolling the Canadian border. Other groups exist in California and, of course, my home state of Arizona where it all started.
In Houston, local organizers formed the Coalition Against Intolerance & For Respect when Minutmen announced that they were going to patrol local city streets, taking video of the day labor sites as part of their patrols for what they feel is an "invasion". Seasoned activist Maria Jimenez, along with other coalition members, immediately held a press conference, created groups that went to schools and churches, and staged protests so as to educate and bring awareness about the Minutemen's intents. They also worked with day laborers to document any cases in which their civil rights have been violated. I don't know how active the Minutemen are in Houston currently (as of November 8th), but I know that people are at least informed.
The next thing I took from the conference was a simple phrase from a great corrido musician, Jesus "Chuy" Negrete. At the end of his performance, he said that "when people sing together, they stay together." In light of the coalition's title above--Against Intolerance and For Respect--this was an important realization to make. With protest and peace-building, the efforts must be balanced. If people can shout, they can sing. If people can fight for their rights, they can also work in other ways to create a more harmonious world.
This means that we can connect the ear to action. I once heard Dolores Huerta, the yang to Cesar Chavez's yin, speak in Arizona. She said that "those who are educated become louder"--literally that there is more force and conviction to their words. We shouted vivas in return--"¡Viva Dolores Huerta!, ¡Viva Cesar Chavez!, ¡Viva la Raza!"--and she left to the sam thunderous Chicano clap that she and Cesar used to start their meetings. The clap slowing began in unison, gradually grew faster and soon erupted into a ubiquitous roar. Action to ear.
The last thing I took from the conference was a new direction to this journey. A quick history lesson: in the Chicano Civil Rights Movement of the 60s and 70s, there were four main figures--Cesar Chavez, Reies Lopez Tijerina, Corky Gonzalez and Jose Angel Gutierrez. Of these four, Gutierrez is the only one still alive, and I was fortunate enough to sit down with him for a conversation. Actually, I interrupted his lunch and almost forced him to listen to me, but we'll get to that.
He just finished speaking with passers-by after his keynote address, and he was sitting down to a much-deserved meal. After patiently biding my time to lure him into a verbal onslaught, I asked if I could sit with him for a "couple of minutes". He graciously consented, so I then emptied my salvo of 5,000 questions specifically designed to keep him from eating. Lorena Lopez, another attendee to the conference who woudl actually end up putting me up for the night, came to his rescue, asking to join into the "conversation" and effectively distracting me. "Sure, go ahead," he said. "It doesn't look like this guy is going to quit any time soon."
Having swallowed a dose of insta-humility, I left the man to eat and entered into an actual conversation. I explained to them both my project--where I was from, how I got the idea, etc. Lorena was very excited and asked me question after question, while Don Gutierrez listened intently. After a time, he offered the following:
"She didn't say it, but I will," he said. "You don't look Mexican... You have unearned white privilege."
"Who can ride the border?" he continued. "Them?", meaning to say many of the Hispanic community. His eyebrows raised and he pointed at me. "You."
"You're doing this because you can ride the border, and you have to confront that. They can't ride the border. Some of them are living day to day." His eyebrows raised again. "You aren't."
"You can walk into a Minuteman meeting and they'll let you walk right in." They wouldn't even bat an eye. They wouldn't even look twice. "And if you looked a little bit different?"
"We can't pick our parents," he said. I happened to be born to a Mexican-American mother of olive complection and a Caucasian father. Everyone in the conversation knew this. We also knew that it meant a particular sort of responsibility.
I'm still trying to figure out what exactly that responsibility is, but for right now, this is it. I'm giong to ride a bicycle two thousand miles, learn, and educate others about the issues of social injustice along the border and what some are doing to change them. This is part of my resposibility, and this is what I took from the conference.
Can you sing these words?
I took four things from the conference, the first of which was a more in-depth understanding of the DREAM Act (see A Real Halloween Scare and a Note on A Real Halloween Scare) over at www.theborderedmind.blogspot.com.
The second was realization of the widespread impact of the Minutemen across the United States. We see burgeoning groups as far north as Michigan, patrolling the Canadian border. Other groups exist in California and, of course, my home state of Arizona where it all started.
In Houston, local organizers formed the Coalition Against Intolerance & For Respect when Minutmen announced that they were going to patrol local city streets, taking video of the day labor sites as part of their patrols for what they feel is an "invasion". Seasoned activist Maria Jimenez, along with other coalition members, immediately held a press conference, created groups that went to schools and churches, and staged protests so as to educate and bring awareness about the Minutemen's intents. They also worked with day laborers to document any cases in which their civil rights have been violated. I don't know how active the Minutemen are in Houston currently (as of November 8th), but I know that people are at least informed.
The next thing I took from the conference was a simple phrase from a great corrido musician, Jesus "Chuy" Negrete. At the end of his performance, he said that "when people sing together, they stay together." In light of the coalition's title above--Against Intolerance and For Respect--this was an important realization to make. With protest and peace-building, the efforts must be balanced. If people can shout, they can sing. If people can fight for their rights, they can also work in other ways to create a more harmonious world.
This means that we can connect the ear to action. I once heard Dolores Huerta, the yang to Cesar Chavez's yin, speak in Arizona. She said that "those who are educated become louder"--literally that there is more force and conviction to their words. We shouted vivas in return--"¡Viva Dolores Huerta!, ¡Viva Cesar Chavez!, ¡Viva la Raza!"--and she left to the sam thunderous Chicano clap that she and Cesar used to start their meetings. The clap slowing began in unison, gradually grew faster and soon erupted into a ubiquitous roar. Action to ear.
The last thing I took from the conference was a new direction to this journey. A quick history lesson: in the Chicano Civil Rights Movement of the 60s and 70s, there were four main figures--Cesar Chavez, Reies Lopez Tijerina, Corky Gonzalez and Jose Angel Gutierrez. Of these four, Gutierrez is the only one still alive, and I was fortunate enough to sit down with him for a conversation. Actually, I interrupted his lunch and almost forced him to listen to me, but we'll get to that.
He just finished speaking with passers-by after his keynote address, and he was sitting down to a much-deserved meal. After patiently biding my time to lure him into a verbal onslaught, I asked if I could sit with him for a "couple of minutes". He graciously consented, so I then emptied my salvo of 5,000 questions specifically designed to keep him from eating. Lorena Lopez, another attendee to the conference who woudl actually end up putting me up for the night, came to his rescue, asking to join into the "conversation" and effectively distracting me. "Sure, go ahead," he said. "It doesn't look like this guy is going to quit any time soon."
Having swallowed a dose of insta-humility, I left the man to eat and entered into an actual conversation. I explained to them both my project--where I was from, how I got the idea, etc. Lorena was very excited and asked me question after question, while Don Gutierrez listened intently. After a time, he offered the following:
"She didn't say it, but I will," he said. "You don't look Mexican... You have unearned white privilege."
"Who can ride the border?" he continued. "Them?", meaning to say many of the Hispanic community. His eyebrows raised and he pointed at me. "You."
"You're doing this because you can ride the border, and you have to confront that. They can't ride the border. Some of them are living day to day." His eyebrows raised again. "You aren't."
"You can walk into a Minuteman meeting and they'll let you walk right in." They wouldn't even bat an eye. They wouldn't even look twice. "And if you looked a little bit different?"
"We can't pick our parents," he said. I happened to be born to a Mexican-American mother of olive complection and a Caucasian father. Everyone in the conversation knew this. We also knew that it meant a particular sort of responsibility.
I'm still trying to figure out what exactly that responsibility is, but for right now, this is it. I'm giong to ride a bicycle two thousand miles, learn, and educate others about the issues of social injustice along the border and what some are doing to change them. This is part of my resposibility, and this is what I took from the conference.
Can you sing these words?
Part 1 (on the bus to Houston, TX): "Puddle Jumper"
Have you ever tried to pee in the washcloset of a moving bus? Good lord, I'm soaked.
Part 1 (on the bus to Houston, TX): "AS THE LEAVES BURN"/ Get on the bus.
To preface, I took a bus to Houston because I was unable to clear two days to make the trip by bike. I had too much work to do to get the Dudley Docker II ready.
I just got on the bus to Houston. For a minute, the whole of civilation almost fell apart when the bus--my bus--arrived with a full load of passengers. Waiting travelers responded in uproar--"Where's my bus?", "Why is it full?", "But I'm a paaaaying customer...", "Does the other bus go straight to Houston?", "Where does it stop?"
Damnit, people, relax. Five minute of standing in line later, we're on another bus that will actually arrive in Houston sooner than the first. People, it's cool.
'Minds me of the hostel in Austin. The other day the shit really hit the fan when Melodrama Man confronted Cowboy Hat in what will forever live on as "The Leaf Burning Incident". In order to earn a free room for the night, Cowboy Hat raked up some leaves around the complex. Seeing that the leaves were abundant and the trash bins few, he started to burn the leaves in their respective piles. Melodrama Man, apparently stunned by the audacity of such an action, ran out of the hostel and scolded Cowboy Hat for his poor judgement. Cowboy Hat responded with a "fuck you", Melodrama Man returned the volley, and the latter got his feelings hurt while the former continued raking.
Shit. The bus isn't leaving until three--an hour away. Here we go again. The Western World crumbles at the feet of the almighty Greyhound. No, ma'am, you cannot get on another bus. There is no other bus. No, ma'am, you cannot yell at the driver. There's a manager readily available for just that purpose.
Lady, it's cool.
I guess I've been overly receptive of people's bad vibes lately. After a week of pacing around, watching, waiting, pushing, watching, waiting, pushing, I've become especially susceptible to the coughs and sneezes of other people's ills.
Enough of that, though. I just got myself a candy bar. I had a hunger inside me.
I put together a new bike--an old Diamondback Outlook, actually, with freshly-mounted clipless pedals, new brakes, handlebar extenders, rims and tires. At a hunkering thirty-eight and a half pounds, the Dudley Docker II is sea-worthy too, although not the speedy schooner of its prior incarnation. With thirty-five pounds of gear on a handlebar bag strapped on with an inner tube (as the attachment remains stolen) and a rack cannibalized from another bike, the DDII is a floating tank. It's cool.
Believe it or not, I'm actually about to roll out right now. This bus is on the move. Next stop: Houston, site of the Chicano-Latino Leadership and Unity Conference. I'll be there for a couple of days, and if everything works out I'll most likely be heading down to Brownsville once again. I imagine that this conference will be the kick in the tail to make it happen.
A couple of things before I leave you: the first is an out-and-out thanks to the people at the Yellow Bike Project. They are really amazing individuals. The whole premise behind the Project is that volunteers get together a few nights a week to restore and make usable bikes that have been donated. In the last few weeks, most of those bikes have gone to Katrina evacuees--I myself saw a freshly-transplanted family with five young children ride around with loud, uncontainable excitement on their new bicycles. Other bikes are sold to folks like me, and hundreds have been given to the Austin community. Yellow Bike volunteers give their time, share their knowledge freely and do a lot of good for a lot of people. For that, they have my thanks.
By the way, city of Austin, the Yellow Bike Project would benefit greatly from the continued use of public space for their efforts. Please help make this happen.
The second pause for consideration concerns recent news and events. In El Paso, the Texas Minutemen are busy on their watches for undocumented immigrants, while the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) are also busy with their own--of the Minutmen. In Tucson, the border nonprofit No More Deaths (Ni Una Mas) is working on creating greater awareness of the trials of two volunteers, Shanti Sellz and Daniel Strauss, who were arrested for taking three severely-dehydrated crossers to a hospital for medical attention. No More Deaths' positon is that it shouldn't be illegal to provide humanitarian aid, regardless of the recipient's nationality.
This last bit of news might be the most important: Jennifer Lopez (yes, the J-Lo) is filming a move in Nogales, Sonora. Hundreds have flocked to the set hoping catch a glimpse of their idol or, perhaps, her pop-rock hubby, Marc Anthony. The movie, "Bordertown" (and this really is important), is about the hundreds of women who have been raped, mutilated and murdered in the real-life border city of Ciudad Juarez.
That's about it for me. You can read up on the above by clicking on the links provided below.
Peace,
The Bike Guy
From moderate to left:
Sellz and Strauss trial 1: moderate
Sellz and Strauss trial 2 (two-thirds down the page): moderate-left
Sellz and Strauss trial 3: left
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-right
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-left
J-Lo
I just got on the bus to Houston. For a minute, the whole of civilation almost fell apart when the bus--my bus--arrived with a full load of passengers. Waiting travelers responded in uproar--"Where's my bus?", "Why is it full?", "But I'm a paaaaying customer...", "Does the other bus go straight to Houston?", "Where does it stop?"
Damnit, people, relax. Five minute of standing in line later, we're on another bus that will actually arrive in Houston sooner than the first. People, it's cool.
'Minds me of the hostel in Austin. The other day the shit really hit the fan when Melodrama Man confronted Cowboy Hat in what will forever live on as "The Leaf Burning Incident". In order to earn a free room for the night, Cowboy Hat raked up some leaves around the complex. Seeing that the leaves were abundant and the trash bins few, he started to burn the leaves in their respective piles. Melodrama Man, apparently stunned by the audacity of such an action, ran out of the hostel and scolded Cowboy Hat for his poor judgement. Cowboy Hat responded with a "fuck you", Melodrama Man returned the volley, and the latter got his feelings hurt while the former continued raking.
Shit. The bus isn't leaving until three--an hour away. Here we go again. The Western World crumbles at the feet of the almighty Greyhound. No, ma'am, you cannot get on another bus. There is no other bus. No, ma'am, you cannot yell at the driver. There's a manager readily available for just that purpose.
Lady, it's cool.
I guess I've been overly receptive of people's bad vibes lately. After a week of pacing around, watching, waiting, pushing, watching, waiting, pushing, I've become especially susceptible to the coughs and sneezes of other people's ills.
Enough of that, though. I just got myself a candy bar. I had a hunger inside me.
I put together a new bike--an old Diamondback Outlook, actually, with freshly-mounted clipless pedals, new brakes, handlebar extenders, rims and tires. At a hunkering thirty-eight and a half pounds, the Dudley Docker II is sea-worthy too, although not the speedy schooner of its prior incarnation. With thirty-five pounds of gear on a handlebar bag strapped on with an inner tube (as the attachment remains stolen) and a rack cannibalized from another bike, the DDII is a floating tank. It's cool.
Believe it or not, I'm actually about to roll out right now. This bus is on the move. Next stop: Houston, site of the Chicano-Latino Leadership and Unity Conference. I'll be there for a couple of days, and if everything works out I'll most likely be heading down to Brownsville once again. I imagine that this conference will be the kick in the tail to make it happen.
A couple of things before I leave you: the first is an out-and-out thanks to the people at the Yellow Bike Project. They are really amazing individuals. The whole premise behind the Project is that volunteers get together a few nights a week to restore and make usable bikes that have been donated. In the last few weeks, most of those bikes have gone to Katrina evacuees--I myself saw a freshly-transplanted family with five young children ride around with loud, uncontainable excitement on their new bicycles. Other bikes are sold to folks like me, and hundreds have been given to the Austin community. Yellow Bike volunteers give their time, share their knowledge freely and do a lot of good for a lot of people. For that, they have my thanks.
By the way, city of Austin, the Yellow Bike Project would benefit greatly from the continued use of public space for their efforts. Please help make this happen.
The second pause for consideration concerns recent news and events. In El Paso, the Texas Minutemen are busy on their watches for undocumented immigrants, while the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) are also busy with their own--of the Minutmen. In Tucson, the border nonprofit No More Deaths (Ni Una Mas) is working on creating greater awareness of the trials of two volunteers, Shanti Sellz and Daniel Strauss, who were arrested for taking three severely-dehydrated crossers to a hospital for medical attention. No More Deaths' positon is that it shouldn't be illegal to provide humanitarian aid, regardless of the recipient's nationality.
This last bit of news might be the most important: Jennifer Lopez (yes, the J-Lo) is filming a move in Nogales, Sonora. Hundreds have flocked to the set hoping catch a glimpse of their idol or, perhaps, her pop-rock hubby, Marc Anthony. The movie, "Bordertown" (and this really is important), is about the hundreds of women who have been raped, mutilated and murdered in the real-life border city of Ciudad Juarez.
That's about it for me. You can read up on the above by clicking on the links provided below.
Peace,
The Bike Guy
From moderate to left:
Sellz and Strauss trial 1: moderate
Sellz and Strauss trial 2 (two-thirds down the page): moderate-left
Sellz and Strauss trial 3: left
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-right
El Paso Minutemen: moderate-left
J-Lo
Part 1 (on the bus to Houston, TX): ON STOLEN BIKES
To whom this may concern,
On Thursday, the fifth of October, 2005, you illegally obtained a mountain bicycle at a picnic area five miles south of Nixon, Texas. That red 1995 GT Zaskar, with yellow extended-frame handlebars, Shimano clipless pedals, STX components and Spin (TM) carbon-fiber wheels, initially belonged to me, a cycling do-gooder with an eye on social change. I intended on riding said bicycle to Brownsville, Texas, then along the U.S./Mexico border to the coasts of the Californias.
You, taking advantage of an opportunity for what you must have thought of as a "free bike", have made this venture unneccesarily difficult. As you had the wherewithal to bring a pair of wire clippers from your place of residence to sever the fence upon which my bike was locked, I would have hoped that you would also have showed equal consideration in locating a potential owner sleeping twenty-five yards away. A simple "Hello, is anybody out there?" or "Alright, I'm going to steal this bike now..." would have been sufficient.
Unfortunately this was not the case, and thus I scoff at you, Sir or Madam--scoff at you. I have submitted theft reports to two counties and have been assured by law enforcement officials that they will do everything in their power to not only recover my stolen bicyle but also put you behind the cold bars of the jail cell in which you so justly belong.
I have constructed a new bicycle and will continue my journey, dear Sir or Madam, and henceforth bear you no ill will. I only hope that you truly needed the bicycle and will enjoy full use of it for the rest of its life. That, and I also implore you to notify the rightful owner of its whereabouts. Past wrongs may not be undone, but this story should and must reach its close.
With my sincerest thoughts,
Ryan Riedel
P.S. I hope you don't believe in karma, you scum-sucking dirtbag, because that stuff stings like hell when it comes back and slaps you upside the head.
P.P.S. Soon you will also to understand the joys of what I termed "The Gouchinator".
P.P.P.S. May your offspring have really hairy feet and may you come down with a wicked case of fatty ankles.
On Thursday, the fifth of October, 2005, you illegally obtained a mountain bicycle at a picnic area five miles south of Nixon, Texas. That red 1995 GT Zaskar, with yellow extended-frame handlebars, Shimano clipless pedals, STX components and Spin (TM) carbon-fiber wheels, initially belonged to me, a cycling do-gooder with an eye on social change. I intended on riding said bicycle to Brownsville, Texas, then along the U.S./Mexico border to the coasts of the Californias.
You, taking advantage of an opportunity for what you must have thought of as a "free bike", have made this venture unneccesarily difficult. As you had the wherewithal to bring a pair of wire clippers from your place of residence to sever the fence upon which my bike was locked, I would have hoped that you would also have showed equal consideration in locating a potential owner sleeping twenty-five yards away. A simple "Hello, is anybody out there?" or "Alright, I'm going to steal this bike now..." would have been sufficient.
Unfortunately this was not the case, and thus I scoff at you, Sir or Madam--scoff at you. I have submitted theft reports to two counties and have been assured by law enforcement officials that they will do everything in their power to not only recover my stolen bicyle but also put you behind the cold bars of the jail cell in which you so justly belong.
I have constructed a new bicycle and will continue my journey, dear Sir or Madam, and henceforth bear you no ill will. I only hope that you truly needed the bicycle and will enjoy full use of it for the rest of its life. That, and I also implore you to notify the rightful owner of its whereabouts. Past wrongs may not be undone, but this story should and must reach its close.
With my sincerest thoughts,
Ryan Riedel
P.S. I hope you don't believe in karma, you scum-sucking dirtbag, because that stuff stings like hell when it comes back and slaps you upside the head.
P.P.S. Soon you will also to understand the joys of what I termed "The Gouchinator".
P.P.P.S. May your offspring have really hairy feet and may you come down with a wicked case of fatty ankles.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Part 1 (Austin, TX): ...and rollin' right back in
Greetings from sunny Austin, Texas. It's a brisk seventy-five degrees outside of the lovely 19th St. and Guadalupe (pronounced Gwa-doll-loop here in Austin) Schlotsky's, home of freely-accessible computers and internet. No librarians to worry about here--only a bleach-blonde woman with a false sense of entitlement that wants to kick me off of yet another computer. Ah, the electronic workstation follies continue...
Last Thursday I set off for Brownsville, Texas. Logging in six and a half hours at a break-neck clip of thirteen miles per hour, I made my way to the action-packed town of Nixon, Texas, where the most excitement you'll find is a two-hour wait for a county deputy at the local sheriff's office--but we'll get to that in a second. As the sun began to set, I sat in the Nixon Dairy Queen with my chocolate milk in hand and a dancing, euphoric grin on my face. After eighty miles of cycling, I had reached a blissful state of enlightenment. I had done; I had accomplished; I had arrived, if only for a day. I couldn't have been any more content.
I cycled another five miles south to a picnic area that I had penned out previously on my map. The idea was to find a place to camp for the night, and I couldn't muster up the courage to knock on a farmer's door and ask him for a humble evening's plot. So, finding that the picnic area itself wasn't exactly suited for camping, I chucked all my gear over a barb-wire fence and pitched my tent about thirty yards away in the backwoods. I chained my bike up to the chest-high fence and called it a night.
I awoke several times--and you can see where this is going--to the sounds of cars passing through the picnic area. People got out of their vehicles and eyed over my locked-up bike. After a couple of minutes, they left and I would go back to sleep. I woke up the next morning to the sound of a trunk slamming repeatedly. In little more than boxers and my jersey, I tossed on my shorts and sprinted over to my bike just as the car took off southbound. Then, calamity. In place of my bike was the tree I leaned it up against. The fence had been snipped, and the barb wire lay forlorn across the leaves. Someone came back from the night before, brought wire clippers and stole my bike, lock and all. I couldn't have been any more upset.
To make a long story short, I hitched a ride back to Nixon with a farmer down the road (it turns out that I did have some courage in me after all), and put in a police report with two counties. A freshly-made friend from Austin drove down to bring me right back to the hostel where I was staying, and I've been plodding around here since.
All's not lost, however. The bike's gone, but I still have all my gear and most of my gumption. The invincibility complex took a beating though, and I've been doing my fair share of soul-searching. This is a project that I believe in and one that I want to sail with, but feelings of frustration and disappointment have stirred up some choppy waters.
Those waters I can navigate.
I hadn't told anybody, but I named the bike "The Endurance". The name comes from ill-fated ship that met its demise in the Antarctic around the turn of the century. Sir Ernest Shackelton, the captain, intended to cross the continent via an unexplored route through the south pole. Months into the voyage, pack ice surrounded the ship and it slowly began to sink into the depths below. The crew set up temporary camp next to the ship and eventually sailed off to a remote island with two of their lifeboats, the Dudley Docker and the James Caird. Shackelton and a hand-picked few left the remaining crew on the island as they set out on an improbable venture for help. Their new ship: the James Caird. In what some call "the greatest voyage of all time", Shackelton arrived at a Norweigan fishing station, having travled three-hundred and eighty miles through rough waters and with only four sightings. He eventually returned to rescue his waiting crew. Though the ordeal lasted almost two years--twenty months--all survived.
So, Plan B:
I'm going to sail out again. With the help of some really knowledgeable and generous folks at a local bicycle cooperative, I've been building up a new bike and should be ready to head out again this Friday. The immediate destination, however, has changed. I've set my sights on Houston for a leadership and unity conference keynoted by Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, a key figure in the Chicano activist movement of the 60's and 70's. My new ship: the Dudley Docker II. For the time being, I'm just trying to make it to the next island. After I arrive in Houston, I'll figure out what I'm going to do--(1) continue on to Brownsville or (2) delay the trip until the new year and make way via Greyhound to El Paso and Tucson for some time-sensitive and very important projects.
I knew that this kind of thing, i.e. someone jacking my bike in the middle of the night, could and most likely would happen, so I named my bike with a little bit of foresight. I just didn't know that it would happen so soon. I don't want this trip to become a protracted rescue mission, and I'm not thick headed enough to continue on in a despite-all-odds fashion. But I am one to keep going. Like Shackelton, my plans have changed. I might just end up with my own James Caird someday.
Last Thursday I set off for Brownsville, Texas. Logging in six and a half hours at a break-neck clip of thirteen miles per hour, I made my way to the action-packed town of Nixon, Texas, where the most excitement you'll find is a two-hour wait for a county deputy at the local sheriff's office--but we'll get to that in a second. As the sun began to set, I sat in the Nixon Dairy Queen with my chocolate milk in hand and a dancing, euphoric grin on my face. After eighty miles of cycling, I had reached a blissful state of enlightenment. I had done; I had accomplished; I had arrived, if only for a day. I couldn't have been any more content.
I cycled another five miles south to a picnic area that I had penned out previously on my map. The idea was to find a place to camp for the night, and I couldn't muster up the courage to knock on a farmer's door and ask him for a humble evening's plot. So, finding that the picnic area itself wasn't exactly suited for camping, I chucked all my gear over a barb-wire fence and pitched my tent about thirty yards away in the backwoods. I chained my bike up to the chest-high fence and called it a night.
I awoke several times--and you can see where this is going--to the sounds of cars passing through the picnic area. People got out of their vehicles and eyed over my locked-up bike. After a couple of minutes, they left and I would go back to sleep. I woke up the next morning to the sound of a trunk slamming repeatedly. In little more than boxers and my jersey, I tossed on my shorts and sprinted over to my bike just as the car took off southbound. Then, calamity. In place of my bike was the tree I leaned it up against. The fence had been snipped, and the barb wire lay forlorn across the leaves. Someone came back from the night before, brought wire clippers and stole my bike, lock and all. I couldn't have been any more upset.
To make a long story short, I hitched a ride back to Nixon with a farmer down the road (it turns out that I did have some courage in me after all), and put in a police report with two counties. A freshly-made friend from Austin drove down to bring me right back to the hostel where I was staying, and I've been plodding around here since.
All's not lost, however. The bike's gone, but I still have all my gear and most of my gumption. The invincibility complex took a beating though, and I've been doing my fair share of soul-searching. This is a project that I believe in and one that I want to sail with, but feelings of frustration and disappointment have stirred up some choppy waters.
Those waters I can navigate.
I hadn't told anybody, but I named the bike "The Endurance". The name comes from ill-fated ship that met its demise in the Antarctic around the turn of the century. Sir Ernest Shackelton, the captain, intended to cross the continent via an unexplored route through the south pole. Months into the voyage, pack ice surrounded the ship and it slowly began to sink into the depths below. The crew set up temporary camp next to the ship and eventually sailed off to a remote island with two of their lifeboats, the Dudley Docker and the James Caird. Shackelton and a hand-picked few left the remaining crew on the island as they set out on an improbable venture for help. Their new ship: the James Caird. In what some call "the greatest voyage of all time", Shackelton arrived at a Norweigan fishing station, having travled three-hundred and eighty miles through rough waters and with only four sightings. He eventually returned to rescue his waiting crew. Though the ordeal lasted almost two years--twenty months--all survived.
So, Plan B:
I'm going to sail out again. With the help of some really knowledgeable and generous folks at a local bicycle cooperative, I've been building up a new bike and should be ready to head out again this Friday. The immediate destination, however, has changed. I've set my sights on Houston for a leadership and unity conference keynoted by Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, a key figure in the Chicano activist movement of the 60's and 70's. My new ship: the Dudley Docker II. For the time being, I'm just trying to make it to the next island. After I arrive in Houston, I'll figure out what I'm going to do--(1) continue on to Brownsville or (2) delay the trip until the new year and make way via Greyhound to El Paso and Tucson for some time-sensitive and very important projects.
I knew that this kind of thing, i.e. someone jacking my bike in the middle of the night, could and most likely would happen, so I named my bike with a little bit of foresight. I just didn't know that it would happen so soon. I don't want this trip to become a protracted rescue mission, and I'm not thick headed enough to continue on in a despite-all-odds fashion. But I am one to keep going. Like Shackelton, my plans have changed. I might just end up with my own James Caird someday.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Part 1 (Austin, TX): rollin' out
That's it. I'm really doing it.
As of tomorrow, October 5th, I'm going to start this tour by cycling to Brownsville, Texas. I've been in Austin for close to two weeks, attending the Austin City Limits (ACL) Music Festival, enjoying fleeting moments with close friends and talking with from professors at the U.T.-Austin campus. Austin's great--I love the city--but it's time to hit the road and start this trip.
I'll be cycling along the U.S. 183, Highway 80, U.S. 181 and U.S. 77 on the way down to Brownsville. This leg should take about four days at eighty miles a day--five days if I take a detour to Padre Island, the easternmost land mass in Texas. Once back in Brownsville, I'll spend some time at Southwest Key, a group home for migrant children who've been separated from their families, and the Good Neighbor Settlement Home, a center that provides transitional living accomodations to any in need of their services. For close to week, I'll also be on the lookout for the Texas Minutemen who, not so coincidentally, are also on the lookout for migrants trying to cross the border. Don't worry about me: I'm relatively safe with the ACLU. Be concerned for those crossers. Minutemen carry guns.
I'll send out more updates as I go. So far, I've been really fortunate in Austin. I've managed to finagle a free room for close to a week, and I'm living pretty dirt cheap and learning from some amazing people. I'm just about done shoveling the dirt out of my lungs from the ACL, so I'm in better health that than I have been in a while. I feel great, if not nervous at times. Equal parts excitment and anxiety: the recipe for rational decision-making for an undertaking like this.
Keep in mind that this is a really important time to be aware of what's happening on the border right now--if not from me, from other sources. To the right of this post, I've set you up with links to news portals about the border. Recent news: R-Jim Kolbe presents the Tucson Border Patrol with a "symbolic" 35 million dollar blank check, part of the 56 million dollar package designated solely to the Tucson B.P. to protect the "most vulnerable area" in the United States; Border Patrol officials unveiled their new $14 million unmanned aerial surveillance system, a Predator-B spy drone used intially in Afganistan and Iraq; more and more undocumented immigrants are choosing voluntary repatriation to Mexico City, while the U.S. government foots the bill. Any one of these blurbs could indicate both triumphs and failures of border policy--the Border Patrol has been dramatically effective, so it needs more money; the Border Patrol has proven utterly inefficient, so it needs more money. Whatever. Do your own research, come to your own conclusions. If you stick around, you'll read plenty of mine in the posts to come.
1,951 miles plus. This is going to be a long ride.
As of tomorrow, October 5th, I'm going to start this tour by cycling to Brownsville, Texas. I've been in Austin for close to two weeks, attending the Austin City Limits (ACL) Music Festival, enjoying fleeting moments with close friends and talking with from professors at the U.T.-Austin campus. Austin's great--I love the city--but it's time to hit the road and start this trip.
I'll be cycling along the U.S. 183, Highway 80, U.S. 181 and U.S. 77 on the way down to Brownsville. This leg should take about four days at eighty miles a day--five days if I take a detour to Padre Island, the easternmost land mass in Texas. Once back in Brownsville, I'll spend some time at Southwest Key, a group home for migrant children who've been separated from their families, and the Good Neighbor Settlement Home, a center that provides transitional living accomodations to any in need of their services. For close to week, I'll also be on the lookout for the Texas Minutemen who, not so coincidentally, are also on the lookout for migrants trying to cross the border. Don't worry about me: I'm relatively safe with the ACLU. Be concerned for those crossers. Minutemen carry guns.
I'll send out more updates as I go. So far, I've been really fortunate in Austin. I've managed to finagle a free room for close to a week, and I'm living pretty dirt cheap and learning from some amazing people. I'm just about done shoveling the dirt out of my lungs from the ACL, so I'm in better health that than I have been in a while. I feel great, if not nervous at times. Equal parts excitment and anxiety: the recipe for rational decision-making for an undertaking like this.
Keep in mind that this is a really important time to be aware of what's happening on the border right now--if not from me, from other sources. To the right of this post, I've set you up with links to news portals about the border. Recent news: R-Jim Kolbe presents the Tucson Border Patrol with a "symbolic" 35 million dollar blank check, part of the 56 million dollar package designated solely to the Tucson B.P. to protect the "most vulnerable area" in the United States; Border Patrol officials unveiled their new $14 million unmanned aerial surveillance system, a Predator-B spy drone used intially in Afganistan and Iraq; more and more undocumented immigrants are choosing voluntary repatriation to Mexico City, while the U.S. government foots the bill. Any one of these blurbs could indicate both triumphs and failures of border policy--the Border Patrol has been dramatically effective, so it needs more money; the Border Patrol has proven utterly inefficient, so it needs more money. Whatever. Do your own research, come to your own conclusions. If you stick around, you'll read plenty of mine in the posts to come.
1,951 miles plus. This is going to be a long ride.
Part 1 (Austin, TX): and the flipside...
And some not-so-shining moments in Ryan's Austin venture:
(1) Adam Keizer, a close friend, and I go to bar/music venue and are sitting down for dinner. I'm munching away and Adam gives me the saucer-sized "look over there" eyes. I do look over there, and sure enough Sandra Bullock is standing right next to Austin native Jesse James. Serveral minutes after my initial "whooooooaaaaaa", a dude with a Monster Garage t-shirt walks into the bar. Again excited, I proclaim my intentions to tell this man that THE Jesse James is in the bar and that he too should be excited. I walk over to the man and carry out my duty as a the bestower of happiness, and the man looks at me and says "Yeah? Uh, yeah, I know. I work with him eeevery (notice the peevish drawl) day. Nothing special." I wither, crumple and mumble out a "Yeah, man, cool man, I bet that's exciting." It wasn't exciting. Adam pokes at me for my good intentions, calls a Monster Garage enthusiast-friend from Cheyenne to tell him about the incident, and the next day more head-hanging ensues.
(2) There are 8 computers available for non-students on the University of Texas-Austin campus. Or were. Every day I've been using those computers at the library and not-so-slightly exceeding the 30-minute usage period. Once the library lady asked me to abdicate my electronic throne. The same lady asked again the next day, only to engage me in an argument that I was destined to lose. On the last days of my library follies, I decided to play again with the fates and use those computers for a time period no longer than 30 minutes. During that time, the lady sees me again, laughing in apparent incredulity, and walks away without a word of scorn. I finish my time, half-shouting after her "hey, but at least I haven't exceeded my 30 minutes". I leave, only to return two hours later to 8 computers freshly passworded. I've officially been blacklisted from the U.T.-Austin library. It feels like the freshman-year cafeteria incident all over again. All I ever wanted was free internet and bananas. Must the consequences be so dire that everyone must pay for my crimes? Will there ever again be free access to the world wide web and "all-you-can-eat" fruit?
(1) Adam Keizer, a close friend, and I go to bar/music venue and are sitting down for dinner. I'm munching away and Adam gives me the saucer-sized "look over there" eyes. I do look over there, and sure enough Sandra Bullock is standing right next to Austin native Jesse James. Serveral minutes after my initial "whooooooaaaaaa", a dude with a Monster Garage t-shirt walks into the bar. Again excited, I proclaim my intentions to tell this man that THE Jesse James is in the bar and that he too should be excited. I walk over to the man and carry out my duty as a the bestower of happiness, and the man looks at me and says "Yeah? Uh, yeah, I know. I work with him eeevery (notice the peevish drawl) day. Nothing special." I wither, crumple and mumble out a "Yeah, man, cool man, I bet that's exciting." It wasn't exciting. Adam pokes at me for my good intentions, calls a Monster Garage enthusiast-friend from Cheyenne to tell him about the incident, and the next day more head-hanging ensues.
(2) There are 8 computers available for non-students on the University of Texas-Austin campus. Or were. Every day I've been using those computers at the library and not-so-slightly exceeding the 30-minute usage period. Once the library lady asked me to abdicate my electronic throne. The same lady asked again the next day, only to engage me in an argument that I was destined to lose. On the last days of my library follies, I decided to play again with the fates and use those computers for a time period no longer than 30 minutes. During that time, the lady sees me again, laughing in apparent incredulity, and walks away without a word of scorn. I finish my time, half-shouting after her "hey, but at least I haven't exceeded my 30 minutes". I leave, only to return two hours later to 8 computers freshly passworded. I've officially been blacklisted from the U.T.-Austin library. It feels like the freshman-year cafeteria incident all over again. All I ever wanted was free internet and bananas. Must the consequences be so dire that everyone must pay for my crimes? Will there ever again be free access to the world wide web and "all-you-can-eat" fruit?
Part 1 (Austin, TX): notes on Austin and the ACL
This city kicks ass.
Think the sprawl of Phoenix meets the eccentricity of Tucson, with a bit of "Don't mess with Texas" in between. Subtract the guy in the taxi, and there you have Austin.
The state capital of Texas is also the self-proclaimed "weirdest city" in Texas. Weird is right. Driving around the other day, I saw a bunch of human-sized fruit sitting on top of a parking garage and a two-story replica of the Eiffel Tower right off a busy thoroughfare. I met a former UT-Austin professor with a goatee, ginormous fake breasts and pink bikini bottom at the ACL Music Festival. I tried mushrooms here for my first time. Okay, I lied about the last one.
Austin is an old hippy community that has gradually become gentrified by invaders from satellite cities--not entirely unlike my former home of Tempe, Arizona. Once upon a time, Tempe too had a vibrant local life and culture, only to have both squashed by the likes of the Brickyard and whatever corporations that plowed through Changing Hands and Cookies from Home. In Austin, however, the long-since obliterated organic ethos of Tempe lives on in an extensive system of in-city bike routes, organic-medicine pharmacies and people who will actually drive a few miles to drop off their recyclables. Non-coformism and "green living" strike on in place of "image reversal" and "culture overhaul". "Keep Austin Weird" has become the unofficial but popular motto of Austin, while weirdness has offically become code for hippy-safe and accessible.
I came across an article in a local alternative magazine the other day, and reporters quoted a pastor as saying something to the effect that "Keep Austin Weird" was a self-contradicting paradox--that preservation is a conservative effort to keep alive a liberal consciousness. How does one preserve the unorthodox without making it normal or routine? The answer, he said, is Austin. I'm inclined to agree.
I guess that it's no so outrightly weird as people say. On the University of Texas at Austin campus, lady students around campus wear flat-soled shoes and athletic short that actually do not, and you might not believe this if you attended Arizona State within the last five years, ride up their asses and flash buttcheeks as if they were blinking, half-obscured headlights. I'm amazed. Male students look like any others, I guess, although I notice a severe lack of collar-upturned, sunglass-wearing Aber-Fitchers. It's almost like people can think for themselves around here--except for the taxi driver.
I don't mean to bash Tempe folk. Lord knows I'm a card-carrying member and a product of 23 years in the East Valley. My athletic shorts ride up my ass all the time. I mean to say that there's something alive here--a culture. Something more than nights spent out at the Cue Club and/or binge drinking with buddies. Take the music scene: the Austin City Limits music festival is one of the biggest in the nation. For three days, people rocked out to the Arcade Fire (every bit as good as Chris Martin says they are), Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand and Coldplay (well, that's when they weren't spewing up their lungs in the kicked-up dust that doubled as "breathable" air). After those three days, Austinites went back to their cool bars for great music year round. Cheryl Crow performed the other day in park on the Austin River for free, headlining soon-to-be hubbies' "Lance Thanks Austin". I don't care if you like Cheryl Crow or not. That's just cool.
The best yet is that people are just plain nice here. Call it good fortune or dumb luck, but I've been able to work off a week's worth off of hostle rooms by cleaning out fridges, putting up bulletin boards and breaking down bedframes. It also stands to reason that one considerate individual (whom I'm probably actively screwing over right now by saying this much) pitched a freebe to an aspiring young man with a good project. The point is, however, she's one of many who've been really generous here. So has the lady at the bike co-op. So have many of the faculty at UT-Austin. Without their help, I wouldn't know shit about bike repair or have half as many connections and conversations set up as I do now. The people of Austin have good life--vibes, aura or whatever you want to call it. Other than the guy who almost flattened me with his taxi (you sonofabitch bastard, watch out for cyclists when pulling out of your fucking parking lot. It doesn't matter that it was dark.), you have my thanks.
At this point, some of you might be saying "then stay in Austin, hippy." I can't though. I've got work to do. This is a good place to start from. This city kicks ass.
Think the sprawl of Phoenix meets the eccentricity of Tucson, with a bit of "Don't mess with Texas" in between. Subtract the guy in the taxi, and there you have Austin.
The state capital of Texas is also the self-proclaimed "weirdest city" in Texas. Weird is right. Driving around the other day, I saw a bunch of human-sized fruit sitting on top of a parking garage and a two-story replica of the Eiffel Tower right off a busy thoroughfare. I met a former UT-Austin professor with a goatee, ginormous fake breasts and pink bikini bottom at the ACL Music Festival. I tried mushrooms here for my first time. Okay, I lied about the last one.
Austin is an old hippy community that has gradually become gentrified by invaders from satellite cities--not entirely unlike my former home of Tempe, Arizona. Once upon a time, Tempe too had a vibrant local life and culture, only to have both squashed by the likes of the Brickyard and whatever corporations that plowed through Changing Hands and Cookies from Home. In Austin, however, the long-since obliterated organic ethos of Tempe lives on in an extensive system of in-city bike routes, organic-medicine pharmacies and people who will actually drive a few miles to drop off their recyclables. Non-coformism and "green living" strike on in place of "image reversal" and "culture overhaul". "Keep Austin Weird" has become the unofficial but popular motto of Austin, while weirdness has offically become code for hippy-safe and accessible.
I came across an article in a local alternative magazine the other day, and reporters quoted a pastor as saying something to the effect that "Keep Austin Weird" was a self-contradicting paradox--that preservation is a conservative effort to keep alive a liberal consciousness. How does one preserve the unorthodox without making it normal or routine? The answer, he said, is Austin. I'm inclined to agree.
I guess that it's no so outrightly weird as people say. On the University of Texas at Austin campus, lady students around campus wear flat-soled shoes and athletic short that actually do not, and you might not believe this if you attended Arizona State within the last five years, ride up their asses and flash buttcheeks as if they were blinking, half-obscured headlights. I'm amazed. Male students look like any others, I guess, although I notice a severe lack of collar-upturned, sunglass-wearing Aber-Fitchers. It's almost like people can think for themselves around here--except for the taxi driver.
I don't mean to bash Tempe folk. Lord knows I'm a card-carrying member and a product of 23 years in the East Valley. My athletic shorts ride up my ass all the time. I mean to say that there's something alive here--a culture. Something more than nights spent out at the Cue Club and/or binge drinking with buddies. Take the music scene: the Austin City Limits music festival is one of the biggest in the nation. For three days, people rocked out to the Arcade Fire (every bit as good as Chris Martin says they are), Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand and Coldplay (well, that's when they weren't spewing up their lungs in the kicked-up dust that doubled as "breathable" air). After those three days, Austinites went back to their cool bars for great music year round. Cheryl Crow performed the other day in park on the Austin River for free, headlining soon-to-be hubbies' "Lance Thanks Austin". I don't care if you like Cheryl Crow or not. That's just cool.
The best yet is that people are just plain nice here. Call it good fortune or dumb luck, but I've been able to work off a week's worth off of hostle rooms by cleaning out fridges, putting up bulletin boards and breaking down bedframes. It also stands to reason that one considerate individual (whom I'm probably actively screwing over right now by saying this much) pitched a freebe to an aspiring young man with a good project. The point is, however, she's one of many who've been really generous here. So has the lady at the bike co-op. So have many of the faculty at UT-Austin. Without their help, I wouldn't know shit about bike repair or have half as many connections and conversations set up as I do now. The people of Austin have good life--vibes, aura or whatever you want to call it. Other than the guy who almost flattened me with his taxi (you sonofabitch bastard, watch out for cyclists when pulling out of your fucking parking lot. It doesn't matter that it was dark.), you have my thanks.
At this point, some of you might be saying "then stay in Austin, hippy." I can't though. I've got work to do. This is a good place to start from. This city kicks ass.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Travel Itinerary
VOLUNTOUR 1951 ITINERARY*
PRE-TRIP:
September 21st – 22nd: traveled to Austin, TX
September 23rd – 25th: attended the Austin City Limits Music Festival
September 26th – October 4th: met with faculty at UT-Austin
October 5th: cycled 85 miles south of Austin past Nixon, TX
October 6th: bike was stolen, caught a ride with a friend back to Austin
October 7th - October 13th: built the "Dudley Docker II" with volunteerws at the Yellow Bike Project
OCTOBER:
October 14th: took a bus to Houston, TX
October 15th: attended the Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference
*spoke with Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, long-time Chicano civil rights leader and social activist
*spoke with Maria Jimenez, seasoned social activist formerly of the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) and now of Carecen
*spoke with Lorena Lopez, full-time student and mom
October 16th: interviewed by Houston Univision
October 17th: met with Michael Espinonza, co-founder of La Nueva Raza
October 18th – 22nd: cycled to Brownsville
*met with Elizabeth Garcia, local grassroots organizer with the San Felipe de Jesus Social Justice Committee
October 23rd: met with Helga Garza of Calpuli Tlapalcalli
October 24th: met with Carlos Gomez, executive director of the Good Neighbor Settlement House
October 25th: met Brother Albert Phillipp and Sister Phylis Peters of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church
October 26th: went to Matamoros in the evening to speak with families
October 27th: met with Father Mike Siefert of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church and Ericka Weinmann, a nursing student at the University of Texas-Brownsville
October 28th: met with Cristina Balli of The Narciso Martinez Cultural Arts Center (the Chicho)
October 29th: attended the 14th Anniversary Celebration at the Chicho
October 30th: spoke with a trio of self-proclaimed mallrats and a ROTC student at a local marine prep. school
October 31st: spoke again with Fr. Mike Siefert
*spoke with Principal Alzono Barbosa of Porter High School
*met with Edgar Rico, small business owner
NOVEMBER
November 1: spoke with Nathan Selzer of Proyecto Libertad
*celebrated Dia de los Muertos at the Calpulli
November 2: spoke with Rogelio Nunez of Proyecto Libertad and former co-worker Jonathan Jones
*spoke with Gloria Ocampo of the Friendship of Women
November 3: spoke with Enrique Leal, local filmmaker
November 4: spent the day with Rafa Castro, organizer for maquila workers
November 5, 6: spent weekend planning and writing
Noveber 7: went to Matamoros with a San Felipe de Jesus health outreach group
*spoke with Alejandro Fuentes, director of Ozanam (homeless) Center
November 8: spoke with Meredith Linksy, director of South Texas Asylum Representation Project (ProBAR)
*spoke with a pirate at a cake shop
*spoke with Pedro Cruz, attorney with Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid (TRLA)
*spoke with Lisa Brodyage, attorney with Refugio del Rio Grande
*spoke with the salesman
*attended a San Benito School Board meeting
*spoke again with Nathan Selzer and his wife, Hortencia Armendariz, an organizer with Service Employees International Union (SEIU)
November 9th: spent the day at the Fun n' Sun trailer park
*spoke with Grace Cabuto, mother of two and certified nurse
November 10th: met with Rey Limas, father to Rackel Limas and owner of Con Carino care facilities
*met with Delia Perez of Llano Grande and program guests Guha Shankar of the Library of Congress and Michelle --- of the University of Texas at Austin folklore program
November 11th: spoke with Delia Perez
November 12th: attended a march with La Union del Pueblo Entero (LUPE) and the United Farm Workers (UFW) in San Juan
November 13th: spoke with Ester Salinas, community activist in Mission, Texas
*spoke with members of her Mission community
*met Congressman Lloyd Doggett
November 14th: spoke with Dr. Greg Selber, professor at the University of Texas-Pan American (UTPA)
November 15th: spoke with Drs. Jose Pagan and Cynthia Brown, professors of economics at UTPA
*spoke with Blandina Cardenas, President of UTPA
November 16th: spoke with Olga Cantarero, organizer with LUPE
*spoke with LUPE members
*spoke with Maggie Jamieson, manage of Tropic Starr winter home
November 17th: spoke with Amancio Chapa, Fine Arts Director with La Joya Independent School District
*spoke with Norma Zamora-Guerra, Director of Community Information with the McAllen Independent School District
November 18th: spoke with Sam Rodriguez, owner of RY Livestock Sales
November 19th: spoke with Dr. Reynato Ramirez, Philathropist President of IBC Bank in Zapata
November 20th: attended a Conjunto/Mariachi/Ballet Folklorico performance at La Joya High School
November 21st: writing day
November 22nd: spoke with Ed Krueger and members of the Comite de Apoyo in Reynosa
*spoke with and was interviewed by Mariano Castillo, border correspondent for the San Antonio News-Express
November 23rd: spoke with more community members in Mission
November 24th - 31st: Mission
DECEMBER-JANUARY: Phoenix, Arizona
AND THE REST OF IT?
three weeks: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo
February: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo, Eagle Pass, Piedras Negras
March: Del Rio, Presidio, Big Bend, Las Cruces
April: El Paso/Juarez
June: south-eastern Arizona
July: southern Arizona
August: southern Arizona
September: southern California
October: San Diego/Tijuana
November: Lower Rio Grande in Texas
*all travel plans are but approximations and good intentions
PRE-TRIP:
September 21st – 22nd: traveled to Austin, TX
September 23rd – 25th: attended the Austin City Limits Music Festival
September 26th – October 4th: met with faculty at UT-Austin
October 5th: cycled 85 miles south of Austin past Nixon, TX
October 6th: bike was stolen, caught a ride with a friend back to Austin
October 7th - October 13th: built the "Dudley Docker II" with volunteerws at the Yellow Bike Project
OCTOBER:
October 14th: took a bus to Houston, TX
October 15th: attended the Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference
*spoke with Dr. Jose Angel Gutierrez, long-time Chicano civil rights leader and social activist
*spoke with Maria Jimenez, seasoned social activist formerly of the American Friends Service Committee (AFSC) and now of Carecen
*spoke with Lorena Lopez, full-time student and mom
October 16th: interviewed by Houston Univision
October 17th: met with Michael Espinonza, co-founder of La Nueva Raza
October 18th – 22nd: cycled to Brownsville
*met with Elizabeth Garcia, local grassroots organizer with the San Felipe de Jesus Social Justice Committee
October 23rd: met with Helga Garza of Calpuli Tlapalcalli
October 24th: met with Carlos Gomez, executive director of the Good Neighbor Settlement House
October 25th: met Brother Albert Phillipp and Sister Phylis Peters of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church
October 26th: went to Matamoros in the evening to speak with families
October 27th: met with Father Mike Siefert of the San Felipe de Jesus Catholic Church and Ericka Weinmann, a nursing student at the University of Texas-Brownsville
October 28th: met with Cristina Balli of The Narciso Martinez Cultural Arts Center (the Chicho)
October 29th: attended the 14th Anniversary Celebration at the Chicho
October 30th: spoke with a trio of self-proclaimed mallrats and a ROTC student at a local marine prep. school
October 31st: spoke again with Fr. Mike Siefert
*spoke with Principal Alzono Barbosa of Porter High School
*met with Edgar Rico, small business owner
NOVEMBER
November 1: spoke with Nathan Selzer of Proyecto Libertad
*celebrated Dia de los Muertos at the Calpulli
November 2: spoke with Rogelio Nunez of Proyecto Libertad and former co-worker Jonathan Jones
*spoke with Gloria Ocampo of the Friendship of Women
November 3: spoke with Enrique Leal, local filmmaker
November 4: spent the day with Rafa Castro, organizer for maquila workers
November 5, 6: spent weekend planning and writing
Noveber 7: went to Matamoros with a San Felipe de Jesus health outreach group
*spoke with Alejandro Fuentes, director of Ozanam (homeless) Center
November 8: spoke with Meredith Linksy, director of South Texas Asylum Representation Project (ProBAR)
*spoke with a pirate at a cake shop
*spoke with Pedro Cruz, attorney with Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid (TRLA)
*spoke with Lisa Brodyage, attorney with Refugio del Rio Grande
*spoke with the salesman
*attended a San Benito School Board meeting
*spoke again with Nathan Selzer and his wife, Hortencia Armendariz, an organizer with Service Employees International Union (SEIU)
November 9th: spent the day at the Fun n' Sun trailer park
*spoke with Grace Cabuto, mother of two and certified nurse
November 10th: met with Rey Limas, father to Rackel Limas and owner of Con Carino care facilities
*met with Delia Perez of Llano Grande and program guests Guha Shankar of the Library of Congress and Michelle --- of the University of Texas at Austin folklore program
November 11th: spoke with Delia Perez
November 12th: attended a march with La Union del Pueblo Entero (LUPE) and the United Farm Workers (UFW) in San Juan
November 13th: spoke with Ester Salinas, community activist in Mission, Texas
*spoke with members of her Mission community
*met Congressman Lloyd Doggett
November 14th: spoke with Dr. Greg Selber, professor at the University of Texas-Pan American (UTPA)
November 15th: spoke with Drs. Jose Pagan and Cynthia Brown, professors of economics at UTPA
*spoke with Blandina Cardenas, President of UTPA
November 16th: spoke with Olga Cantarero, organizer with LUPE
*spoke with LUPE members
*spoke with Maggie Jamieson, manage of Tropic Starr winter home
November 17th: spoke with Amancio Chapa, Fine Arts Director with La Joya Independent School District
*spoke with Norma Zamora-Guerra, Director of Community Information with the McAllen Independent School District
November 18th: spoke with Sam Rodriguez, owner of RY Livestock Sales
November 19th: spoke with Dr. Reynato Ramirez, Philathropist President of IBC Bank in Zapata
November 20th: attended a Conjunto/Mariachi/Ballet Folklorico performance at La Joya High School
November 21st: writing day
November 22nd: spoke with Ed Krueger and members of the Comite de Apoyo in Reynosa
*spoke with and was interviewed by Mariano Castillo, border correspondent for the San Antonio News-Express
November 23rd: spoke with more community members in Mission
November 24th - 31st: Mission
DECEMBER-JANUARY: Phoenix, Arizona
AND THE REST OF IT?
three weeks: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo
February: Laredo/Nuevo Laredo, Eagle Pass, Piedras Negras
March: Del Rio, Presidio, Big Bend, Las Cruces
April: El Paso/Juarez
June: south-eastern Arizona
July: southern Arizona
August: southern Arizona
September: southern California
October: San Diego/Tijuana
November: Lower Rio Grande in Texas
*all travel plans are but approximations and good intentions
Sunday, October 02, 2005
"Recruitment"
One of the things I realized after the Chicano-Latino Leadership & Unity Conference was that I need a team (I've archived what I wrote about the conference to October). For those who've been involved in the ad hoc Team Ryan, as my mom calls it, I thank you. I hope you know how important you are to this community endeavor.
I ask you to keep one thing in mind as you read the list below: this is not a vain attempt for attention. My ultimate goal is to educate others about social justice issues along the border. One of the best ways to do this, for example, is to create a media stir and let them do the dirty work of publicizing the issues. Fulfilling other... positions will help me better manage my time and focus more on the people I meet.
Thank you. Anything you can do will help.
TEAM RYAN:
Fundraising: Misty Cisneros and the CCLIAA (de facto)
Someone to transcribe and enter posts on the blog: Anneke Stagg
Someone to translate certain posts into Spanish: Momma Pearl
Someone to contact English-language media in Texas: Mariano Castillo (de facto)
Someone to contact English-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact English-language media in Arizona: Courtney Klein, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact English-language media in California:
Someone to contact national English-language media:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Texas:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Arizona: Luis Avila, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in California:
Someone to contact national Spanish-language media:
Someone to find periodical (print) outlets:
Someone to find web outlets:
Someone to raise attention about the project over the internet: Taylor Jackson
Someone to track down contact information for potential conversants: Janey Pearl (El Paso)
I ask you to keep one thing in mind as you read the list below: this is not a vain attempt for attention. My ultimate goal is to educate others about social justice issues along the border. One of the best ways to do this, for example, is to create a media stir and let them do the dirty work of publicizing the issues. Fulfilling other... positions will help me better manage my time and focus more on the people I meet.
Thank you. Anything you can do will help.
TEAM RYAN:
Fundraising: Misty Cisneros and the CCLIAA (de facto)
Someone to transcribe and enter posts on the blog: Anneke Stagg
Someone to translate certain posts into Spanish: Momma Pearl
Someone to contact English-language media in Texas: Mariano Castillo (de facto)
Someone to contact English-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact English-language media in Arizona: Courtney Klein, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact English-language media in California:
Someone to contact national English-language media:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Texas:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in New Mexico:
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in Arizona: Luis Avila, Misty Cisneros
Someone to contact Spanish-language media in California:
Someone to contact national Spanish-language media:
Someone to find periodical (print) outlets:
Someone to find web outlets:
Someone to raise attention about the project over the internet: Taylor Jackson
Someone to track down contact information for potential conversants: Janey Pearl (El Paso)
Funding
I should also make a note here about funding. This project is largely self-sponsored, and I am assumming most of the financial responsibility for the the total equipment costs as well as normal cost-of-living expenditures.
The New Belgium Brewing Company and Recycled Cycles of Ft. Collins, Colorado, the Cesar Chavez Leadership Institute Alumni Association and the Barrett Honors College of Tempe, Arizona, and a few private donors have pledged donations. I'm hoping that individuals and organizations will be willing to contribute to my efforts along the way.
If you'd like to make a donation, you can send a check to the following address:
Ryan Riedel
Voluntour 1951
1211 W. Barrow Dr.
Chandler, AZ 85224
Somebody once said that your success is directly proportionate to the amount of help you are willing to ask of those around you. I would greatly appreciate any help that you have to offer. Thanks.
The New Belgium Brewing Company and Recycled Cycles of Ft. Collins, Colorado, the Cesar Chavez Leadership Institute Alumni Association and the Barrett Honors College of Tempe, Arizona, and a few private donors have pledged donations. I'm hoping that individuals and organizations will be willing to contribute to my efforts along the way.
If you'd like to make a donation, you can send a check to the following address:
Ryan Riedel
Voluntour 1951
1211 W. Barrow Dr.
Chandler, AZ 85224
Somebody once said that your success is directly proportionate to the amount of help you are willing to ask of those around you. I would greatly appreciate any help that you have to offer. Thanks.
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