Rice Cultivation

“You’re eating that again?”

I was sitting in my school's dining facility with my roommate Tam. Normally she's the sweetest person I know, but at that moment she was uncharacteristically annoyed. Her boyfriend had just returned to the table with a bowl of cereal. For reasons unbeknownst to us this was highly offensive.

“You have that at every meal,” she grumbled. I’m the sort of person who makes jokes to relieve tension, (which usually doesn’t work, but that’s another story,) so I said:

“Well Tam, cereal is like the American version of rice.”

For once my poor sense of humor was effective. I explained Ty’s addiction for cereal in a way that made sense to my roommate. Tam’s Vietnamese, so she knows how important rice is. The average Asian consumes 200 to 400 pounds of this starch annually, while Americans consume about 25 pounds per year. People in Thailand have been eating rice for over 6,000 years. Their word for poor translates into English as ‘to be without rice’. Chinese have been growing rice for at least the last 4,000 years. Their word for agriculture is synonymous with rice cultivation. Today half of the world's population subsists mainly on rice. More than half a billion metric tons are produced every year.

Why do so many people eat rice? For starters, it’s cheap. Rice has been modified to the point that it’s a superplant. Rice also provides quick energy. It’s a good source of thiamine, riboflavin, and niacin. There are other uses for rice besides food, too. The hulls are used to stuff mattresses, the straw is turned into hats and shoes, the polishings provide furfural, and where would the world be without sake?

Of course rice isn’t all wonderful. Relying on one crop for so much of the human population has had drastic consequences on our health and the environment. Before the Civil War, slaves were used on American plantations. Since rice is grown in water, the threat of alligators, snakes, and disease carrying mosquitoes made the grueling work doubly dangerous. The open water also creates the perfect habitat for Clonorchis sinensis, a liver fluke that’s infected around 30,000,000 people in Japan, China, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia.

Rice also has a lot of (surprise, surprise) political connotations. After WWII, America was determined to prevent a terror like that from happening again. A good way to avoid World War III was to analyze why the previous global atrocity occurred. What they came up with the theory of population and national security. It states that overpopulation leads to exhausted resources, which leads to hunger, which leads to political instability, which leads to war. The depression of the 1930’s brought the destruction of the 1940’s. Germany’s population kept rising, but they didn’t have enough land to feed themselves. So some turned to fascism.

Harry Truman stated in his inaugural address:

"More than half the people of the world are living in conditions approaching misery. Their food is inadequate… Their poverty is a handicap and a threat both to them and to more prosperous areas… Greater production is the key to prosperity and peace. And the key to greater production is a wider and more vigorous application of modern scientific and technical knowledge."

Along came the Green Revolution. America’s method of preventing war was to promote agriculture. The Rockefeller and Ford Foundations founded the International Rice Research Institute, or IRRI, in 1959. The organization’s goal is to “find sustainable ways to improve the well being of present and future generations of poor rice farmers and consumers while at the same time protecting the natural environment.” They developed a dwarf plant of rice that’s hardier and more productive for farmers. It sounds lovely, but I read very few positive reports on the Institute. Unlike traditional rice, “miracle rice” requires pesticides. The chemicals runoff into the ocean and contaminate coral reefs. According to the World Wildlife Fund, less than 5 percent of Bali’s reefs are healthy because of the introduction of miracle rice. At the IRRI’s 40th anniversary celebration, hundreds of Filipino rice farmers protested for causing massive loss of biological diversity in rice paddies throughout Asia.

Miracle rice is supposed to bring in more revenue for poor farmers, but research shows that this is not the case. Although they produce about 40 percent more grain, they need three times as much water. Countries like India and the Philippines have relied more and more on irrigation since the Green Revolution started in the 1960’s, but there isn’t enough groundwater for that amount of strain. The Punjab Aquifer in Pakistan, for example, is dropping 10 to 30 feet per year.

Yet another conspiratorial issue is what the IRRI has dubbed “golden rice.” Traditional and miracle rice deplete the consumers’ level of vitamin A in the body. It is estimated that 26 countries suffer from severe vitamin A deficiency, which causes night blindness, increased chance of illness, and death. To eradicate this problem, General Motors has helped pay to buff up rice with carotenoids from daffodil genes. This causes the rice to appear yellow, hence the name “golden rice.”

Not everyone thinks this is a good idea, though. Vitamin A pills, which have worked quite successfully in the past, cost about two cents each. Golden rice, on the other hand, has already cost 100 million dollars. An even simpler option would be to turn some of the rice paddies into a garden for leafy greens. Then there would be less vitamin A deficiency, a healthier diet, and more biodiversity. People could even eat rice unhusked, which does have vitamin A.

Humans are constantly reminded that going from hunters and gatherers to an agricultural society may not have been a smart move. Rice is one of the many negative results of that shift, but it’s also one of the positives. Rice is an invaluable part to dozens of human cultures. It beats cereal hands down.

Rosaceae

St. Augustine once said “Love is the beauty of the soul." That may be, but it’s also enmeshed with rosaceae plants. This large family of around 3,500 species and 150 genera has been the symbol of mankind’s favorite emotion for millennia. It’s the fruit of desire, favorite gift for Valentine’s Day, and my middle name. Clearly, this is one sexy family.

In Ancient Greece, men had a much easier (but slightly less romantic) way of proposing. If he tossed an apple at her and she caught it, they were engaged. Their religion has several examples of the power of rosaceaes. Gaia gave apples to Hera on her wedding to Zeus to signify long love and union. Dionysus tried the same trick to woo Aphrodite. Even Athena, the beautiful but apparently asexual Spartan, fell for a man when he stopped her in her tracks with golden apples.

Apples aren’t just a part of the Greek religion, either. In the Bible, the forbidden fruit that brought upon humanity’s downfall is an apple. This could be because, when they’re sliced in half, apples look remarkably like vulvas. In the Quran, Mohammed tasted apples on his lips the moment before he died.

People did some odd things with apples in the Middle Ages too. Before the age of deodorant, they kept peels in their armpits to give to their lover. German men who desired a wife ate apples doused with virgin sweat of to attract ladies.

Another plant in the rosaceae family is the cherry. The appeal of dating someone who can tie a stem in their mouth (I think) comes from the belief that their skill with the tongue will make them a good kisser. This tasty fruit is also the mascot of the swing band Cherry Poppin’ Daddies. Their cheeky name comes from the common expression for “deflowering” (another ethnobotanical term!) a female virgin. (I never, ever thought I’d write that in a school assignment.)

The rose is such a common metaphor for love it’s become a cliché. I found a terrible poem written by Sam Miller that sums it up in a sickeningly cheesy way:

“A Red Rose is a symbol of Love.
It’s silky softness resembles my heart
when I think of you.
The petals, multiple layers of beauty
symbolize the many layers
my love for you enfolds.
The leaves caress the rose
allowing it to grow fuller and stronger.
The stem supports the rose,
allowing it to hold fast, grow tall, and sturdy.
The thorns protect the rose,
preventing harm from outside unsafe forces.
If you cherish, nurture, and caress this rose,
it will last a lifetime.
Just as my love for you will last an eternity”

When looking at a rose, it’s obvious why it’s associated with love. They’re beautiful, red, and resemble humans. It was the emblem of Venus, and often used in spells.

Today, food people eat is valued more for its nutritional value than representative meeting. For those with a healthy conscience, rosaceaes still thrive. Species such as almonds provide essential vitamins, minerals, fat, and protein. Other rosaceaes like apples are low on calories and high on dietary fiber.

Even in a materialistic world, the rosaceae family has a large modern symbolic value. I’m typing this report on a computer that has an emblem of (what else?) an apple. Whether you loathe or love Stephanie Meyer, her adolescent romance novel about a hormone-addled teenage girl and thirsty vampire is the love story of my generation. And what graces its cover? Of course it’s an apple.

What else can I say? The rosaceae is one sexy family. They’re fertile, voluptuous, diverse and widespread. The Brangelina clan doesn’t come close.

Since I assaulted you with a bad poem, I’ll let Robert Frost repair the damage and say adieu:

“The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But now the theory goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose--
But were always a rose.”

Addiction

Strong and powerful women. My mother drilled that saying into me like a sergeant training his soldiers to fight. They made me feel tough. I was a bear that could- if it only chose- rip apart the entire forest. The words were magic, a spell of sorceress control. I could do anything. Why? Because I was a strong and powerful woman.

Believing the words made them true, but saying the words didn’t. On and on my mother repeated the line, like Moses and the Ten Commandments. It was her mantra. Her prayer. Her salvation. Even a five-year-old could see how desperately she needed to think that she was in control. I watched her strength crumble over and over, and felt betrayed. I resented the words, then. They were false. Misleading. A lie.

If only she had believed in her own command. Maybe then she could have beaten it. Maybe then she would still be alive.

My mother didn’t just bestow me with a silly saying. Along with the blue eyes and stubborn temper, I also inherited her disease. I’m not talking about cancer or tuberculosis, either. Sometimes I think those would have been preferable. No, my mother had an addiction. Addiction tainted her body like oil in the sea. Addiction clawed at her mind and organs like a dragon with a never-ending appetite for pain. As a child I couldn’t understand why she was so weak, why she couldn’t just stop. Now, I understand all too well.

It’s so innocent, at first. Tap, tap, tap. The voice knocks gently on my mind. The touch is soft, reassuring. Sometimes I give in right there. Usually though, I try to resist.

Pound, pound, pound. No matter how hard I fight, the call gets louder. It beats on my bones, pushing me into submission. When it’s over I cry and swear never to do it again, but the voice just laughs. ‘You know better than that,’ it jeers. The addiction is a part of me now, like a vital organ. It’d be easier to live without my lungs than my drug of choice. It’s grown to something even larger than myself. The addiction has all control; I am helpless under its sway.

Waste. I’ve thrown away years under the influence. If I spent as much time studying as I did squandering with my addiction, I’d be the smartest person on the planet.

Regret. The things that I’ve done will haunt me forever. I nearly accidentally killed myself like my mom, spent three months in two different hospitals restoring my health, got in trouble with the law, but the worst is what I’ve done to the people closest to me. I’ve ruined relationships with friends, lovers, and even family.

Why did I start? The usual reasons, I suppose. There’s nothing unusual about addictions, after all. Depression and low self-esteem make us do silly things. Escaping the pain of inadequacy was a relief. The sense of control was liberating. But then the control started to control me.

Why don’t I stop? Do you think I haven’t tried? I’ve done counseling, medicine, supplements, hospitalization, treatment centers, other drugs, meditation, reiki, deeksha, Brightbalk, spells, sweats, essential oils, electroshock, (just kidding,) and screaming stupid phrases like ‘I’m a strong and powerful woman’ all for the sake of recovery.

They’ve helped a bit. If you met me last year, you wouldn’t recognize me now. I weighed 80 pounds then, was constantly moving, and desperately wanted to be someone else. I was weak. Tainted. A disease. I hated myself for being so pathetic, but the anger fueled the disease even further. Now that I’m closer to accepting my strengths and weaknesses including my addiction, I’m closer to being in control. After I got out of the hospital, I thought I was 1000% recovered. (Hyperbole) I was wrong. Wrong was I. The voice will always knock on my mind. I will always be an addict. The important thing is for me to control it, and not the other way around. My addiction is one of my defining traits, but doesn’t define me. Kind of like Cindy Crawford’s beauty mark. I am more than an addict, and she is more than a lady with a mole.

I’ve met others all over the world with the same problem, including Stevens Point. They don’t have boils or demon ears. They look like regular human beings. They are regular human beings.

It would be senseless to blame my mom for this addiction. If I don’t accept responsibility for my actions, how can I change them? By following her hard-earned lesson and being a strong and powerful woman, I will recover.

Lord of the Rings Fanfiction

Reading fanfiction is worse than porn. (Well, some fanfiction practically is porn, but that's another story.) It's addictive, I tell you! During those dreaded middle/high school years I volunteered for the Middle-earth Fanfiction Awards, spending hours on the computer a day. It wasn't until my dirty habit created a rift between my father and me that I realized I might have a problem, and set it aside. Seven years later, I think I can handle their power. Here are some stories I remember enjoying. I'll add more to the list as I continue exploring: 

Original Fanfiction University of Middle-earth

The Very Secret Diaries

The Cursed Queen of Angmar

Briana’s Quest to Read Persephone’s Quest

R. Gordon Wasson, an American who dabbled in banking and research but wasn’t proficient in any particular profession, became interested in ethnomycology on his honeymoon with Valentina Pavlovna, a Russian physician. The two were very affectionate towards each other, but had a fight just days after the wedding. Pavlovna found a ring of mushrooms, and ecstatically started harvesting them. Wasson, on the other hand, thought his wife had turned mad. He refused to eat the mushroom soup she prepared that night, and exchanged some harsh words. A few days later, when Wasson realized that his spouse was still alive, he wondered why his country taught him to fear mushrooms, while hers revered them. It was the beginning of forty years of study. Wasson worked (and smoked, I suspect) with chaps like Hoffman and Schultez, relearning lost secrets of the immense power of mushrooms.

After their slightly troubled honeymoon, Wasson and Pavlovna went to Mexico. There, they studied how indigenous people used the phyla mycota. They filmed Maria Sabina perform a velama, the first shamanic ritual ever known to be recorded. They also spoke with Aurelio Carreras, another shaman from Oaxaca. He received a vision of Wasson’s son in New York under great turmoil. Carreras could see the future, and warned that one of his family members would die within a year.

Wasson and his colleagues’ attitude was “kindly condescension.” They were professional, high-class men, and didn’t think much of fortune telling. Soon, however, they noticed how often the villagers came to the shaman for guidance. People came when a child was missing, or when someone stole their money. Somehow Carreras could see who was where and what they had done. As guessed, Wasson’s son was under stress in New York even though he was supposed to be in Boston. His second cousin passed away a few months later. There were more predictions, and even intellectual snobs like Wasson had to admit that the accuracy was uncanny.

Surprisingly, Wasson’s work in Mexico didn’t turn many heads. He and his collaborators did their best to minimize their repot on the prophetic angle of mushrooms, so people didn’t pay much attention. His next study, however, upset many religious followers.

Soma, like the “bread” in the Bible, is a metaphor for food in the Rig Veda. Wasson thought it was more than that, though. He thought soma was literally, not just symbolically, actual food. More specifically, he though it was (what else?) a mushroom. Amanita muscaria is a plant that grows all over the world. Not only did it influence the Hindu religion, it also shaped the Nahua, Algonkians, Paleosiberian, Ob Ugrian, Finnic, Lapps, Nivkhi, Samoyed, and perhaps more cultures we haven’t studied yet. He even claims that it was the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil!

Proving this would be rather difficult. In fact, I didn’t read any evidence in Persephone’s Quest that soma is the same thing as Amanita muscaria, not to mention the cause of humanity’s fall from Eden. Still, Wasson provides an interesting theory for why cows are considered sacred. Stropharia cubensis is a less powerful but still hypnotic mushroom that grows directly in cow manure. He reasons that the Santal and Ho might have thought that the animals gave birth to the mushroom, and thus praised them for it.

Wasson irritated even more people by declaring that Ancient Greeks religiously ingested ergot, the natural form of LSD. Before cultivated wine took over with its representative Dionysus, philosophers like Socrates were more than likely Eluesians. This religion, (or cult, depending on your definition,) had two rites of passage: the Lesser Mystery and the Greater Mystery. Wasson contacted my favorite chemist Mr. Albert Hoffman, and asked if Ancient Greeks had the ability to cultivate ergot. A few years later, Hoffman replied ‘yes.’ Wasson thinks that the Lesser Mystery was a pretty potent fungus, and the Greater Mystery was really potent ergot. Did Plato imagine the realm of ideas while under the influence of ‘shrooms? Quite possibly.

Wasson wouldn’t appreciate my lack of respect. He got upset when “the Timothy Learys and their ilk” classified mushrooms with words like ‘hallucinogen’ and ‘psychedelic.’ These terms, he felt, didn’t convey their sacredness. He’d rather call them ‘Mystery,’ but that phrase is so commonly used now, (“misused,” according to Wasson,) that it would be impractical. Entheogen, which loosely means ‘god generated within’, comes pretty close to describing their influence, so he tolerated it.

Wasson contributed a lot to ethnobotany, but that doesn’t stop me from not liking him. His book describes cultures from around the world, and yet every paragraph manages to be about himself. He blabs on and on about famous people he knows, respectfully referring to them as ‘doctor’ or ‘professor’, but barely mentions the shamans and indigenous tribes he’s studied. You’d think that it’d be hard to make drugs and orgies boring, but he succeeds admirably.

Another issue is the lack of proof. It’s all very speculative, with no hard evidence.
Despite this, Wasson has some intriguing theories on how plants have shaped human beliefs. Does that make religion less valid? I don’t think so. We’re so accustomed to imagining ourselves as the only creatures made in God’s image; the concept of plants having divine wisdom is intimidating. Personally, I think there are different stages of consciousness, and ingesting certain mushrooms might open our minds to them. However, I also believe that there are higher levels than the brain, and no amount of alkaloids or amines will ever take us there.

10 Reasons Why Gay Marriage is [Not] Wrong

I found this on Myspace, and it was too hysterical (and true) to not share. Not that anyone reads my blog, but still.

1) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.

2) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

3) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

4) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.

5) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed;the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.

6) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.

7) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

8) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.

9) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.

10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.

There She Goes Again

[NOTE: This is the essay I wrote for my application to GEM. Wish me luck!]

It’s been a year since I first applied to GEM. In that time, I’ve waxed and waned more often than the moon. I’ve visited three countries, (Thailand, Laos, and accidently Myanmar,) tore off and re-shingled five roofs, (waking up at 4:30 in the morning every morning,) and gained a little bit of wisdom.

I’ll be honest. The thought of spending an unproductive summer stuck in Wisconsin was horrifying. I mentioned in my previous essay how much I enjoy helping others. What I didn’t mention was how I felt obligated to help them.

Like most people, I have a slight case of low self-esteem. Helping others relieves the burn of inadequacy. In my eyes, I’ve never been smart enough, funny enough, or pretty enough. Altruistic acts of kindness may be selfless in vervet monkeys and spiders, but not me. My desperate attempt to be a better person was just one of the many ways I combated depression.

I say “was” as if it’s all in the past. ‘Does that mean you aren’t interested in joining GEM anymore?’ you might ask. ‘Then why did you fill out an application?’ To relieve your doubtless confusion, I will point out again three of the most important things I achieved this past year: seeing new places, working my skeletal muscles, and developing gray matter.

Joining the Thailand Project was undoubtedly one of the most eye-opening journeys I’ve ever experienced. There was a lot of ugliness- abandoned children, starving immigrants, corrupt government- but even more beauty. The joy that Thai men, women, and children exude is astounding. They’re the poorest people I’ve met, but also the happiest. And their generosity! It’s the culture, not some stupid lack of self-worth, that makes them so giving. The people I met didn’t have an insane ‘To Do’ list like I have. They didn’t feel the need to have a 3.9 GPA or join the Peace Corps. They were happy simply to be alive.

This inspired me. It suddenly occurred to me how absurd my desire to help everyone was. Yes, there’s pain and suffering in the world, but it’ll always be there. I let my own petty wishes add to the pit of darkness. For the first time I was content with what I was doing. There was nowhere else I wanted to be, nothing else I needed to do. I was me, and that was okay.

My newfound contentment followed me back to the States. Learning about xylem and Rigoberta Menchu in Stevens Point was exactly where I was meant to be. It dawned on me how many friends I have. They don’t care if I give a million dollars to charity. In fact, they’d probably be disappointed that I didn’t give it to them. They like me, Eru knows why, for who I am. I am smart enough. I am funny enough. Who on earth cares what I look like? My body is a smooth-running machine, and I should be grateful just for that.

This sounds silly, but I was worried that satisfaction would turn me into a slacker. My friend Alex is a bright, wonderful human being who doesn’t feel the need to accomplish, well… anything. He’s a manager at Burger King in Ashland. I both hate and admire his carelessness.

“You’re capable of so much more!” I screech at him.

“So?”

My grandmother hisses the word ‘content’ like it’s a swearword.

“Eugene is content being a bum!” she spits at her cat Charnu and me. “He doesn’t have a real job!”

A lifetime’s worth of “DON’T end up like your father!” is bound to rub off somehow. I do my best to avoid his mistakes, but catch myself behaving in a disturbingly similar fashion. My ‘To Do’ list has diminished to ‘It Would Be Really Nice If…’ I still want to do what I can to protect the environment, which is why I’m majoring in resource management. Traveling continues to be fun, so I reapplied to GEM.

Of course, being an ambassador is much more than ‘fun.’ It’s a chance to make a difference, to solve a global crisis. It’s a chance to learn, to experience new ways of life. Immersing yourself in a culture unlike your own is the fastest path I know to growth. Absorbing the customs and traditions of another country is enough personal and professional incentive for me to want to go.

The exchange goes both ways. I don’t want to take a country’s knowledge and entertainment without giving something in return. I am blessed (and cursed) with a lot of energy. The Foundation for Ecological Security and Nyumbani village would be great places for me to pool my stamina.

It'd be delusional to think that I know much. I am, after all, a sophomore- “wise fool.” College and practical experience have provided me with a sturdy template for ambassadorship. Working on roofs, organic farms, and eco-villages in this country and Canada has made me familiar with rough living. Being the outreach coordinator for the Women’s Resource Center taught me about effective communication. Combine that with ample energy and sincere wish to help others, and you have me.

Satisfaction didn't turn me into a slacker. Ironically, not having to achieve my goals makes me more likely to succeed. Happiness pushes me much further than pressure. I am confident that I will excel in whatever I do, but if I don’t, I’ll forgive myself, and try again. I humbly wish, but do no not need, you to consider me as a GEM ambassador. Thank you, and namaste.

Samhain: The History of Halloween

It’s that time of year again. The wind is getting colder. The leaves are turning red. In just a couple of weeks, kids will be embalming themselves with candy. The History Channel reports that 92% of children in America participate in this sugar binging every year. Halloween is our country’s 2nd largest holiday, earning businesses 6.9 billion dollars annually. How did this strange tradition start, anyway? As it turns out, Halloween isn’t just one of the most lucrative celebrations; it’s also one of the oldest.

Over two-thousand years ago, Celts living in Ireland, the United Kingdom, and Northern France divided the year into four quarters: Yule, Ostara, Litha, and Mabon. In the middle of these quarters were four more cross quarters: Imblog, Beltane, Lammas, and Samhain. Samhain, which means summer’s end, marked the end of the year. The days grew colder and darker, just like they are now. It was at this time that the veil between the spirit and physical world was at its thinnest. Celts wore masks to hide from the dead, repelling ghosts with frightening costumes. They left offerings of food on their doorstop, so evil spirits wouldn’t come inside.

Ghosts weren’t all bad, though. Some caused mayhem and destruction, but they also helped the Druids, or Celtic priests, predict the future. This was crucial around Samhain, because people needed to know how much livestock to slaughter. If they had too many, there wouldn’t be enough grass or feed for the winter, but if they had too little, they wouldn’t have enough meat. It was the hardest time of the year. Joyce and River Higginbotham describe in their book Paganism how Celts were encouraged to confront their fears in the autumn, and let go. Bonfires burned to ward off the winter, and people honored their ancestors through celebration.

Things staid pretty much the same until the Romans invaded in 43 AD. Even then, Samhain lived on. The conquerors combined the Pagan’s holiday with two of their own: Feralia and Pomona. Feralia, like Samhain, commemorated the passing of the dead, and just so happened to occur in the fall. Pomona was a holiday meant to honor the Goddess of fruit and trees. Her signature plant was the apple, which is why we bob for them even now.

Samhain survived the Romans, but the real test had yet to come. In 800 AD, Christianity was at its peak of power. The church used dates of Pagan holidays like Imblog and Winter’s Solstice to make converting the masses easier, turning them into St. Brigid’s day and Christmas. Pope Boniface IV sanctioned November 1 as All Hallows day to honor saints and draw people away from Samhain, but couldn’t get them to stop partying it up the day before. As a compromise, he adopted the holiday, and turned into All Hallows Eve. In 1000 AD the church created All Souls Day on November 2 to honor the dead.

To this day Halloween is immensely popular. Spain, Mexico, and Latin America, which are heavily Catholic, celebrate El Dias de los Muertos, or The Day of the Dead. It’s a colorful three day event, when the living burn incense and leave candy on gravestones to entice the nonliving back to earth. England, with its high percentage of Protestants, doesn’t celebrate All Hallows because they don’t believe in saints. They do, however, have a strikingly similar holiday on November 5 called Ethan Fawkes day. In 1606, this Catholic was executed for trying to blow up the Parliament Building. He’s still celebrated, or rather un-celebrated, with what the English call bone fires. You might also recognize him as the inspiration for the comic book and movie V for Vendetta.

Puritan pilgrims settling in America weren’t interested in the flagrant fun of All Hallows, and left the entertainment to the Europeans. It wasn’t until Irish fled from the potato famine in the early 1900’s that Halloween became really celebrated here. They told ghost stories, danced, and did a lot of pranks on the community. Young women believed that the opening of the spirit and physical veil could help them divine the name of their future husbands. Things got a little too wild though, and local governments gradually turned the holiday into a family event. Giving out candy was a way to treat youngsters and (hypothetically) prevent pranks, or tricks. This probably dates back to All Soul’s Day in Europe, when poor citizens would beg for pastries called soul cakes in exchange for praying for the giver’s dead relatives.

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. You don't have to worry about facing your family, (am I the only one who stresses about Thanksgiving?) or being a loser without a partner, (Valentine's Day should be abolished.) After learning how it survived not just one, but two foreign invasions, I like it even more. I hope you all have a great Samhain. Be careful, though. Ringing bells keep spirits away. If you want to meet a witch, turn your clothes inside out and walk backwards. Or call me, and I’ll give you a few numbers.

Edward Cullen

Should I be ashamed about lusting over a seventeen-year old vampire? Probably. But that doesn’t stop my ridiculous crush on Stephanie Meyer’s character Edward Cullen. I’ve never been into romance novels, (I swear!) but the Twilight series make me swoon like a Mary Sue. If you have to ask why, you clearly haven’t read them. Edward is every girl's secret desire. He’s a bad boy- you can’t get much tougher than sucking blood- but also a gentleman. Sadly, the early 20th century male is more desirous than our present day gamers. Edward hums Bella lullabies, saves her life repeatedly, gives kisses that make humans faint… even a self-proclaimed asexual like myself can’t help but go gagas over him. The writing is mediocre, the plot absurd, and yet I find myself vainly trying, (and failing,) to put it down. There’s no use denying it; I’m hopelessly smitten.

Why the hell am I writing a blog?

I’m not enlightened enough to be a spiritual teacher. I’m afraid of politics, and spend as little time as possible worrying about it. I care about the environment, but realize that another ‘Save the World’ site isn’t going to change anything. So why the hell am I writing a blog? I don’t have anything that profound to say. Nothing I know isn’t already understood by the average person. The great thing about being a human being though, is that no matter how average you are, you still have a lesson to teach. I truly believe that everyone knows something vital that can be passed on to another next person. Even me.

So there. :)

'Tell Me a Story' Speech

[NOTE: This was for Comm 101. I wound up doing a much less personal speech about Meshu, (who's strikingly good looks are used on the title of this blog,) but writing about my mom's death was good for me, so I wanted to share it.]

Many Americans think Canada isn’t much different from the U.S. Canadians, on the other hand, feel quite differently. After gallivanting around their country, I heartily agree.

My life has never been very stable. I wasn’t happy in my hometown of Ladysmith. Trust me; you wouldn’t like it there either. To avoid that hellhole, I lived with acquaintances, friends, and family across the country.

In the summer following my senior year of high school, I was sick of that cycle. As exciting as the nomadic life might be, security is sometimes nice. My aunt and uncle from Michigan called, and offered something I didn’t even realize I wanted: support. My things were always packed, so the move was fast and easy.

I’ve met strangers more familiar than Ben and Jen. Don’t get me wrong, they’re some of the nicest people I know, but our lifestyles are so different. They’re not just living the American dream. They are the American dream. My uncle Ben, former football superhero for MIT, is the head of some multi-billion engineering firm. His wife Jen, with blonde hair and silicone breasts, is what you’d expect his cheerleader girlfriend to look and act like. They have two kids- Alec and Natalie. Sometimes it was hard for me to not get grossed out. I mean, their names rhyme for Eru’s sake! It was like the Brady Bunch, and I’m no Marsha. I didn’t fit in their Hallmark-esque life, and was lonelier than ever.

The situation back in Wisconsin didn’t help matters, either. My father left for the Winnipeg Folk Festival, a massive hippie party in Manitoba, and didn’t come back to the States. He met a lovely lady half his age from an eco-village, and followed her there. Meanwhile, his second ex-wife and my only mother was in the hospital. She overdid the alcohol again, pushing her body to the brink. I was worried about her of course, but mostly just angry. My memory of her almost always involves yellow eyes and a swollen stomach. Like many children of alcoholics, I went through the ‘maybe-if-do-this-she-won’t-drink’ guilt phase, to the ‘she’s-gotten-better’ vulnerable phase, and the ‘that’s-not-her-talking-it’s-the-beer’ hurt phase, over and over and over. After eighteen years of that shit, I finally progressed, (or degressed, depending on your opinion,) to ‘I-don’t-give-a-fuck.’

Of course my aunt and uncle were in a flummox.

“Do you want to go see her?” they asked worriedly.

Hell no! I thought to myself. The last time I saw my mom, she was visiting me in the hospital, and got tossed out by security. I still hadn’t entirely forgiven her for that. Besides, it wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before. My mom was smart. She’d stop drinking until her body was strong enough to start again. I had long stopped pretending that she’d ever quit for good.

Nope, I definitely did not want to see her. I did, however, desperately want to visit my dad. Call it escapism if you like, but I went as far away from my mom as financially possible, buying a Greyhound ticket to Winnipeg, Manitoba.

I could make this whole speech on that trip alone. The bus draws some of the craziest, most diverse people this world has to offer. I sat next to a Mennonite wife for a while, whose child was perpetually vomiting three seats ahead of us. A nice lady from Chicago offered me two of her fried chickens. I declined. Most of the thirty-some hour trip was spent speaking with Michael, a UW-Madison student who was born in Congo. We talked for hours about hieroglyphs, Rwanda, and the male and female role. I’m getting a little sidetracked, but he is the first person who proposed to me after all, so it seems worth mentioning.

After thirty excruciating hours being tossed around in the rumbling metal giant, we finally made it. I had no idea what to expect my dad to look like. It reminded of the summer he stayed at a Tibetan Buddhist retreat in Colorado, and came back looking like a man of the woods.

Sure enough, the long, matted beard had returned, as well as the wild (stoned) eyes. Instead of taking me to the eco-village right away, he wanted to show me around Manitoba. In Winnipeg a girl even prettier than my aunt Jen stopped me in the street.

“Excuse me,” she asked, “but do you know a place where I can get my lips done?”

I sputtered. For starters, it was such an odd question. My lips may be bigger than the average girl’s, but I’m no Angelina Jolie. More importantly, the girl was gorgeous! Why mess with that kind of beauty?

I told her no as neutrally as possible, refraining from scolding her for being ungrateful about the looks she already possessed.

“But you have such nice lips!” she gushed with surprise. “I thought you’d know where to go.”

She was too innocent to leave alone. I honestly worried she'd get hurt, looking so stupidly lovely. My dad and I joined her in the hunt for a surgeon, stopping at tattoo shops who instantly turned us down. After five or so rejections we gave up, and went swimming in her pool.

The next day my dad and I went to a Native American powwow, where a woman my father was already familiar with sat intently. She had a vision five years ago that she would find something or someone at one of these gatherings, and had been hitchhiking to ceremonies across the U.S. and Canada ever since. I asked her curiously what she had seen, but didn't get an answer. The vision had yet to make its appearance in reality, and she was rather impatient for it to come.

After that we finally went to Prairie’s Edge, the Canadian family who adopted (and stole) my dad.

Eco-villages are sort of like Greyhound buses; they both draw a lot of strange people. This particular eco-village had its share of unusual individuals. My favorite was Hunter, the only other American who lived in two different realities: this planetary existence most of us reside in, and his dreams. The guy would sleep for twelve hours, and wake up to describe what happened in his own beautiful world. If I recall correctly, they mostly involved girls with purple and blue nipples seducing him. Needless to say, I was envious.

All of this was kept that fears for my mom away, but my aunt and uncle spoiled the fun. They sent me an email, demanding that I come back to Wisconsin. I won’t lie; I didn’t want to. My mom had already ruined so much of my life. Did she have to take this away from me too? I called Jen, asking if it was a dire emergency.

She said yes.

I asked if my mom was going to die.

She said yes.

I can’t accurately describe how I felt. Tears came of course, but it was kind of like seeing someone suffer on a TV screen. There was too much pain to process, so my mind detached itself instinctively, and watched.

My dad and I drove nonstop to Lacrosse, Wisconsin, where my mom was in hospice at Gunderson Lutheran. One week after she died my first year of college at Stevens Point started, and I was mercifully given more distractions from the pain. Homework was literally a lifesaver. I threw myself into studying, and chipped at my mourning one day at a time.

It’s been a little over a year since my Canadian escapade and mother’s passing. In that time I’ve volunteered in Thailand, earned a 3.8 GPA, produced, directed, and performed in the Vagina Monologues, and many other things my mom would have been proud of. I don’t like Nietzsche very much, but I do have to give him props for saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” My life has been a bit rough, but extremely fulfilling. Thank you for letting me share a part of it.

A Peculiar Phenomenon

Stage fright is a peculiar phenomenon. Dreading to address an audience is so prevalent amongst humans it’s practically in our genes. How did it get there, though? Did evolution give us the instincts to fear public speaking after an ‘X’ number of talkative cavemen were clubbed to death? However the trend came to existence, I too am affected by its power. I may not freeze up or pass out like some other afflicted individuals, but I do get tongue-tied, and develop a slight speech impediment. Despite the universal loathing of speeches, (excluding a few eccentric communications majors,) it’s something we all have to do, and do well if we want to get anywhere in life.

Someone with mediocre intelligence but superb verbal skills has a far better chance of succeeding than an uncommunicative genius. By being a good speaker, you’re also a good persuader. This paper is about my own brief history with public speaking, and where I’d like it to go with it.

The first “real” speech I gave was in Mrs. Platteter’s fourth grade social studies class. She taught us students various historical Wisconsin figures, and we had to act them out for our friends and family. I remember feeling vaguely nervous, but mostly proud to represent Edna Ferber, one of our state’s first female authors. Portraying a character, in my mind, is far easier then presenting a speech. It’s less personal, for one thing. As an actor you can hide behind the role you’re playing, but that’s not an option for orators. Those blank stares from the spectators are enough to make anyone feel vulnerable.

Giving lectures came up repeatedly in middle and high school. Mrs. Harmon, Keeble, and Beback were particularly fond of torturing their students with speeches. It wasn’t until environmental science class that I saw any actual use for them. Mr. Bunton would divide us into different teams, and assign topics to create powerpoint presentations on. It was an excellent way to exchange information, and made me realize the potential great speakers possessed.

In mass lecuture on Monday, we heard about some influential communicators. Dictators use brute force, but their ability to persuade is where the power really resides. Adolf Hitler coerced Germany to do what they did with his commanding message of hatred and racism. Many politicians are corrupt but enigmatic, mystifying us common folk. With ethos, pathos, and logos, you can manipulate people to do pretty much anything.

Mass communication has done a great deal of good too. Martin Luther King Junior’s incredible voice has uplifted millions. Power can be beneficial for everyone, if used responsibly.

I’m not entirely sure where I want to go life, but all of my preferred options involves communications to at least a small extent. If I continue with my major in natural resource management, I will have to verbalize what’s happening to the environment, and how we should change it. In order to be a good psychologist, I need to effectively speak with patients. International relations, journalism, pop star, (just kidding,) anthropology… every career I’m interested in has communications. This class will help me succeed in any one that I choose. (Or all, which may be the case.)

Required classes stink, but I can see why people should get over stage fright. This particular peculiar phenomenon is one we’re better off without. Thank you for showing us how. Now if you could help me with this other thing I have…

The Vagina Monologues

Vaginas have taken over my life! As the outreach coordinator of the Women’s Resource Center, I was the executive producer, actor, director’s assistant, and publicity promoter for this year’s rendition of The Vagina Monologues. I’ve sold pussy-shaped Popsicles, (and not the cat kind,) attempted to calm overzealous feminists, printed one thousand posters... but it was all worth it.

Eve Ensler, the writer of The Vagina Monologues, was fed up with the belief that females should suppress their sexuality. She asked girls, grandmas, Africans, Jews, Christians, Atheists, people from around the world about their sexuality and, more specifically, vagina. What she created out of their stories is an amazing piece of history. Although the show is a comedy, it covers several dark issues. In “Say It,” a seventy-year old Japanese woman describes how she was forced to be a comfort woman for the soldiers of the Second World War. Female genital mutilation is also addressed. Roughly three million girls have their clitoris removed every year. It’s a painful, dangerous procedure, and often results in death.

As a Westerner, I find it difficult to understand why a woman would complacently accept this horrid violation. For this reason, I chose it as my monologue. I delivered the “Not So Happy Fact” at the Dreyfus Theatre last Saturday. The audience was so stunned it took them several moments to applaud. (At least, I think it was because they were stunned. Hopefully my lack of acting talent had nothing to do with it.) After hearing about such tragedies, the crowd needed a boost. Thank the Goddess for the cheerful monologues! One woman describes how a healthy relationship with a man helped her fall in love with her vagina. Another rants about why her vagina is PISSED OFF. Both were silly, but had a powerful message behind the humor.

The event was good, (mostly) clean fun, and the cause was even better. The Women’s Resource Center donated the proceeds to SAVS, the Sexual Assault Victims Services. We raised $2,600! Eve Ensler requires people who put on the show to donate ten percent of their profits to V-Day, her non-profit organization that strives for women’s equality.

Insightful, entertaining, moving... The Vagina Monologues is many things. Most of all it’s empowering. Women around the world have been liberated thanks to Eve Ensler’s powerful play. I’m proud of the role I had the honor of performing in this year’s production at Stevens Point, and look forward to being a part of the audience at the next performance.

Water: The Molecule of Life and Hygiene

Introduction

Water is referred to as the molecule of life. Its ability to bond into weak covalent bonds makes it one of the most versatile of compounds. Three quarters of the world is covered in the wet stuff, housing ninety percent of the planet's species. In Star Trek: The Next Generation, an alien thought the human race was nothing more than “giant bags of mostly water.” This was an accurate impression. We are, after all, 80% H20.

Despite this deceiving abundance however, water is precious gift. One-sixth of the world’s population lacks access to clean water (World Health Organization [WHO], 2008). Wells in the African Sahara break down, and the people have neither the knowledge nor the tools to fix them. Even in the United States, one of the most “developed” countries on earth, water supply is an issue. Dry, Southern states like Arizona having been eyeing the Great Lakes for decades. Michigan is considering selling their share for billions of dollars, at a price near the cost of oil.

Contaminated water is the number one carrier of diseases. Ironic, isn’t it, that the giver of life kills so many?

Acidic rain has done its share of destruction. Not only does the low pH level burn old European statues to pieces, it’s slaughters the wildlife (Environmental Protection Agency [EPA], 2008).

The tragedy of the commons strikes us all. Surrounded by Dasani and bubblers, it’s easy to take the vital, life-giving substance for granted. We take hour-long showers, allow faucets to leak, wash an ungodly amount of dishes... while people around the globe are thirsty. I chose to analyze my water use because it’s so underappreciated in our society. Just because it falls from the sky does not make it a perpetual resource.

Personal Impact

I’ve always prided myself in being mindful of my resources use. High school friends (and foes) referred to me as ‘tree hugger.’ It was meant semi-affectionately at best, but I took it as the highest of compliments. Growing up on the Flambeau River instilled a passion for the environment. It connected me to the earth, and made me aware of its processes. One cannot teach a child to appreciate nature, but my father reaffirmed my joy for the outdoors. His belief in sustainability influenced me greatly, and helped me respect simple living.

Last summer, I had the privilege of volunteering at an eco-village in Manitoba, Canada. It was the pinnacle of minimalism. We grew our own food, had no electricity, and I loved it. Being without technology was reawakening. Grocery stores and television screens disconnect us; going outside returns us to our natural state.

I love “rough living.” If I had a choice, I’d gladly give up my dorm room and live in Schmeekle Reserve. (Provided it was warm enough, of course.) When I went to Thailand this winter, most of the group was appalled at the concept of no flushing toilets. The only thing that bothered me, however, was being charged five baht to use a stall. I nearly squatted in a public garden just so I wouldn’t have to pay to pee.

Despite this, there is still room for me to improve, particularly in the water department. I drink more than some would consider healthy, which is the second reason why I chose it as my issue.

Lifestyle Choices

1.) Showers- I’ll admit, I enjoy a good scrub, but showers use a lot of water, especially for those who stand there for half an hour. Not taking any would greatly lower my water consumption. Although a nice luxury, they aren’t required. As long as I avoid lifting my armpits, I can do without.

2.) Cleaning- Some might find it unsanitary, but my immune system can handle using a dirty plate. Is it really necessary to wash our dishes after every single use? I don’t think so. My room can handle a layer of grime as well. Germs and bacteria don’t scare me! I’ll survive.

3.) Tea- What can I say? Especially in the winter, this warm drink is my weakness. I guzzle the stuff like crazy, with little regard to whether or not I actually need it. Women in Africa dig for hours just to get a drop, and hear I am drowning in mug after mug. It isn’t right, and can be changed.

Actions Selected and Results

Since I’m ambitious, I chose to tackle all three of the above choices. Why do something halfway? I like going the distance, and was curious to see what would happen. I did not shower, OR clean, OR drink too much tea. For. Three. Days.

As expected, my room is a lot dirtier. Thank Eru no one has to put up with me a roommate; the poor girl would be disgusted. My table is sticky with the juice of apples, but it’s staying put. I resist the siren call of showering; a vow is a vow.

Actually, this experiment provided a convenient excuse for being a slob. To be honest, being forced not to clean isn’t so awful. Luckily I’m not a neat freak, or else the grossness that is my salad bowl would frighten me.

I’m even filthier. My body hasn’t reeked so much since doing construction work in Beldenville. Noses in my biology 130 class balk at the whiff of me. Brianna gives me a hug, and I cringe knowing that I smell worse than her garbage bag. It’s embarrassing, but I try to wear the odor with pride. What’s worse: being smelly, or contributing to the dehydration of millions? I know where my priorities lie.

Summary and Insights

People have reacted to my “eco-consciousness" in various ways. My aunt in Michigan finds it inspiring. When I lived with her for two months, I unintentionally motivated her to change her costly, consumptive habits, and go green. Others find my behavior to be a bit odd. I mentioned earlier what my high school classmates referred to me as. In the redneck community of Ladysmith, my beliefs were downright strange. As a Buddhist vegetarian living in a conservative, McDonald’s-crazed town, I might as well have been an alien.

I don’t flush after I pee; toilets suck up as much as five gallons of water! Girls in the bathroom have looked at me with stares ranging from puzzlement to actual anger. I think my floor has gotten used to it; now all they do is ignore me or say ‘hi.’

What did I learn from this experience? Hygiene is important. My other aunt from Wausau came to visit, and gave me a serious lecture on how this assignment was not worth loosing friends. I listened to her patiently, but made no comment. I understand her concern, but am amazed by how she completely missed the point. True, I would do things a little bit differently if I were to do this experiment again- sponge baths, for starters- but it was still a valuable lesson. The small, seemingly meaningless choices we make every day impact the world. From what we wear to where we eat, people hold a great deal of responsibility. Sometimes it seems like corporations exploiting the world’s resources are unstoppable, but it’s the consumers who have the real power. By lowering our ecological impact and making wise choices, we can save trees, animals, and human life.

Reference List

Bledsoe, Lisa. Calvert Creative. [updated 2 February 2008; cited 2 March 2008]. Available from http://calvertcreative.blogspot.com/2007/09/good-design-helps-quench-worlds-thirst.html.

Policy Almanac. [updated 4 March 2008; cited 4 March 2008]. Available from http://www.policyalmanac.org/environment/archive/acid_rain.shtml.

Osokin, Nikolai. Terra Daily. [updated 4 March 2008; cited 4 March 2008]. Available from http://www.terradaily.com/reports/Antarctic_To_Cover_Global_Water_Shortage_999.html.

THAILAND 18- Reflection

Of all the gifts Thailand has given me, and I’ve been blessed with many, the treasure I value most is the culture itself. I came to teach, but learned so much. My only hope is that I will bring back these lessons with me:

Generosity- I’ve never seen American children willingly relinquish their candy, but here kids gladly share their treats. Even in the market vendors gave generously, offering samples of pomegranates and roasted chestnuts. Despite the poverty, I’ve never meet more giving people.

Kindness- When I entered the DEPDC with a cut leg, the volunteers immediately flocked to my attention, and insisted that I let them they take care of me. For days they asked how I was feeling, and if they could do anything to help.

Honesty- Although a bit overwhelming at times, like the elephant drivers who broke into hysterics when a boy got hit with a ball, Thailand’s bluntness is refreshing from our habit of leaving things unsaid. They let you know what they’re thinking, whether it’s if you’re beautiful or hairy. (I was told both repeatedly.)

THAILAND 17- Bangkok Round 2

Well, here we are again, and still I find myself put off by this dirty, crowded city. Thai kindness does not reach the sinuating debris of Bangkok. It's a bit like New York, I guess. The streets are hot and sweaty, choking with smog and contaminants I don't want to think about. I miss the mountain air of Mae Sai. I’d even settle for a whiff of Wisconsin fertilizer.

The purpose of guidebooks finally becomes apparent to me, as I roam about aimlessly. It's actually quite organized for a city, divided into different districts. But it’s all in Thai, and I have no idea what potential goodies I’m passing up. I bump into some tourist attractions; seven hours of wandering is bound to get you somewhere. I stumble upon King Rama Garden, (I took a picture only because I felt guilty for finding it dull,) Chinatown, (quite different from Chicago’s Chinatown, and MBK, (which was actually pointed out to me by a man who noticed I was American, and assumed I wanted to shop at one of the world’s finest malls.) My favorite highlights of the journey, however, were the following:

1.) Chinese monasteries- Are louder, fatter, and smellier than traditional Buddhist temples. People swarm in droves to place dishes of fruit and incense at random corners. How anyone can find peace there is beyond me, but the monks were allowed to look women, which was a nice change.

2.) Mosque- After being drilled by two devout believers of Allah, I was kicked out.

3.) McDonald’s- What can I say? It wasn’t only the menu that was different. (Chocolate banana pie, anyone?) They actually hired a band to play outside the restaurant, right next to a praying Ronald statue. Inside were REAL LIVE ASIAN SCHOOL GIRLS, reminding me of my old manga days. Ahhh, youth. Jazmyn would be so jealous of me right now, and I'm (almost) tempted to hit on them just for her. Fortunately I settle for a photo, and head back to the hotel.

THAILAND 16- Party Train

The term “sleeper train” is misleading. Not (just) because your bed consists of a foam pad inside a steel cage with a shower curtain to block you and the flourescent hallway, but because half of the passengers are partying in the bar. I enter the chrome doorway warily, expecting to find a few insomniacs smoking cigarettes, but am immediately swept into a mariachi line. It’s a freakin’ fiesta, complete with Latin music, lights, and a disco ball. I dance a poor imitation of the cha-cha with a drag queen, somehow managing to find space in the aisle, and tango with a (perfume free) man at least twice my age. He’s from my home country, and since Poles should stick together I hang out with him and his group.

For the first time since Chicago, people are taller than me. Everyone except the Thai drag queen and my fellow UWSP students are from Europe, returning from their yearly vacation. It’s liberating to be able to dance again. The music quickly changes to European drinking ballads, and a round of chanting pursues. It’s a fun spectacle to watch, but my grandmother quickly gave up trying to teach my cousins and I our heritage- one of my greatest regrets, incidentally- and I can’t join in. I haven’t been into alcohol since I was twelve, so I quickly return to my steel cage. It’s not too bad, actually. In fact, it’s cozier than Ying Ping...

THAILAND 15- Last Day

I can’t believe it. Here I am, on my last day at the DEPDC. The closer the end comes, the more surreal it feels. Yesterday was a dream of hiking up the mountains, caving at a national park, swimming at a watering hole, and dancing around a bonfire. The girls laughed whenever I swiveled my hips, and requested: "Teach me how you do!" Jut, Jut (‘Kiss, kiss’) plays on the stereo, and we jump to its hopping beat two times in row.

Was it worth it? Infinately. I want to work on the MYN’s website, but Som Pop, being the enlightened soul that he is, said that I must first complete my own website. It’s a trivial contribution compared to what the children have given me, but I feel the need to do something.

Was it everything that I expected? Embarrassingly enough, I didn't come with any expectations, but I wasn't disappointed. It's impossible to measure everything I've gained here.

Will I return? Perhaps. But there are many other places and people I want to experience first. It's a big world, after all.

Bamboo shoots stuffed with rice fill the air with a stickily sweet perfume, synonimous with my feelings for the DEPDC. Sweet and sticky, I will be thinking about this place for a long time.

THAILAND 14- Laos

Don Sao Island is a snail. Even compared to the slow pace of Thailand, Laos barely creeps. There are a few stands selling trinkets, but the vendors seem to have taken a break. I’m not sure why the dirt road is so wide; there’s no one here to use it. Three children walk (why aren’t they running?) up to me, and I give them the rest of my lunch. Hopefully a member of my group will be as generous to me. I find the national park, and immerse myself in the dry jungle. Darts of red flowers fall from the sky. It’s the most action I’ve seen in this country. Pods that look like fuzzy caterapillars attract my attention, and I reach to touch one lazily. It isn’t soft and silky like the bug it resembles, but coarse, and itchy. Before I know it, my hand and head starts burning as if I were picking stinginig needles. I’ve had enough of Laos at this point, and decide to turn around. On the way back I spot a caged sloth, the most fitting mascot anyone could think of for this country. Unfortunately I’m ten minutes late- I must have fallen under the village’s lagging lull- and the rest of the gang is not pleased. I guess I’ll just have to be hungry and itchy.

THAILAND 13- Hospital

A trip to a foreign country wouldn’t be complete without a hospital visit, so I put it upon myself to trip over a metal fence. I’m satisfied with the surgical precision of the DEPDC volunteers, but the rest of the group points out that this is rather foolish. With morbid embarrassment, I accept a lift to the emergency room. (For whatever reason, they refused to let me walk. Can’t fathom why.)

The ride is pleasant: we drive past a flower garden, and I finally get to see the governmental school. The shot is quick and easy. I’m out in twenty minutes. The whole procedure cost about $5. I wonder how much it would have been in America...

THAILAND 12- Opium

We're in the Golden Triangle after all, so it’s only fitting to visit the Opium Museum. Founded by the Beloved Princess Mother to raise awareness on this social crisis, I didn’t expect to find anything particularly enlightening. The drug’s affects, after all, are painfully obvious. One of the wonderful things about life, however, is that every moment holds a lesson. You just need an open heart to see it.

The museum starts as a dark cave, with mutilated bodies writhing in pain against the walls. It’s tacky, but an accurate depiction of addiction. Once through the tunnel, we’re on the third floor, and spiral downwards with the drug.

This region may be the most renowned for its use of opium, but it was only recently- 60 years ago, actually- that it was introduced to the area. Before that, Egyptians used it medicinally, Benjamin Franklin used it habitually, and the East India Trading Company used it to get out of debt. They didn’t consider the drug any worse than alcohol or tobacco, and didn’t understand why China was having such a fuss. Then came the Opium Wars, and the rest is, as they say, history.

It ends in a reflection hall, with, (of course,) golden triangular pillars engraved in thought-provoking quotes. Although it isn’t a particularly happy exhibit, it was certainly an educational one, and I am grateful to have learned another valuable lesson.

THAILAND 11- Happy New Years

It’s finally happening. The streets are looking the same, blurring into one waste of time. The stares are getting suspicious, no longer filled with kindness. Is it possible that I, Briana Rose Soroko, self-proclaimed traveling junkie, am actually homesick? This revelation startles me. I thought you had to have a home to feel this terrible. Sure enough, my symptoms of loneliness point to this unlikely scenario. So, what should I do?

Find a New Zealander, that’s what.

Mark’s first words to me were, “Excuse me but do you speak English?” to which I replied, “Yes, and so do you.” It was a cup of coffee at first sight. We went to a café that looks suspiciously like Starbucks, and exchanged stories of our travels.

And what adventures he’s had! This is my story, not his, so I won’t go into detail about the woman who’s husband passed away ten days before she stole Mark’s heart and money, but I will mention his current traveling companion, a renegade Buddhist monk who’s having some faith issues.


We discuss philosophy, sex, and- I’ll admit it- I become a bit smitten. I blame it on my passion for Lord of the Rings. Even before I saw the films, I’ve been enchanted with Middle-earth and NZ. They’re my fantasy countries, and here was a character from my dreamland, right beside me.

I desperately want to go to the bar with him to continue our contemplations on existence, and maybe even meet this monk, but have to meet up with my fellow Wisconsinites, to celebrate the New Year. (Readers take note; this is one of many examples I can give on why traveling with a group blows.) As it turns out, they don’t have any plans, so I slyly suggest the bar. This surprises them I’m sure, considering I’m the only one in the group who doesn’t drink, but they heartily agree.

We search for the only bar in town, and find it roughly a mile away. BM Pub, short for Batman, must have been designed after his underground cave. It’s monstrous, with black domed walls towering above us. The stage is empty. The tables are empty. It’s a dance club without customers. No one in their right mind would stay here, and Mark is long gone. I sigh sadly- how quickly romance enters and leaves your life. (Readers take note two; don’t let the love of your life slip away.)

I’m still in good company, and within thirty minutes, the club is packed with people. Chairs are discarded to make room for the crowd, and the music begins. I have no idea what they’re saying. But it’s absolutely perfect. Who needs old New Zealanders and doubting monks? I have Thai pop stars to dance to! I scream the countdown emphatically, laughing that I don’t know 10-1 in Thai.

HAPPY NEW YEARS EVERYBODY!

THAILAND 10- Children's Day

The Thai are notourious for having numerious holidays. After all, why not celebrate? One of the most charming events is Children’s Day, an entire twenty-four hours spent spoiling the youth. The DEPDC commemorates the occasion with grand fervor: balloons are strung, music plays, crafts and games are set, and the party begins! I’ve been to my share of gatherings, but have never seen so many treats. There are hoardes of cookies, stockpiles of biscuits, bucket-loads of candy, and everywhere are glowing smiles. No child is without at least two desserts in both hands. There’s an ice cream truck giving away cones, next to beauticians giving free hair cuts. With a day like today, who needs Christmas? I feel a moment of sympathy for the kids raised in America. They have no idea what they’re missing.

THAILAND 9- Hilltribes

The DEPDC van rumbles its way up the mountain, reminding me of the elephant ride I took two days ago. Som Pop is taking us to see two hill-tribes, where we are blessed with an intimate look into the Akar culture.
The first person we meet is the chief, who is- believe it or not- one of DEPDC’s first pupils. Her black eyes sparkle with brightness. She doesn’t appear to be over thirty, but is responsible for the health and wellbeing of 1,000 people. Most of them are women even younger than her- opium killed the men. The burden she carries is immense, but her face glows with strength that makes me shyly ask if I can have a photo of the two of us.
The first male I see approaches, and proudly declares that his younger brother is getting married. He eagerly asks us to come to his home, where we meet the groom and raw pig heart that was sacrifised for the ceremony. The house is a thatched hut exactly like what you see in National Geographic. It has a straw roof, bamboo walls, raised floor for the flooding season. You don’t get the smell from looking in a magazine, though. Or the darkness.
We’re brought to the fiance’s place, and watch like shameless tourists as she dons on her headpiece. Strangely enough, she doesn’t seem to mind. She even poses for a few photos. (In a modest Thai fashion, of course.) Can you imagine a herd of college kids from another country barging into the room while you were putting on your wedding veil? This isn’t a tourist site, either. Why do these sheltered and secluded people accept our imposing presense with such grace?
I believe it’s because of Som Pop. The excitement of his arrival is clearly evident. The Akar run up to him eagerly, animatedly describing what’s happened since his last visit. He looks just as happy to see them, and hugs everyone one of them.
It infuriates me to think that these are the people who are being trafficked. Their lack of citizenship has led to a lack of rights. The Akar the poorest, most giving people I have ever met. We couldn’t enter a house without being offered tea, oranges, or rice.

THAILAND 8- The DEPDC

Who are the children of the DEPDC? They’re the ones without Thai citizenship, unable to attend government school. They’re the Burmese refugees, with no rights in either country. They’re the poor, the indigenous... and they’re the lucky ones. If they weren’t here, most would be sold on the streets as sex toys. DEPDC has bought them a little time, something remotely resembling a childhood, but there is nowhere for them to go once they leave. As Joseph so aptly informed put it, in America, children are told that anything’s possible. The sky’s the limit for your future! Here, they’re told what they can’t do. They can’t go to college. They can’t get a good job. They can’t be successful.
Despite this, they’re bright with joy. How can they face such tragic lives, with only a dismal future to look forward to, and still radiate such love?
Who are the children of the DEPDC? They’re the ones with adorable smiles, the ones bursting with affection, they are- in short- kids.

THAILAND 7- Mae Sai

The gentle slopes outside my window sharpen into steep mountains, as the bus pushes its way into the North. We stop at the Condom and Cabbage, a wayside named in an effort to reduce STDs amongst the local villagers, and our tour guide warns us of the city’s roughness. Mae Sai, the rugged outpost of the North, is the heart of the Golden Triangle. She will not walk down the alleys, and suggests we do the same.
Sure enough, as we roll onto its streets, the tension is __. We aren’t in Chang Mai anymore. Burmese refugees sell their crafts next to Gucci sunglasses and Prada handbags from China. Jade floods every stand, loosing its exotic allure. There’s a desperation in the people's faces. They depend on rich foreigners like us to survive.
Mae Sai has it grimness, but in those three weeks I managed to find a great deal of joy. The golden streetlights are far more impressive than the Christmas lights I'm missing at home. There’s little to do in the evening except eat rottis and shop for souvineers, but I make it a personal mission to have at least one adventure every night. It was how I met Annanchai, a local artist. His English was decent enough for me to appreciate his charm, and I spent many occasions in his company. I was invited to a private karaoke jam, and danced with a woman who had to be at least seventy years old.
Although the regal treatment at Karinthip Village was nice, I’m glad that I got to witness the uglier side of Thailand. Not only does it make me value my cushioned life, it makes the Thai’s loving, easy-going nature even more impressive. Somehow, admist the suffering, they still glow with joy. It puts my complaints in perspective.

THAILAND 6- Temples

Of all Thailand’s wonders, its monasteries move me most. There's more of them than bars and churches in Wisconsin, and vary from the pure white temple in Chang Mai, to the crimson red, pop-tune blaring joint in Mae Sae. All possess a unique, soothing energy- even the ones with techno-light halos.

Another commonality they seem to share is the rigorous climb required to reach their healing depths. I cherish this part of the spiritual visit just as much- if not more- than the statues. It's a test of will; only those truly seeking reach the top. On my first visit to Scorpion Mountain, I had to take two (short) breaks up the stairs. Now, I leap over them effortlessly. If only this meant I was more enlightened. Alas, I don’t think my calf muscles and consciousness are connected on such a deep level.

THAILAND 5- Hotels

Karinthip Village is a retreat center. With sunny parlors, green grass, and sculptures ranging from fearies to elephants, I’m (almost) disappointed by the luxury. It makes my three nights at the Swiss hotel in Chicago seem like Super 8! But never fear; my thirst for rough living is more than quenched at the Ying Ping restaurant and hotel. Run by a Chinese family, its peeling white walls and piles of unidentifiable will be my home for three weeks. The first floor serves as the best (and only) Chinese restaurant in town, the second floor is used by the family, and we have the third and fourth floor to ourselves. I keep accidentally climbing to the fifth floor, which is where they do the laundry. Chunks of cow flesh dry on the stairs, there’s no such thing as a running toilet, and I don’t mind in the least.

THAILAND 4- The Nightmarish Night Market

As an avid woman of the night who, I must confess, enjoys shopping, I thought I’d love browsing through Chang Mai’s Night Market. Turns out, it was the worst part of my trip.

Ask how much something costs, and you're absolutely done far. The vendors do not take no for an answer. They kiss your ass, whine, and then give the evil glare- in that order- every single time. No material possession is worth that stress.

I must have needed to pay up some negative karma points, because I end up getting lost. And, just because the Gods have a sense of humor, I’m starving. Why not buy some food from one of the bazillion restaurants, you ask? Because I’m a cheap idiot who doesn’t like eating under stress. I plow my through the stands, desperately searching for the old lady selling seafood for five baht. (Fifteen cents!) Alas, she is nowhere in sight. Neither is the hotel. I pass a homeless man, and am in such a miserable state that I almost walking. His situation puts perspective on my “suffering,” however, and I give him 50 baht. Next block over, I run into a group of teenage motorcycle taxi drivers. They offer a ride for 50 baht, but since I need 5 for my dinner, I offer 45. They mercifully accept my pitiful bargain, and I get to sit for the remainder of the journey.

I wish I could say that I learned my lesson, and will never return to that dreadful place, but the Gods really are funny this evening. While I was out, the rest of the group decided they want to visit the Night Market later on this evening. Mercifully, they get distracted at the bar, and all thoughts of shopping are forgotten.

True Beauty

Unless you live on a mountain more isolated than my hometown of Ladysmith, you're bound to notice the prominence of eating disorders in our society. I once read that Jamie Lynn Sigler was so anorexic she burned the calories she absorbed chewing gum through exercise. Well Ms. Sigler that's quite impressive, but I have you beat. Try running on nothing more than two pieces of gum for three days in a row while attending school, building a house, lifting weights, and jogging five miles a day. Who's the anorexic now?

Anna Carolina Reston, that's who. I can think of nothing more depressing than being known as the model that died on a diet of apples and tomatoes. Of course, this is coming from a person who, at one point in time, lived off on 300 calories worth of broccoli, spinach, apples, seaweed, and Boca burgers in a day.

If you ask me, the media's obsession with thin celebrities glorifies eating disorders. Maybe if we'd concentrate less on their guts and more on their talent they wouldn't do this to themselves. MAYBE we should start concentrating less on celebrities in general. Why use withering corpses as models for health and beauty? Believe me, being 90 pounds at 5'6" is neither healthy nor attractive. I've been there, and spent two months in a hospital desperately trying to regain weight as a result.

I am not alone in this. One in ten Americans have been diagnosed with an eating disorder. To combat this startling number, the Women’s Resource Center of the University of Wisconsin Stevens Point is working with True Beauty, an outreach program dedicated to raising awareness on this fatal disease. Together they will be hosting monthly support group meetings, where people can safely discuss issues with eating, body-image, as well as develop healthy coping mechanisms and ways to recover. These meetings are not excluded to people with anorexia, bulimia, or overeating, and are open to the public. True Beauty also hopes to instate a qualified eating disorder therapist at Delzell Hall for University students. In the future it would like to become more involved with the community, and raise the wellbeing of all.

Eating disorders are fatal illnesses, and cannot be taken lightly. If you or someone you know needs help, please consider attending a meeting. For more information contact bsoro437@uwsp.edu.

Peanut Power!

Peanut Butter and I have a pretty strange relationship. It started when my father started dating Karen. She was convinced that the glutinous globs were poisonous, and removed it from the kitchen. Until that moment, I had taken this nutty goodness for granted. After all, what person doesn’t indulge in the creamy comfort? From the yuppie who buys it at 10 bucks a pound to the homeless man with a jar of Skippy, every American has a place in their shelf (and heart) for peanut butter. Personally, I think it should be in the Constitution.*

Only when it was removed from my life did I realize the power of its sticky grip. My best friend at the time’s mom Kathy, (Remember this is middle school we’re talking about here; friends shifted as often as the hormones.) who- pity the soul- was allergic wakes some nights with spoon and empty jar on her bed, with no recollection of how it got there. Peanut butter kept the kids at school whose parents neglected to give them lunch money from being hungry. Cafeteria ladies allotted them a PB and B sandwich, which was more appealing than school food any day. One girl actually asked her devoted mother to stop making her lunches so she could have it instead.

My step-mother eventually left my life, but I still wasn’t in charge of the food decisions. Anorexia crept in, and proved to be a stricter food regulator. The thought of a hundred calories a tablespoon was appalling, and I couldn’t remember what anything other than certain fruits and vegetables tasted like anyway, so I didn’t miss it.

Then the hospital came. Or rather, I came to the hospital. Three-hundred calories a day just wasn’t enough apparently. (This would be obvious to most, but at the time it was a shocker.) Weight gain was clearly in order, so you’d think the doctors would be shoving peanut butter down my throat, right? WRONG. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again; karma is a bitch. If a body becomes severely deprived of nutrition, it slows down to conserve to energy, and hoards every precious calorie it can get. At this point, food can only be reintroduced safely at a gradual increase per day. It’s a difficult balance to figure out, and peanut butter is some seriously sticky stuff. Again I was denied the God-given right to peanut butter! I’d watch lamentably as the other patients ate it with apathy, unthankful for their freedom.

Two months pass, and then I get released from the institution. If only that meant I was released from the disorder. Somehow, I managed to loose ten pounds in one week, and I got scared as fuck. One thought only comes to my mind... I need to gain weight. My dad bought a five pound jar of Peter Pan peanut butter, and I consumed every morsel in sixty hours. It was my savior, my salvation, and I worshiped it devoutly. I even wrote a poem dedicated to the goo. Peanut butter was so much more than just a condiment. It was my lifeline, what kept my heart beating, and was constantly on my mind. I gained back the ten pounds, and felt a little regret. No longer could I drown my troubles with a spoon. I had to learn how to face them myself.

I’ve been working on that for about a year now, and things are going well. I have demons to deal with, and still use peanut butter to help me from time to time, but I don’t depend on it. Nor do I fear it. I’m able to wield its power responsibly, and occasionally allow it to consume me.

*Those who are allergic get their choice of tahini or soy butter, and a trip to Jamaica to compensate for their misfortune.

THAILAND 3- Chang Mai

Enchanting. There is no other word for Thailand’s Rose of the North. Chang Mai is like a city from a fairy tale, complete with a moat and ancient wall. I’ve been searching for a way to describe its beauty ever since we arrived. The temples, the streets, the market... it leaves me spellbound. I am drunk with the color of the bazaar, the smells of the food vendors, the music of the bands, and the taste of fresh pineapple. Most powerful of all is the sense of joy. It isn’t the warm weather and exotic flora that make Chang Mai a tropical paradise; it’s the people. How can I convey their warm kindness? A part of me wishes I could capture the happiness they’ve given me, and share it, but another is selfishly content with keeping the memories for myself. Playing slapjack with children at a monastary, hanging out with the owners of Rama’s, being invited to dance to reggae... I cherish these moments far more than any souvineer.

Eco-fashion

Who says hippies can’t look sexy? Personally, I’m a fan of the tie-dyed, but not everyone can appreciate such high art. Fortunately for those, eco-fashion is on the rise: recycled fabric lines the runways, organic material is easily accessible, even Wal-Mart are tapping into the stream of environmentally-conscious consumers. With celebrities like Bono and Stella McCartney supporting the movement, yuppies have also fallen under the craze. If you can afford it, check out their lines Edun and CARE. Personally, I'll continue going with the Goodwill route, but it's still nice seeing fashion with a cause.

Generosity

The Universe and I have a deal. It provides the energy, and I perform the action. In exchange for its generous gifts of nutrition, I'll achieve grand acts of seva, create beautiful works of art, write captivating stories, and serve the planet. Every calorie I consume enables me to think divine thoughts, dream inspiring dreams, and feel warm gratitude. No longer do I have to worry about food. No longer do I have to worry about where I’m getting my next meal.

It astounds me how generously the Universe gives. Creation provides the well-being of all her children by endowing them with the ability to care for each other. We all live off of the generosity of others. I am blessed with an amazing family that made my trip to Thailand possible, two Polish women who insist on giving me food every time I see them, a community of hippies who kept me alive me while I was in the hospital... greatest of all is my astounding father. The love, gifts, and support he gives can not be measured. So if you're reading this Padre, thank you. :) I only hope that I can grow to be as supportive as you.

THAILAND 2- Bangkok, Round One

I’m glad I brought shoes. That is the sole, (no pun intended,) thought that crosses my mind as I walk the streets of Bangkok . Our hotel is far from the notorious downtown, so I settle for the less-than-glamorous streets that are nearby. Here there is no makeup to cover the poverty. Garbage, smog, and decay permeate every surface. Stray dogs rest beneath the inadequette shade of rusted awnings, tired from last night’s howling.

Still, there is beauty to be found beneath the ugliness: offerings of incense soften the sulfuric stench, burning from altars upon every street. Between a shabby tile store and used car shop is the world’s largest restaurant, with no customer in sight. It’s closed during the day, but the workers laugh as we silly Americans explore its vacant depths. It wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for on my first pillage into another country, but it’ll do. Somehow, I sense Thailand has more up its sleeve. Stay tuned to find out.

Grocery Store

Those forbidden aisles of temptation are calling me again. I know I should resist, but they’re lit so beautifully, and it is a Saturday night, so I’ll let myself indulge. To some, going to a grocery store is innocent- even boring- but in my case, it’s worse than a sex addict entering a porno store. The sugars! The calories! How promising those vibrant plastic wrappers are. To me, browsing through the rows of food is better than the consumption of the product itself. I can safely admire Hostess from a distance, noting its nutritional value, (or lack thereof,) with a respectful diligence.
Some items leave me gaping for fifteen minutes, furiously debating with myself whether the temporary satisfaction of actually eating what I’m looking at would be worth the repercussions. Only pretending is harmless.
The game soon gets frustrating. It always ends with me walking out the door with a bag of lettuce and bag of apples. Is there any greater waste of time than someone afraid of food foraging through the cereal aisle of Coops? If you find one let me know; perhaps I’ll pick up that hobby as well. I don’t even let myself enter the desert section. Its vibes are too powerful. The wistful dreaming becomes a nightmare of suffocating dark chocolate, and I can’t run to escape in a public facility.
Grocery stores are indecent, with their polished tile floors and shiny glass windows that open like whores to any helpless victim standing there. My obsession with them is even worse. I may leave without the chocolate rice cake, but it’s a hollow victory. County Market and I both know how tempted I was, and how much of my life I spent pundering its rich, sixty-calorie goodness. No matter what I do, the food wins every time. Worst of all is the fact that I will inevitabley return to the torture chamber. It may be days, perhaps even a week, but the super market waits paitently, blaring its “Open 24 Hours” sign mockingly.

Sci-Fi Magazine

The final frontier has a tendency to draw those who don’t fit in with the humdrum pattern of Earth. There’s something compelling about the concept of breaking away from the chains of our planet-bound society, and experiencing life among the stars. I know I've felt drawn by Orson Scott Card more than once. Science fiction, in a weird way, has the potential of raising the reader's self-esteem After all, compared to strange aliens with even stranger cultures, how weird can their own personal quirks be? While most magazines tap into the human need to belong by conforming to the latest celebrities, fashions, and products, Sci-Fi goes about it a bit differently. By embracing their inner geekiness like a Borg collective, readers are united, and belong to the group. You're not alone says the convention junkong

Welcome to Yuppie-ville

“We don’t sell anything you like here.”

The Gothic Princess stares at my aunt from behind her throne counter dismally, and I can’t help but smile. The girl is a cashier for Hot Topic in Minnesota, and makes it quite clear that my Ralph Lauren-clad relative is not welcome in her realm. I can’t blame her, really. Mary is a businesswoman, and doesn’t blend well with the red plaid, black t-shirts, and sharp metal objects that compose this store. She’s rich, manicured, and- worst of all- Republican. My aunt wasn’t always this way though, and is furious that a simpering, (dyed) platinum blonde teenager had the audacity to question her style. She isn’t accustomed to being uncool, and, although the designer glasses hide it well, is mortifyingly embarrassed that she is no longer “in.” I, however, am insanely amused. When Mary was my age, she listened to Fishbone and snorted cocaine. Her adolescence burst with an insanity the Gothic Princess wouldn’t even dream of dirtying her hair over, as I try to explain to my livid aunt.

“She’s an Eden Prairie girl, Mary. That’s how they are.”

In order to understand that statement, you must first have an idea about the area we’re in. Geographically, Eden Prairie is little more than a suburb of the Twin Cities. Financially, it’s a haven. Only in Scottsdale, (also known as Snotsdale,) Arizona have I seen such a high percentage of upper class. The houses heave with wealth, the air sags with dough. It is, in a word, yuppie-ville. This massive amount of money and status has a profound effect on the children raised here. Imagine pulling into a high school parking lot, and finding BMWs, Porsches, and Corvettes parked alongside rusted Hondas and station wagons. You would think, perhaps even hope, that the nice, expensive cars are the staffs’ vehicles.

You’d be mistaken.

In Eden Prairie, kids learn early on that they are of higher rank than their teachers. As Minnesota’s governor Jesse Ventura so aptly put, “an elementary student could teach.” School is a joke. Why take the words of someone beneath you seriously? The students know that the you-need-to-get-good-grades-so-you-can-get-a-good-job doesn’t apply to them; they have daddy’s pockets to dig into for the rest of their life.

I know what it’s like to be a youth in Eden Prairie, because I was related one. Actually, before my dad divorced Karen, I was related to three. Jasmine, Joshua, and Jacob would be the first to tell you that Eden Prairie kids are “messed up.” According to my ex-step-sister, ninety percent of her classmates were on anti-depressants. Why the insane amount of psychotropics? America regards happiness from the top-down approach. Success is measured by a persons’ wealth, influence, and power. We strive to own more, control more, but what ultimately happens when someone has the world at their fingertips?

Things become less and less satisfying.

Imagine being born with the ability to have your every whim. If you didn’t have to try for, well, anything, wouldn’t you feel life was a little pointless? No wonder why they have no ambition.

Everyone wants a rich parent. Having a loaded family means vacations to Chile, a Christmas tree stuffed with presents, and nice clothes for back-to-school shopping. When I was younger, I used to burn with jealousy over my cousins, (who just so happen to live in Scottsdale.) Their mansion, (yes mansion, that is no creative exaggeration on my part,) borders a private mountain and hundred-acre golf course. I won’t even describe the interior because it’ll just make you sick. The point is, spending a week at their summer home in Minocqua, Wisconsin and playing with their eight jet-skis, two speed boats, and pontoon made me wonder... why doesn’t my dad even have a tenth of this?

Grown adults also believe that a wealthy home is a happy home. After all, raising kids are expensive, and you need income to provide for their health and well being. While this is certainly true, my experience with Eden Prairie has led me to question just how much is healthy.

There is something deeper behind the depression of Eden Prairie children than a simple lack of ambition. Those rich mothers and fathers I used to guiltily wish my dad was just a little more like, turns out, produce two different types of offspring. The first, Jasmine declares, are the Jocks. You know the type: they play football, have two cars, (one big, one fast,) and actually own the outfits we common folk lust over in Vogue. These kids are like their parents in every way; I wouldn’t be surprised if they owned the same Ralph Lauren polo.

The other group are the Rebels, which my ex-step-siblings proudly fall under. They’re the ones with blue hair, scarred wrists, and enough metal in their face to make a necklace. Of course, the tough, dirty style they’re imitating was bought at a mall for five hundred dollars an outfit, (enter the Gothic Princess,) but it’s the statement behind the black lipstick and studded belts that counts.

Why is there such a vast difference between the Jocks and Rebels? They are, after all, in the same generation, raised by the same kind of parents, with the same amount of money, in the same exact town. My ex-step-siblings wouldn’t admit this, but these supposed “types” are just two different methods striving for the same goal: parental attention.

Making money takes a lot of time and energy. Apparently, so does maintaining it. My father never had any so I didn’t know, but children born of wealth tend not to have a lot of time with their parents. When I stayed for a week in Eden Prairie, I literally saw the dad Mike for a grand total of ten minutes. It was three in the morning, and I was watching That Seventy’s Show. When I told Josh about the incident over breakfast, he seemed almost jealous. To him, his father is a god, whose presence is always felt, but rarely seen.

My encounter with Mike was brief, but I can see why Josh would worship him. He’s funny, enigmatic, and oddly flattering. Like any good businessman, he knows how to relate to people, even a tired teenager passed out on his couch. I don’t want to make it sound like he’s a bad parent. On the contrary, I know Mike holds nothing but love for his children. His affection, however, is sporadic. The attention he gives goes from being intense to nonexistent, with no warning to prepare for the shifting tide.

Until Josh was eleven, he slept in the same bed as his father. One day, Mike decided he was too old for such behavior, and insisted that his son sleep in his own room. Of course the intentions were good- most would agree that an eleven-year old boy sleeping with their parent is unhealthy. It was still a hard adjustment for Josh, made even harder when Mike left on one of what would soon be many trips to Thailand.

This, I’ve discovered, is a common anomaly amongst wealthy, middle-aged men. Thai women, after all, are quite beautiful. Two years ago Mike brought one of those beautiful Thai women back home with him, and married her. Needless to say, this created even more of a rift between him and his children.

We’ve all heard the dilemma: kids or career? You can do both of course, but only at one’s expense. In the case of the children of Eden Prairie, they were the chosen sacrifice. They hunger for their mothers’ and fathers’ love, so desperate that they act out and turn into miniature versions of them just to get it.

Jasmine is Mike’s oldest child. Talented and beautiful, she draws in prey like a flytrap. Her charm is a deadly weapon. People fall under Jasmine’s spell, and are left with nothing but the broken pieces of their heart to remember. Looking back, I don’t think she cares much about the devastation she incurs, or the people she inflicts. All the relationships in the world could never fill in the absence of her father. Did Mike contribute to Jasmine’s rather sociopathic tendencies? Perhaps. As a “sister scorned,” I’m a bit biased on the subject. To me, Jasmine will always be one of those dangerous girls in trashy novels and French films, the ones we know we shouldn’t love, but do it anyway.

Jacob is the youngest of the siblings, and, if I may say so, the nicest. Mike’s here-then-gone approach to love hardened Jasmine and Joshua’s skin, but Jacob is able to be affectionate. He’s the most sensitive of the three, and the most vulnerable. Until recently, no one really knew how much he was suffering. Slowly, he spent more and more time in his room, not wanting to leave the house unless it was with Mike. Friends would ask him if he wanted to hang out, but he’d tell them no, that he was waiting for his dad.

He never came.

This summer, Jacob was found passed out in the bathroom. His body had fallen under a coma, and he was instantly brought to the emergency room. For an entire day he remained unconscious. The doctors were clueless over what was wrong with him, until they finally gave him a drug test.

My thirteen-year old former brother had swallowed every drug killer in the house that he could find.

Even Jacob doesn’t know if this is the first time, because he doesn’t remember it happening. After they told them what he had done, he asked with genuine shock, “I did?”

He’s not the only one who’s surprised. Sweet, giggling Jacob is the last person you’d expect to be in pain. Somehow, he manages to keep joy outwardly open, and sorrow deeply hidden.

I realize that spoiled brats aren’t the only ones prone to depression. Being poor is no picnic, and I wouldn’t dream of suggesting poverty as ideal. Until recently, I used to envy the advantage wealthy children possess. Now, I’m grateful for the lessons I’ve learned. I look at my cousins from Scottsdale, and realize that I wouldn’t trade places for anything. Can they boast of a proposal on the Greyhound to Canada? Do they have a circle of hippies as loving and supportive as any family? My cousins can have their private dancing lessons, their Olympic-sized pool, their Gibson guitar.... I have my stories, adventures I would not had without the resourcefulness of being raised on a less-than-substantial income.