The Traveling Gnome

"Please! Can we have English?"

Claire — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 17:17:00 GMT

If you're reading this and it's all one giant block of text, I apologize. Riley will fix it in two shakes of a lamb's tail. I'm finding it harder to write these posts because there is so much going on that narrowing down what to say is a struggle. In addition to our daily language classes, we’ve started teaching four times a week. Probably one of the funnier experiences I had in the classroom was the first time I taught fourth grade. The great thing about the younger classes is that they are completely enamored with Americans. They are the ones who shout “Hello America” as I walk down the street, and follow me when I go for jogs. So when I entered the school for my first lesson without a Ukrainian translator, I was feeling pretty confident. I went into the class and started setting up, but there were no kids. There wasn’t even a backpack or a jacket lying around. Confused but undeterred, I double-checked my schedule and the room number. I was in the right place at the right time, but I was apparently the only one. I decided to wander the halls for help. That’s when I saw Stas, a little boy I knew to be in the fourth grade. I flagged him down and we started having a very labored conversation in Ukrainian. “Is this your classroom?” I asked, relying heavily on gestures. “Yes,” he said proudly in English. “My class.” “When do you have English today?” I questioned. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Upstairs.” I’m not really sure about the last part as it was in Ukrainian, but that’s my best guess. “Tomorrow?” I asked skeptically. “Not now, not today?” There was something in little Stas’ grin that made me think he was messing with me. Let’s be honest, if you were 10 and had a foreign teacher asking you in broken sentences if you had class, you’d probably say no. I know I would. As we were talking, a substantial crowd had gathered. After a few more questions I discovered they were in the 4th grade. Feeling clever, I decided I had uncovered an attempted mutiny. “Okay, everybody: It’s time for English,” I said as I rounded up the little ones and pushed them toward the door. At this point, several little girls squealed with delight and one actually hugged me. This should’ve tipped me off that something was amiss, but I was thankful for the encouragement. Just as I was about to begin, a Ukrainian teacher opened the door and, either not seeing me or assuming I was a student, started telling everyone to get out of the room and go outside. I approached her and found out that the fourth grade actually had recess right now. There had been a change in the schedule. Chuckling at my own conspiracy theory, I apologized and said I hadn’t heard of this. But the kids were no longer in the mood for recess. After all, they had an American all to themselves. They weren’t going to give this up without a fight. The girls cupped their hands together and pleaded, “Please! Can we have English?” Incredulously, the teacher looked at me and said, “Well if you still want to have class, you can.” Thinking I’d be a fool to turn away such thirst for knowledge, I said “Of course we’ll have English class. Why not?” The children erupted in applause. Now I’d like to tell you they were angels after this ceremonious beginning, but that would be a lie. My intrigue disappeared the moment we started drilling vocabulary and the kids realized they just volunteered to skip playtime. Preying on my limited Ukrainian skills, they ran around the room and dared me to discipline them. Using a handful of powerful words, I told them to sit down, be quiet, and listen to me. That worked for about a minute. Then Vladik staring hitting Sasha, and Sergihy decided to pound his fists on his desk. Remembering my own elementary experience, I put Sasha and Vladik on opposite sides of the room and brought Sergihy up to the front. I didn’t really know what to do with him so I just had him stand there, away from anything that could possibly double as a drum. Ironically, the boys reveled in my attention. It’s kind of hard to discipline children who are beaming at you in adoration. Through the magic of markers and white paper, I was able to bribe them into behaving. There’s nothing like a drawing activity to quell an elementary insurrection. By the time the bell rang, they were all working quietly, and had even spoken a little English. Sure, it was no recess, but I’m pretty sure they enjoyed themselves all the same

The Power of Information

Claire — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 14:02:00 GMT

I’m at the halfway-point of my Peace Corps training program, and I’m getting really excited about teaching full-time and being in my new site. Of course I still don’t know where that is and what exactly I’ll be doing, but that’s part of the allure. On Wednesday morning, I gathered with Brandon and Kristi, my fellow Peace Corps Trainees, in a drafty cafe to hear the election results on my shortwave radio. It's not quite as romantic as it sounds, but it was still pretty cool. We high-fived and cheered with abandon as the numbers were called out. I must admit I felt a twinge of jealousy for the current Lariateers who were able to witness this historic event in the newsroom. There's nothing like being in-the-know on election night.

Speaking of being informed, after a month of taking an hour bus to the nearest city to check my email, I discovered an internet cafe in my village. I don’t think I’ll get over that for a while. What’s crazy is how most people are unaware of it as well. Generally, the internet is understood to be for playing games and other trivial pursuits. We plan on making a community project to increase awareness about the internet and all the marvelous things you can do with it, especially in the classroom. We are even going to write a grant and try to get internet at the local school. I found BBC on my shortwave radio last week. Between that and the internet club, it’s a whole new world here in rural Ukraine. The signal isn’t that clear though, and sometimes cuts out, which is heartbreaking, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

In other news, we recently visited the agricultural institute in Nizyhn (the closest city to my village). It was quite the experience. I understood that we would be sitting in on a class and there was a “conference” going on. Well, it turned out we were the conference. We walked into an auditorium and are whisked to the front of the room by the professor and seated on a panel. Flanked by the American flag on one side and a USA map on the other, we listened to our introduction carefully to figure out our next move. “Today we have four representatives from the United States Peace Corps,” the professor said. “They are here to tell you about their organization and their lives in America.” OK, I can handle this. Probably the best part of the conference for me was when they asked what hobbies I had. Among other things, I said I liked jogging. The teacher, who was translating, took about five minutes to explain my hobbies. She asked her students to raise their hands if they liked to jog. They all chuckled and no one raised their hand. She then told me, “I have been to America, and I have seen this, but we do not understand your hobby here.” It was really interesting to speak with Ukrainian students. We are trying to set up a more casual venue sometime in the near future. I’m not sure who’s more excited about this idea—us or them! We both enjoyed getting to know each other and are looking forward to continuing our conversations about history, culture, and society. Don’t forget to check out my column in the latest edition of The Wacoan!

Live from Ukraine

Claire — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 12:32:00 GMT

There is so much in life you can't predict, and in the Peace Corps, there is even more. I have been in Ukraine for nearly a month, and I am already starting to look fondly upon the fluid life I'm living. For example, I can buy tomato sauce at the Post Office, but I have to go to the next town to get conditioner. From dodging the family goat on the way to the bathroom to understanding the always-changing bus schedule--Everyday is truly an adventure!

I live in a village of about 5,000 in North Eastern Ukraine. I am really settling in and loving it. I must admit the first few weeks were rough. Adjusting to the cultural differences, a new climate, and the language all at once was a challenge. It's already funny now looking back at it. I am continually learning so much about Ukraine and the Peace Corps it can be overwhelming, but I am so happy to be here.

I taught my first English class last week with a fellow PCT (Peace Corps Trainee) and enjoyed it immensely. It was awesome. Students are accustomed to a heavy emphasis on grammar translation and were quite thrilled to play hangman and matching games with new vocabulary. It was great to see the look of excitement on their faces as we introduced ourselves and gave our first lesson. Students here are very disciplined and work well with strict instructions. Not exactly the typical American classroom! I am certainly thankful for the controlled atomosphere Ukrainian teachers have established. Next week, I am teaching a 9th grade class on the topic of Great Britain. The topics are assigned by the national curriculmn but we have some latitude on how to cover them. I am going to use the Beatles as main part of the lesson and plan on playing a song for them as a listening activity. I am really looking forward to it!

Besides official training activities, I live with a host family that serves as a continuing classroom. I was able to have a genuine conversation with them this week. After receiving a letter from home and translating it for them with the help of a Ukrainian/English dictionary, they posed a great question: Why did you leave your family and friends and move halfway around the world to teach English in Ukraine? I was only too happy to share that my desire to teach English is just a small part of my motivation for joing the Peace Corps. Truly, it's about promoting world peace through real relationships and cultural exchange. It's about understanding people thousands of miles away from home, and helping them understand you, too. I'm not sure how much of that i got across in Ukrainian, but it was the start of a beautiful conversation.

Note: For the next year, I will have a monthly column in the Wacoan. Check out the first one in the November edition!

Forget the war on drugs. Let’s have a war on corporate greed.

Claire — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 19:25:00 GMT

While it’s against my peace-loving nature, I honestly believe the time has come to go to war. Predatory lenders and other white-collar criminals are far more menacing—and costly—than the teenager on the corner selling marijuana.

Yet the so-called “public defenders” spend next to no time chasing down the top execs at Fannie Mae or AIG. The government bailouts are costing taxpayers billions of dollars, while the guilty parties sneak off with hefty paychecks and bonuses. Companies like the Lehman brothers and Merrill Lynch aren’t so lucky. They took bad advice, disguised it as good investments, and hoped for a greater return due to their risk. The companies don’t get to ride the government’s coat tails because their effects weren't calculated to be as large as Fannie or Freddie. Oh well, at least the CEO of Merrill Lynch stands to make about $252 million from the Bank of America buy-out. That makes me feel better.

I understand the AIG bailout is perhaps the lesser of two evils, considering the effect of huge corporations going under on our already fragile economy, but that’s not good enough. The stock market is holding, while our national debt climbs the charts at an alarming rate. Somewhere, our capitalism credo has run amuck, and predatory lenders are looking out for no one but themselves as they hand out mortgages to the masses and set off a chain-reaction of problems.

Sure, in an ideal world, the public would be highly educated, fiscally responsible, and wouldn’t even apply for a loan they didn’t qualify for. But back in reality, people want nicer homes than they can afford. It’s the professional responsibility of lenders and credit agencies to tell people their limits. That’s why you have to get “approved” for a loan. The idea isn’t to pick the weakest candidate and exploit them. This isn’t the African Sahara.

These checks were in place to determine suitability for large financial responsibility, but now they are being used to take advantage of people. This is the crime of the century. It’s affecting the entire country, and except for saying “Shame on you,” playing the blame game, and writing a check with our money, the government isn’t doing much about it.

So what do I want? A full-scale attack.

We must go after the predatory lenders with vigor. We have to make an example out of them. Right now it’s the perfect crime. We’re telling business men and women, go ahead, screw over the public, write yourself a nice, fat check, and we’ll bail you out. Literally. I want investigators on the case. I want undercover raids. I want to turn the small-time peddler of bad loans into a snitch to reel in the big fish. I want the corporate version of the SWAT team assembled.

This isn’t going to be cheap. But I’d give a rough estimate that falls somewhere below $85 billion.

Ike, I hardly knew ye

Claire — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 23:10:00 GMT

The home front, quiet save for a preponderance of leaves.

Frightening radar images projected Hurricane Ike would decimate not only Galveston and Houston, but the surrounding areas as well. While certain parts of South Texas are devastated, Katy is not one of them. Although trees are down and sections of the city are without power and possibly water, the damage pales in comparison to other communities. Check out this interactive map on Chron.com for more info.

Parts of my neighborhood have power, and others do not. Clearly, I am in the former category. CenterPoint Energy, the largest power company in the greater Houston area, reports that out of their 2.2 million customers, 2.1 million are out of electricity. I snapped a few photos of the occasion for your viewing pleasure.

The neighbor's yard saw a little more action.

A fallen tree in the schoolyard behind my house as seen through my foggy lens.

An industrious neighbor's yard, tiddy just hours after the storm.

When in doubt, blame the media

Claire — Tue, 09 Sep 2008 17:23:00 GMT

Palin has no one to blame but herself for the so-called “invasion” of her family privacy. By choosing to simultaneously parade and hide her pregnant teen, Palin thrust her daughter into the spotlight but asked that we wouldn’t look too closely.

Give me a break.

If she really wanted to spare Bristol, she would’ve left her at home. At 17, she’s clearly old enough to fend for herself. But no, Palin decided to stick her on stage, five-months pregnant with a baby on her hip. How dare the bloggers comment! How dare they question this preposterous sight!

With no explanation from Palin, the inquisitive mind was left to its own devices. Instead of asking why Palin chose to hide the fact that her daughter was pregnant, let’s blame voters for trying to put the pieces together themselves. It wasn’t the ideal way to get to the bottom of things. But what choice did they have? After the mainstream media dropped the ball on the Edwards affair, the Tabloid genre got a little credibility boost. And you can’t fault the bloggers entirely. They were in the baby ballpark.

And now Palin is using this whole baby-blogger-shenanigan to blast the media. As she said in her RNC speech, “Here's a little news flash for those reporters and commentators: I'm not going to Washington to seek their good opinion. I'm going to Washington to serve the people of this great country.”

Here’s a news flash for Palin: Journalists are actually part of society. I know it’s shocking, but we vote, too. So you are seeking our good opinion, along with everyone one else’s. Why else would you fly in Bristol’s baby’s daddy for the RNC? He wasn’t a necessary part of the family for your introductory speech, but once the dirty little secret was out, suddenly he was needed. While Palin tells the media to back-off her family, there’s a photo-op for McCain and Levi on the tarmac.

Talk about mixed signals.

The most ironic part of this whole saga is not Palin’s support of abstinence-only education, (which comes in a close second in my book), but her statements about Bristol’s “decision” to have the baby. According to Palin, there shouldn’t be a choice to make. She’s for bringing babies into this world in the case of rape and incest. But please, give her daughter some privacy. If it were up to Palin, the government would unilaterally make that decision for women everywhere. Now that’s a parallel worth drawing.

Honestly, I’ll be happy if I never have to write about the mating habits of the Palins ever again. But the choice is hers. Stop sticking your pregnant daughter in my face and I’ll stop writing about it. Deal?

Thoughts on leaving

Claire — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 07:28:00 GMT

A typical family moment for Brent, 28, Amber, 25, Mom, Dad, and Me, 22

This year, the passing of Labor Day marked more than the end of white shoes or summer vacation. It marked my last month in the states. Since graduation in May, I’ve been to New Mexico, Louisiana, and Waco. I am now nestled in my hometown of Katy, where I will reside until I leave for Ukraine Sept 25.

Far from my typical activities, this summer has been filled with new memories. Besides going to jail with my grandmother, I went swimming with two octogenarians, fed alligators, rode a rice combine, drove an assortment of farming equipment, and taught my grandpa how to play computer solitaire. And that was just in Louisiana.

In Waco, I lived with a darling family of five and worked at the Baylor Line. In between interviews and stories, I learned to crochet (sort of), heard tales of Sergey Bubka, and got the feel for magazine life. In-between work hours, I quasi-nannied three children ages 3ish, 6ish and 8ish. Who taught me that it’s fun to be chased by someone you love, standing on the table is a good way to get attention, and clothes are overrated.

Since I’ve been home I’ve found myself doing things I almost never did growing up. Like going on walks with my parents or doing chores voluntarily. Leaving the country has strange effects on people. Of course, some of my changed behavior could be attributed to increased maturity. But let’s not get carried away.

I love my family dearly. I consider it a blessing that my family isn’t contained in one house, one state, or even one country. My travels have yielded unlikely friendships and broadened my understanding of the world. But the experience cuts both ways. I have learned that to go also means to leave.

When I think about the relationships forged over two summers in South America, I hurt for the friends I may never see again. But I’m so thankful for the time we spent together and the way they shaped who I am today. Our lives are enriched by communion with others, and I can’t wait to learn from and give to a new community in Ukraine.

One of my favorite all-time books is C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves. In it, Lewis says, “The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.” So out into the East I go: willfully-vulnerable, anxiously-awaiting new friends, and with a deep and abiding love for all the family I know today.

Palin: The gift that keeps on giving

Claire — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 18:35:00 GMT

Just 72 hours after Sarah Palin was unveiled as McCain’s VP, the story of her 17-year-old daughter’s pregnancy hit mainstream media. Several versions of the story have been raging on the blogosphere all weekend, with CNN and other big names picking it up early this afternoon.

To be honest, I’m still not convinced. McCain’s campaign released a statement to “get the truth out.” Calling Bristol 5 months pregnant would appear to negate the rumor that she gave birth to 4-month-old Trig, but loopholes remain.

1.    According to several sites, Bristol missed 5 months of school last year due to mononucleosis. 5 months? Really? The Daily Kos says “Checking with the Anchorage High School that Bristol Palin attended, reporters were given word that her family had taken Bristol out of school due to contracting infectious mononucleosis. The amount of time Bristol was absent shifts from five to eight months.” It's a pretty unusual period of absence for mono but not for teen pregnancy.
2.    Sarah Palin waited until she was 7 months pregnant to announce the news to her staff, who had no idea. As this was her fifth child, biologically she should have been showing for months. Check out local coverage—and disbelief—on the story here.
3.    I saved the best for last. Palin apparently went into early labor while giving a speech in Texas. Local story here. After her water broke, she then decided to take a cross-country flight, including a layover, that totaled 10 hours, without notifying the staff of the plane she was leaking amniotic fluid. Then, after landing in Alaska, she drove past several hospitals to Wasilla, the small-town where she served as mayor, to deliver the baby. Her reason for endangering her child’s life, not alerting the airline staff, and risking her own health: “You can’t have a fish-picker from Texas.”

Forgive me for not eating up McCain’s band-aide explanation, but the skeptic in me is unconvinced. Let's hope Palin is lying about Trig’s lineage—for her own sake. The recklessness she is clinging to in her alibi is far more disturbing than the whole shebang being a cover-up for Bristol.

What does this mean for the GOP hopeful? Only time will tell. With this bombshell dropping after just three days, who knows what gems wil be uncovered in the coming weeks, months? It seems Palin's stance on abstinence only education is backfiring in the most ironic of ways. For someone running on family values, Palin isn't exactly exhibiting the textbook conservative behaviour she has been promoting. I'm all for women advancing in the workplace, but maybe when you have a 4-month-old disabled child and a pregnant teen, it isn't the best time to live on a bus with a 72-year-old man. I'm just saying.

For a good timeline of events, check out this post by The Daily Kos.

For highly entertaining commentary, check out this local Alaskan political blog. As far as I can tell, this is where the story first really took off. To date, there are 441 comments.

And who is my neighbor?

Claire — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 16:35:00 GMT

Yesterday, a friend of mine with a pretty popular blog asked me to write a guest column. Naturally, I was thrilled. Jenny Simmons, lead singer of Addison Road and fellow Baylor grad, had written a post about the largest illegal immigration raid in history when a robust debate broke out. When she asked me to write a post addressing the question, “What should we as Christians do?” there were 9 comments. Just 24 hours later there were 18. Enter my column, reposted here.

It’s a good thing I didn’t write the Bible.

OK, that’s the understatement of the century. But in all seriousness, I just can’t imagine how Jesus came up with such a great answer to “Who is my neighbor?” I probably would have just said “everyone.”

But that wouldn’t get the point across like the parable of the Good Samaritan does. In Luke 10, Jesus’ answer tells us not only are the clean, nice-looking people our neighbors, but so is the naked bloody guy with no money on the side of the street.

We should treat him with pity, and, judging from the parable, extravagance. So who is our neighbor today? As surely as it is the nuclear family next door, it is the illegal immigrant.

The New York Times put it aptly in a June 3 editorial: “A nation of immigrants is holding another nation of immigrants in bondage, exploiting its labor while ignoring its suffering, condemning its lawlessness while sealing off a path to living lawfully.” Although how to handle illegal immigration is undoubtedly a Christian moral issue, it is also an issue that strikes the core of American life.

We were founded to be a refuge from tyranny, oppression, and injustice. Whatever happened to “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free”? I fear we have replaced it with, “give me your paperwork, wait two to five years, learn a new language, or we will imprison you indefinitely.”

I realize the issue is complex and challenging. We cannot allow immigration to go unchecked. We must protect our citizens and our country first and foremost or we won’t be much of a sanctuary to anyone. However, protecting the immigrant is an important, and recently missing, piece of the American character.

So where should we, as Christians, start?

I won’t rehash the parable for a second time, but I think you know where I’m going with this.

We must love illegal immigrants, our neighbors, as ourselves.

This won’t be easy. I daily have trouble loving people who look, talk, and think like me with as much grace and understanding as I afford my fallen self.

To remind myself to do things, I like to use lists. Little things I can check off, keep up with, and hang on my mirror. But “love illegal immigrants” doesn’t really belong on a post-it note next to my grocery list.

In fact, it sounds downright ridiculous.

It has to be written on our hearts and seen in our actions or else it won’t matter. It won’t be the real, life-changing love that God gives us everyday. It will be hard. It will be awkward. It might even cause you to loose a few friends or social standing. Sound like anyone you’ve heard of before? Jesus didn’t ride into town on a white horse. He saddled up a donkey. Jesus didn’t hang out with the rich and powerful. He chilled with the poor and rejected.

While there are a number of passages in the Bible about following the law and respecting your government, there are more still about loving others unashamedly and unequivocally. Contrary to welfare legislation, there is no such thing as the “undeserving poor.” As human beings, we all deserve compassion. And as Christians, we are all commanded to dish it out with utter abandon. Not delineating between the “good” poor and the “bad” poor, but loving each and every one of God’s creatures as ourselves.

Looking for a practical application?

A good place to start might be volunteering to teach English as a second language. My church in college, Calvary Baptist, had a Wednesday night ESL class open to the community. From that class, a Spanish-speaking Sunday school class was born. Hey, sometimes you just need to use your mother tongue.

And from that class, a new ministry to immigrants in Waco evolved. It was amazing to see. And it made a difference. Another area immigrants typically lack understanding is personal finance. One member of our church helped organize a “Bank Fair/Carnival” so that parents could learn about checking accounts and other services while their children jumped on bouncy-castles and ate snow cones.

Some people might think providing these classes without knowing if those receiving the services are legal citizens is a crime in itself. I’m not one of them. I think a greater crime, one against God, is committed when we turn our back on the poor. As Jesus said, “Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me.” I’m not telling you to start housing people of unknown descent in your guest room. But loving others is always a risk.

Another practical way Christians can respond to the plight of the illegal immigrant is with our votes. I’m pretty big on the separation of church and state and honestly even invoking political language next to passages of the Bible makes me nervous.
But I’m not telling you who to vote for, just to look at your local and federal elections with a keen eye. Find out where the candidates stand on illegal immigration. Call your congressman or woman. Let them know this issue is important to you.

I believe a key component to the illegal immigration problem is in the hands of lawmakers. As long as companies are hiring illegal workers, they will come illegally. There need to be harsher penalties for companies who employ illegal workers. In many cases, they are exploiting people to work for below-minimum wage, with no benefits, for far too many hours a week. I sincerely think those who hire and abuse immigrants are as guilty, if not more, than the workers are.

For most of us, however, our role is not to pass legislation. In the words of Micah, “What does God require of you? To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.”

Amen.

True allegiance to Clinton = a vote for Obama, not McCain

Claire — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 20:40:00 GMT

In just a few short hours, Hillary Clinton will speak at the Democratic National Convention. While it’s not exactly the scenario she had planned, she still holds a pivotal role in the election. With a flock of angry supporters behind her, Clinton needs to address the latest tactic by John McCain to misdirect her flock.

McCain’s recent batch of television ads are trying to reach out to the disgruntled Clinton camp. Using sound bytes of the New York Senator calling Obama inexperienced, in one McCain concedes, “She was right.”

Oh please.

Like McCain has ever thought Hillary was right about anything.

What we have here is a classic case of Washington manipulation at the hands of a 72-year-old seasoned veteran. McCain could no more agree with Clinton than he could stay up past 10 p.m.

It’s an act, and a poor one at that.

In perhaps the most transparent campaign charade yet, McCain is shamelessly pining for votes with the most unlikely of supporters—fiercely dedicated democrats. The problem may be, however, that Clinton’s supporters are more devoted to her than the principles of the Democratic Party.

Like a spoiled child, Clinton supporters who defect to McCain are clearly acting out of spite. How else can you justify not voting for Obama—whose policies are 95 percent the same as Clinton’s—and thus denying a democrat the white house for another four years? It must have been the pants suits—and not the policies—that Clinton supporters were so ardently in favor of. Otherwise, the transition to Obama would have been seamless.

What I’ve found more disappointing than McCain’s manipulation (not a real surprise), is Clinton’s less-than-passionate disapproval of the ads. Only when prompted did Clinton respond to the ads by saying, “I am Hillary Clinton, and I did not approve this message.” A clever play on words, but far from the serious, impassioned defense of Obama and attack on McCain’s cheap tactics one would expect of a die-hard democrat in an election season.

McCain may butter up to Clinton and her supporters now, but rest assured that if he takes office there will be no place for Clinton at the table. Obama represents the same ideals as Clinton, and more importantly, the same party. Clinton’s political career may not reach the office of “Madame President,” but there is still room for a high position in the Obama administration. If Clinton supporters really want the best for their candidate—and their country—they will vote for Obama.

UPDATE: Clinton's speech Tuesday night was exactly what it needed to be. In her own words: "No way, no how, no McCain." Check out this article in The New York Times for in-depth analysis.

Mini-medalists face inquiry

Claire — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 05:23:00 GMT

Breaking news: The tiny children parading around in tights and flying through the air with the ease of babes are underage. What a shocker. This article, although outdated, from Selena Roberts of Sports Illustrated is probably my favorite on the subject of Chinese gymnasts. It is complete with quotes from the always-entertaining Bela Karolyi and his wife, Martha on the subject of “itty-bitty teeth.”

Although the age requirements of 16 have raised ire with a number of gymnastics supporters, few have showed such blatant disregard for the rules as the Chinese. A paper trail follows the limber He Kexin all the way to the Olympic podium where she received a gold medal on the uneven bars and the team competition. It doesn’t take a private investigator to raise questions about He’s youthful appearance and childlike fearlessness in the face of such pressure. But it did take one to uncover documents dating back from 2005 that listed He’s birthday as January 1, 1994.

While articles stating He’s age as 14 have conveniently disappeared from online sources, the registration documents from 2005, 2006, and 2007 remain. Yang Yilin, a double bronze medalist in the all-around and uneven bars, is also facing questions of underage acrobatics. What’s really sad about this whole affair are not the missing gold medals on the necks of American gymnasts, but the missing childhood for the Chinese.

The Olympics are about sacrifice, to be sure, but not child labor. And I think this qualifies. Between cases of child abuse and the thousands of people whose homes were destroyed to make Bejing “less crowded” for the Olympics, what kind of message the world is sending by having a host nation such as this?

While such a promotion to the Olympic stage could have spurred China on to improve its human rights record, the opposite has happened. The elderly are being sent to labor camps for requesting to protest. Journalists are being jailed. Activists are disappearing. All the while, the Olympic banner is waving.

I spent my 23rd birthday in jail

Claire — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 15:49:00 GMT

OK. So technically it was the day after my birthday, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it.

I’ve been in Louisiana for the past week, visiting an assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents before leaving the country for a couple of years.

Being around family so much, I’ve noticed a number of similarities: brown hair, green eyes, height deficiency, a love of story telling, and a penchant for prisoners.

From an early age, I was fascinated by the criminal justice system. My favorite vacation growing up was our trip to Alcatraz in San Francisco. I bought a book in the gift shop written by Jim Quillen, a paroled prisoner, and read it multiple times. My fascination graduated into a desire to understand crime rates, and I’ve written a variety of pieces on the prison system, death penalty, and root causes of crime.

While most people are confused by my empathy for criminals, my 79-year-old grandmother is not one of them. She has been holding Bible studies in Louisiana jails for years. I’ve heard her stories of broken lives, abuses of all kinds, and, sometimes, restoration and healing.

But I wasn’t ever able to go myself, until today. Getting into jail is hard work. My grandmother has an ID badge stating she is an official clergy of Louisiana parish jails, but I carry no such authority. If I hoped to make it behind bars, I would have to be interviewed and approved by the warden. The entire process took 46 minutes. Forty-five minutes of waiting, and exactly one minute for the warden to glance up at me from his desk and approve the transaction.

From his office, we were whisked away by a uniformed guard and brought through several sets of heavy doors that locked loudly behind us. Then, we were passed off to a sergeant, who inspected our bags and Bibles and led us to the female cellblock. Much to my surprise, she did not accompany us inside. Instead, she opened the door and locked it behind us. I was starting to think my heart for prisoners was akin to a love of stars— best observed from a great distance.

A few of the inmates looked in our direction, most slept. A small group left cards on a table and headed into their cells, presumably to get away from the religious nuts that had voluntarily put themselves in here. While that was true for a couple of them, most were getting their Bibles and pens.

Feeling a little braver, I sat down on the cold metal bench and tried to look friendly. I felt like a voyeur, but I put my hands on the table and made myself feign being comfortable in this environment. A woman brought out a bag of peppermints and passed one to each of us. Prison candy, I thought, what a paradox.

After my grandmother passed out booklets and tracts, which were eagerly accepted, she started the lesson. They listened intently. One woman periodically nodded her head, and finished my grandmother’s quotes of Bible verses. A few looked at me and smiled. As the lesson on perseverance through trials continued, two more women joined our group. We had a full table, and, quite literally, a captive audience. My grandmother preached about how when we are weak, God is strong, and when we fill empty, God can fill us up.

One of things that struck me about the inmates was how exceedingly normal they were. One woman had three college degrees, many had children, and they all had families of one stripe or another on the outside. Their humanity was hidden by orange jumpsuits and unkempt hair, but their sheepish smiles revealed a common decency. As we exchanged pleasantries, I could tell they felt embarrassed. Our conversations could have occurred anywhere in the world but here and seemed normal.

Sitting in that drafty cellblock, I felt the love of God radiating around the room. When Jesus said "whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me," I think he meant it. And when he talked about setting the captive free, he meant that, too. But we don’t usually live like the Gospel means what it says.

Instead of taking the message to the oppressed, we carve verses in wood and hang them on the mantle in our middle-class homes. But the Bible wasn’t written for decoration but for action. When Jesus talks about visiting prisoners in jail, he means it. While those trapped in metaphorical prisons of addiction and anxiety need Jesus, we can’t stop there. More than 2 million people are imprisoned in the United States, the most in the world, and they, perhaps more urgently than anyone else, need to hear words of hope, grace, and peace.

Taxes make the world go round

Claire — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 04:52:00 GMT

I remember listening to a speech by Senator John McCain a couple of weeks ago where he said if you wanted to pay more taxes, vote for Obama. It’s an ironic quip in light of the projected national debt.

As much as Republicans like to paint Democrats as big-spenders, the latest numbers from the Bush Administration tell a different story. Sure, the wealthiest Americans may pay less taxes, but the $482 billion budget deficit isn’t what I’d call low government spending. Democrats will raise taxes. Someone has to.

I may not be an economist, but even little-old-English-major-me can see that as long we spend more money than we raise (ie taxes), we will be in debt. Say what you will about Clinton, but Bush inherited a budget surplus of $128 billion and turned it into the biggest deficit we have ever seen. Granted, the population of the US has increased, and inflation has also taken a toll so percentage-wise it’s not as large as the raw dollars may seem. Nonetheless, our spending is out of control. The $150 million stimulus package, a mere drop in the bucket, makes a nice scapegoat, but it is far from the real problem.

Ross Perot has a great presentation on this subject with more charts and graphs than you can shake a stick at. The bottom line? Our healthcare and social security spending is increasing at a rate that we can’t maintain while fighting two wars and providing tax cuts for the super-rich. Not only do we need to reform healthcare and retirement benefits, we need to spend more wisely in Iraq and Afghanistan and let the Bush tax cuts expire.

No one likes to pay taxes, but our government has overspent its budget nearly 500 billion times. Someone has to take responsibility. When Obama takes office in November, and has to deal with this mess, remember it was the Republicans that got us into it, but it will take a Democrat to get us out.

Baylor fires second president in as many years

Claire — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 22:06:00 GMT

The Baylor Board of Regents announced today that President John Lilley has been fired for “failing to bring the Baylor family together.” In two years of what was supposed to be a unifying presidency following the tumultuous Sloan years, Lilley managed to further alienate faculty, students and alumni alike.

Lilley’s firing is anything but a surprise. It’s been more like watching a family pet limp toward death. You just wish somebody had the guts to pull the trigger. Lilley has been inching, and in some ways sprinting, toward the exit ever since he took office in January 2006.

The final blow for most was his unilateral tenure denial of forty percent of eligible candidates in the spring, many of whom where highly decorated campus fixtures. Two open-forum Q and A sessions for faculty and students did little to quell the insurrection and actually managed to make people more angry. Lilley later recanted his decision, approving all but two of his previous nine rejects.

This decision helped the mood on campus slightly, but naysayers were quickly given another reason to hate on Lilley. In May, he unveiled a plan to create a new all-purpose-logo and eliminate the use of the interlocking BU. Petitions, Web sites, and factions of displeased Baylorites sprung up with such vigor that Lilley found himself backtracking once again, this time to keep BU on football helmets.

Perhaps what’s most interesting in this whole development is that Lilley could have spared Baylor (and himself) a slew of bad publicity by taking a most generous deal from the board. The university’s press release reads:

“The Board had hoped to transition to a new president gradually, officially beginning the presidential search in January 2009 and eventually replacing Baylor President John M. Lilley during the final portion of his five-year contract. Because plans for a gradual transition were rejected by Dr. Lilley, the Board will immediately seek a new president.”

Sources tell me that Lilley had been offered this deal in some form or fashion since February, but instead of working with the board on a graceful exit, he hired legal counsel. As one reader on the WacoTrib.com put it, “[Lilley] once again put himself above what was good for Baylor.” I can’t say it any better than that. Meanwhile, former provost Dr. Randall O’Brien fled Waco for Carson-Newman College in Tennesee on July 8, where he will serve as president. Talk about a smart man. O’Brien jumped ship just in time, all the while proclaiming, "Baylor is flourishing under the leadership of President John Lilley," in his exit speech.

Lilley clearly was not interested in saving the Baylor name from another run in the mud. Had he taken the deal, we wouldn’t have to see headlines that read “Another Baylor President Fired” Instead they would say “Lilley completes contract.” Sure, the undercurrent for insiders might tell a different story, but our dirty laundry wouldn’t be aired on a national stage.

And honestly, what was Lilley hoping for? His contract ran through 2010. Was he really looking for a renewal? Realism is clearly not his strong suit, but this is a new level of delusion, even for him. Besides the more obvious squabbles on campus, there were subtle hints of his departure straight from the man himself.

At graduation, I listened to his speech with more than usual alacrity, hoping to catch a whiff of concession. The rumor was he would be “resigning” within the week. He gave only a small indication of trouble afoot, instructing graduates with a pointed finger “not to let anyone steal your joy.” An interesting point to make at a graduation, with a stadium full of promising careers and youthful idealism.

Speculation about the next president is already in full-swing. Harold Cunningham, former chair of the board and current member, will serve as acting president for a “brief period,” the board claims, while an interim is selected. I’d like to make my picks for a permanent replacement.

A few ground rules that guided my selections, which aren’t very different from those proclaimed by Howard Batson, chair of the board, are below.

--Proven leadership skills. Lilley came with a lot of baggage from University of Reno, in Nevada, which included a climate of fear among faculty members. Sound familiar? Let’s do our research, people. [For a satirical news story straight from Reno click here]

--A relevant degree (not music, which Lilley had, or theology, which Sloan did). We need a candidate who has proper training in administration.

--A good schmoozer. No more of this awkward speaking style and reclusive nature. It may seem like a superficial quality but after the past two years of a president who was MIA most of the time, it’s a necessity.

--An inside hire. Baylor can be a tricky political landscape to navigate, and merely graduating from here doesn’t prepare one for the task. We need to select a qualified candidate who possesses the above qualities and doesn’t require a briefing on the implications of Baylor 2012.

My choices, in alphabetical order are as follows:

Drs. Diana Garland and David Garland

Think of these two as the Baptist version of the Clintons—all the intelligence and power and none of the controversy. This power couple, who are the respective deans of the school of social work and George W. Truett Theological Seminary, has published books and won grants with such regularity their reputation precedes them nationwide. Locally, they had great rapport with faculty and know students on a personal level. The only drawback of putting these two in Pat Neff Hall is that they won't be able to rake in the dough through grants.

Dr. Frank Shushok

A Baylor grad and an administrator here since 2001, Shushok has launched a remarkably successful housing campaign to bring students back on campus. As the dean of student learning and engagement, Shushok is literally on the ground with the student body everyday and would bring a level of connection to undergraduates that no one else can. Additionally, he is well-liked and respected amongst his colleagues. Shushok can scarcely walk down the street without meeting and greeting a host of people by name.

William Underwood

Why did we let this guy go? A proven leader and former dean of the Baylor Law School, Underwood launched his presidential career at Mercer from his interim position on the Brazos. An extremely intelligent man and a proven unifier (think mastermind of New Baptist Covenant) with serious connections (former presidents Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton), Underwood offers a nice combination of Baylor background and outside experience.

NOTE: a version of this post is on the Baylor Lariat's Web site here

So much for happily ever after

Claire — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 17:13:00 GMT

This wasn’t the ending I was hoping for.

After nearly two years of weekly mentoring an at-risk teen, I had hoped for a more climactic closure. We’d been to the museum, the bookstore, the campus recreation center, the mall, the zoo, the park, and the bowling alley. We’d worked on homework, read books, painted, watched American Idol, and cooked dinner. And in between it all, we’d really gotten to know each other.

I watched her deal with things way beyond her maturity level, like her dad going to prison and the death of a classmate. In turn, I, a 22-year-old college student and far from a trained social worker, dealt with issues far beyond my own maturity level. I counseled her when she got caught with drugs and convinced her to tell the truth. I listened as she told me that her mom was going to jail. I empathized with the injustice of her poor school system and lack of good options. I threw her a birthday party in a local park. I bought her shoes for a cousin’s wedding. I taught her how to play racquetball. I told her she could be anything she wanted to be. I was fiercely dedicated to her.

And so, for our last Tuesday night together, I had asked her what she wanted to do. I told her it could be anything within reason. She chose a manicure. I was thrilled. Sure, it was bit pricey, but the memory of us sitting side-by-side at a nail salon, getting pampered like a couple of yuppies would be worth it. It also showed maturity, I thought. It wasn’t a trip to an amusement park or to a movie. It was an activity for adults.

I pulled up to her house about 6 o’clock. I knew right away she wasn’t there. Her grandma’s truck was gone. The gate was padlocked. She had forgotten. I let out an ironic chuckle.

This type of behavior had been common in the beginning. I actually think it was a test of hers. She wouldn’t return my calls or show up for our meetings for weeks. I kept calling. I kept showing up. Finally, she warmed up to me and revealed that her last handful of mentors hadn’t lasted a month. She wanted to make sure I was in it for the long haul. She didn’t say that exactly, but I could tell what she meant. But not this time. The test was over. She simply forgot. I was hurt. Really hurt.

I had been looking forward to our last outing together. I felt proud that we had stuck together for so long, despite our vast differences. She liked rap music and spoke an English I needed an urban dictionary to understand. I liked acoustical ballads and was an English major. She liked to sing. I played sports. She wore professional wrestling t-shirts. I shopped at the Gap. But we had become friends, and I genuinely enjoyed hanging out with her each week. She had carved a sizable part of my life out, and I liked it.

Sitting outside her house, with the credit card bill from her birthday party expenses in my wallet, and the radio tuned to her favorite station, I felt totally dissed. Then, remembering her grandma had recently given her a cell phone, I felt a glimmer of hope. She picked up—a good sign. She had forgotten, but was audibly shaken-up about it. Somehow that made me feel better. She had just picked up a friend, and they were coming over here to hang out. She wanted to know if she could come, too.

Taking my mentee and her friends out to dinner and the mall had become fairly common over the years. I was always happy to include them. It was fun to see their interactions and their faces when I asked questions like, “What do want to be when you grow up?” and “What’s your favorite subject in school?” But this time was supposed to be just us. We had planned it for weeks. Plus, manicures were expensive. I’d only just graduated from college and was making minimum wage at a part-time job before the Peace Corps. My exclusion of others was well-intentioned on a number of levels. “Sure, I said. Of course your friend can come.”

Meanwhile, my head was a blur with mental math computations. Considering my current financial situation, I really couldn’t spring for three manicures. I felt like dropping her friend off at the corner, but the semi-adult in me knew what I had to do. I was honest with them. Well, not about wanting to ditch her friend, but about the money situation. “I don’t have enough money for all us to get manicures, but I’d really like you two to get one. What do you say?” They both smiled huge smiles, the ones where all the teeth show and you get those little crinkles around your eyes. Her friend ran her fingers through her hair. “We are gonna be throwed at school tomorrow!” she exclaimed.

As I entered the nail salon with my youthful friends, the stares started. Ordinarily we attract a glance or two, but our triad trumped them all. The girls went to an alternative middle school for kids who’ve been kicked out of public schools. They were in their uniforms, which consisted of khaki pants, blue t-shirts, and white shoes. Honestly, it kind of had a prison feel to it. And there I was, Bermuda shorts and a crew-neck shirt from Banana Republic. I sighed. Time to put some shine on these trouble-making fingers. I helped the girls pick out colors, and, having brought my camera, documented the whole experience. They giggled and batted their eyelashes, as proud as peacocks. Walking out of the nail salon, I decided that was the best way I could spend my money, handsdown.

After dropping off the girls at her house, hugging my mentee, and instructing her to be good and call often, I got into my car and burst into tears. Sure, I was going to miss her, but what I was really crying about was the injustice of it all. My mentee and I live in two different Americas. I live in the one where my parents raised me lovingly, and I got to go on summer vacation at the beach. I went to a good school and had teachers who cared about me. I played on sports teams and had slumber parties with my friends. I got accepted to college and graduated with honors. I had a bright future.

She lives in the America where her parents gave her a name, and then walked away. She lives on food stamps and Medicaid. Her school barely passes state assessments. She’s never been to the beach, or seen snow, or even spent a Christmas with her parents. Go to college? She’s in the 7th grade for the third year in a row. I cried because I wanted to do more than slap a nice, shiny coat of polish over her life, but couldn’t. Our last meeting didn’t go as planned.