The Race

No, not a race as in the rabbit versus the turtle... I mean like what they ask for in question #6 on the Census form: White, African Am., Black, or Negro, American Indian or Alaska Native, etc... so on and so forth.

I think it is the previous question, #5 that bothers me more. Why is there a different question altogether for Latinos. This doesn't make sense to me... Here is how the Census form explains it:
Since the 1970 Census, the questionnaire has asked U.S. residents whether they are of Hispanic origin, and if so, which broad Hispanic group they identify with. Hispanic origin is considered separately from race in the Census- and Hispanics may identify with any race. As the largest and fastest-growing ethnic minority in the United States, the information about Hispanic origin is of growing importance. It is used in numerous programs and for monitoring equal employment opportunities.

Let's break that statement down, shall we? So, they say they have been asking this question for 40 years, in case anyone, like myself, is confused about the separate category for Hispanics. Okay, fair enough... Hispanics may identify with any race. I guess, I mean, America is one big melting pot, right? But what if you are from a six generation family that originated in Peru? And you so happen to be living in America when the Census comes in the mail? Do you answer nothing for question #6, since it gives no option for Latin American? As the largest, and fastest-growing ethnic minority in the US, the info about Hispanic origin is of growing importance. I will elaborate more on this in a bit, but how is counting all of them going to help with that? It is used in numerous programs and for monitoring EEO's. Ah, I get it. They need to be counted to make sure that they are equally employed according to how many are in each locality. So, for example, if there is a Hispanic and a white guy applying for the same job at Verizon in the city of Richmond and they have equal (or maybe not) qualifications... the Hispanic guy will get the job because Verizon needs to make sure they aren't just hiring gringos at their Richmond location.

The race... la raza, in the Spanish language. Sound familiar? La Raza, the official name is Partido Nacional de La Raza Unida (literally translated as The National Party of the United Race), is the first third party to be formed around ethnic/racial lines (according to wikipedia). I will also add that the term "la raza" is also considered a term of endearment, meaning "my people". I see nothing wrong with seeking ways to better your people and help provide oppurtunities that otherwise would not come there way. However, the frightening part stems from their founder and leader, Jose Angel Gutierrez, professor at the University of Texas, Arlington.

Here are a few words from this scholar:
"Our devil has pale skin and blue eyes."
"This is our homeland. We cannot- we will not- and we must not be made illegal in our own homeland. We are not immigrants that came from another country to another country. We are migrants, free to travel the length and breadth of the Americas because we belong here. We are millions. We just have to survive. We have an aging white America. They are not making babies. They are dying. It's just a matter of time. The explosion is in our population... I love it. They are shitting in their pants with fear. I love it."
"We have got to eliminate the gringo, and what I mean by that is if the worst comes to the worst, we have got to kill him."

I don't care who you are or where you come from. This kind of nationalism is not healthy, especially if coming from a people like those who "migrate" from a country like Mexico, who in essence, have no laws. I don't even know if 'nationalism' is even the correct term for this dangerous speak, considering this is in so many cases, not their nation. So, perhaps, racism is the best term for it.

What has happened to this country? America has long forgotten its roots as the nation of opportunity and freedom. Instead, we have become afraid to be proud of our heritage. Afraid that in doing so, we will offend the muslim or offend the un-documented resident who does not speak our language or embrace America as she is.

The United States of America has long embraced the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. But if we are not secure and do not protect those masses, we are no longer a nation.

A (weekend)Day in My Life

In order to understand this post, if you have not already, you must read A (week)Day in My Life. The monotony of those days rivals my weekends with a vengeance. It is almost like I lead a double life...

It is Friday; technically not a weekend day, but for those in the restaurant world, you know what I mean. The overnight bag was hastily packed this morning. At least the clothes are clean. I don't do dirty clothes. Dirty clothes are for drunks; for people who don't care. I am a lush, not a drunk.



I head off to the office and perform my duties until 2:30 hits. I filled up my gas tank on my lunch break, all I have left to do is run home to iron my shirts and apron and double check my bag. My shirts have to be crisp, with sleeves so sharp, you have to be careful not to cut yourself on the crease.

Here's the bag checklist:

• lighter
  
• wine key
  
• 2 pairs of black socks; one pair doesn't match
  
• black "frocs"
  
• coin bank (scattered in my car)
  
• cash bank ($10,$5, five $1's)
  
• dark jeans
  
• brush
  
• toothpaste
  
• tamps (you never know)
  
• 800 milligrams of ibuprofin (you always know)
  
• 3 clicky pens (I like these from Staples, they are nice and pointy and I always have coupons)
  
• black baker's apron with a freshly ironed crease right down the middle
  
• 3 ironed oxford shirts, without collar buttons
  

If I show up to my shift and don't have any of these items, I may be sent home. Or if someone is there to "shark" or steal a shift, I miss my chance at working and will likely be written up. Three write-ups and your out! This place does not mess around! Would you, if you were selling 600 dinners in a night in the middle of NW DC?

Yes, Washington, District of Colombia is where my limbo-life takes place. A brisk hour and forty-five minute drive, unless a tractor trailor overturns and blocks 4 lanes of traffic (like last Friday)... That drive took me 3 hours. Nevertheless, once I walk through those revolving glass doors at 5:00 PM on Friday and the smell of fried green tomatoes wafts over me, everything else ceases to exist.

During the week, I put in 40 hours, most of which are spent sitting down doing menial tasks. On the weekend, I can put in anywhere from 18-30 hours, most of which are hours spent running up and down stairs, carrying trays full of drinks or plates full of food. While physically this job is very demanding, it is the mental process that sucks the life from you. One my coworkers likened it to running a timed marathon with obstacle courses. Needless to say, come Sunday night, when most people are lounging and enjoying their "Day of Rest", I am struggling to keep my eyes open in order to make it back to Richmond in time to crawl in bed and crash for a few hours before my weekday routine starts all over again.

It is a beautiful life.

Earner vs. Taker

There was a time, not too long ago, when people worked hard to put food on the table. They made sacrifices to keep their family happy and healthy. If you were able to work, by golly you did! My dad paid his way through college and got his masters. He grew up without his father around, and his mom, my grandmother raised her 5 boys on her own. She had nothing to contribute financially, other than prayers and love.

I am lucky to say that I grew up in a middle class family. My dad worked very hard to put us into a good private school, where we got a great education. We got new shoes once a year. Before school started we would do our yearly clothes shopping. Hand-me-downs were nothing of which to be ashamed. We were normal. When I got to be old enough to start doing tasks around the neighborhood, you better believe I did! Lawns were mowed, gardens were created, I mother-helped until I was old enough to babysit on my own. I sold cookies, we painted rocks and sold those... I was a hustler. My eyes were on the prize... I wanted a car. My parents didn't buy me one. It wasn't given to me. I worked for it. When you put your blood, sweat and tears into something, it becomes a part of you. You have incentive to care for it and appreciate it.

That sense of hard work and motivation seems to have been lost on my generation and those that follow. Why work for something if someone is going to give it to you anyway? Now it is expected... Take my sister for example: She is 17. My mom (now divorced from my dad for 5 years *) just gave my sister her old car. It isn't brand new, it isn't pristine, but it wasn't earned. I traded in my old car last November. It was falling apart. I had put 100,000 miles on it since I bought it from my grandparents when I was 15. I cried. Anyway, my credit isn't where I would like it, so I was not picky when it came time to pick up a new(er) vehicle. I didn't have much money, but I had enough to pay for a downpayment at the dealership. Months earlier, I had put my old car in the shop and my mom let me drive her little Subaru Legacy around while my old Chevy was being worked on. The long-short of it is, it is a grand little car! Upon handing over the keys, I hinted at letting me buy it from her. The idea was shot down. My mom needed that car. She now has a good-looking Lincoln sitting in the driveway where the Sub' once was parked. Good for her; God knows she worked hard for something nice like that. Good for my sister, at 18... just got her license.

As soon as I have an extra grand or two laying around, I will be looking for another vehicle; something I can pay COD. Needless to say, it would be nice to have an extra $400 a month to put towards.... whatever. Hey, what can I say, I like to learn things the hard way.

I am an earner.

A (week)day in the life.

It's a weekday: Get up at 7:30 am... sometimes I snooze 'til 7:45. Throw the kettle on the stove, let out the pooches. By this time Kitty has near meowed me to the point of torture, so I fill her bowl. Hop in the shower. Lucky is barking to come back in... Lucy never barks. Still in a towel, I open the back door; they come flying in and procede to hop on their hind legs like circus dogs until I reach for the treats. Once I have the treats in hand, they sit without me having to ask. If I raise my finger, they throw themselves to the ground and quiver with excitement.

The kettle starts to hiss and into the french press the hot water goes. Bowl of cereal while it steeps... 3 minutes. One cup for here, the rest for my traveler. Best investment I have made that traveler.

Iron my shirt and pants, mmm, starch! Starting to scramble now. I have to be out the door by 8:15 am. Tyreke, the chubby and very well-behaved neighbor boy waves goodbye as I struggle to do the same. Laptop case in one hand, coffee traveler in the other, and I nearly always have my portable radio. I might go crazy without it. Charlie (King Charlie) ambles up the porch, right on time. I grumble as I turn off the engine to let him in the house... that bugger!

Get to work by 8:35. I should really leave 5 minutes earlier. The testers are already here.

Busy work, busy work, distraction, busy work... Finally 5:30!! My afternoon groggies disappear into the afternoon sun.

Home. The dogs have escaped their kitchen gate again. I have to get that thing replaced. I am greeted by snuffling button noses. Charlie cries to be let out. Kitty meows to be let in. Lucky has a sock in his mouth. What a weird little stinker!

A glass of wine? A beer? No, bourbon and ginger time... Barb and Gingie, what gals! Eagle rare from the cabinet, a lime from the crisper, and my homemade ginger syrup from its spot on the top shelf of the fridge. A jigger of this, a squeeze of that; shake 'til my fingers are frozen to the stainless shaker... Mmm, porch-meeting time.