tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-172320222024-03-12T22:55:22.269-05:00Riding the RubiconBeing the Chronicles of a Son of the U.S. Middle Class as he navigates the Decline of the American EmpireMickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-50632889347070821252022-12-08T22:07:00.000-06:002022-12-08T22:07:03.862-06:00Will CRT, BLM and The 1619 Project Destroy America?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/ba/2018_Women's_March_in_Missoula%2C_Montana_103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="267" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/ba/2018_Women's_March_in_Missoula%2C_Montana_103.jpg" width="400" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Many Conservatives claim that teaching Critical Race Theory
(CRT) will destroy America. It’s not totally clear what they mean by CRT. They
seem to be referring to an amalgam of “woke” beliefs about race, like how the
legacy of slavery lives on and how racism is still a huge problem in the US. What
they’re certainly not referring to is actual CRT, as it’s only taught in grad
school.
</div><p class="MsoNormal">Black Lives Matter (BLM) has also been targeted by the Right
as a radical movement intent on undermining the US of A. The worldwide uprising
sparked by the police murder of George Floyd sent the BLM movement into
overdrive. But the political effects have been meager so far. Despite what Conservatives
have claimed, the calls to defund the police have fallen on deaf ears. A few
police budgets have seen minor cuts, while the vast majority have enjoyed
increases. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Meanwhile, to no one’s surprise, the social justice movement
has found surer footing in scholarship. “The 1619 Project” by <i>The New York
Times </i>is just the highest-profile example of the decades-long endeavor to
dismantle White Supremacy in the Academy. BLM’s failure to achieve appreciable
gains in the legal and political arenas is discouraging, but its ability to
convince many Americans (including me) that racism remains pervasive in our
society is surely cause for hope.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Conservatives are often cast as hair-on-fire, Chicken-Little
alarmists, and, most of the time, they are. But, on the issue of BIPOC
liberation, they may be onto something. Confronting these racial issues could
very well end America as we know it. After all, this country was founded and
built on slavery and racism. What is the USA without racism? In my opinion, it
would be a vastly different country that may be unrecognizable to any American
living today.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Liberals are playing a dangerous game, I think. They’re pulling
at these threads in the fabric of America. They don’t seem to realize how
integral racism is to the Republic. Maybe they expect most Americans to come to
grips with the horrors on which the Land of the Free was built (not to mention
the horrors that continue to sustain it), but that seems awfully optimistic to
me. Do Libs even fully grasp these horrors? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The problem is that Libs are still essentially nationalistic
(or, if you prefer, “patriotic”). They believe that Uncle Sam is basically good.
The BLM movement is their attempt to save America from its past, to redeem it
through penance, truth and reconciliation, a la post-apartheid South Africa. But
Conservatives don’t want that. They wanna have their American Pie and eat it
too. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Why would the Republican base enter a power-sharing
agreement with BIPOC people? White Supremacy is the only thing they’ve got
left. They’ve been robbed of economic security, meaningful work and community.
Libs don’t get that. They’re blind to the plight of their fellow White Americans.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They seem to think that you can just remove racism from
America like a burst appendix. But the Home of the Brave may not survive as a
cohesive, coherent polity without the glue of racism. The wounds of the Civil
War were only “healed” through the North’s acceptance of (and complicity in)
Jim Crow in the South. Since then, White Supremacy has remained largely intact
nationwide despite the work of the Civil Rights Movement. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“The 1619 Project” and BLM are essential to further humanizing
American culture. Still, no one knows what a non-racist America would look like
because it has never existed. We don’t even know if it’s possible. We might save
America’s soul and lose the patient.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, in the words of George W. Bush, I say: Bring it on. As
I’ve written before, I’m not a fan of the Stars and Stripes. I’d love to see the
USA crumble into a million pieces. (The political entity, that is, not the
people.) Most people on the planet would benefit. We certainly owe it to them
to dismantle the American Empire after all the evil we’ve wrought. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The end of the Empire and the dissolution of the Union would
almost certainly lead to violence and suffering. The only question is: Would
they result in more or less violence and suffering than their continued
existence would? I happen to believe that their end would cause less pain to
humanity as a whole than their continuation would. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Liberals say that racism is foundational to America, but
their attempt to excise it from the body politic implies that they think it’s just
a tumor. They don’t want to destroy America, but they must realize that, if
you’re trying to remove a fundamental tenet of the country, you run the risk of
bringing down the whole darn thing. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m convinced it would be like amputating a limb (or two),
and, on some (probably unconscious) level, the Right seems to agree. If
Conservatives believed there were still “reasonable, not radical” Libs left,
one of them would’ve surely drawn an editorial cartoon with a commie-red devil
whispering in a Lib’s ear, telling them to support CRT, BLM and “The 1619
Project” in the hopes of destroying the Red, White and Blue. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think we on the Far Left should be that devil. It’s not
like we can do anything to make the MSM portray us as anything else. The Right
keeps calling Joe Biden, Nancy Pelosi and all those other milquetoast Democrats
“radical socialists.” Let’s show them what real Radical Socialists look like.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We should encourage Libs and whoever will listen to stay on
the road to social justice and see what happens. It may be that rooting out
racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia and transphobia will also bring down
imperialism, Capitalism and all those other “-ism’s” that we’d like to get rid
of. Let’s keep pulling on these threads until America, as she was originally
conceived, is a distant memory.</p>
<p></p>Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-74985065536558988382022-11-27T21:31:00.000-06:002022-11-27T21:31:18.374-06:00The Real Fake News<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f7/The_fin_de_si%C3%A8cle_newspaper_proprietor_(cropped).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="800" height="222" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f7/The_fin_de_si%C3%A8cle_newspaper_proprietor_(cropped).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>We’ve been led to believe that the reason America is so
fucked-up is because there are so many crazy Americans nowadays. I pretty much
agree with that, but what drove us crazy? Is it violent TV, movies and video
games? No, there’s always been that kind of entertainment, in peaceful cultures
and violent ones. Is it the growth of crazy Right-wing media like FOX News and
many online outlets? Maybe, but what motivates people to consume that content
and, more important, believe it?
<p class="MsoNormal">One reason is Fake News, and not the kind that the MSM (Mainstream
Media) like to howl about nowadays. The biggest Fake News story of this century
so far isn’t “The Big Lie” that Trump actually won the 2020 election (although that
is a big lie). It’s Iraq’s WMD’s. That story killed <a href="https://www.reuters.com/article/us-iraq-deaths-survey/iraq-conflict-has-killed-a-million-iraqis-survey-idUSL3048857920080130" target="_blank">over a million people</a> in
Iraq. The Big Lie has only killed
a few people so far. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you take the MSM’s word for it, you may believe that Jan.
6 was the first time we’ve had an attempted coup in the US. The truth is that
the 2000 presidential election was decided by a successful coup, but that one
was carried out by the Supreme Court, so it doesn’t count. Also, the MSM’s
paymasters were happy to endorse the anti-democratic anointing of George W.
Bush, hence the absence of outrage in the press.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The MSM are constantly lying to us, about the nobility of
our wars and the extent of their death tolls, about the virtues of Capitalism
and those who command the heights of the economy. But those lies are considered
acceptable, civil discourse. They justify the American Empire and Capitalism.
Therefore, they are true, according to the Gatekeepers. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, increasingly, fewer and fewer Americans are enjoying
the bounty of American Empire and Capitalism. As a result, the official
pronouncements of the MSM are ringing hollow to more and more people. It was
fine for the CIA to go around overthrowing foreign governments in the mid-20<sup>th</sup>
Century. Americans were too well-taken-care-of to question those coups. Now
that Americans are struggling, we’re more likely to doubt the nobility of their
operations.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This decades-long drumbeat of deception has eroded faith in
the press, government and other mainstream institutions. What we decide to
believe instead of the Official Version depends on what’s available. Right-wing
beliefs have a lot of money backing them up. The Elite tend to be Right-wing,
so they support the spread of those ideas. The ideas also support the system
that enriches the Elite, so the cycle functions as a positive feedback loop.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The thing about positive feedback loops is that, eventually,
they break down, and that’s what we’re seeing right now. The only alternatives
to the mainstream narrative that have found purchase in our political system
are bat-shit crazy Right-wing conspiracy theories like QAnon. They may not
directly threaten the Establishment, but they betray a growing ignorance and
incompetence that threaten to bring down the Empire (and maybe even Capitalism
with it).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It seems like the only Americans left who are ready and
willing to maintain the Empire are either cynical grifters (a la Donald Trump)
or fucking nutjobs (like his followers). The Democrats fall into a third
category: Liberals who benefit from the System but whose ability to justify it
is getting weaker by the day. (I’ll address that in the next essay.) This is
not an auspicious sign for continued global hegemony. It’s more like a
harbinger of doom. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Powers That Be are left with a difficult choice: either
hand the reins to the grifters and their minions, or let an anti-imperialist
coalition take over. It’s basically the same choice the German elite faced in
the early 1930’s, and an imperial elite will always pick the Right-wingers, no
matter how evil and/or insane they may be. Our job is to make sure the choice
is not left up to them.</p>
<p></p>Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-3148410517279230752022-11-27T20:58:00.001-06:002022-11-27T21:00:58.274-06:00We Need to Talk about Immigration and Jobs (and Free Trade): Just One More Time (for Now)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/60/Mexican_Fruit_Pickers_(7618119180).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/60/Mexican_Fruit_Pickers_(7618119180).jpg" width="400" /></a></div>I forgot to include one part of this whole mess. The
argument is often put forward that immigrants just do jobs that native-born
Americans don’t want. I used to believe that, mainly because I didn’t wanna go
pick fruit in a hot field all day. That sounds like a horrible fucking job.
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Even if that argument were true (which it’s not), what does
that say about us? We should just let immigrants do the dirty work because we
think those jobs are beneath us? That’s pretty fucked-up (and elitist) in my (current)
opinion, but it’s tempting for the reason I mentioned in the previous
paragraph.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Really, I think that has been deployed as an excuse for
treating immigrant workers like shit. If those jobs are so shitty, why not make
them better? There’s more than enough wealth to go around to pay everyone a
living wage (and, actually, much better than that). You could even employ
millions of people to lighten the load. (Do you think all those office jobs are
“essential”? I think the pandemic put the kibosh on that Capitalist
propaganda.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The only reason this doesn’t happen is not because it would
lead to a supposedly communist dystopia. It’s because the rich don’t want to
give up the smallest crumb of their wealth and power. If corporations didn’t
have (esp. undocumented) immigrants to employ, they would have to pay higher
wages and treat their workers better. And they don’t wanna do that. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Look at the economy right now. Corporations are raking in
profits they haven’t seen since the 1950’s, and they still want the Fed to
raise interest rates to crash the economy just to “discipline” workers, i.e.,
create a recession so we’ll take whatever shitty wages and working conditions
the law allows them to offer (and some it technically doesn’t).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Rich will take whatever they can get away with,
including undocumented immigrants and H-1B visas for documented immigrants.
This is partly due to their own greed but also due to the legal imperative
we’ve imposed on corporations to maximize profits to the exclusion of all other
concerns. We have to respond by disciplining the Market to recognize priorities
more important than profit. </p>
<p></p>Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-53197702568411902352022-11-20T20:29:00.000-06:002022-11-20T20:29:23.743-06:00We Need to Talk About Immigration and Jobs (and Free Trade): Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1e/FEMA_-_44634_-_Roofer_working_on_a_home_in_Oklahoma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="800" height="266" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/1e/FEMA_-_44634_-_Roofer_working_on_a_home_in_Oklahoma.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Now we’re really in the weeds, the rough waters, the rapids, Whitewater. But that’s because we’re getting to the heart of our economy, and
that’s an ugly sight. That’s something the Powers That Be don’t want us looking
at, because it’s horrible and, if you knew the truth about it, you’d probably
have a lot of trouble going to work to keep the System chugging along.
</p><p class="MsoNormal">So, where were we? Oh yes, I was talking about how
working-class folks hate competing with immigrants for jobs. It’s been easy for
middle-class people to look down their noses at the Joe Six-packs who’ve long
made this complaint. This is because middle-class folks haven’t had to compete
with immigrants for jobs. Once I got a taste of that competition, my Liberal
values quickly abandoned me, as I detailed in a <a href="https://ridingtherubicon.blogspot.com/2015/06/my-job-made-me-racist.html" target="_blank"><u>previous essay</u></a>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It's not a pleasant issue to wade into because, like turning
over a rock, you tend to find some gross shit underneath. You’ll find racism
and xenophobia in spades. That’s why people on the Left shy away from this
problem. But it has to be confronted and dealt with, because it’s at the root
of our political crisis. Nor do I think the grossness of it is an accident or
coincidence. That helps keep it out of the spotlight. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It may be hard to believe for younger generations, but
blue-collar jobs in the US used to pay really well, offer great benefits and
had great job security. You have to go back about 50 years to find this time in
history, but it was a given for many Americans that they could go straight from
high school to a factory job and spend their entire working life there. It’s
not a fantasy or an ahistorical re-imagining of the past (like many other MAGA
claims). It was a reality for tens of millions of Americans.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s why so many White people are pissed-off these days.
Even though most of them can usually make ends meet, they’ve fallen a long way
from where they and their ancestors used to be. Their communities have also
disintegrated, leaving many of them lonely and desperate for help when they hit
a rough patch. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now imagine the anger they feel when they see immigrants
doing jobs that used to be done by them. When I see Latin American roofers, I’m
impressed by their work ethic. But, if you’re working-class, you might have a
different reaction. You might resent their work ethic for lowering the bar for
your own pay, benefits, job security, working conditions, etc. Those
blue-collar jobs pay much less now, and whom do the Joe Six-Packs blame for
that? Obviously, the employers, but they can’t discipline corporations via
politics, because both parties are in thrall to Big Business. So they direct
their anger at the only convenient targets: the immigrants.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If the immigrants weren’t there, companies would have to
employ native-born people, or so the thinking goes. At one of my old jobs, they
brought in people from India to do work that Americans could’ve easily done, simultaneously
undermining and reinforcing the hypothesis in the previous sentence. It just goes to show how far
companies will go to hire immigrants. Of course, they’re only able to do that
because the government lets them, issuing visas for the workers. Even though
the Market demands that employers seek out the cheapest labor, this boils down
to government policy (as all economic issues do).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Hormel factory in Austin is a perfect case study. A
strike by the workers in 1985-86 led to many of them being replaced by
immigrants who were paid less. Before that, the jobs had been well-paying with
great benefits and security. Now, they’re not. The unions were broken, and many
workers were replaced with immigrants. The immigrants are pawns in this game,
but they take the brunt of the abuse because they’re the most vulnerable and
the consequences for attacking them are the least. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Is the employment of immigrants in the US the cause of the
working class’s impoverishment? No, it’s just a symptom. The American Empire’s
internal and external proletariats are being pitted against each other, while
my people, the American middle class, have reaped the benefits in cheaper goods
and services. But, unless we restore the strength of organized labor and enact
more protectionist economic policies, the Market will come for our jobs and
wealth next.</p>
<p></p>Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-75323681177624362772022-11-11T21:23:00.000-06:002022-11-11T21:23:44.943-06:00We Need to Talk about Immigration and Jobs (and Free Trade)<div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><img alt="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4a/Mexico-US_border_at_Tijuana.jpg" class="shrinkToFit" height="233" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/4a/Mexico-US_border_at_Tijuana.jpg" width="400" /></p></div><p><b>PROLOGUE</b><br /></p><p>Now that we’ve gotten through the midterms with the Republic
still intact, I think it’s safe to return to my regularly scheduled blog,
already in progress. Seriously though, I wasn’t sure if the Union would survive
this week. I probably shouldn’t count my chickens just yet. There are still
several undecided elections and a runoff to go in Georgia. But the MAGA chuds
don’t seem interested in attempting a coup for the GOP in toto like they did
for Trump.
</p><div class="WordSection1"><p class="MsoNormal">We seem to have fallen victim to that ancient Chinese curse
(which is neither Chinese nor ancient): May you live in interesting times. But
all the drama infecting our lives revolves around the simple fact that our
politics no longer addresses fundamental, kitchen-sink issues. The Powers That
Be refuse to allow the economic reforms needed, and Everyday People lack the
political consciousness and community cohesion to overturn the elites’
programs. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What we need is more money and benefits for workers. But,
rather than meet that simple, easy demand, the Ruling Class gives us (by way of
the Mainstream Media) boogeymen to distract us and fill us with
mind-controlling fear. It was most transparent in the midterm elections’ home
stretch. The Republican ads were replete with this fear-mongering. The
Democratic ads also fear-mongered, but at least their warnings were legitimate.
The Dems have no intention of defunding the police, turning your kids trans or
teaching them Critical Race Theory (not that Republicans even know what that
is). Meanwhile, the GOP has shown every intention of banning (and
criminalizing) abortion when- and wherever possible. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The mystification of US politics has given the rich wealth
beyond the dreams of avarice (and corporate profits they haven’t seen since the
1950’s). It has also given the Military-Industrial Complex virtual carte
blanche on “defense” spending and overseas operations. But you can always have
too much of a good thing, and I think the Establishment has sown the seeds of
its own destruction. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now we have come to a pretty pass. The Elites’ blocking of
even minor economic reforms has given an opening to the Far Right, the only
fringe political group the Elites will allow in the MSM (and sometimes actively
support). A radical bloc is taking over the GOP, with the support of the
party’s base, and their agenda is noxious to most of the country, even to the
Democrats who, up until now, have been willing to drift Right along with the
Republicans. This is causing a national schism so great that I don’t think our
current political system can mend it. I think the dissolution of the Union is
almost inevitable at this point. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You can bet your sweet bippy that this is the opposite of
what the Establishment wants. It wants to keep a lid on all that fear and
anger, directing it against useful targets (e.g., immigrants, racial
minorities, the poor) when necessary, but still keeping it at a low simmer. Stupidly
though, they keep turning up the temperature without letting us vent. Now we’re
boiling over.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By indulging their greed, the Elites have broken the
Bipartisan Consensus. They had a nice thing going for almost 250 years now: an
empire with an internal proletariat that was willing to accept scraps as long
as those scraps were big enough to keep them well-fed. But the Powers That Be
couldn’t leave well enough alone. They just had to keep expanding their slice
of the American Pie, no matter how desperate it made the rest of us. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now that even the petit bourgeoisie is losing patience with
the status quo, the game is up. Economic insecurity and thwarted political
energy have reached such levels that mystified expressions of discontent like
Donald Trump and QAnon are replacing actual political movements. But, hey, why
not indulge in fantasy when no political movement able to materially improve
your life seems possible?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rest of this essay is devoted to one of those
kitchen-sink issues that, if addressed, could help us out of our current mess.
But, like I wrote in the previous essay, I’m not interested in saving the
empire. I just wanna minimize the damage that could result from its breakup. </p>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span>
<div class="WordSection2"></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><b>PART 1</b></span><br /></span></p></div><p>I set myself quite the task in my last essay: saving America,
or, more accurately, keeping the whole country from exploding in an orgy of the
violence and the death and the blood and the hey-now. (That last part should be
read in the voice of Dr. Frink from <i>The Simpsons</i>.) At first, I thought I
could tackle the whole subject in one essay. But the more I wrote, the more I
realized it was too big a topic. So I’m gonna try and break it up into more manageable
portions.
</p><p class="MsoNormal">This will be the first part of my series on keeping the country
from blowing up. It’s a good topic to tackle first, I think, because it’s one
that most Americans seem unaware of. It also explains a lot of the material
conditions that are driving us insane. This little bugaboo is trade policy,
specifically “free trade agreements,” which have a suitably Orwellian name.
These agreements are used to feed “the imperial wealth-pump,” a useful term
cooked up by my favorite blogger, John Michael Greer, a.k.a. the Archdruid.
(His Right-wing bias has become more apparent in recent years, so, if you read
him, just keep that in mind.) </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Free Trade sucks the wealth out of the imperial periphery,
i.e. the Third World or Global South or whatever-you-wanna-call-it, and funnels
it to the imperial core, i.e., the First World: the USA, Canada and Western
Europe. Minerals like oil, gold and rare earths are mined with little regard
for the environmental effects. Agricultural products are grown in ecologically
destructive ways, turning what should be a sustainable or even regenerative
industry into an extractive one. Sweatshops and factories are opened by First
World-based companies (either directly or indirectly) that work the locals to
death at slave wages.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These resources and products are then shipped off to be
consumed by the First World. Of course, the spoils are not shared equally among
the imperial citizens of the core. The elites get the lion’s share and the rest
of us get the scraps from their table. But this is still enough to keep many of
us in the US at a higher standard of living than the vast majority of the
world. There’s even enough to keep most denizens of the First World satisfied,
or at least content and/or atomized enough not to revolt. Perhaps most
important, there’s also enough left over to enrich elites in the Third World,
in order to bribe them to run the imperial wealth-pump on their end. They’re
the overseers in this system. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Third World is thus impoverished, driving many people to
migrate to the First World. This is the part that is completely missing from
our political discourse. Conservatives demonize and dehumanize migrants, while
Liberals defend them, but they both miss the bigger picture: MIGRANTS DON’T
WANT TO BE MIGRANTS. THEY DON’T WANT TO LEAVE THEIR HOMES. It’s not like they
were dreaming of America. They weren’t singing that Neil Diamond song. They
weren’t yearning for Reagan’s “shining city on a hill.” They don’t think this
is the land of milk and honey. They aren’t fucking Fievel. (FYI: That’s a
reference to the 1986 animated film <i>An American Tail</i>.) </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We’re destroying their economies, wiping out their
livelihoods and forcing them to come here. The First World is the only place
left for them. They’re just following the wealth we stole from their countries.
Of course, that doesn’t work so well for Global Capitalism. While Free Trade
drops barriers to the movement of capital, it restricts the movement of people.
The US-Mexico border wasn’t militarized until NAFTA took effect in 1994. This
is necessary to achieve wage arbitrage, i.e., increasing profits by moving jobs
to lower-wage countries. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I actually got to see the border walls in March of ‘94 while
on a missionary trip to Tijuana during high school. (I went to a Catholic high school,
but we didn’t do any proselytizing on this trip, thank god.) We visited the
wall where it met the Pacific Ocean. There was graffiti that said, “Welcome to
the new Berlin Wall.” We nodded in supposedly-knowing agreement, though I don’t
think I understood the issues at that time. I don’t remember anyone mentioning
NAFTA. Maybe they did and I just forgot. But it wasn’t until I was radicalized
a decade later that I began to grasp the political economy of the border.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Instead of confronting our responsibility for the
deprivation of the Third World, the discourse in the US takes a nationalist
turn into the dumpster. Conservatives have a predictably racist and xenophobic
angle on the problem. They think migrants come here because their countries
suck because their cultures suck because the people suck. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Liberals take a nicer, but still misguided tack. They
correctly point out that migrants are just trying to make a better life for
themselves. But they completely ignore the fact that we destroyed their old
lives. They acknowledge the historical legacy of colonialism in impoverishing
the Third World but dismiss or remain conveniently ignorant of the role of the
Global Economy in the Third World’s continuing destitution. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Worse, Libs disdain the anger of the working class at having
to compete with migrants for jobs. These concerns are disparaged as racism and
xenophobia (as in this episode of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APo2p4-WXsc" target="_blank"><u>South Park</u></a>). This keeps the issue off
the table because very few people want to be thought of as racist or
xenophobic. Therefore, the legitimate economic grievances of the working class
are left to fester in the dark until they turn into real racism and xenophobia
and Culture War bullshit. Because we’ve dismissed their justified concerns, now
we have to deal with their insanity. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There’s more to say on this topic, but I’m gonna need some
time to choose my words carefully because we’re heading into rough waters. Stay
tuned!</p>
<p></p>Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-37102829395803586822022-09-25T14:45:00.000-05:002022-09-25T14:45:53.336-05:00The Storm Next Time<div class="separator"><p style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--> <img alt="File:2021 storming of the United States Capitol DSC09254-2 (50820534063) (retouched).jpg" class="sdms-quick-view__thumbnail sdms-quick-view__thumbnail--loaded" height="245" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/4f/2021_storming_of_the_United_States_Capitol_DSC09254-2_%2850820534063%29_%28retouched%29.jpg/294px-2021_storming_of_the_United_States_Capitol_DSC09254-2_%2850820534063%29_%28retouched%29.jpg" width="400" /></p></div><p>As much as I’d love to just goof on this shit, we need to
start thinking seriously about 2024. I think it’s gonna take way more than a
coordinated <a href="https://time.com/5936036/secret-2020-election-campaign/?linkId=110717147" target="_blank">shadow campaign</a>
to get us through the next presidential election. The GOP has made it clear
that it won’t accept another loss, results be damned, although that insistence
comes from the base, not the politicians. If Republican Congressmembers could
just sit on their asses and still get reelected, I’m sure they would.
</p><p class="MsoNormal">But they’ve wound up their supporters into such a tizzy that
they no longer have that luxury. It’s all the same to the elected officials, as
long as their corporate paymasters get a good return on their investment (and
the officials get their kickbacks, I mean, “donations and cushy corporate jobs
after they retire from politics”). The barbarians at the gates might actually
lynch some Congressmembers next time, but I’m guessing the Captains of Industry
would see those as acceptable losses. After all, there’s money to be made, by
God!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whether they nominate Trump, DeSantis or someone else, it
doesn’t look like the Republicans are gonna accept another 4 years without
control of the White House. After the hissy-fit they threw last time, I really
don’t see them walking off into the sunset, even in handcuffs. The irony is
that the Moneyed Elite is perfectly happy with either party. But the inmates
have taken over the asylum that is the GOP. The tail is now wagging the
elephant.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, this is a rather inverted conception of democracy.
In theory, we would want the masses to tell the politicians what to do. But
we’re so brainwashed by the elitist version of democracy practiced in the US
that, when presented with a populist version, we recoil in horror. Part of that
horror is inspired by the evil ideologies espoused by these masses, but some of
it arises from a lack of familiarity with the kind of democracy America is
supposed to embody.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The midterm elections should be interesting, but I think the
real fireworks will come in ’24 when the states are presenting their electoral
votes to the House. Regardless of which party’s in control of the House, the GOP-run
swing states will be forced to put up or shut up when it comes to “election
integrity.” In other words, they’ll have to present Republican electors to
Congress regardless of the vote totals in their states, because, if they don’t,
their base might just murder them or, even worse, vote them out of office.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then the question becomes, will Kamala accept fraudulent GOP
electors? If we’re to believe the mainstream narrative of Jan. 6<sup>th</sup> (and
the <a href="https://abcnews.go.com/Politics/house-passes-election-reform-bill-curb-future-interference/story?id=90279129" target="_blank">bill</a> recently passed by the House),
the vice president has no power to reject the states’ electors. But I doubt
Kamala, or any Democratic veep, would accept such an outcome. Can you imagine
the furor on the Right side of the aisle were she to reject the results as
presented to her and Congress by the states? I think I can, and it would be
deafening. They would surely find it a cruel irony after Vice President Pence’s “betrayal” on
January 6, 2021. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alternatively, say the Electoral College goes for Biden or
whoever the Democratic nominee turns out to be. If Congress signs off on it (a
big “if”), I think it would spark a serious secession movement. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These Republican voters are mad as hell, and
they aren’t gonna take it anymore. It’s not totally clear what they’re mad
about, but they’re clearly very upset and the routine operation of US politics
(as currently constituted) seems inadequate to mollify them. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If only they knew that Biden has continued many Trump Admin policies,
even resuming construction of his precious wall on the Mexican border. But it’s
not the same, the Right-wing (and mainstream) media insist. The White House went
from Republican to Democratic hands; therefore, most government policies must
have changed dramatically. It seems to be one of the MSM’s (“mainstream media”)
prime directives that they have to ignore the huge tracts of bipartisan
consensus on the most important (i.e., economic, military and foreign policy)
issues.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Getting back to the ’24 scenarios: say Congress refuses to
sign off on the results. Then what? Constitutionally speaking, we’d really be
up a creek. The election would go to the House, where each state delegation
would get one vote. (Gotta love those Founding Fathers! What democratic-minded
geniuses! Excuse me: republic-minded geniuses!) Given the dominance of
Republicans in low-population states, this would favor the GOP candidate and
likely put them in the White House. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But who will accept that result? The winners obviously will
but surely not the losers. Yet again, if the Republicans get the short end of
the stick, I believe they’ll call for secession. Don't believe me? The Texas GOP is calling for a <a href="https://news.yahoo.com/did-texas-republicans-endorse-secession-095509311.html" target="_blank">referendum</a> on secession next year. Support for the Union is a mile wide and an inch deep. We're counting on a thread-bare social fabric to hold the country together. Nothing is off the table.<br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Will the Dems stand idly by and let this happen if they’re
the losers? I certainly hope not, although I have my doubts. If they have a
backbone (an open question), they’ll mount their own secession movement (after
many vain attempts to appeal to the Supreme Court, of course). But they’ll have
to rid themselves of their fanatical devotion to the Institutions and Norms.
It’ll take an unprecedented mass movement to drag the Dems kicking and
screaming into the post-American future, but I think it can be done. We’ll just
have to snap them out of their Norman Rockwell daydream.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">None of these is a pleasant scenario, but they seem the most
likely outcomes of the next presidential election. Of course, the Powers That
Be aren’t going to just sit on their duffs and let the Union be dissolved. Oh,
no! Far from it! There’s much too much money at stake to allow the American
Empire to die. It’ll put all those overseas military bases in danger of
closure, not to mention all those “free trade” agreements justifying the
expropriation and exploitation of Third World wealth and labor. (I don’t know
why I put those two things in the same sentence! Can you figure it out?)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Power Elite’s first move will be an MSM propaganda
campaign the likes of which we’ve never seen before. It will be funneled
through the usual outlets, e.g., Anderson Cooper, Rachel Maddow and whichever
nobodies are hosting the networks’ nightly news shows these days. They will
assure us at all hours of the day and night that our way of life is in peril,
that taking the path of secession is tantamount to jumping off a cliff. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There’ll be plenty of Civil War comparisons made, including parallels
between latter-day secessionists and their historical precursors, i.e.,
slaveowners, although I’m guessing that will be deployed most often against the
Left. The Captains of Industry will be loath to offend their traditional allies
on the Right. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m really looking forward to seeing where all those
Right-wing grifters come down on this issue. The people who sign (most of
their) checks will require them to toe the pro-Union line, but that side will
have very little support from their fans. Ben Shapiro and the Daily Wire will
have to be pro-Union, no matter how devastating it is to their popularity. They
have no other significant sources of revenue beyond Big Daddy Fossil Fuels. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the rest will have a tough decision to make: either lose
their sugar daddies or lose their audience. I can imagine Steven Crowder doing
a lovely little tap dance around the issue, trying to assure his viewers that
he’s still pro-“Mom, apple pie and baseball” while tepidly pledging fealty to
the “pedophiles” in DC. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Alex Jones doesn’t have to worry about that, of course. He’s
got his audience pretty much in the palm of his hand. He’ll be free to advocate
any insane position he wants. He’ll probably lobby to have Austin declared a
Free City in the Republic of Texas or the Neutral Zone or Narnia or wherever he
thinks he is by then.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Take it from me, though, the Powers That Be will be
super-pissed off about secession. They might even try another Business Plot. Most
Americans are blissfully ignorant of this little episode, but in the 1930’s a
bunch of business leaders tried to get a retired general, Smedley Butler, to overthrow
FDR. Lucky for us, Gen. Butler had more of a conscience than your average
American general and tattled to Congress about it. (No surprise here: Even
though they found compelling evidence for the conspiracy, Congress did nothing.
Because who wants to keep a bunch of rich guys from just havin’ a good time?)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If we can withstand all the <i>sturm und drang</i> that will
accompany the end of the USA, I think we can actually come out the better for
it. I am an anti-imperial socialist, after all, so I have no interest in
preserving Capitalism or the Empire. In my opinion, the dissolution of the
Union would go a long way toward ending the latter of those things, and maybe
even the former. But I would like to avoid a Civil War. To that end, in my next
essay I’ll offer some helpful hints to save America. Stay tuned!</p>
<p></p>Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-533278000220157312021-02-27T11:00:00.000-06:002021-02-27T11:00:02.771-06:00Fumbling Towards Fascism<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><img class="mw-mmv-final-image jpg mw-mmv-dialog-is-open" crossorigin="anonymous" height="253" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/c/cb/2021_storming_of_the_United_States_Capitol_DSC09156_%2850826223403%29.jpg/1280px-2021_storming_of_the_United_States_Capitol_DSC09156_%2850826223403%29.jpg" width="400" /> <br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">In the days following the January 6th Coup or the Insurrection or the
Whatever-The-Fuck-You-Wanna-Call-It, I was listening to any Leftist podcast I
could get my hands on. I was trying to find a satisfying take on the Storming
of the Capitol/Capitol Coup/Riot/Whatever. I was mad and kinda scared and
looking for some guidance on how to feel and what to do.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chapo Trap House, my go-to Leftist podcast (and favorite
podcast overall), left me cold with their takes. They persisted in mocking
people for freaking out about it, which they really seem to revel in. I mean,
yes, they’re right that the Capitol Stormers (I kinda like calling ‘em that cuz
it sounds like a cool name for a sports team.) were oafish buffoons who weren’t
gonna take over shit, and this isn’t Fascism… yet. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Which reminds me: Hey, MSM (Mainstream Media)! Stop calling
them “insurrectionists”! You’re making them sound a lot cooler than they are. I
guess it was an insurrection, but the MSM are so fucking oblivious. They really
think treating these people like an actual threat to overthrow the government
is gonna make the rest of us think less of them. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Don’t get me wrong. The Capitol Stormers were a bunch of
fucking idiots who did more harm to their cause than good. They were people who
thought Donald Trump actually cares about them and has been fighting for them.
Anyone who thinks Trump cares about them is an utter moron, politically
speaking.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the other hand, the MSM (like the rest of us) have to pull
off a delicate balancing act. If you treat the Capitol Stormers as a genuine
threat to democracy, you risk inflating their power. They’re probably taking
some pride in the scare they gave the Establishment. The fact that the talking
heads on TV seemed to be shaking in their boots surely gave the Stormers a
giddy thrill. This could also give people the impression that the Stormers were
effective and are worth supporting. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If you dismiss this mob as a bunch of fucking morons, you
run the risk of not taking them seriously enough. Dismissing them could lead to
more anger at being ignored by the Powers That Be. This could also lead to
ignoring the threat they pose if they continue to grow in strength. It could
also make them a <i>cause celebre</i>, since there are a lot of people who
already hate the MSM (myself included) and will gravitate to anyone the MSM
denounce.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But at what point can we take this shit seriously? When
exactly should we be afraid? How far down the road to Fascism do we need to be?
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I think I was awaiting marching orders from Chapo. I wanted
their permission to hit the streets and start the Revolution. You could say I’m
in a similar headspace as the Capitol Stormers. I share their misery and desperation.
Granted, the mob wasn’t exactly chockful of working stiffs. There were a lot of
rich folks in there, small business owners and the like. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They may be well-off compared to most of the country, but
they’re certainly feeling the squeeze with the pandemic and worried about
losing their position and being “proletarianized,” becoming workers like the
rest of us. (Full Disclosure: These are takes I stole from the aforementioned Leftist
podcasts.) The last thing the “small business tyrants” want is to go from being
the ones giving the orders to the ones taking them. That prospect must scare
the shit out of them, the idea that they could become subject to someone else
like them, that they could be at the whim of someone with the same
predilections.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, if you know history (or listen to Chapo), you know that
the <i>petit bourgeoisie</i> are usually the driving force behind Fascist
movements. They have a vested interest in maintaining the current economic
system, which means crushing the Left and any labor movements. The US
government, police, military and MSM have spent decades crushing the Left and
organized labor, thereby helping to lay the groundwork for Fascism.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fascism arises in the absence of an effective response to
the needs of the majority, what we in the US have called “gridlock” for almost
30 years now. Just as the Weimar Republic was either incapable of or unwilling
to relieve the suffering of most Germans, so are the Democrats and Republicans
either incapable of or unwilling to relieve the suffering of most Americans. Only
policies that address our widespread economic precarity will take us off the
road to Fascism. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Cracking down on “disinformation” and “extremism” (as
defined by the Establishment) will lead to a further narrowing of acceptable political
discourse. Remember: This is the same Establishment that believed Iraq had WMD
and the only way to eliminate that threat was war. These people aren’t your friends.
Even if they’re condemning FOX News, Newsmax and OAN (One America News) right now, that doesn’t
mean they’re on your side, Libs. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The corporate elite still has a stranglehold on political
power and refuses to even loosen its grip. As we saw in 1930’s Germany, they
would sooner bring the whole thing crashing down on their heads than let go of
the Levers of Power. Let’s hope we can steer off this course before they get
their death wish.</p>
Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-45766738219091716182021-01-01T15:54:00.000-06:002021-01-01T15:54:39.506-06:00The Opposite of a Honeymoon<p></p><p style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> <img alt="Donald Trump - Wikipedia" class="n3VNCb" data-noaft="1" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/56/Donald_Trump_official_portrait.jpg" style="height: 526px; margin: 0px; width: 415.263px;" /></p><p>Can't we just revel in Trump's defeat for a while? I'm not ready to
start thinking about what ghouls Biden has put forth for his cabinet
yet. I'm having too much fun watching Trump and his legal team flail
around like walruses on a beach. The <i>schadenfreude </i>is off the charts. <br /></p><p></p><p></p><p>It is so delicious to see Trump turned into a lame duck by the democratic process. His grip on power is slipping away, and I'm really enjoying it. Whatever the opposite of a honeymoon is, that's what I'm feeling about Trump right now. It's the (however paltry) joy that follows a divorce. (The Germans must have a word for it.) America has dumped Trump, and the rejection is driving him insane.<br /></p><p></p><p>I'm just luxuriating in the knowledge that he'll soon be out of the White House and will lose his vise-like grip on the news. I've been thinking that no longer being the Center of the Universe could drive him mad, but he might prefer his new position as kingmaker. He can throw bombs from off-stage, criticize politicians and not have to actually do anything. </p><p>He'll still have a cult of personality and maybe even his own TV channel or online media outlet. The MSM will have to pay him heed because of the legions of people who still (bafflingly) hold him in high regard. </p><p>The wild card is his legal trouble. He might have to face the music, but, considering he's gone so long without paying the piper, why would they throw the book at him now? Did he go too far by becoming president? Is he no longer of any value to his creditors? I don't know. </p><p>Maybe he's become more of a liability than an asset to them. It might serve them politically to wash their hands of him. They could take the credit for finally putting him away. There would be a rich irony (and sweet satisfaction) in seeing the man who sailed to the presidency with chants of "Lock her up!" become the first ex-president to go to prison. (I hope it starts a trend.)<br /></p><p>I know I reveled in the Establishment's (i.e., Hillary's) defeat 4 years ago, but the Trump Admin has been so emotionally exhausting that I'm over the moon to see it go. At least now we can get back to the much calmer <i>status quo ante</i> of Leftists getting pissed off at a Democratic president while Liberals remain blissfully ignorant (or in denial) of all his crimes. It'll be just like old times.<br /></p>Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-85887323019256146602020-11-21T21:53:00.000-06:002020-11-21T21:53:25.743-06:00Pregame Propaganda<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">In the not-too-distant future…
</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">On a beautiful fall day, Gillette
Stadium in Foxboro, Massachusetts was abuzz with </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">a</span> cacophony of
football fans and classic rock </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">blaring </span>over the PA. On the field, the New
England Patriots and San Francisco Forty-Niners warmed up for their ensuing
game. Eventually, the music faded out, and a voice cut through the crowd noise.</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d
like to direct your attention to the Jumbotron. US forces are currently engaged
with Al-Qaeda in the city of Jeddah in Saudi Arabia. To honor America, they
will be performing a surgical strike on an Al-Qaeda base.”</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">The crowd roared its approval.
On the Jumbotron was a decimated Middle Eastern city with a firefight going on amidst
the ruins. Tanks and other American vehicles advanced down a street under enemy
fire. The </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">video</span>
then cut to a fighter jet cockpit. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">Over the static of his radio,
the fighter pilot delivered a message to the assembled throng: “On behalf of
the US Air Force, I’d like to dedicate this strike to the people of New England
and San Francisco. Good luck to the Patriots and Forty-Niners in today’s game.
We’re doing this for you!”</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">The next shot was an aerial
view of Jeddah, soon punctuated by an explosion that shook the camera and the
plane it was attached to. A plume of smoke, dust and debris filled the screen
as the fans cheered. The view switched back to the fighter jet cockpit.</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">“Now, are you ready for some
football?!”</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">Fireworks went off around the
rim of the stadium as the crowd lost its collective shit. Of course, there were
always plenty of “surgical strikes” to show the folks back home. With all the
wars going on in the Middle East and elsewhere, the</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Pentagon</span>
could’ve shown live coverage of </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">an</span> attack</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> happening that very moment</span>. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">But</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> this one wasn’t</span>
live. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">It
was</span> prerecorded, then meticulously edited and audio-mixed to give </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">it</span> the veneer of
authenticity and immediacy. The</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> government</span> couldn’t run the risk of showing footage
of a bomb accidentally landing on a hospital or an orphanage, a disturbingly
frequent occurrence. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">Although, honestly,
considering how the fans ate it up, they probably </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">would’ve gotten the
same reaction with</span> </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">live</span> footage. But there was some danger that
the athletes wouldn’t like it and might stage a walkout. Even though they were
millionaires, a lot of people seemed to sympathize with them. Why ordinary
people found millionaire athletes sympathetic was anyone’s guess.</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">No, they just couldn’t run the
risk. It had been hard enough tamping down the kneeling-for-the-national-anthem
controversy. Colin Kaepernick and the other ringleaders were blackballed, but
it took a considerably greater effort by the league to keep th</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">e</span> virus </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">of non-patriotism </span>contained.</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">There had been enough of a
fallout when President Palin reacted to video of a</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>hospital
getting bombed by the US. She did her best Urkel impression: “Did I do that?” It
was actually more reminiscent of Bugs Bunny. “Ain’t I a stinker?” her face and
body seemed to say. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">The mouth-breathers on the
Right </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">were
sent into raptures of joy</span>, of course. Tucker Carlson appeared to climax
on</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>camera
as he watched the press conference on a loop. Sean Hannity offered to be her
sex slave. Rush Limbaugh</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span>spontaneously danced a jig in his studio and
finally dropped dead of a heart attack. Whatever he found on the </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">O</span>ther </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">S</span>ide could not
have matched the bliss he was feeling as he</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> expired</span>. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">The mainstream media (or
“MSM”) denounced the president, and the Libs had their usual hissy fit. Rachel
Maddow poured gasoline on herself and </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">struck a match</span>, opening up a huge whole in the
MSNBC primetime lineup. There were many who felt she should’ve thought of her
bosses before making that decision, but others shamed them for disempowering a
woman, and a gay woman at that. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">Who cared that their bread was
all buttered on the same side? That they all fed from the same trough? That
they all accepted the same basic premises about the righteousness and glory of
the American Empire? These Republicans kept saying the quiet part loud and the
loud part quiet. It was like they didn’t even believe in the loud part anymore.</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The Democrats at least
had the decency to maintain the illusion of a humanitarian foreign policy.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis">“Urkelgate” provided media
fodder for months. The content mills chugged along relentlessly, gobbling up
each new outrage and abomination like ambrosia and spitting out venom, bile and
puritanical condemnation. </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">Jaleel White held a press conference to denounce the
president’s use of his character’s trademark catchphrase. Predictably, the MSM
applauded his principled defense of the Norms, those sacred guardrails that
would surely save us from this president-gone-wild.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">But,
u</span>nlike Trump, Palin knew how to milk a scandal. She </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">found</span> the
media’s wounds, s</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">tu</span>ck her finger </span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">in </span>and just root</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;">ed</span> around,
driving the press mad with a pain so intense that it verged on pleasure. They
were her slaves. They claimed to hate her, but there were still a few Americans
left who knew better.</span><span class="MsoSubtleEmphasis"><span style="font-style: normal;"></span></span></p>
Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-26531310380209215652020-06-07T20:55:00.000-05:002020-06-07T21:06:32.940-05:00Picking Up the Pieces<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Pq-o75My8vMmS1bcD0-JYDy1bqygKf8YOJK5K06D1hG8WVzXxTODoJM-IFcJWBAvToKqWKJLSPNp9k0EO6hB6cCKK7kcAzCVidIGTKQ2aY1o4JBX7VefPQktpm3SnTANQyN2/s1600/IMG_0446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Pq-o75My8vMmS1bcD0-JYDy1bqygKf8YOJK5K06D1hG8WVzXxTODoJM-IFcJWBAvToKqWKJLSPNp9k0EO6hB6cCKK7kcAzCVidIGTKQ2aY1o4JBX7VefPQktpm3SnTANQyN2/s400/IMG_0446.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
My last essay was about the protests and looting in Minneapolis, so I wanted to talk about the aftermath this week. After a week of curfews, they finally called them off this weekend. Things have settled down, but I doubt we’ll be going back to the way things used to be. <br />
<br />
Friday night (May 29) was the first curfew night, and that’s when shit started to get real (at least for me). I heard a helicopter hovering overhead in the evening and definitely had that feeling of being in a City Under Siege, in some kind of authoritarian dystopia. There was a little gunfire in the distance, but nothing alarming. <br />
<br />
On Saturday morning I awoke to a more real sort of reality. I started off with my usual weekend morning regimen of stream-of-consciousness writing for an hour followed by about 20 minutes of meditation. My roommate Kenny and his boyfriend left to help with the clean-up, which sounded like a great idea. I also stole their idea of making banana pancakes. <br />
<br />
As I enjoyed my brunch, I went on Facebook and saw my friends’ shock and horror at the previous night’s events. I had no idea it had been that bad. Suddenly, this was no longer a chance to see history up close and personal. This was a real crisis that threatened my life. <br />
<br />
I called my parents to let them know I was OK. My mom had emailed that morning, but I didn’t realize the urgency of replying until I saw the news. <br />
<br />
Now I really had to go help clean up, in order to preserve my faith in humanity and find some sense of community to combat my anxiety. Mom said they suggested people bring brooms, so I grabbed one with a dustpan and biked down to Lake Street at the Midtown Global Market, near Chicago Ave. <br />
<br />
There were already tons of people walking up and down Lake Street with brooms, garbage bags and masks. It was a very heartening sight. There were tables by the Midtown Global Market where people handed out push brooms, garbage bags and other cleaning supplies. <br />
<br />
A woman told us we could head to Bloomington Ave or Franklin Ave. I’d come from Franklin, so I stayed on Lake and walked east to Bloomington. We passed a lot of volunteers heading the other way. I wondered if there were too many of us and not enough work. <br />
<br />
People were sweeping up broken glass from bus stop shelters and storefronts. I helped a guy move some plywood off the sidewalk. The plywood was for boarding up windows, which was happening on a lot of buildings. <br />
<br />
There were already plenty of people working on Bloomington, so I kept going east as did seemingly every one else in my group. I didn’t stop until I got to the Hi-Lake strip mall by Hiawatha. There seemed to be more to do there. Two stores had burned down. I swept up broken glass for a while and gawked at the ruins. <br />
<br />
Where there was broken glass, there was usually water from sprinklers. Where there’d been fire, water was a virtual guarantee. This made sweeping up the broken glass more difficult. <br />
<br />
There had been a Savers thrift store here that I’d gone to many times since I got my first apartment in Mpls. back in ’03. It closed last year, another puzzling case of thrift store attrition. The Little Caesar’s, Aldi and a liquor store remained. <br />
<br />
I continued on to the light rail station next door, where all the windows had been knocked out. A legion of people was already sweeping up the glass. Most of them were White. I wondered how many had ever used that station. Maybe all of them, maybe none of them. <br />
<br />
Like the Minnehaha Mall on the other side of Hiawatha, Hi-Lake was another strip mall I didn’t feel comfortable in. It had the same sense of poverty and despair I mentioned in <a href="https://ridingtherubicon.blogspot.com/2020/05/a-taste-of-anarchy.html">my last post</a>. Combine that with a latent hostility and you can understand how I felt going there. But it was the cheap thrift store (not the “vintage” kind of thrift store) closest to Uptown, so I had to get over my discomfort. <br />
<br />
Then I walked under the Hiawatha overpass. A few people were sweeping up glass. I picked up a few shards, but there wasn’t much left. Normally, there would’ve been houseless people (mostly Native or Black) sitting under the bridge or panhandling to the cars at the stoplight. Now it was mostly White folks like me with masks and brooms. <br />
<br />
I kept moving past Hiawatha to the epicenter of the uprising, the area around the Third Precinct. It looked much different from Thursday. There were a ton of people at the Minnehaha Mall cleaning up outside of Target, Cub and the other stores. (I didn’t even know it was called the Minnehaha Mall until this day, when I took a picture of the graffiti on the mall sign.) <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZn6OvJj-KUTx2W2C2mnG5UPQNN9-Jjl2e7JLBZhQNNGvRLN9-BZVUKPY-wI8ODHKyNB6rlObh3gZKLkPu1s98tZJNUd0iApabpAaCtYCbvyEubGegrbjgWa8qW8PINoPZJhPg/s1600/IMG_0456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZn6OvJj-KUTx2W2C2mnG5UPQNN9-Jjl2e7JLBZhQNNGvRLN9-BZVUKPY-wI8ODHKyNB6rlObh3gZKLkPu1s98tZJNUd0iApabpAaCtYCbvyEubGegrbjgWa8qW8PINoPZJhPg/s400/IMG_0456.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
I walked past Target and a few more storefronts before stopping in front of a Minnesota Transitions School (MTS) location. MTS is a charter high school. It seems to cater to kids who don’t function well in traditional schools. I know it mainly from its seemingly improbable (albeit coming in Class A, the smallest class) state championship in boys’ basketball in 2010.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUMfacq0TqlRZ3C5gzLXSiMy8Qvf9-yxGhMyoaHA-Ja1qWrS3sF_UXSibqBT8aHAiX_4AweVZxfQAz2F7ywGYtCFNt7UgxRI-5Ho0TB4AkbeEc6CqIUIYyMK-kSWnWXdDyiG0/s1600/IMG_0444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUMfacq0TqlRZ3C5gzLXSiMy8Qvf9-yxGhMyoaHA-Ja1qWrS3sF_UXSibqBT8aHAiX_4AweVZxfQAz2F7ywGYtCFNt7UgxRI-5Ho0TB4AkbeEc6CqIUIYyMK-kSWnWXdDyiG0/s400/IMG_0444.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The graffiti on Target was painted over.</td></tr>
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I was just standing there looking through the empty window frame at a guy sweeping up a pool of water and broken glass. He asked if I wanted to help. That’s all I’d been waiting for, so I stepped through the window to help him. <br />
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<br />
I shouldn’t have needed that kind of encouragement, but such is my personality. Even in the midst of this outpouring of goodwill and generosity, I was still reluctant to speak up. Of course, the mask didn’t help either. It feels like an obstacle to being heard. It obscures the source of your words. But maybe that’s just an excuse. <br />
<br />
A petite, young woman and I collaborated on sweeping up inside, switching roles as the sweeper and dustpan or bag holder. I asked her if she had any connection to MTS. She said no, she just lived nearby. <br />
<br />
A guy came along and asked us to get out of the building. He didn’t want us to get hurt. We obliged and swept up glass on the sidewalk. <br />
<br />
Another woman asked me where I live. I told her. She said she’d just helped paint a mural at a brewpub in Nordeast (a local nickname for Northeast Mpls.). It was kind of a weird non-sequitur, but I didn’t mind. It was nice how she skipped ahead in the conversation instead of just telling me where she lived. <br />
<br />
She seemed to be there with her husband and another couple. They had some tattoos and looked like middle-aged hipsters, so I felt right at home. <br />
<br />
A man of East Asian descent came over and asked me to help him carry what looked like about a 6-foot-long light pole. He gave me the heavy base end, which was OK, but it was a bit awkward trying to keep up with his pace. I managed to follow him to the dumpster without tripping, and we threw it in. He said it had been used to smash windows. He seemed to be a proprietor of one of the stores. <br />
<br />
Some people had come around with water bottles, one of which I had accepted, so now I had to pee. I really wanted to bid adieu to my fellow hipsters, but I chickened out. I remembered seeing a porta-potty by the light rail station, so I walked back there. I was afraid there’d be a long line, but as soon as the current occupant came out it was free. <br />
<br />
Then I went to the Cub Foods, which had been my primary grocery store. I felt no compunction to help clean up Target. They’re a huge transnational corporation. They’ll be fine. But I did feel the need to help Cub out, since I’d depended on it so much. <br />
<br />
There was a bucket brigade line of people leading out of the entrance. They were passing food out of the store and setting it on shelves that had been set up on the sidewalk. There were even price signs hanging over some items, but I didn’t see anyone ringing up customers. They were just giving the food away. It was essentially a more orderly version of the looting I’d seen 2 days before. People loaded up on groceries and took them to their cars in the parking lot. <br />
<br />
At the exit, a mass of people was raking through the river of water streaming out of the store. There was garbage mixed in with the water, packaging and food that had been turned into pulp by the sprinklers. I joined in this project with my broom and dustpan. A woman offered me her push broom, which I took and set down my broom and dustpan on the storefront. <br />
<br />
The woman was there with her daughter, who might’ve been about 10. The girl was quite industrious, as was a boy a little younger than her. It was really cute to see them busily sweeping the garbage downstream or into someone’s waiting dustpan. For some reason, people kept giving the boy pennies. He must’ve asked for them. <br />
<br />
I got frustrated, because I was not on the same page as the woman who gave me the push broom. She was operating a dustpan, but we had different theories about the most effective sweeping and dustpanning techniques. I thought my methods were universal, but apparently they’re not. <br />
<br />
It was dumb of me to get frustrated, of course, but I wasn’t willing to just tell her what I wanted her to do with the dustpan. I could’ve nicely let her know what I had in mind, but that would’ve been extremely out-of-character for me. Again, the facemask felt like an obstacle to that. And I didn’t wanna ruin the esprit de corps of the occasion. <br />
<br />
One of the hipsters at MTS wondered why no one had turned off the water or power to these buildings, leaving the sprinklers running and live wires hanging in the window of the store next to MTS. Somebody wondered the same thing about Cub. It seemed like an excellent question. <br />
<br />
An older woman said the water might make it easier to clean out the store. I questioned that, but I couldn’t think of a good rejoinder. After I got home, of course, I realized that the water was causing the mess, not helping it. (I’ll leave you, dear reader, to make your own parallel between this and the role of the police in our society.) <br />
<br />
The woman was from Hugo, the exurb where I’ve spent most of my year-and-a-half at Habitat for Humanity working on a development of 4-plexes (and one 5-plex). I was really touched by her willingness to drive a half-hour from the boonies into the city to help us clean up. I wasn’t expecting that from an exurbanite. <br />
<br />
We scooped the garbage into plastic garbage cans with our dustpans or snow shovels. The cans were then hauled off by people with a power jack for pallets, who took them around back, presumably to be dumped into the dumpster. <br />
<br />
After doing that for a while, a man shouted and whistled to get our attention. He was standing on the hood of his car and, once everyone was quiet, introduced himself as a vice president of the company that runs this Cub. He said he’d been told there were “a couple people” helping to clean the store, so when he pulled up he cried at the sight of all of us. He said they would do whatever they had to do to reopen the store as soon as possible. He thanked us, and everyone clapped. <br />
<br />
It was a heartwarming scene, and I was moved. But I wasn’t satisfied. Returning to the status quo ante isn’t enough. We’re going to need big, structural change (a big, structural Bailey, if you will) if we wanna move forward and right these wrongs. I overheard a young Black man say that we were all helping clean up because we wanted to restore the System. I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, but he wasn’t totally wrong, although he overestimates how many of us actually wanna restore the System.<br />
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<br />
I was there to facilitate change, and I think a lot of others were there for the same reason. Our mere presence was a big change from the norm. I’d never seen that many people in those neighborhoods, and certainly not that many White people. We were there to pick up the pieces, because the authorities had clearly lost control or were no longer willing to maintain it. <br />
<br />
We were there to pick up the slack, fill the vacuum left in their absence. As with the largely peaceful looting and protests that occurred there, the fact that the community stepped up to begin the rebuilding won’t soon be forgotten. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-64273750313188443382020-05-30T20:34:00.000-05:002020-05-30T20:34:47.642-05:00A Taste of Anarchy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I wrote this on Thursday and Friday. My perspective has changed radically today, Saturday, as the riots have grown. I'm in a much more sober, scared mood. But I think this is still worth posting as a look into one mindset behind the unrest.</i> <br />
<br />
My employer shut down its construction operations Thursday afternoon because of the riots. I was working out in Hugo, a small town well north of St. Paul. I hadn’t been following the news closely, so I only had a vague sense of how extensive the looting and arson were. We took off at 2pm, so I probably got home around 2:30. <br />
<br />
I live in the Phillips neighborhood of Minneapolis, about a mile from the Third Precinct, the epicenter of the uprising sparked by the murder of George Floyd. Everything seemed tranquil. I tried to catch up with the news at my apartment. <br />
<br />
When I saw the reports that looting had spread to St. Paul, I thought anarchy must be engulfing the Twin Cities. The police had secured Maplewood Mall and Rosedale (another mall). It reminded me of <i>The Simpsons</i> episode when Helen Lovejoy keeps crying, “Won’t someone please think of the children?!” Won’t someone please think of the malls?! <br />
<br />
My roommate Kenny showed up with his bike in tow. He said he’d been to the Third Precinct and that the scene was crazy. I decided to have a look for myself. My anxiety was piqued, but I thought staying home just thinking about the riots would be worse. <br />
<br />
I started by biking to 38th and Chicago. I didn’t even know that was where George Floyd had died. I just knew it was a locus of protest. I crossed Lake Street to get there, which I expected to be a war zone from all the reports I’d seen that day, but it looked normal to me. It was busy, but that’s typical for 4pm on a weekday. <br />
<br />
The Midtown Global Market and a warehouse towered overhead. I headed south of Lake, down a residential street. There was a guy just mowing his lawn, as normal as could be. I thought the MSM had seriously exaggerated the threat. I didn’t see the protest until I was 3 blocks away, and I got no sense of menace from it. <br />
<br />
There were a few cars parked in the middle of the road in all 4 directions to block off the intersection. Maybe a few hundred people were gathered to listen to a Black woman on a mic with a PA. There were some tables set up on the sidewalk behind her with water bottles and other things I couldn't identify.<br />
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The crowd was racially diverse: Whites, Blacks, Latinx, etc. There were some White girls with dyed-pink dreds standing in front of me. Almost everybody had a mask on, which I’ve come to think of as a political signifier as much as a safety measure. I put my mask on when I got there. <br />
<br />
It was an open mic, the woman said, so they had other people speak, all of them Black for the half-hour I was there. One lady had us raise our arms, lean back and face the sun (which was at our backs) and then bend over to touch our toes. It was like a sun salutation in yoga. Then we put our right hand on our heart. It was like doing the Pledge of Allegiance except the opposite, because we were trying to get our country to pledge allegiance to us. <br />
<br />
Another Black lady exhorted Black people to get their GED and go to college. She wanted them to put down their phone and pick up a book. The one man who spoke had on a shirt with the Wu-Tang Clan “W” that said “Wakanda.” He had us raise our right fist in the air. I joined in for that, but I was wary of letting go of my bike. It’s just some middle-class suburban paranoia, but it’s hard to shake. <br />
<br />
I was trying to let down my defenses. But it’s not easy to do that while wearing a mask. It enhances my sense of social distance from others. If they can’t see me at least try to smile, then how can I put them at ease? Somebody told me last year that I have a “mean stare.” I don’t want that to be all people can see of my face. That’s the main reason I don’t always wear a mask in public. The mask also makes me anxious, reminding me of the seriousness of our situation. These aren’t excuses, just explanations. <br />
<br />
At 4:40 pm, I moved on, kinda disappointed that I seemed to have missed the excitement. After a few blocks of mask-less biking, I realized that the Third Precinct wasn’t at 38th and Chicago. I looked it up on my phone and discovered it was next to my local Target and Cub Foods, my primary grocery store. I’d planned to check it out anyway, having heard about the looting there. <br />
<br />
I got on the Greenway and headed east. The Midtown Greenway is a block north of Lake Street and occupies a former rail line. It’s in a trench dug out for the railroad over a century ago, so you get to bike under bridges in a grassy little valley. It’s very nice. I passed a collection of tents some houseless people were living in. That’s a new development to me. I’ve only seen that this year on the Greenway. <br />
<br />
I took a bike and pedestrian bridge over Hiawatha (a highway) to the strip mall where my Target and Cub are located. I couldn’t see anything from the bridge, but that’s where I found all the excitement. That’s what all the hubbub was about. <br />
<br />
I came around the back of the mall. There was some graffiti, but nothing serious. When I turned the corner into the parking lot, then I understood what Kenny and the MSM had been talking about. There were people walking toward and past me, some carrying clothes and other wares. <br />
<br />
Slowly, it dawned on me. Oh, wait. These are looters. But they weren’t the evil, greedy people I’d been told about (a label that, ironically, far more accurately applies to the people doing the labeling and trying to maintain the status quo). They were just regular folks, basically the same people I saw shopping at that Target and Cub on a normal day. <br />
<br />
They weren’t the scum of the earth. Many of them were smiling, not maniacally, but in a dizzy, giddy glee at this momentary upturning of the System. I felt it too, but it scared me at first. They had violated the sacred code of Private Property. As a middle-class, straight, White, cis-gender male, when push comes to shove, I’ll often cling to the System for protection. To see it overthrown like this was terrifying, dizzying and exhilarating. <br />
<br />
I saw the steaming ruins of the Auto Zone across the street from the Target parking lot. It gave the scene the look of a war zone. I wasn’t sure if I’d be safe, if someone would push me off my bike and abscond with it, maybe beat me up. But that didn’t seem to be happening to anyone else, so I kept biking through the parking lot. <br />
<br />
There was a line of cars slowly moving toward the Target entrance. I passed through them. A car with teenagers hanging out the windows and whooping it up, hootering and hollering, drove over a median in the lot, but in a surprisingly careful manner. So, yes, there were some hijinks, some unfettered hurly-burly, but not the unrestrained bacchanalia one might expect. <br />
<br />
I kept biking to the intersection between the strip mall and the precinct. There was a truck broadcasting a message from a disembodied man. I couldn’t tell if he was on the scene, in the truck or in some remote location. It said something like “Mad Dads” on the side. Many of the hundreds gathered in the intersection were listening. <br />
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When I got to the intersection, I put my mask back on. There wasn’t a lot of social distancing going on, but a lot of people were wearing masks. I hope I didn’t get the ‘Rona there. That would suck. <br />
<br />
I got off my bike and walked over to the precinct. A crush of people stood vigil opposite a line of silent, motionless police officers. It looked like the cops were in riot gear and had clubs at the ready. The people keeping the police at bay all seemed to be wearing black. I could’ve sworn someone was playing NWA’s “Fuck tha Police.” <br />
<br />
The racial mix was just as diverse as at the other protest site. There was a White gutterpunk guy walking around, carrying those little milk cartons they have at schools and offering them to people. There was a table with young women offering free stuff, mainly water. I saw gallon jugs of milk under the table, behind the “Free Stuff” sign. A young woman in the crowd took a picture of the police with her middle finger in the foreground. <br />
<br />
The man speaking through the truck said this was our community and we shouldn’t be burning down buildings. That got a round of applause. He encouraged us to help the people picking up litter. The truckman’s words were then accompanied by Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On.” I saw an orange peel on the street, picked it up and put it in the trash bag held by a Black man in his 20’s or 30’s, thanking him. <br />
<br />
I took a picture of the Auto Zone’s smoking remains. There are suspicions that the arsonists might’ve been undercover cops. Given the history of police in this country, it wouldn’t surprise me. They haven’t exactly bathed themselves in glory, especially in recent decades. <br />
<br />
Then I biked toward the Cub Foods 2 blocks away. Along the way was another burned-out shell of a building. I think it had been an apartment complex still under construction. I’m not surprised if protesters set that one on fire. I’ve certainly resented how apartment buildings have shot up like weeds in Minneapolis for the last 15 years while rents have shot up almost as fast. <br />
<br />
On the berm at the end of the Target parking lot, someone was lying on the ground having an emergency of some kind as people gathered around trying to help them. A woman in a hijab driving a minivan was filming the scene on her phone as she glacially turned through an intersection. Her attention was fixed on her phone and not at all on the road. The weird part was the cars behind her didn’t honk at her to hurry up.<br />
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<br />
I got to the Cub and took pictures of the graffiti and shattered windows. A young woman said “sorry” for walking in front of my picture. Bemused, I said, “No prob.” There was a group of people near the Cub exit. The entrance was blocked by shopping carts and hastily-posted police tape. The windows were all smashed. A few people were coming out of the store.<br />
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<br />
The parking lot had some parked cars and people milling about. I biked over to the Target entrance. Cars slowly drove through the lot. It wasn’t the kind of chaos you would expect in a “riot.” (Frankly, I think riots get a bad name. The Clash were pro-riot, as illustrated by their song, “White Riot.” “Riot” doesn’t have to be pejorative. Embrace it!) Someone was playing Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power.”<br />
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Honestly, I couldn’t tell if people were actually playing these songs or if I was hallucinating them, because they were all the exact kind of songs I would expect to hear in a riot. (I’m surprised I didn’t imagine someone playing Rage Against the Machine.) <br />
<br />
There was a guy in a delivery van who pulled up to the Cub entrance and was taking pictures with his phone. I saw a young woman lazily drive by. She appeared to be smoking marijuana. I think she was just digging the scene. I couldn’t blame her. It was intoxicating, addictive. <br />
<br />
The Target façade was covered in graffiti. The inside was dark. People were walking in and out of the entrance. I saw exactly one person run during my half-hour in this free-for-all. Everyone else was moving at a leisurely pace.<br />
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I walked up to a window with a group of people standing in front of it. The glass was gone. We were all taking pictures and video as people went in and out the window. A group of 3 White guys in their 20’s came out with some clothes and the top half of a mannequin. A guy outside exclaimed, “You got a mannequin!” The looter responded, “I’m takin’ this baby home!” They were smiling. <br />
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There was a shallow layer of water on the floor and cellophane-sealed sandwiches strewn about. It was smoky inside for some reason, but there was enough light to see a few people walking around. (I can’t stress this enough: NO ONE WAS RUNNING! So get that looter stereotype out of your heads, my fellow bourgeoisie!)<br />
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I walked my bike along the sidewalk with the people leaving Target. A steady stream of folks was still flowing past us, toward the entrance, as well as that line of cars I’d encountered when I first arrived on the scene. The employee entrance was open, around which lay a pool of water and clothes. A guy grabbed a push broom and started sweeping the clothes away (or was it toward?) the door. I have no idea what he was trying to accomplish. <br />
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<br />Then I turned the corner and was heading back out the way I came. As if on cue, police sirens sounded in the distance, and that’s when people started running. But there were still smiles all around, even from the guys trying to convince the girls they were with to jump in their car. <br />
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I headed back up the bike trail, north on Hiawatha to my apartment. The back of the strip mall was all I could see now. Whatever hasty retreat might’ve been unfolding was out of view. But I’d gotten my fill of anarchy. It gave me a strong feeling of freedom, and I knew that, in time, I’d want more. <br />
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The Powers That Be had better hope we don’t develop a taste for this kind of anarchy. In the absence of Law and Order, there was no descent into barbarism that I could see. I’m not saying that situation would’ve lasted forever, but it was a powerful lesson, even for just a half-hour. <br />
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It’s also a dangerous lesson, because it teaches people that the rules that are supposed to protect them are actually holding them back. The same System that has protected me has also forced me to collaborate in a ruthless, heartless empire (which is redundant, because all empires are ruthless and heartless). As I (and the empire) get older, the costs of that bargain grow while the benefits shrink. <br />
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Before the riots, I spent a lot of time at that strip mall, going to Cub and Target, but I was never comfortable there. There was always a sense of poverty and despair. I sat in the Starbucks in that Target a few times, and the tables were mainly occupied by poor people. Some would be chatting, but most of them would just sit there alone, looking forlorn. My shock isn’t that they finally rose up and destroyed this arrangement (even if only temporarily), but that they waited this long. <br />
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My familiarity with the area also gave me a sense of the possibilities of revolution. (That surely also contributed to my sense of disorientation.) Before, it was just my usual grocery store and the nearest Target. Now it’s a scene of civil unrest, where the police have been defeated. <br />
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Earlier that day, I’d heard one of our U.S. senators, Tina Smith, condemn the violence on MPR (Minnesota Public Radio). After seeing the riot firsthand, I have no patience with her pleading. She’s done more damage with a single vote (for the CARES Act, for the USMCA, for the take-your-pick-of-bills) than the rest of us could do in a lifetime. <br />
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And she sees no problem with exporting violence to other countries. Do you not see the inconsistency, Senator Smith? Do you not understand why we ignore you? Why you don’t have a moral leg to stand on? <br />
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The riots are a predictable outcome of a culture that values profit over people. The violence we wage across the globe (for profit and power, not peace) has boomeranged on us. We thought if we fought them over there, we wouldn't have to fight them here. But the war zone was here all along. The only difference is that now the resistance has decided to strike back against the empire in the only language the empire understands: force. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-9111911110052172352020-05-06T22:50:00.000-05:002020-05-06T22:50:27.164-05:00Clocks Against Humanity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I performed this essay at The Encyclopedia Show Minneapolis on Tuesday night. Video of the show can be found on <a href="https://www.strike.theater/">Strike Theater</a>'s Facebook page. The show's theme was "Clocks."</i><br />
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I thought I had plenty of time to work on this piece, but, per usual, the time got away from me. Such is the nature of Life. The Clock is an insidious hypnotist. It ticks along slowly, but remorselessly, always, when we’re looking, when we’re not looking. It lulls us into a false sense of security and then feeds us to the Past, that huge Dust Monster waiting to gobble us up at the end of the line. <br />
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Steve Miller was wrong about Time. It does keep on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’, but into the Past, not the Future. I don’t know why he made that mistake. It must’ve been all those drugs he did. I don’t actually know if he did drugs, but he was a big rock star in the 70’s, so he probably did. <br />
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Clocks have increasingly become an unnecessary accessory. They used to be furniture. They used to stand on their own, or occupy a place of honor and reverence on the wall or mantel. We may still have those old-fashioned stand-alone clocks in our homes, but they endure primarily for decorative rather than practical purposes. Soon, our children will think of clocks as just those things that float by when you’re traveling through Time. <br />
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Clocks have been integrated into nearly all of our household appliances and electronic devices: our phones, our computers, our microwaves, our stoves, our coffee makers, our waffle irons, our TV’s, our DVD players, our VCR’s, our Betamax players, our stereos, our hi-fi’s, our 8-track tape players, our electric shavers, our curling irons, and even our vibrators. Not coincidentally, this process has unfolded while our time has become more regimented and less our own. Through this infiltration of every facet of our lives, the Clock’s grip on our time has only grown stronger. <br />
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For this reason, we must endeavor more vigorously than ever to defeat the Clock, to transcend Time. In the olden days, it was easier to conserve Time, because Life was lived at a more leisurely, humane pace. People were still being exploited terribly, but at least the Economy was taking its sweet time about it. Not like today, when you can’t even open the morning paper without seeing a story about a whole generation of English majors being turned into baristas. <br />
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So how do we escape the Clock’s insidious clutches? I recommend listening to the words of Robin Williams’ character from that fine motion picture, <i>Dead Poets Society</i>. You’ve got to seize the day! You’ve got to stand up on your desk and say, “O captain, my captain!” I think there were some other parts to it, but I’ve forgotten them. I’ve been too busy seizing the day! <br />
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Well, that’s not really true. I spend most of my free time these days watching YouTube videos about how <i>Game of Thrones</i> is actually an allegory for the decline of the manufacturing sector of the US economy. Or how <i>The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild</i> is an allegory for the alienating effects of living in a society wherein the concept of community has been shattered, and each person has been thrown back on their own resources, left to fend for themself as an atomized individual. Or how the <i>John Wick</i> film franchise is really freakin’ cool. <br />
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The point is: I’m no role model. No one should be looking to me as a paragon of virtue. I’ve always been petrified of the Clock and its power to steal my Life away, yet I’ve mainly expressed this fear through watching TV and snacking. Thanks to this regimen of avoidance, I know more about surviving quicksand than I do about living a Good Life. <br />
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And while we’re on the subject, what was the deal with all those TV and movie characters who encountered quicksand? Was there some sort of quicksand epidemic in the late 20th Century? Was it part of an undercover PSA campaign aimed at reducing quicksand-related mishaps? Was a mountain of quicksand migrating north from Latin America, like those infamous killer bees? <br />
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Perhaps I’m being too uptight, but I didn’t find any of this quicksand-related content helpful at all. It would’ve been nice to see more practical scenarios played out on these shows. How about an episode wherein the main character applies for a small business loan? That would’ve been extremely useful. <br />
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Well now I’ve gone and wasted your time with a lot of frivolous nattering on about quicksand and such. But, like I said, I’m no role model when it comes to making the most of one’s time. However, I will try to justify the quicksand digression with an epic segue. <br />
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Much like with quicksand, the more you struggle against Time, the more it pulls you down. (See? I had a plan for that all along.) So remember what Robin Williams said in that one movie: Seize the day! And, if you must buy a vibrator, try to find one without a clock. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-61242212628716980592020-05-06T22:13:00.000-05:002020-05-06T22:13:37.861-05:00Shadows of the Pat (Benatar)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>I performed this essay at The Encyclopedia Show Minneapolis on Sunday night. Video of the show can be found on <a href="https://www.strike.theater/">Strike Theater</a>'s Facebook page. The show's theme was "Shadows."</i> <br />
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What do you think of when you think of shadows? They’re creepy, right? If you’re like me, you imagine a netherworld of crime, iniquity, opium and the dens thereof. It’s where people go to smoke thin, black cigarettes and reject the triune god. They are the hiding places of the occult, the decadent, the profane. <br /><br />But you must descend into the gutters to get a sense for how Life really is. This is where Polite Society puts its garbage, its trash, its human refuse. This is where the people who don’t fit in go to hide. This is where even the respectable people go to indulge their vices. <br /><br />I don’t know what goes on there, because I don’t actually patronize those establishments. That’s one of the advantages of living in the Internet Age. But just the fact that these activities are hidden makes them all the more monstrous. I can’t imagine all the unspeakable things they must get up to down there. <br /><br />Lucky for me, Pat Benatar was not so timid. She had the guts to delve into this underworld, as evidenced by her oeuvre. What she dredged up from that cesspool offers us all a glimpse into the seamy underbelly of Life. <br /><br />Just take a listen to the chorus from her song “Shadows of the Night,” which I will try to reproduce as adequately as I can while still falling well short of the perfection of the original recording. <br />
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We’re running with the shadows of the night <br />So, baby, take my hand, it’ll be alright <br />Surrender all your dreams to me tonight <br />They’ll come true in the end </blockquote>
Now I ask you: What encapsulates the idea of shadows better than that? In a word, nothing. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the music video of that song. For some reason, they went with a story about fighter pilots in World War 2. The only highlights of the video are appearances by the then-unknown Judge Reinhold and Bill Paxton, as a pilot and Nazi, respectively. <br /><br />So then I turned to the video that I’d actually been thinking of, “Love is a Battlefield.” It starts out with Benatar walking the mean streets of a city. These are intercut with shots of her riding a Greyhound bus through the country. Flash back to her running away from home, as her dad says that, if she leaves now, she can forget about ever returning. <br /><br />Next, we see her on those mean streets again, this time during the day. She passes by a neon sign that says “Girls Girls Girls.” Then she’s in what appears to be a mall and walks by a person sleeping on the floor. Back outside, she valiantly maintains her singing and her focus on the camera despite the intimidating glares of rough-looking men on the sidewalk. <br /><br />Meanwhile, back home, Dad is plagued by lingering doubts about his decision to kick her out. Listlessly, he stirs the contents of his dinner plate. Did he make the right choice? Was he too hard on her? She is young, after all. <br /><br />Back in the Big City, Benatar climbs a dark staircase to a shadowy club inhabited by denizens of the dark. There are many scandalously-clad young women, dressed in the rags apparently favored by loose women of the night in this time period. A sleazy-looking man in a cream-colored suit beckons her with a devilish grin. <br /><br />Next thing you know, she’s dancing indifferently with another man. This is her john, no doubt. She lazily drapes an arm over his shoulder. Her face betrays the resignation to her fate working for a pimp who looks like a third-rate bad guy from <i>Miami Vice</i>. <br /><br />In the next scene, she sits at a dressing room mirror writing a letter to her younger brother, who reads it on his bed back home. There may be some horrible exploitation going on here, but at least they get a decent dressing room. <br /><br />She sits down in a lounge chair in the club and declines a man’s request to dance, which would seem to violate the terms of her employment, but I’ll let that one slide. Then, diegetically, we hear one of the women scream, “Leave me alone,” as she frees herself from the pimp and runs away. <br /><br />Suddenly, the tables turn. Benatar blocks him from chasing after the fleeing woman. The other women join her to surround him. He retreats to the bar and cowers in fear as they unleash the deadliest weapon in their arsenal: a spontaneously choreographed group dance number. <br /><br />He looks for reinforcements, but he must withstand the barrage alone. Left with no other choice, he joins the dance. It’s his only hope for survival. The seeming détente is shattered when Benatar throws a glass of water in his face. She will not be denied justice. <br /><br />Having liberated themselves from the pimp’s iron grip, the women head out onto the streets to continue their dance until the night gives way to a bright, new morning. Benatar bids adieu to her sisters-in-arms, with a hug here, a high-five there, and even a fist-bump over there. (Yes, they had fist-bumps in the 80’s, but they were vertical instead of horizontal.) <br /><br />Then we see her back on the bus. She’s headed somewhere on that bus, but where? Back home to confront her father? On to another vaguely salacious club to liberate some more possibly-maybe sex workers? Who knows? <br /><br />But does it really matter? The world is her oyster. She’s escaped the shadows of the night, even though that’s not technically the title of this song. But, still, you get the idea. She’s escaped the battlefield that is love, I guess? Sorry. I wasn’t paying much attention to that lyric. <br /><br />The important thing is she got out, and, thanks to her courage, we all have a cautionary tale about the darker side of Life from our old friend, Pat Benatar. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-37283356126361557442020-04-16T19:23:00.000-05:002020-04-16T19:29:53.693-05:00Honduras: Epilogue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>UPDATE: As one should expect, the situation in Honduras has deteriorated since the onset of the COVID-19 global pandemic. Corie has written about this for the Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective’s <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/post/covid-19-crisis-in-honduras">blog</a>, noting that the US continues to deport people to Honduras in the midst of this crisis. On Facebook, Emily posted a link to an article on the MADJ <a href="https://madj.org/index.php/2020/04/07/pueblo-tolupan-en-honduras-a-punto-de-morir-de-hambre/">website</a> and a translated excerpt by the Honduras Solidarity Network: </i><br />
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<i>From the Broad Movement for Dignity & Justice: "The Tolupán People in Honduras are about to die of hunger</i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>“The measures imposed by the Honduran government to prevent the spread of #COVID has been a form of death sentence for indigenous communities, as the classist and elitist nature of the government does not take into account the socio-economic realities of these populations... </i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>“MADJ cites the high levels of poverty in these communities as well as the state-led dispossession of indigenous peoples from their lands for mining, dams, and logging projects. This has threatened their livelihood, land control, and food sovereignty.”</i></blockquote>
<i>Suffice it to say that things are getting worse for the people we met there. I encourage everyone to donate to the <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a> to help them weather this storm.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Ya know when ya get that one comment on your blog that confirms all your worst fears about yourself, as a writer and a human being? Well, I got one of those recently. It was submitted to the Day 6 post:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“This is painful to read. I wonder what your colleagues think about your condescending attitude and constant judgement towards them? Maybe you are trying to portray yourself as vulnerable, but it reads as whiny and entitled. You need to sincerely consider why you are doing this blog as well as why you shouldn't.” </blockquote>
I don’t know if I should exalt this one anonymous comment to earth-shattering status, but it sounds so thoughtful that I find it impossible to ignore. I could say that it doesn’t really matter. The commenter didn’t bother to leave any identifying information, so it seems a rather cowardly pot shot in the dark. But it’s so biting and incisive that I can’t just dismiss it. <br />
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I initially deleted it, being too upset to think rationally. When you’re as socially isolated as I am and have as much emotionally invested in your writing as I do, a comment like that is devastating. But then I decided to post it, because I didn’t want to be scared of some fucking anonymous blog comment. And I wanted to deal with it instead of sweeping it under the carpet. Yes, I was devastated, but, if I deal with it head-on, I could get over it and, hopefully, become stronger, so this shit won’t keep punching me in the gut every time. <br />
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It’s also a source of energy for me, engaging with my fear and pain. If I try to avoid thinking about it, that energy gets redirected in harmful ways. I told my parents about it and nearly came to tears. They empathetically told me that I shouldn’t let it get to me. That helped a lot. Obviously, the comment isn’t the problem; it’s just the trigger for another round of fear, shame and self-flagellation. <br />
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After I decided to post it, I was hoping for a torrent of good comments to drown it out. But that didn’t happen. This was the only comment submitted to my blog for the Honduras series. I was disappointed by that, so I checked to see how the comment looked on the page. To my shock, it was almost impossible to notice. There’s just a little link for comments at the end of each post. For most readers, it would’ve been easy to miss. Until this post, I may’ve been the only one who saw it. <br />
<br />
But it brings up a point worth addressing. If my fellow delegates or colleagues found that my account treats them with a “condescending attitude” or “constant judgment,” I apologize. That wasn’t my intention. I hold so much in that, when I finally let it out like this, it’s often messy, overheated or ill-conceived (or all 3). <br />
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Since I started posting this series, I’ve been worrying that it was hurting the very people I wanted to celebrate. I only revealed my thoughts and feelings in the hope of purging my grief and bringing attention to the plight of WFP’s partners in Honduras, not to shame or embarrass anyone. <br />
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When I questioned why Corie and Ale were “waxing rhapsodic” about Power Chicken, I didn’t understand the value of their seemingly silly devotion to a fast-food joint. But they were coping with despair on a daily basis. In order to keep from being overwhelmed by it, they had to take advantage of any opportunities for joy, no matter how trivial. <br />
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It was only my bourgeois, soul-dead perspective that found this behavior improper. But, over the course of the delegation, I began to understand the importance of embracing both the silly and the sublime, the horrible and the hilarious. <br />
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After learning of the evil that undergirds my First-World way of life (about 16 years ago), I became wary of joy, thinking it a selfish indulgence. But this prevented me from grieving. As a result, I got stuck in a rut of self-pity that blotted out the sun and kept me from seeing the joy and beauty in the world. <br />
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Rather than processing the sorrow, I tried to avoid it. But this only stopped the flow of all emotions, and I became like an old house: moldy, dusty and empty. The more I withdrew from the world, the more my emotions curdled into resentment and bitterness. <br />
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They loved Power Chicken because you have to embrace it all, the absurdity, beauty and horror of Life, if you want to do good. I may not have written this series in a humble-enough voice, but I have the utmost respect and admiration for them. To do what they did while preserving their sanity was a herculean feat. <br />
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From the start, I was worried about centering myself in the narrative over our Honduran partners. But I found it impossible to engage with others’ pain without addressing my own. I also thought it might engage fellow First-Worlders who, like me, struggle to relate to people in the Third World. This seems to have been borne out by the blog’s pageviews. As of this writing, the <i>Prologue</i> has 42 views, and no other installment has more than 25. <br />
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It took me about 3 weeks to get over the sadness when I returned home, but I was able to let myself grieve. I didn’t feel the need to hide it at work, in public or in front of my roommates. That felt like a big step. I’m not even sure why I was sad though. The detachment obscured the connections between my emotions and their causes. <br />
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I think it had more to do with leaving the delegation than with what I’d seen. But maybe I should just let myself be sad without questioning my motives so much. Maybe I really do care about those people in Honduras. Do I really need to beat myself up over it? I don’t know. <br />
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Once the sadness passed, I was able to start writing the blog. The first draft was done within 2 months of the trip (which is fast for me), but I kept procrastinating on the revisions. I think I was afraid to finish the blog because I didn’t want to close the book on that experience. It would force me to say goodbye to my fellow delegates again. <br />
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That made it hard to finally post it the last 2 weeks. But that’s what I’m doing now, saying goodbye to the experience and trying to move on. Now I have to find the next project, the next group of people I can vibe with, and that’s the really scary part, because I don’t know if I can find another experience and group like that. But that’s life. Those of us with abandonment issues just have a harder time dealing with it. <br />
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I shouldn’t be so worried. The Oaxaca delegation was great, and the Honduras delegation was even better. If I keep taking those chances, doing what I believe in, I should be OK. There’ll be stumbles along the way, but the more (reasonable) risks I take, the stronger I become. The more I push myself (again, within reason), the better able I am to handle the pitfalls. <br />
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Of course, this is all obvious, cliché bullshit that anyone with half a brain understands intuitively. So why do I have such a hard time with it? Besides the aforementioned emotional issues, I think it may have to do with the Western concept of history as a March of Progress. <br />
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I used to subscribe to this belief, common in the West, that history is leading either to a techno-utopia or apocalypse. But now I know that history is cyclical. Some things get better, some things get worse, and then the process is repeated, just with different variations. There will never be a Reckoning when all these conflicts are resolved, so there’s no point in waiting for the Rapture when you’ll be proven right, because it’s never gonna happen. <br />
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You’d might as well just work for your idea of justice while you’re alive, because there’s no Great Scorekeeper in the Sky who’s gonna come down and proclaim a winner based on who’s the most virtuous or righteous or whatever. The meek shall not inherit the earth; they aren’t gonna inherit shit until they get their act together and stand up for themselves. And even then it’s a long shot. <br />
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There will be no ultimate defeat of Evil and no ultimate victory for Good. There will always be pain, suffering and injustice. These are immutable features of the human condition. In one of the articles in our delegation binder, it mentions a popular protest chant in Latin America: <i>¡Adelante! </i><i>¡Adelante! </i><i>¡La lucha es constante! </i>“Forward! Forward! The struggle is constant!” I would amend that to: <i>La lucha es eterna.</i> “The struggle is eternal.” (But then it wouldn’t rhyme.) <br />
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So you’d better enjoy the journey, because there’s no guarantee you’ll ever reach your destination. That’s what makes it so hard for me to keep fighting, because my journey has fucking sucked. My inability to get my personal shit together has kept me from fully committing to the struggle. I’ve tied my happiness to the success of the fight for social justice, and that just doesn’t fucking work. <br />
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I have to accept failure as an option and the limits of my ability to change the world. Being able to process emotions healthily should help a lot with this. I have to grieve for what’s been lost so I can let it go and move on to the next fight. And I need to be able to revel in the victories so I have enough hope, strength and courage to carry me until the next victory. <br />
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But the good news is that I’m making progress on that front (all this self-absorbed navel-gazing notwithstanding). In the past year, it honestly feels like I’ve developed new muscles in my cheeks for smiling. My smiles feel bigger, better and more convincing (at least to me). <br />
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My brain seems to be rewiring so I can feel greater empathy and joy. I didn’t even start to like kids until my late 20’s. However, since I became an uncle almost 4 years ago, I’ve been thoroughly enamored of my nephew. I’m more delighted by him every day and less concerned about his future. <br />
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It’s easier to celebrate others’ success now. I’m getting over my envy and starting to feel real happiness for them. This is because my life has improved thanks to the risks I’ve taken, and I’ve come to believe (for real this time) that my happiness is mostly up to me. <br />
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I didn’t write about my fellow delegates nearly as much as I wanted to. I was (and am) afraid of saying the wrong thing. (See anonymous blog comment and my emotional fallout.) But it should go without saying that they’re all really smart, highly principled and deeply caring people. I’m content to keep the rest of my memories of them and the delegation offline, which I will treasure always. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-37437465493958021232020-04-05T20:27:00.000-05:002020-04-05T20:27:34.907-05:00Honduras: Day 9<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i><br />
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I woke up early (natch) and did my Morning Pages writing exercise (3 pages of stream-of-consciousness writing, as prescribed in <i>The Artist’s Way</i>). <br />
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Meredith and I got to the dining room before breakfast. She playfully said I “ghosted” them the night before. She hadn’t been around for my midnight encore. I remained quiet throughout breakfast despite my eagerness to chat. <br />
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Meredith, Lisa and I took a Minnesota group shot on the front patio by the fountain. I left a bunch of my clothes behind so as to create more space in my backpack, which was the only luggage I’d brought. I hope the staff appreciated my underwear and socialist t-shirt. <br />
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The hotel had washed my underwear, and it felt a bit coarse, so I didn’t mind leaving it behind. I should’ve left my Honduran money behind too, because I didn’t spend or exchange it before I got home. Now I’m stuck with 240 <i>lempiras </i>(about $15) for the foreseeable future. <br />
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Finally, we hugged our goodbye’s. I really wanted to break down in tears then, but I just couldn’t let myself fall to pieces like that. I couldn’t show these people I’d just met how much they meant to me after just 10 days together. <br />
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Carlos drove Ellen, Lisa and I to the airport. When we got there, he helped us unload. With a big smile, he shook my hand and said he hoped I’d return. <br />
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This was Lisa’s first time traveling abroad, so Ellen and I tried to guide her through the process, but we got separated at the check-in stations. We were still looking for her in front of the security checkpoint when she swept by, saying, “Goodbye!” <br />
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She had to stop and come back though to get through security, so we went through together. (Ellen called it “security theater,” which I think is an apt name.) <br />
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Lisa’s plane was the first to board. Ellen and I hugged her before she left. <br />
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While waiting at the gate, Betty, Diana, Emily and Meredith showed up, so we chatted a bit with them. Another round of hugs ensued before Ellen and I took off for Houston. <br />
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Ellen was in first class thanks to her frequent flying. From my seat in coach, I could see the <i>Mary Poppins Returns</i> trailer playing in perfect synchronicity on the back of almost every seat. <br />
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I was back in the immaculately clean and orderly First World. But I was alone again. That’s the problem with the bourgeois lifestyle: It’s nice and neat, but lonely. I stuck in ear buds, but it didn’t feel good, so I took ‘em out after a few minutes. <br />
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I knew writing was the way to go, to deal with the sadness in lieu of talking, so I started working on this account of the trip. I looked at the young woman next to me. There was an empty seat between us, so I put my jacket there after she put something on it. <br />
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The Houston airport was a long series of lines to go through customs and security again. Someone thought breaking up the lines was their way of fooling us into thinking we were almost done when we got to the end of each one. I think it might just be their way to get Americans to do more walking. <br />
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Ellen texted me after I got to my gate, and I responded. That was our only interaction. The flight to MSP was fine, I guess. I took the light rail from the airport and got back to my apartment around 10pm, but I had to work the next day. <br />
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Of course, I was up ‘til midnight snacking, per usual. The trip hadn’t freed me from the sense that I was stuck in an endless rut. There wasn’t even a nice afterglow. <br />
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(Fear not, dear readers. I’m not gonna leave ya flat with an ending like that. There will be an epilogue.) Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-66468903709488336472020-04-05T19:48:00.000-05:002020-04-05T19:48:50.842-05:00Honduras: Day 8<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i><br />
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I always stayed up later and woke up earlier than I wanted to, but such has been my fate for many years now. <br />
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That day saw us meeting in the hotel’s conference room with 2 journalists: Dina Meza and Jairo López. Dina had to take off early, so she only spoke briefly. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cb0VFIEJJeoth43CGUkJQJYnucCXFpzPUksIdEJ4xeWDDAW65zVJtkzy3j-txHjIlzKtMBNXC8XbGFZ3C5Iq3dxtCDMDDpw4POfBMd-Mz9hCc4CLkd1yZLLwjzw6pozMJ9ge/s1600/Dina+Meza+%252B+Lisa+H.+Intro.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="1600" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cb0VFIEJJeoth43CGUkJQJYnucCXFpzPUksIdEJ4xeWDDAW65zVJtkzy3j-txHjIlzKtMBNXC8XbGFZ3C5Iq3dxtCDMDDpw4POfBMd-Mz9hCc4CLkd1yZLLwjzw6pozMJ9ge/s400/Dina+Meza+%252B+Lisa+H.+Intro.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dina Meza and Lisa</td></tr>
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She addressed the state’s attempts to stifle free speech. In the capital, the press follows the official government line. Self-censorship is most journalists’ method of self-preservation. But alternative media have sprung up to counter the mainstream narrative. <br />
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In response, the government monitors these alternative outlets. They’ve also come under physical attack, with 75 journalists killed since the 2009 coup that deposed the democratically-elected president, Manuel Zelaya. (The Obama Administration endorsed his ouster after the fact.) They believe these attacks have been directed by the Ministry of Security or the President himself. <br />
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Dina helped found the Association for Democracy and Human Rights (ASOPODEHU), which provides legal assistance and self-defense and security training to journalists. They also monitor international treaties and pacts that Honduras has signed regarding freedom of expression, which it has violated. <i><a href="http://www.pasosdeanimalgrande.com/index.php/en/">Pasos de Animal Grande</a></i> is their online newspaper. <br />
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After Dina left, Jairo told his story. Until recently, he hosted a TV show called <i>El Informador</i> (“The Informer”), but he can no longer broadcast because no one will rent him a time slot. The government forbade advertising from being sold to run during his program. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQndMQWjW9zf5aXSTGhHX9jmwy-kGzCCSHd0XUXVF9sb56neI45qIxAQteXBR0GVRtITHxmBTQ62Tcu8239RNeTQ985mZ6IqCdMBGZxtk4__l6_Nusuc9BX1sdFiFsv7z1u0D2/s1600/Jairo+%252B+IT+All+Smiles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1600" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQndMQWjW9zf5aXSTGhHX9jmwy-kGzCCSHd0XUXVF9sb56neI45qIxAQteXBR0GVRtITHxmBTQ62Tcu8239RNeTQ985mZ6IqCdMBGZxtk4__l6_Nusuc9BX1sdFiFsv7z1u0D2/s400/Jairo+%252B+IT+All+Smiles.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Us with Jairo and his wife</td></tr>
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This is thought to be retaliation for Jairo’s coverage of protests against JOH’s dubious reelection and other examples of government corruption. He exposed the scandal of teaching jobs being sold instead of being given to candidates based on merit. He also revealed the phenomenon of “ghost jobs,” no-show jobs given to the well-connected. <br />
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Jairo and his family have received threats against their safety. As a result, he has been placed under the “protection mechanism.” This is an Organization of American States (OAS) program that charges the Honduran government with providing around-the-clock security to individuals considered to be at high risk, mostly journalists and human rights defenders. <br />
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But the police providing this security were the same ones harassing him, so it was small comfort. As a “precautionary measure,” the government has prohibited him from leaving the country. <br />
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European organizations have offered to get Jairo out of Honduras, but they’re either unable or unwilling to do the same for his wife and daughter. His wife was with him. They got more emotional as the meeting wore on, though she remained quiet. He mentioned that the extreme stress of their situation has caused her and their daughter health problems. <br />
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He’d been brought up on charges. While awaiting trial, he had to check in at a courthouse far away twice a month. <br />
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Moved by the obvious torment Jairo and his family were going through, I promised to contact Ilhan Omar on their behalf. She’s my Congressmember and, as luck would have it, a recent WFP delegate to Honduras. <br />
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It was my last chance to make a face-to-face emotional connection with a WFP partner in Honduras, and their emotional distress compelled me to act. Also, by making a promise right to their faces, I hoped it would force me to follow through. But it had another effect as well: I began to feel personally responsible for their safety. <br />
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Thus ended the partner meetings. In the afternoon, we had a debriefing. Corie and Ale took us through some more issues in Honduras. There was hope that the <i>Misión de Apoyo Contra Corrupción y Impunidad en Honduras</i> (MACCIH), an OAS commission, could fulfill its mission of fighting corruption and impunity in Honduras. <br />
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A similar commission in Guatemala had resulted in the president being forced out. (<a href="https://www.reuters.com/article/us-honduras-corruption/honduras-vows-to-fight-corruption-after-ending-anti-graft-bodys-mandate-idUSKBN1ZI0MH">Update</a>: The MACCIH’s mandate expired after 4 years with little to show for their work.) <br />
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To demonstrate the corruption and impunity in Honduras, they discussed the elite Atala family, which is involved in the bank that funded Berta Cáceres’s murder. Penal courts are used to silence critics of the elite through defamation charges and convictions. <br />
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The newly-created crime of “illicit association,” which was meant to target organized crime, is being used against dissidents, like the political prisoners Edwin Espinal and Raúl Álvarez in La Tolva prison. <br />
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We formulated our Action Plan up on the 4th floor open-air lounge. Our dreams were big, but that was encouraged, so as not to arbitrarily limit our ambitions. Meredith and Ellen wanted to do a podcast series about the delegation. Lisa wanted to go on <i>Democracy Now!</i> I wanted to blog about it (like I did with Oaxaca) and give presentations around the Twin Cities. <br />
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I also offered to contact my favorite podcast, Chapo Trap House, with the long-shot hope of getting an interview or at least a shout-out. Originally, I assumed I would be the interviewee, but then I realized Corie or Ale would make more sense in that role. (Update: There’s been no response to my 2 emails. I should probably try a few more times.) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa</td></tr>
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This was followed with a final reflections session. Not surprisingly, a few tears shed were shed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite contribute to the pool. I may have gotten a little misty, but that was about it. <br />
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I thanked Corie and Ale for all their hard work, giving them “mad fuckin’ props” for reorganizing the itinerary on the fly. It’s pretty amazing what they did, given all the emotional weight of the work and their youth. It took me years after college to learn the truth about the American Empire. I’m still working on the emotional resilience. <br />
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That night, dinner was followed by a party in the lounge. Our Closing Ceremony Committee read a list of 10 lessons from the trip, some silly, some serious. ("1. Be bad because the world is going down. 2. Appreciate and protect the water you have.") Then we dug into the alcohol and food. Raúl showed up, as did Eduardo García from the previous day’s press conference.<br />
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I tried not to be a wallflower, but I kept falling into the cracks between conversations. The music playlist was compiled by Emily. I’d submitted a list of requests at dinner that night, but it hadn’t occurred to me to include any Latin music. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ellen, Meg and Betty</td></tr>
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Everything on the playlist seemed to be recent Latin American pop. After a while, Emily played one of my choices, “Feel Good, Inc.” by Gorillaz. It came out in 2004, when I was 26, back when I was still hip and up on the latest in music and fashion (as I recall). <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa and Meredith</td></tr>
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Emily and Diana liked that song, and I couldn’t help but "get down," which seriously cracked them up. Apparently, my dance moves haven’t aged well (if they were ever that good to begin with). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-L8mkzaY4hMMTlFQwKoFMakl3kXueRNJ9kB5N3P8sbEK5i9JIOodC08AUXg_ZHTFzv0NlbxcYBBBqOOdKtbYSZbY5-J7JUyWqirfcgSjriuhNVEbwHCo2h4E678bIny9m6rw/s1600/untitled+shoot-484.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn-L8mkzaY4hMMTlFQwKoFMakl3kXueRNJ9kB5N3P8sbEK5i9JIOodC08AUXg_ZHTFzv0NlbxcYBBBqOOdKtbYSZbY5-J7JUyWqirfcgSjriuhNVEbwHCo2h4E678bIny9m6rw/s400/untitled+shoot-484.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diana, Emily and I</td></tr>
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I guess I could see it as a point of pride, like when I made <a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0452963/?ref_=nmmi_mi_nm">Q’orianka Kilcher</a> laugh with my dancing at the CodePink party following the big anti-Iraq War march in DC in ’07. But back then it was intentional comedy, so, yeah...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ellen and Ale</td></tr>
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Diana was dancing, but she was usually the only one. The rest of us weren't as confident in our moves. Ellen struggled to open a wine bottle. Eventually, they found a corkscrew. There were many strawberries and other goodies to feast upon. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corie and Ellen</td></tr>
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I went to my room around 10, not bothering to bid adieu. It was a classic “Irish Goodbye,” but I was too sad. I couldn’t handle goodbye’s right then. My fear of crying in public, especially in the middle of a party, was stronger than my fear of hurting their feelings. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raúl and Meredith</td></tr>
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I lay on the bed and stewed in regret while watching a Pixies video marathon on VH1 (which, under normal circumstances, would’ve been awesome). After an hour-and-a-half, I returned to the festivities to try and tie up the loose ends. <br />
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There were a few people still chatting. I said I didn’t wanna leave with an Irish Goodbye, and Corie seemed very amused by that. (She, like me, is of Irish descent.) <br />
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I took off again at midnight or just before, saying my good night’s. Somebody gave me a hug. It must’ve been Meg. (They were the big hugger in the group.) I went back to my room and took a while to get to sleep. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-65950422045439941892020-04-03T19:30:00.000-05:002020-04-03T19:30:18.419-05:00Honduras: Day 7<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honduras Solidarity Network press conference</td></tr>
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<br />We had a press conference at 11am to present our findings along with a delegation from Canada. Three speakers sat at a table: Corie representing Witness for Peace, Eduardo García of Alliance for Global Justice and Victoria Cervantes of <i>La Voz de Los de Abajo</i>. Those 3 organizations fall under the umbrella of the Honduras Solidarity Network. <br />
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We stood behind them in our WFP vests, as did the members of the Canadian delegation, wearing lanyards. Victoria read a statement detailing the violence and repression carried out by President Juan Orlando Hernández’s (or “JOH”) government since what she called the “fraudulent” election of 2017. <br />
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Protests erupted across the country following that vote, as the result seemed to have been rigged by the president. “<i>Fuera JOH</i>” (“Go away, JOH”) was a common graffito on our travels. The government violently repressed those protests and imprisoned many. <br />
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<br />Victoria expressed the Honduras Solidarity Network’s support for the Berta Cáceres Act. This is a bill in the US Congress that would suspend US security aid to Honduras until the perpetrators of the violence against protesters during the post-electoral crisis are brought to justice.<br />
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They read the English version of the statement first, but only a few reporters were around for that and the TV cameras were still being set up. By the time the Spanish version started, the cameras were on and the press was there in force. The speakers took questions following the statement. <br />
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After the presser, we chatted with the group from Toronto, who had gone to visit 2 of the 3 political prisoners remaining from the protests that followed the 2017 election. Their names were Edwin Espinal and Raúl Álvarez. They were being held at the maximum-security La Tolva prison, 25 miles east of Tegucigalpa. <br />
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To her great amusement, Corie was interviewed by a reporter from a trashy TV show. She wondered if the footage would make it onto that day’s episode. The press conference was followed by a simple lunch for the attendees. <br />
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Thence we drove to Comayagüela, Téguz’s twin city, where most of the working and middle-class folks live. We were actually early for our next meeting, so we stopped at an indoor market with clothes, straw hats and other touristy wares for sale. <br />
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That’s where Diana was (mildly) attacked by a man through the window. I was walking near her when it happened. I heard what I thought was a cat screech. I asked her what it was. She said a guy had reached through the window and grabbed her leg and made that inhuman sound. The sidewalk along the street behind the building was 3-4 feet below the floor, putting his arm at the same height as her legs. <br />
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She was startled but amused. I was a bit horrified. This is what Capitalism does to people: We’re turned into animals. <br />
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Three kids in single digits(?), 2 boys and a younger girl, were watching the Cartoon Network in Spanish on a little TV. The animated program was <i>Teen Titans Go!</i>, one of the few TV shows of the past decade that I’ve actually watched enough to become a fan of. <br />
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Corie was sitting in a chair by the little snack stand. There were some tents over the plastic tables and chairs, even though it was inside. <br />
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Outside, Carlos had locked the keys in the bus, which extended our stay at the market. There were some men sticking a long wire in the driver’s-side window. They climbed up on top of the cab, maybe trying to get in through the emergency hatch? It took a while, but they got it, and Carlos finally had a reason to be embarrassed. (Until this miscue, his job performance had been above reproach.) <br />
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We drove nearby to <i>Arcoíris</i> (“Rainbow”), a shelter for LGBT people, where we had stopped before the market, but no one was there at the time. So, instead of being early, we were late, even by Latin American standards. This time we went up to the 2nd floor lounge. <br />
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It was stuffy inside, but I managed to stay awake despite the heat and my fatigue. To be honest, I was uncomfortable with the <i>muñecas</i> (“transgender people”) and lesbians there. I resented having to focus on their problems when there were so many bigger issues afflicting almost everyone, primarily of the economic and geopolitical varieties. But I was ashamed of my reaction and tried to empathize. <br />
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The issues they focus on are health care, employment and education. It’s difficult for LGBT people to access all three. Homophobia and transphobia are common among health care workers. Discriminatory hiring practices are the norm, and many schools won’t accept homosexuals or trans people. <br />
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Religious fundamentalism is fueled by the media, leading many LGBT kids to be kicked out of their homes. This leaves them vulnerable to violence and exploitation on the streets. But the primary source of violence against their community is the police. They have no legal protection from discrimination. <br />
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Many feminists exclude lesbians and trans women from their movement. TERF’s (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists) have caused a rift between the LGBT community and feminists. <br />
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For those trans people who attempt an identity change, economic hurdles come up that can prevent access to bank accounts, housing and even buying appliances. <br />
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<i>Arcoíris</i>’s current policy campaign is for marriage equality. They’re also lobbying to make May 17th a “Day against Homo-, Trans- and Lesbophobia.” <br />
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Following the meeting, we exchanged hugs. One person offered me their hand for a handshake, but I smiled and hugged them instead. A handshake would’ve seemed woefully inadequate. <br />
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We finished the visit by going to the roof and taking some group shots as the sun sank toward the horizon. On the bus, we had a mini-reflections session. A full-sized version happened in the evening.<br />
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Dinner followed at Cadetur. The hotel’s dining room was also a carport with a soaking pool. (It wasn’t big enough to be a swimming pool.) That may sound kinda trashy, but it was actually quite nice. I never noticed the car exhaust. <br />
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The Canadian group from that day’s presser was also staying at Cadetur. I saw them a few times meeting in the lobby or in the dining room, but we didn’t chat much. <br />
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That night Honduran VH1 had a marathon of AC/DC videos. Great band, not great videos. <br />
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I’d gotten toothpaste a few days earlier after going the first few days without. It was Colgate, but the baking soda in it was extremely abrasive. Some of it had dried onto the back of the toothbrush head and irritated my lips. I thought it was a cheap, Third-World version. Or is all Colgate baking soda toothpaste like that? <br />
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It reminded me how the Triscuits and Better Cheddars crackers I got at a grocery store in Beloit, WI, during college didn’t taste as good as the ones back home. I thought maybe those companies sent inferior products to Beloit because it was a poor city. <br />
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In my bathroom, there was a heater or something built into the shower head with exposed wires sticking out. Emily had mentioned that the same was true in her and Diana’s room. This convinced her not to turn up the water temperature for fear of being electrocuted. <br />
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I hadn’t had any trouble when I cranked up the water temp the first night, so I figured it was OK. (Spoiler alert: This may sound like foreshadowing, but I never got electrocuted.)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
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<![endif]-->Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-55711581796132977282020-04-01T17:52:00.000-05:002020-04-01T17:52:12.042-05:00Honduras: Day 6<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tegucigalpa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That morning we took off for the capital, Tegucigalpa (or “Téguz,” for short). The landscape turned drier. We passed a new airport under construction and a US military base. Nearby were new housing developments for the rich surrounded by walls, with security guards at the gates.<br />
<br />
They were like gated communities in the US, but these gates were manned by seriously packin’ security guards. (At the time, I didn’t make the connection between the base, the airport and the gated communities, but now it seems obvious.)<br />
<br />
We came down through mountains to a big lake (<i>El Lago de Yojoa</i>) surrounded by a greener landscape. There we stopped at a restaurant for brunch. I talked with Corie about my job and what I’m looking for. That was nice, but not nearly as substantive as I would’ve liked. I just skated across the surface of my anxiety, afraid to dip my toe in the well of regrets. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the treehouse</td></tr>
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<br />
There was a multi-story treehouse in front of the restaurant. A few of us climbed to the top of it and looked at the lake. I bought some Kleenex since the one handkerchief I’d brought was pretty gross at this point. I asked Corie if I should address the shopkeep (a young woman) as “<i>tú</i>” (the casual “you”) or “<i>usted</i>” (the formal). She said “<i>usted</i>.” It was a bit humbling deferring to a much younger person for expertise. <br />
<br />
I actually felt threatened when Corie and somebody (Meg?) were talking about “false cognates.” I’d never even heard of them, and it was disconcerting to find myself lacking knowledge that a 20-something possessed on a subject I felt I should’ve had at least as good a grasp as her on, at least when it came to abstract concepts.<br />
<br />
I can’t even remember the last time I felt intellectually threatened. Maybe it was because I was feeling so much more emotionally open than normal that I could feel the insecurity instead of glossing over it with envy or anger. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raúl on the bus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We continued on to the capital, which was spread out over undulating terrain. The city overwhelmed the hills like a swarm of ants that had suddenly been seized by the need to put down roots. They hadn’t done much to alter the landscape. They were far more vulnerable to Nature’s whims than those of us in the First World. They seemed to live perpetually on the precipice, always in danger of being wiped out by a flood, earthquake or other natural disaster.<br />
<br />
For lunch we stopped at a small restaurant. Meg randomly serenaded Ale with the “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnE2CAVjXOg">Olé</a>” song that can be heard in soccer stadia the world over, changing “Olé” to “Ale.” Recognizing the song, I joined in. Ale’s bemused expression seemed to say, “Yeah, guys, I’ve heard it before.” It was the kind of face I try to make whenever someone sings me the “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0aqLwHP4y6Q">Mickey</a>” song. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cadetur</td></tr>
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<br />
Our hotel was a small, 3-story building called Cadetur. As the only man again (Raúl had gone home.), I got my own room. I thought, “Hey, this masculinity thing is finally startin’ to pay off!” But, seriously, it was weird filling the role usually reserved for the woman in a group of men, getting that deference due to her supposed weakness, which is the basis of chivalry (or so I’ve always assumed). <br />
<br />
But I was happy to have my own room, even though it felt a bit lonely. There was a painting of a ballerina, a window over the bed and a flat-screen TV perched high up on the wall. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vienna Herrera of <i>Contracorriente</i></td></tr>
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<br />
We reconvened that afternoon in a conference room on the top floor to meet with Vienna Herrera of <i>Contracorriente</i>. It was my turn to introduce the group for this partner meeting. I’d written an intro at <i>Barracón Digital</i> after listening to someone else do the honors. <br />
<br />
Of course, I stumbled right out of the gate, saying “Habitat” (as in “Habitat for Humanity,” my current employer) instead of “Witness for Peace.” That got a laugh, and I was able to enjoy it pretty well. Meredith even got a few pictures of my foible. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa, Corie, Emily and I</td></tr>
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<br />
<i>Contracorriente</i> was sparked by the <i>Indignados</i> movement in Spain in 2010. It’s a news organization with a feminist bent. They get funding from the Seattle International Foundation, Henrik Volk and Free Press. <br />
<br />
She said being female makes it easier to interview women, such as victims of sexual violence. It sometimes takes days for them to deal with the emotional fallout of a difficult story. <br />
<br />
I asked Vienna if she’d encountered any dangers in the course of her work. I assumed the answer was yes, but it wasn’t quite what I expected. She just talked about one region known for drug trafficking. I figured danger was inherent in her job no matter where she went in Honduras. <br />
<br />
She’s worked as a “fixer” for foreign journalists, meaning she’ll translate, book hotels and manage security and transportation for them. She finds the Honduran media “sensationalistic,” but she didn’t mention any specific bias, which is what I was looking for when I asked her about it. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The whole gang (minus Meredith) with Vienna</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After that, we met on the top floor on an open-air patio and did our reflections session on the plush couches and chairs set up there. Diana and Emily broke down over the murder of Ramón Matute’s father and brother in Locomapa. Diana said he was so young (23, the brother), the same age as them.<br />
<br />
I envied their ability to emotionally absorb the deaths and grieve so openly. It’s one of the overlooked advantages of being (socialized as a) female.<br />
<br />
There were more tears that day than before. The feelings were starting to leak out.<br />
<br />
The food at the hotel was quite good, even if every meal included hamburger buns or plain white bread on a dish. We thought this was a result of the hotel management's stereotypes about Americans, that we love white bread. I wonder if they know that Wonder Bread isn’t nearly as popular in the US as it used to be. <br />
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There was an extremely Catholic Latin American movie from the 70’s or 80’s on TV that afternoon. I caught the end of it in my room. In the evening I discovered Honduran VH1, which is far superior to our version. They actually show music videos. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-30160030054500827452020-03-31T19:10:00.000-05:002020-03-31T19:10:56.504-05:00Honduras: Day 5<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictures of lost migrants at COFAMIPRO</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It took us a while to get going that morning. There were some more videos to shoot and pictures to take. I think the delegation was reluctant to leave Martín with the specter of death hanging over him. Each delegate got pix with him and some group shots, of course, before we finally rolled out around 11. <br />
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Even I posed for a photo with Martín. He probably knew I wasn’t fully emotionally invested in the experience. But I knew that, once I snapped out of the detachment, I’d wanna look back on this without regrets. I wanted him to know that I would value this experience, if not at the time, then later. <br />
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I’d complained about the number of visits before, but then I also complained about schedule drift, which seems contradictory. If I objected to the frequency of visits, then why would I object to them lasting longer? <br />
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Because I was detached, and I was afraid of getting wrapped up in these people’s lives. What could I really do for them? Precious little, it seemed. Why should I get to know them and all their troubles when I was just going to leave in a few days and rejoin my life, already in progress? How could I help them when I couldn’t even help myself, with all my privileges and advantages? <br />
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My comment on Day 2 about wanting to go everywhere the American Empire’s tentacles extend was an unconscious cop-out. I didn’t wanna get too close to the Hondurans because I was afraid that, if I failed to help change their circumstances, if their situation didn’t improve, I wouldn’t be able to handle the pain. <br />
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I suppose it’s easier to take a high-level view. I can follow all the news of the world without feeling the need to commit to any specific cause for the long haul. It keeps me from getting emotionally invested in any specific movement, so I don’t have to experience its failures as personal defeats. <br />
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I didn’t wanna prolong the visits, because any attachments I made were limited. I felt uncomfortable in those places. I felt guilty for not opening up to those people. Prolonging the visits prolonged my discomfort and guilt.<br />
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I could’ve spoken to them, but I was shy and afraid. I was afraid making deeper connections would deepen my guilt or throw into greater relief the yawning privilege gap between us, the class chasm. But keeping my distance made the gap more obvious and uncomfortable than almost any conversation could have. <br />
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From La Finca, we drove back to Progreso and stopped at Radio Progreso, a Jesuit-founded station, passing through a motorized gate in the wall around the studio. In a building behind the studio, the Committee of the Families of Disappeared Migrants of Progreso (COFAMIPRO) was having a meeting in a large classroom.<br />
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We stood in the back, and the presenters introduced us. The people gave us a round of applause while we smiled awkwardly. I also waved a little, unsure if that was appropriate. Raúl, Ale and Emily went to the front of the room to explain the reason for our visit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikwTavJmKxqhxZpbytiV0u7rsPcJ46OTK-5ZK3H-SOueE6qkrdYZWXCD2ueMt4D5X-MF3NnijdetAqlXEfqUgjonSoiW5kwxL02G8h3GQrNsJhxZh8iUoYe9vSC4yrvar-LhRY/s1600/DSC_0574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikwTavJmKxqhxZpbytiV0u7rsPcJ46OTK-5ZK3H-SOueE6qkrdYZWXCD2ueMt4D5X-MF3NnijdetAqlXEfqUgjonSoiW5kwxL02G8h3GQrNsJhxZh8iUoYe9vSC4yrvar-LhRY/s400/DSC_0574.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raúl, Ale and Emily</td></tr>
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A young mom let her baby crawl on the counter next to me. The baby was very cute and happy, crawling toward me with a big smile on their face. I smiled back and said, “Hey.” The mom smiled too. <br />
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We picked up Rosa Nelly Santoros, COFAMIPRO’s president and coordinator, and went to their office in a commercial district of the city. She and some other women introduced themselves as the mothers of migrants who’d disappeared. <br />
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Since 2000, the group has led caravans to the US-Mexico border looking for their lost family members. They hang pictures of the lost people around their necks and ask locals along the route if they’ve seen them. 290 people have been found alive. 79 have been discovered in prison. The remains of 85 have been returned to Honduras. <br />
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A lack of jobs was cited as the main driver of emigration. They pointed out that emigration helps the Honduran government by relieving them of poor people. It’s a valve that releases pressure and lets the government off the hook. It means fewer poor people for the government to worry about. Also, the remittances the emigrants send back home provide a large share of the nation’s wealth. <br />
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The mothers’ stories were heartbreaking. One told of finding her daughter in the US, but she was trapped in an abusive marriage and couldn’t get out. Even more moving were the songs they sang. They have a song to celebrate the reunion of a mother and her child. We were all at least misty-eyed listening to them sing. <br />
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Thence we drove to <i>Barracón Digital</i> (“Digital Barrack”) in a suburban residential neighborhood. The collective takes its name from its headquarters, a barrack built decades ago for <i>bananeros</i>. The building was raised several feet off the ground by wooden posts. We sat at tables underneath it. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYOa3syUn0A29lUSKwaLlATLEjDeaue9juSAdUrVDaKrBy27UOUBxI8o5b29n2837CbfGAAMm9XQJ33OKEx4YEoLtxPUzchIgYicWp9QldCjKUo5Vl8qyyPOxJ_lDajadpDJUr/s1600/DSC_0723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYOa3syUn0A29lUSKwaLlATLEjDeaue9juSAdUrVDaKrBy27UOUBxI8o5b29n2837CbfGAAMm9XQJ33OKEx4YEoLtxPUzchIgYicWp9QldCjKUo5Vl8qyyPOxJ_lDajadpDJUr/s400/DSC_0723.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Barracón Digital</i>'s mural</td></tr>
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BD is composed of 4 women and 2 men. Two of the female members were our hosts. It isn’t an official organization but rather a 6-person collective. They’re prevented from attaining legal status by a lack of funds for payroll. But they do receive grants and donations, which they keep in a personal bank account. <br />
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They offer information technology and cybersecurity support for social justice groups. They also provide gender education, film screenings and a book club. There’s a strong feminist focus in their work. They said it’s customary in Honduras for women to leave the formal workforce in their mid-20’s. <br />
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Inside the barrack, we saw radical Leftist posters, one apparently depicting Angela Davis, a former Black Panther. There were pamphlets and books that would’ve been at home in any Leftist bookstore. As one of the women said with a smile, “The world is going down, so let’s be bad.”<br />
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A White Swiss woman showed up during our tour of the grounds. Our hosts said she taught yoga. She lived in the bunkhouse out back with some other folks. Like the barrack, the bunkhouse was raised almost one story off the ground.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angela Davis?</td></tr>
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While we toured the yard, the sun slid into the horizon. They had a garden with a cornstalk, cilantro and other edible plants. On one of their walls was a mural with Berta Cáceres. <br />
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Thence we returned to La Fragua. When we got back to our room, I told Raúl, “It’s good to be home.” He sleepily agreed.Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-135052751140468562020-03-30T19:22:00.000-05:002020-03-30T21:21:15.978-05:00Honduras: Day 4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i></div>
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I woke up early, per usual, but there was no early wake-up call. This was just gonna be a leisurely day, which I think we all needed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My cabin at La Finca</td></tr>
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Daylight revealed La Finca to be pretty much what I’d thought the night before: a revolutionary summer camp. There was a mess hall along with the cabins, a pool and a pavilion for outdoor meetings. But, like I said before, the accommodations were spartan. It was the nature that made it nice. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martín in the mess hall</td></tr>
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We had a breakfast of pineapple, papayas and store-bought muffins individually wrapped in cellophane. Someone mentioned that papayas can cause miscarriage. I had no idea they were so dangerous. I really liked the chocolate muffins with chocolate chips, despite my knee-jerk guilt about eating processed food. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Betty at the river</td></tr>
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I went down to the river with Raúl. We watched the hundreds of little fish in the water. They swam around in schools, instantly changing direction in near-perfect synchronicity. We talked a little, but the beauty of the place was humbling and the serenity intoxicating after the emotional intensity of the last few days. <br />
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It was a long, languid day. We were just chillin’ for the morning. I think somebody took a dip in the river. There were 2 concrete pools painted blue slowly filling with water. It was hot, so I was looking forward to a swim. Lunch was served by Martín, his wife and sister(?). <br />
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As we ate, I told Ellen that the place reminded me of Jonestown, the jungle settlement in South America where Jim Jones got all those people to drink the poisoned Kool-Aid. I was half-joking, but I was also concerned about my fellow delegates’ seeming fascination with Martín. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Betty and Emily by the pool</td></tr>
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I worried that they were being swept off their feet by his charisma and the romance of his cause. It would’ve been easy to get carried away in this place. It felt like we were staying at a rebel camp with the Che Guevara of Honduras (minus the militancy). <br />
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I knew the allure of such crusades. I’d drunk the Kool-Aid on <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peak_oil">Peak Oil</a> in my late 20’s and nearly made some drastic, ill-advised, life-changing decisions as a result. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg and Ellen</td></tr>
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But I was in no danger of falling under Martín’s spell. My heart kept everyone at arm’s length, even when I opened up to them verbally. I didn’t wanna get swept up in another quixotic quest, so I kept up my defenses. <br />
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Luckily, I guess, I hadn’t the guts to make those sweeping changes at the time I fell under the sway of Peak Oil. But, if I had, I might’ve fallen down some scary rabbit-holes IRL, rather than just online. I might’ve been led down the primrose path by some unstable and/or unscrupulous characters. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martín, Emily, Ellen, Diana, me and Raúl</td></tr>
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Ellen told me about her time touring with Up with People. I broke out in a big grin and chuckled. Up with People was a common punchline in the 80’s and early 90’s. The Simpsons parodied them a few times with a group called “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RVf5oyrjaM">Hooray for Everything</a>.”<br />
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My amusement didn’t seem to bother her. She must be used to it. Some have compared it to a cult, she said, but she had fond memories of the group: busing around the country, making friends, doing service and performing songs. She even demonstrated the “swing clap” for which Up with People was known. (I don’t remember that part; I must’ve been too young to soak up that much of the lore.) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carlos, our bus driver</td></tr>
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We finally reconvened in the afternoon on the pavilion to discuss US foreign policy, the COBRAS, the police and other state security forces. We reflected, and I confessed my crankiness from the night before. They said they hadn’t noticed. “Because I’m an actor!” I said with a theatrical flourish. <br />
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The only projects for that day were 2 lengthy interviews of Martín: 1 video, 1 audio. We brainstormed questions for him. Ellen, Meredith and Diana prepared the audiovisual equipment. In the afternoon, they followed him around the camp with a camera. He explained MADJ’s plans for La Finca, parts of which were still under construction. He told them about the flora they’d planted there.<br />
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I hung back and kicked a little deflated soccer ball around a little field with little goals. Late in the afternoon, I retired to my cabin and attempted to write a poem. I’d been inspired by the one Emily shared with the group the day before. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg and Betty poolside</td></tr>
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I went to a dark place. It felt like death was stalking Martín. Ale had said as much on a previous day. People were telling him to leave the country. The situation was especially worrisome with a baby on the way. (And what’s more romantic than someone dancing with Death?) <br />
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It was kinda hard just being by myself with the shadows lengthening, but I really wanted to write some poetry. (Talk about First World Problems. I’m lamenting the fact that I chose to be alone for an hour or so right after saying that Martín was in mortal danger. Well, some things never change. The Poor get more precarious while the Rich get more fragile.) <br />
<br />
When I was done, I joined everyone in the mess hall. Diana and Emily were sitting nearest the door. They smiled at me and asked what I’d been up to. <br />
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If I weren’t so emotionally blocked, I probably would’ve dissolved in tears right then and there. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked so happy to see me, especially people I’d just met. But I didn’t cry, no matter how much I wanted to. (Because I’m a Guy, and we don’t do that.) <br />
<br />
I told them I’d been writing poetry after being inspired by Emily's poem. She was flattered, and they asked if I’d be sharing it. I said, “Sure,” but I didn’t think it was a good idea. It seemed too dark for sharing while we were still in-country, in the midst of all the sadness and fear. I didn’t wanna break the psychic barrier I’d erected to protect me from this especially gritty Reality. <br />
<br />
After dinner, back in my cabin, I tried to read an article in the delegation binder and failed miserably. The rest of the evening was spent by the pool interviewing Martín with just audio recording equipment. <br />
<br />
Despite the coolness of the night, Meredith, Ellen and I went for a dip. We’d missed our chances in the heat of the day. It took me a while to submerge fully in the cold water, but after that I warmed up. <br />
<br />
I thought of the R.E.M. song, “Nightswimming,” which made me think of “Nightmowing,” the parody that I’d come up with when I lived with my cousin in Uptown Mpls. It seemed like every week in the summer we’d hear someone mowing after dark, at which point I’d start singing, and Andrew would join in: “Nightmowing deserves a quiet night…”<br />
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Everyone else was gathered around Martín poolside, listening intently. I hung back in the pool for a while before getting out and sitting on the concrete. Raúl was translating, but I couldn’t really follow.<br />
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I was more mesmerized by the scene: the contrast between the bright white outdoor lights and the black shadows, the sounds of insects in the forest, the water lapping the sides of the pool and the silence of all of us listening to Martín. <br />
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Why must we worship individuals? Martín fits the part. He’s ruggedly handsome and charismatic, serious but not too serious, and funny. But why should he be asked to sacrifice? Why can’t someone else pick up the gauntlet and give him a break? <br />
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Let him have a kid and start a family in peace. Hasn’t he done enough? Hasn’t he done his bit? We need to find another hero, another leader, another Che Guevara. The powers that be in Honduras have already taken out Berta Cáceres, but could the movement survive the loss of Martín too? <br />
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Martyrs can be inspiring, but adding another to the pantheon isn't the goal. Hondurans would probably rather believe that their heroes can escape the clutches of the government, big business and the gangs. They would probably rather believe that there is some justice in their country. <br />
<br />
Ellen lent me some earplugs (which I’d forgotten to pack). Carlos’s snoring had kept Raúl up the night before, but it hadn’t bothered me. The earplugs were still helpful though, because I’m usually sensitive to noise when trying to fall asleep. <br />
<br />
I was up late, writing. We had horchata after dinner. Maybe there’s caffeine in that. I’m never sure if it’s caffeine or psychological issues keeping me up.<br />
<br />
I turned off the room light after it seemed to bother Carlos and kept writing in the patch of light the window left on my mattress. But there was no solace in it. It was just something to do while I waited for sleep to come and free me from my misery.Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-67169103828823648612020-03-29T16:47:00.000-05:002020-03-30T21:17:09.046-05:00Honduras: Day 3<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i> <br />
<br />
We got to sleep in a bit that morning. It had been a long time since I expressed anger that freely and openly, so I felt better, even though I could’ve used more sleep. I was chasing a sleep deficit, but that deficit was years old. <br />
<br />
We hopped on the bus to visit 2 more MADJ encampments. But our first stop was a roadside <i>comedor </i>(“diner”) under a tent for breakfast. Ale and Corie were crazy about the Honduran breakfast specialty, <i>baleadas</i>, but they found the name problematic. It means “a woman who’s been shot.” <br />
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It was raining, which I really enjoyed, because it had been so dry. It was comforting just to know that it could rain there, that there was an occasional break from the arid heat. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pajuiles</td></tr>
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It took a while to get to Pajuiles, our first stop. The encampment was set up just off the highway in a small town. There was a shelter with a corrugated sheet metal roof and benches. That’s where we heard the stories. During our talk, the rain became torrential and pounded the roof. <br />
<br />
MADJ has filed many complaints with the Public Ministry (MP in Spanish) about the humanitarian crisis on the Mezapa River, where Pajuiles is located. But they didn’t act until complaints came from the interests behind the dam being built there. The MP, the state prosecutors of Honduras, receive ample support from the US.<br />
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After more than a year of following official channels to denounce the construction of the dam and resulting contamination of the community’s only source of clean water, what choice was left but peaceful protest? <br />
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Ten community members were criminalized on Aug. 10, 2017. They must check in once a week with a judge in Tela and can’t attend public meetings. They’re known as “the Pajuiles 10.”<br />
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On Aug. 15, the community blocked machinery headed to work on the dam. Police escorted the next piece of machinery. The people demanded to see a warrant, at which point the police violently arrested an old man, a pregnant woman and a teenager. They fired tear gas into their homes.<br />
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The US Embassy blames a lack of law enforcement capacity for impunity in the justice system, but capacity isn’t an issue when elites are the complainants. The massive police presence that day casts doubt on the claim that security forces also have capacity issues. Charges stemming from that event were dropped against 3 encampment members and a general store owner. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa, Pajuiles residents, Corie, Meg, Ale and Saúl</td></tr>
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UMEP’s, National Police units directly funded, trained and supported by the US, are extolled by the US Embassy as a way to reform security forces. But in Pajuiles UMEP’s were working with COBRA’s, a state security force that has been involved in human rights abuses. <br />
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On May 3, 2018, heavily militarized police, including COBRA’s and US-backed TIGRES, prevented the camp from blocking heavy machinery. The day before, a judge had denied a government request for a police presence in Pajuiles and the eviction of the camp. The police escort was ordered by civilian authorities, not the judiciary.<br />
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The TIGRES are an elite commando force created in 2013 to combat narco-trafficking and gang violence. The US was deeply involved in their creation. The US tries to distinguish between “good” and “bad” Honduran security forces, but the TIGRES and the COBRA’s collaborate all the time. It’s impossible to keep them separate. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Pajuiles residents</td></tr>
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On August 4, 2018, all but a few members left the camps in the morning to protest their stalled court cases in front of the prosecutor’s office 30 minutes away in Tela. While they were away, around 100 individuals, who community members believe were paid off by Jason Hawit, owner of Hidrocep, S.A., the company building the dam, came down the mountain and destroyed and looted the camps. <br />
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As the rain poured down, the people at the Pajuiles camp told us how these events had turned their lives upside-down. They were literally fighting for survival every day. I couldn’t imagine the extreme insecurity of that kind of existence. <br />
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Feelings were building up inside me. I felt the need to speak up, to reach out before I busted. I couldn’t just sit back and listen without offering some words in return, some promise of action, of redress, of reconciliation. <br />
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<br />
I stood up and moved to what seemed like a good spot for pontificating. Before I could begin, I felt a drop on my head. I touched the spot on my head and moved over a step before starting, getting some laughs, which was reassuring.<br />
<br />
I made a little speech saying that our wealth has been stolen from the Third World and indigenous people of the US, and we were there to right that wrong. l should’ve used more specifics. I should’ve said that support for the global economic system is waning in the First World, so there’s reason for hope. (For evidence, see the election of Trump and Brexit, two rabidly anti-establishment votes.) <br />
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But the words felt inadequate. Because they were. They were just words. Words without action are meaningless. One man in the crowd looked at me with what appeared to be skepticism, as if to say, “Yes, <i>gringo</i>, these are fine words, but we’ll see what happens when you get home. We’ll see what comes of these words.”<br />
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We had lunch there. A kitchen was attached to the shelter. There was also a TV showing the news.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jilamito</td></tr>
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Thence it was off to Jilamito, which required a long drive, eventually onto dirt roads. That encampment was out in the country amid rolling hills, a roly-poly sort of landscape. The shelter was set up over a road, with another corrugated roof and protest signs lining the canvas walls. Inside were bunk beds built from scaffolding.<br />
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Like in Pajuiles, they were fighting a hydroelectric dam project that threatened their water supply, the Jilamito River. There are fears the 14 megawatt dam could exacerbate water shortages, although Ingelsa, the company building the dam, has denied this. <br />
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One of the people who spoke was Magdalena (“Magda”) Díaz, whose husband, Ramón Fiallos, died on January 25, 2018, after being gassed and shot in the arm. He’d been protesting the controversial re-election of Juan Orlando Hernández as president. <br />
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His wound wasn’t immediately life-threatening, but he bled to death due to a lack of medical attention. This is believed to be punishment for helping found the Jilamito blockade and his many years organizing campesinos against land grabs by African palm conglomerates. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magda</td></tr>
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Magda’s resolve was inspiring. She said the government had taken everything from them, including their fear. Rather than cowering from the threats against them (as I would), being attacked by the police had emboldened her. <br />
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Another middle-aged woman spoke some inspiring words. As people spoke, children wandered around or lay with their moms in hammocks. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raúl, Betty, me, Meg and Ellen</td></tr>
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Carlos Hernández, the lawyer for the mayor of the nearby town of Arizona, was gunned down on April 10, 2018. The mayor, Arnoldo Chacón, was elected on an anti-dam platform and has been criminalized for his involvement with the blockade. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLC2qOx9azgzKYDEqLCzBGau-SHYfh03aHrhKi4M0fFSBhhZvJp-bEvR-dRfbP-_7EMM1bW8iwtK720lpYKHRWY3-pApY5aF7aPo4wNw8TDKjbHqXE7YR_MFBKeBwkJC412sp/s1600/DSC_0226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLC2qOx9azgzKYDEqLCzBGau-SHYfh03aHrhKi4M0fFSBhhZvJp-bEvR-dRfbP-_7EMM1bW8iwtK720lpYKHRWY3-pApY5aF7aPo4wNw8TDKjbHqXE7YR_MFBKeBwkJC412sp/s400/DSC_0226.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"They can kill the man, but his ideal will prevail."</td></tr>
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After the meeting, we walked over to the river, some of us changing into swimsuits. The rain had cooled things off considerably, so I wasn’t in need of a dip. I took my shoes and socks off and waded in. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXVHhbdkKzV8YLjJQ8VswyAKRMBJ_AvBynZTiZU2sivvUbxZNQ8HG_YGXcQKnxML987iH1CAtf5DNYZc0yHb_XWETSnkcBeQE3c1Nsaf1nXWDFb4EW0Zh2TJ9QvgwwT6ImYP-/s1600/untitled+shoot-233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwXVHhbdkKzV8YLjJQ8VswyAKRMBJ_AvBynZTiZU2sivvUbxZNQ8HG_YGXcQKnxML987iH1CAtf5DNYZc0yHb_XWETSnkcBeQE3c1Nsaf1nXWDFb4EW0Zh2TJ9QvgwwT6ImYP-/s400/untitled+shoot-233.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg, Emily, me and Diana</td></tr>
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But just wading was enough of a struggle with all the rocks. My subpar sense of balance, combined with my fear of embarrassment, had me moving gingerly through the water. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhOJlIMEXuD6ZOR_1YyTYyIfPLP17O03SR2a0auAPhbcYFwy7DtfpV1iSv8c8gnAeO6ZNqzzXmPiMbzh_NIwE-NbJFy8tEXuheUgxg0Aq_181kSMv27a2lwa1i_VagxTUhI5J/s1600/DSC_0248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhOJlIMEXuD6ZOR_1YyTYyIfPLP17O03SR2a0auAPhbcYFwy7DtfpV1iSv8c8gnAeO6ZNqzzXmPiMbzh_NIwE-NbJFy8tEXuheUgxg0Aq_181kSMv27a2lwa1i_VagxTUhI5J/s400/DSC_0248.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raúl</td></tr>
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Diana was the only delegate who swam. She seemed to enjoy it, but the water felt rather cold to me. Some little kids waded in. One boy (maybe 12?) swam in the deep pool nearby. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Q1kv9JCzsOg5nzK0zLYtfuIbPTKfBienGIWiLj0M09TGTwh0efEyF96rMIuVchDqNjacierD5XzD_MuY5urDrsEDbX8AoILGYN1t5_zZ8LGCam_JTsDe02kxMvvS84KxPQGd/s1600/untitled+shoot-210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Q1kv9JCzsOg5nzK0zLYtfuIbPTKfBienGIWiLj0M09TGTwh0efEyF96rMIuVchDqNjacierD5XzD_MuY5urDrsEDbX8AoILGYN1t5_zZ8LGCam_JTsDe02kxMvvS84KxPQGd/s400/untitled+shoot-210.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corie and Meg, with Meredith in the foreground and Raúl on the rock</td></tr>
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Magda sat on a rock by herself. She seemed so alone and sad. I wondered how she was doing after losing her husband. But she smiled for a picture, so who knows how much I was projecting onto her? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1yXDU-94D3JfHiMcs3IBE0K8b-gfXNyafuDw_j2ZU5dJ3FnHox1k76d6HAZjhRzref40TvrlUKzMDqgkKQR_0hFfcoDYgQAx0h0Dufe0ncntkLnX5fvON63VsXlt8IeismWx/s1600/DSC_0257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_1yXDU-94D3JfHiMcs3IBE0K8b-gfXNyafuDw_j2ZU5dJ3FnHox1k76d6HAZjhRzref40TvrlUKzMDqgkKQR_0hFfcoDYgQAx0h0Dufe0ncntkLnX5fvON63VsXlt8IeismWx/s400/DSC_0257.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magda</td></tr>
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A few young moms watched their kids. They smiled and laughed as the kids frolicked in the river. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxf0_ZokZ30vInrnTYv_sQivomUmgRv4nEr43A1c1Of-uynpTBCrmnvR5DYSj20VxAY9KIQGNukuIFdcwHkQk6WsgcqgJs6P3QN7P79o1qgKs4SApJY0gs0xDD4KC9depr9SD/s1600/untitled+shoot-228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxf0_ZokZ30vInrnTYv_sQivomUmgRv4nEr43A1c1Of-uynpTBCrmnvR5DYSj20VxAY9KIQGNukuIFdcwHkQk6WsgcqgJs6P3QN7P79o1qgKs4SApJY0gs0xDD4KC9depr9SD/s400/untitled+shoot-228.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ale and Lisa with the locals</td></tr>
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Even in this desperate situation, they’re still having kids and living their lives as fully as they can. A lot of people (myself included) wonder why, but they have no less right to have kids than anyone else. Life shouldn’t be a Vale of Tears. Save it for the goths. <br />
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That night, dinner got pushed back by schedule drift. We went to a radio studio in the town of San Juan Pueblo for Martín’s show at 7pm, everyone squeezing in a room. We took turns with a mic answering his questions live on the air. He asked us our impressions of what we’d seen and heard. <br />
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I was too nervous to follow closely what other people were saying. After several others had spoken, I took the mic and tried to answer the question. But then I said the bit I’d been preparing in my head. I sort of took the question and ran with it, like a politician. I said the global economic system that must be enforced by gunpoint in Honduras only needs political rhetoric to maintain support in the US. <br />
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That went for an hour. Then we drove to another part of town to Martín’s sister’s house. His sister, Elsa, had a store through which we passed to get to her house. We sat down at their dinner table as Martín’s pregnant wife prepared the meal. <br />
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By then it was 9, and I was far more in need of sleep than food. But, despite my lack of hunger, I managed to clean my plate and have dessert, after which Martín put his hand on my shoulder and said, “<i>¡Campeón!</i>” (“Champion!”) That got a laugh from the group and even a smile from me, in spite of my fatigue. <br />
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We milled around the house a while after dinner. I noticed a Spanish-language DVD of <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i> in the living room. That amused me. I was getting cranky at this point, but I held it in like a good Minnesotan. <br />
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The living room could’ve been in any middle-class American home, with one crucial difference. In addition to the flat-screen TV, there was a video monitor showing live footage from the security cameras outside. <br />
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After a generous amount of socializing, we finally took off for the MADJ compound just outside of town called La Finca. We drove uphill and then got out of the bus to climb the last few blocks in the dark. Most of us turned on our cell phone flashlights to pick our way through the rocks and debris in the road. <br />
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There was a scorpion that someone shone a light on so we’d avoid it, but I couldn’t see it. We crossed a metal bridge over a creek to get to the compound. It was a complex of concrete cabins, like a summer camp for revolutionaries. I got the cabin with Raúl and Carlos, our bus driver. <br />
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I was decidedly nonplussed upon seeing our spartan accommodations. It reminded me of the village in <a href="https://inthemickoftime.blogspot.com/2016/04/wha-happened-in-oaxaca-day-6.html">Oaxaca</a> on my other WFP delegation. I didn’t wanna hafta deal with it, especially at this late hour after a long day. <br />
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There was no room for me to vent in private. If I sulked about it openly, then Raúl and Carlos would know what a spoiled brat I am. But why couldn’t I even put up with this for 2 nights? <br />
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There was no light in the bathroom, which was only separated from the rest of the cabin by half-walls. There were people staying in the cabin’s other rooms, people I don’t think we ever met. They may have been the guys who were working on the camp during our stay. <br />
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There were also a little boy and his mom I could hear. I couldn’t see them, but I could see into their well-lit rooms. It was like watching a play from backstage. <br />
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Carlos snored, but it was anxiety keeping me up again that night. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-67561135358974825722020-03-28T17:16:00.000-05:002020-03-29T14:07:32.616-05:00Honduras: Day 2<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i> <br />
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I didn’t have as much trouble getting up before 4am as I expected. We tumbled onto the bus in various states of consciousness and stopped to pick up Corie, Ale and Saúl, a MADJ organizer, before heading off into the night. <br />
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We meandered through the darkness, cruising along highways and wending our way through small towns. The lights of houses and gas stations revealed nearly empty streets. Activity didn’t pick up until the night began to recede. <br />
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It was light out by the time we stopped at a gas station for a bathroom break. There were some women jogging along the road. I was surprised, because it was the first time I’d ever seen (apparently) working-class folks jog. <br />
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The last hour or so we were climbing into wooded hills. The road began to wind through mountains. We turned off the highway and followed dirt roads to the Tolupán encampment in San Francisco Locomapa (or “St. Francis Crazy-map,” which I found amusing; it refers to the area’s confusing geography). <br />
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I couldn’t sleep on the bus, but I didn’t think I would, so it wasn’t a great disappointment. Just sitting there in various awkward positions with my eyes closed seemed to provide enough rest. I felt alright by the time we got there at 7:30. <br />
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We pulled up to a hardscrabble collection of wooden shacks. This was one of the makeshift villages set up to prevent logging of the mountains. Gathering under an open-air tent on wooden benches, we listened to the locals tell us their stories.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXFfoVWg_zsFR2zJgNr-MmTUJQW_ilyw7NDS194Wl3mRQu3QYDlJd3PHgB7tEu_29TELr0lwBDqRH8jDrBaFvenPkyGya5aYSf7in7Y54lez5ih4ft56p6fnLxiLFDLEIk3mi/s1600/untitled+shoot-115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFXFfoVWg_zsFR2zJgNr-MmTUJQW_ilyw7NDS194Wl3mRQu3QYDlJd3PHgB7tEu_29TELr0lwBDqRH8jDrBaFvenPkyGya5aYSf7in7Y54lez5ih4ft56p6fnLxiLFDLEIk3mi/s400/untitled+shoot-115.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa, me, Raúl, Emily, Diana, Corie, Betty, Meg and Ale at the first village</td></tr>
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The Indigenous Tribe of San Francisco Locomapa is part of the 26 Tolupán tribes based in the department of Yoro. (Honduras is divided into departments, instead of provinces or states.) The Tolupán have been around for 5,000 years. <br />
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In 1864, the Locomapa tribe was given an ancestral title to 232 acres. But, on Dec. 16, 2009, the government authorized the cutting of 7,394 pine trees on Tolupán land without the tribe’s consent. The logging has divided the community between those who oppose it and those who support it. <br />
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In 2010, a business owner filed charges against several community members for “obstructing the execution of” the logging plan. The defendants had to sign in at a courthouse every 15 days and were prohibited from visiting establishments that sell alcohol or psychotropic drugs. <br />
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MADJ appealed the resolution against the defendants, or “the Tolupán 8,” as they came to be known, who are also members of MADJ. This resulted in the complete dismissal of charges. <br />
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In 2012, a business owner filed new charges against Locomapa community leaders. The court dismissed these charges, and the Honduran state conceded the tribe’s right to protest under the International Labour Organization’s Convention 169.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMHYxH0nXYQZadTQjBHjtMkPHMgUlhbelKLHniTKKPqhmcDJEQkhrgKRkivRWsv1R6nKACSYd8_6HV5L6jR17GJCmoWyctcclpqTh07WZg67YwxRWVaehW62mY9lBgbPcf5gp/s1600/untitled+shoot-113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioMHYxH0nXYQZadTQjBHjtMkPHMgUlhbelKLHniTKKPqhmcDJEQkhrgKRkivRWsv1R6nKACSYd8_6HV5L6jR17GJCmoWyctcclpqTh07WZg67YwxRWVaehW62mY9lBgbPcf5gp/s400/untitled+shoot-113.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">José María Pineda</td></tr>
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In 2013, three community members were killed by two men. On April 5, 2015, Luis Reyes Marcia was murdered. His wife, Vilma Consuelo Soto, was granted protective measures by the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights. Erasio Viedo Ponce was killed July 18, 2015. <br />
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One perpetrator of the triple murder in 2013, Luque Varela, was brought to justice and is serving a 45-year prison sentence. The other killers remain at large. <br />
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Under the tent, the people also told us about the violence they’d suffered at the hands of state security forces. There’s a nebulous web of collaboration among the government, big business and criminals that allows the first two groups plausible deniability and the last group impunity. <br />
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As if to drive the point home, a pickup rolled by that said “<i>Policía Nacional</i>” (“National Police”) on the side with a man sitting in the bed and two in the cab.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePkwm9FwGlNNDWFmfpSyNQDpuba3Aclykjlejd-W6v1SIfqfC6tiXwvBYkWhEKItgMYOfs0T1oESJ1gLD37FC1SNlihtGf9W2tujWlwjpYou2HVOJpvMIyTJlhxvoijBi1mvg/s1600/Copy+of+DSC_0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePkwm9FwGlNNDWFmfpSyNQDpuba3Aclykjlejd-W6v1SIfqfC6tiXwvBYkWhEKItgMYOfs0T1oESJ1gLD37FC1SNlihtGf9W2tujWlwjpYou2HVOJpvMIyTJlhxvoijBi1mvg/s320/Copy+of+DSC_0032.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Thence we drove to another camp nearby. There was a soccer field on a flat space with short grass. A mob of kids chased a ball around between the metal pipe goals. A schoolhouse loomed above the field. We stood in the shade of a tree across the field from the schoolhouse. The locals stood a few feet from us. Others sat on the slope above and behind them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9wTslXOn-DysbzeVPyufSM3PXiHZHsJDT5NVz_vUtPvWCRBZgf1XAV1Q27xTZ2dncN-vTBQ2CDupEQNvXJaj_xLhBXLPomgd_OZg_lUVaHKY9VBtVtvwLLaQggZV8NIXlftVF/s1600/DSC_0054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9wTslXOn-DysbzeVPyufSM3PXiHZHsJDT5NVz_vUtPvWCRBZgf1XAV1Q27xTZ2dncN-vTBQ2CDupEQNvXJaj_xLhBXLPomgd_OZg_lUVaHKY9VBtVtvwLLaQggZV8NIXlftVF/s400/DSC_0054.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By the soccer field</td></tr>
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As one delegate noted, fear was close to the surface. But the people’s hope endures. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of freedom,” said one. “I want my children to grow their crops on their free land,” said another, expressing the community’s resolve.<br />
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Of course, this is a group for whom mere survival is an act of resistance. As indigenous people, they’ve mainly been thought of as an impediment to “progress,” a speed bump on the road to economic development and cultural “improvement,” ever since the European conquest of the Americas. <br />
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Once they were deemed unsuitable to enslavement, they were forced onto the least desirable land and abandoned. Now that the Capitalist machine has exhausted all the best land of profitable resources, it has turned its eyes hungrily to the indigenous communities, since they have the only exploitable “undeveloped” land left.<br />
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The Tolupán refuse to be uprooted from this land, which they’ve occupied for millennia, land the Honduran government granted them by treaty over 150 years ago. And now there’s nowhere left to remove them to, not that the government has even made such an offer. The only deal they’ve been given is a tacit one to live in a blasted hellscape or move to the cities or head North, to Guatemala, Mexico or the US. <br />
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Martín Fernández of MADJ, José María Pineda of Locomapa and others spoke, as well as the schoolteacher, a man who appeared to be in his 20’s. <br />
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A group from Europe joined us to observe and listen. One woman wandered around taking pictures. Another of their group, a man from Ireland, added some words of support, hope and encouragement. <br />
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The community is planning a radio station for the top of the hill. The state security forces have threatened to burn it down if it’s in the encampment.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOaCkQP0yWQkS-NBKjZW4tVJ-zXCwNSHarFDRKliMkfPH_owf1VJf0DYPtJlnAfxcbajFbtngU095rYD2NZRBYkEO_G84_AALqN4BKQAqRRj597XjsR6zDw988WZsHwHvkOra/s1600/DSC_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOaCkQP0yWQkS-NBKjZW4tVJ-zXCwNSHarFDRKliMkfPH_owf1VJf0DYPtJlnAfxcbajFbtngU095rYD2NZRBYkEO_G84_AALqN4BKQAqRRj597XjsR6zDw988WZsHwHvkOra/s400/DSC_0065.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Thence we drove to a road the bus couldn’t negotiate, so we got out and walked. It was a hilly gravel road. We walked by meager homesteads. There was smoke rising from forest fires below. The loggers would burn the areas they logged, apparently to cover their tracks, even though they have permits.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHaBASjA87JePHK7qOylJ-CEdYUf8XKOtcAizYOdGpcs3GHBKLPNw4L1LqqQ2lEL16htbtTgrsmq7VtiymdZINqCTdJ4zDQEA2FyyYlJz0vsXNC8UY0whl7hTsds_2z1Vgl7wk/s1600/DSC_0123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHaBASjA87JePHK7qOylJ-CEdYUf8XKOtcAizYOdGpcs3GHBKLPNw4L1LqqQ2lEL16htbtTgrsmq7VtiymdZINqCTdJ4zDQEA2FyyYlJz0vsXNC8UY0whl7hTsds_2z1Vgl7wk/s400/DSC_0123.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Logging roads and smoke from a forest fire</td></tr>
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Corie and Ale noticed significant logging in the 3 weeks since they were last there. We might’ve walked a mile before we got to Ramón Matute’s house, where we had lunch with many locals and the other international observers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVZN69mt0nclV6xcOq_t7RGjWm15zExPD4sbKpoVt0BL-CWc8oihJqm0yzRb5DZc0gjapGHy9-Bo-p9BvdeQAsuDq_0nnknqJU_MHQg9sLYbYB-n_Yf6byKJE1LRXhqPVzhz1/s1600/untitled+shoot-167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVZN69mt0nclV6xcOq_t7RGjWm15zExPD4sbKpoVt0BL-CWc8oihJqm0yzRb5DZc0gjapGHy9-Bo-p9BvdeQAsuDq_0nnknqJU_MHQg9sLYbYB-n_Yf6byKJE1LRXhqPVzhz1/s400/untitled+shoot-167.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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As the guests of honor, we were served first. We ate on the front porch while kids lined up along the fence, shyly watching us and waiting their turn. Their shyness was matched only by us first-time delegates. Corie, Ale, Meg and Meredith mixed more easily with the locals. <br />
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I got impatient as time dragged on. I wasn’t really chatting with anyone, and, rather than escape my comfort zone, I decided to stew in guilt-displaced anger and annoyance. Also, we White folks were mostly segregated from the Brown folks, so I felt guilty and uncomfortable about that. <br />
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After a while, I told Corie, “Time check: it’s quarter to 2.” She was surprised how late it was and acknowledged the urgency of leaving; they didn’t want to drive in the mountains after dark. But it still took a while to get goin’. <br />
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This was my main complaint: “schedule drift,” the way things got pushed back and visits extended. But the IT’s were interested in maximizing each “partner meeting,” especially in Locomapa, since they were so remote and rarely got visitors. Before heading out, Lisa and Emily were interviewed by María Dolores Cabrera for Radio Dignidad.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhro2p0MdatsiekQmT5u92uu6JaDxtaq87gwGHuFPXOX_o-c_HfTqKadC9NzbQraXx9sLo0l00pyvnj5stEIQ2fqvKUlEAWuK-WMh71o1Ju-2Hn_i6eBAlJ1dSTh9ByLai1rqiE/s1600/untitled+shoot-169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhro2p0MdatsiekQmT5u92uu6JaDxtaq87gwGHuFPXOX_o-c_HfTqKadC9NzbQraXx9sLo0l00pyvnj5stEIQ2fqvKUlEAWuK-WMh71o1Ju-2Hn_i6eBAlJ1dSTh9ByLai1rqiE/s400/untitled+shoot-169.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">María interviews Lisa as Raúl translates.</td></tr>
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We left by truck, a bunch of us piling in the bed of a mini pickup that could handle the bumpy road. I initially tried to sit on the side, but was knocked onto the floor when we took off and decided to stay there. It may’ve bruised my masculine ego to sit like that while an old woman and man sat on the side, but I didn’t have the guts to copy them. I didn’t feel stable at all up there. <br />
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Those of us on the bed were jammed together like Tetris pieces. We kept bumping into each other due to the rough ride. We were only in there for 7 minutes, but it felt much longer.<br />
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Before hitting the road, we made one last stop. Juan Samael Matute and José Salomón Matute, Ramón Matute's father and brother, respectively, had been murdered recently, and we visited their grave by the side of the road. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPB1006fkH7L57oPQYrVo-uVK9XcKS8c50aBx7-iHRpxq2COXQUs_E5yx12XgtNDaCg0OMg-scH7Ol3iIfatL_RmPg6o_0Dzy-uw4o4Bhf-Hbfi-4P1hXVQpMk_hFcWRAvSNEu/s1600/untitled+shoot-176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1065" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPB1006fkH7L57oPQYrVo-uVK9XcKS8c50aBx7-iHRpxq2COXQUs_E5yx12XgtNDaCg0OMg-scH7Ol3iIfatL_RmPg6o_0Dzy-uw4o4Bhf-Hbfi-4P1hXVQpMk_hFcWRAvSNEu/s400/untitled+shoot-176.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grave of Juan Samael Matute and José Salomón Matute</td></tr>
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After we got back to Progreso, Ramón called to say that, after we left, their murderer had been lurking around his house, threatening him.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Logging truck we passed on our way home</td></tr>
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Back at La Fragua, we saw a tarantula on the steps leading upstairs. Judiciously, we gave it a wide berth, although I don’t think tarantulas are actually harmful to humans. They’re just big, scary, hairy spiders. <br />
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That was the night Lisa snapped in the classroom. It shouldn’t have been so surprising, what with getting up before 4am and spending 7+ hours on the bus. <br />
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I think we were just reflecting on Locomapa, and Lisa angrily said, “I don’t know why you’re not angry!” and stormed out to smoke. I guess she’d been looking at Emily when she said it, because Emily said, “Was that directed at me?” I said, “No, I think you just got caught… in the crossfire.” <br />
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We tried to move on, but Emily was upset and left. Diana went up after her a few minutes later. The meeting broke up after that, when it became clear there was no point in continuing. We reconvened at 10 to resolve the situation. <br />
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The WFP staff started by obliquely addressing the incident, until Emily cut through the morass by saying, “Can I get real?” She addressed Lisa directly, apologizing for anything she might’ve done to offend her, but she didn’t think she deserved that treatment. Lisa was unaware that she’d taken it personally, saying it wasn’t directed at her and “I can be blunt, because I’ve had to be.” <br />
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Months later, it occurred to me that we in the middle class have the opposite problem. We tiptoe around difficult subjects because we have to. If you rock the boat too much, you’re liable to be thrown overboard, i.e., out of the middle class. Many times I’ve kept my mouth shut in order to maintain my comfy existence. <br />
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The whole experience seemed more immediate to Lisa. As a working-class indigenous person, she’s got skin in the game. The rest of us are protected from it. They talked about the “secondary trauma” of listening to survivors’ stories, but for Lisa it’s primary trauma. The rest of us get to “raise awareness” in our safe, comfortable homes. But she has to live with it. She doesn’t get to be a tragedy tourist. <br />
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I think this class difference created tension between Lisa and the rest of us that was finally released by her outburst. We used this session to vent our frustrations. <br />
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I expressed some anger over our “partners” asking us to return. “I don’t know if I’ll be back! In all likelihood, I won’t be!” I said that the tentacles of the American Empire extend across the globe, as does our complicity, so I wanted to go everywhere those tentacles exist. <br />
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The anger wasn’t directed at anyone. It was aimless, free-floating anger over my guilt and shame about feeling unable to help those people. The more I think about it, the more ashamed I am. I’m sorry, Ale and Corie, for making you the target of my misplaced anger. Why is it so often the people least deserving who bear the brunt of those feelings? <br />
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I mentioned how tough it was to meet these people, hear their stories and then get whisked off to the next stop. I think I called it a “whirlwind tour of tragedy.” Others brought up similar concerns. <br />
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Betty pointed out how many of our daily reflections sessions had been cancelled. She’d been put in charge of those and felt she’d been overruled by the IT’s. They apologized for that and acknowledged the need to process our feelings. Thereafter, Betty made sure we took time for reflections every day. She started putting her foot down, and I think we all benefited. <br />
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Ale tearfully apologized for the demanding schedule and said they’d been trying to change that for a long time. She promised that the rest of the delegation would allow more time for connecting with our Honduran partners and reflecting on the experience. <br />
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I don’t remember Corie speaking. I just remember her looking chastened. <br />
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We were pretty exhausted after that. It was a rough way to end a long day. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-18781423041627470152020-03-27T19:24:00.000-05:002020-03-29T14:07:25.167-05:00Honduras: Day 1<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i> <br />
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I woke up before dawn and turned off the fan due to chilliness. The rooster was already crowing in the dark, as they do. I was able to fall back asleep. To my surprise, I was one of the last to get up. It wasn’t even 7 am, and Honduras is on the same time as U.S. Central, so no one was too far off their internal clock. <br />
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Ellen lived in Portland, OR, and Betty in NYC. Emily and Diana lived in San Antonio but were originally from upstate New York. Meg lived in Dearborn, MI. Meredith and I were both from the Twin Cities, and Lisa was living in Duluth, MN. Corie hailed from Worcester, MA, and Ale from Charlottesville, VA. <br />
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A bunch of delegates were out at the picnic table in the backyard, including Meredith smoking her cigarette at a polite remove. The sun was already strong. I moved to the shade nearby to protect my bald spot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZKfeQcLcEZqruT7m5POj2C8cxvimovD_ycFubmo9EfwaoX9291bJaJuivJZTcOnmjxIuulMwl9DPYZl0YCxYDW8Sq1hc_Wt4KhaDqwG4ZKP-EjZH_wH7hAbG-PNykWUkiOuL/s1600/untitled+shoot-046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHZKfeQcLcEZqruT7m5POj2C8cxvimovD_ycFubmo9EfwaoX9291bJaJuivJZTcOnmjxIuulMwl9DPYZl0YCxYDW8Sq1hc_Wt4KhaDqwG4ZKP-EjZH_wH7hAbG-PNykWUkiOuL/s400/untitled+shoot-046.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meredith, Meg, Diana and Lisa</td></tr>
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We had a nice breakfast with eggs, tortillas and beans and headed off to San Pedro Sula for a press conference. We went back the way we’d come the day before and negotiated the traffic of a city with twice the population of Progreso, passing a city square and a stadium.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb-h4nYH32ZPj4nRHbpV35Qx7ldNWvx_23JAS1XHbA9Qa0TsnScGbrkz4foSMWfs4xz9f0DdlnfbDb5vTmx-Oa9FbdfzI7zGffeWEf4Ah5Bs0mw_-DAeQ1KLhyphenhyphenDsGvpNZNfb6/s1600/DSC_0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZb-h4nYH32ZPj4nRHbpV35Qx7ldNWvx_23JAS1XHbA9Qa0TsnScGbrkz4foSMWfs4xz9f0DdlnfbDb5vTmx-Oa9FbdfzI7zGffeWEf4Ah5Bs0mw_-DAeQ1KLhyphenhyphenDsGvpNZNfb6/s400/DSC_0002.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wall around the MADJ building</td></tr>
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The press conference was in a one-story building surrounded by a white wall, like most residences of at least moderate means. The bus parked on the street, and we entered through a motorized gate. For this and all of our official functions, we wore blue vests that said “Witness for Peace” on the front and “<i>Derechos Humanos</i>” (“Human Rights”) and “<i>Observador Internacional</i>” (“International Observer”) on the back. We were greeted by some <i>compañeros y compañeras</i> (“comrades”) and María Dolores Cabrera, one of the leaders of MADJ.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyp90p6y__HrH2q2fx4w3hyphenhyphenqCQRNnPWnQgceUg27Y6HH8ZSxohK3jk3rTDnjH3_Xquo5r1P8tltld-D_r6i8KUSyKeO5BV2Gknz7hSMl8-MdWdWSw6MaKJw5_hKSiziHR48F6/s1600/untitled+shoot-083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNyp90p6y__HrH2q2fx4w3hyphenhyphenqCQRNnPWnQgceUg27Y6HH8ZSxohK3jk3rTDnjH3_Xquo5r1P8tltld-D_r6i8KUSyKeO5BV2Gknz7hSMl8-MdWdWSw6MaKJw5_hKSiziHR48F6/s400/untitled+shoot-083.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The MADJ press conference for the Bremen Solidarity Award</td></tr>
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(When referring to groups including both men and women, everyone seemed to use both masculine and feminine forms, as in “<i>compañeros y compañeras</i>,” rather than just the masculine form, as is traditional in Spanish. I took this as an attempt to avoid female erasure in the language.) <br />
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MADJ is the <i>Movimiento Amplio por la Dignidad y la Justicia</i> (“Broad Movement for Dignity and Justice”), an organization started by Honduran lawyers in 2008 that supports local resistance movements. The press conference was to announce their receipt of the Bremen Solidarity Award, a prestigious human rights award from the city of Bremen, Germany. <br />
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There were others milling about, people who’d taken the bus from far away to be there. Corie, Ale and Meg spoke with them warmly, apparently out of familiarity. Meredith did too a bit while the rest of us hung back, due to shyness and a lack of Spanish skills.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JFrxRQC1DZMREkH1tlkx1TlOdG0aZFiBzFPlmCSGW29TaijSR40Rb2oXQyP1_jLgPrdUm2xAg5HqND6EYsg0xCTsuWV2dtcOZnmCUhpR2-bQNVUsBOzcNKCbRpkmSUvQe4Il/s1600/DSC_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JFrxRQC1DZMREkH1tlkx1TlOdG0aZFiBzFPlmCSGW29TaijSR40Rb2oXQyP1_jLgPrdUm2xAg5HqND6EYsg0xCTsuWV2dtcOZnmCUhpR2-bQNVUsBOzcNKCbRpkmSUvQe4Il/s400/DSC_0006.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ale, Víctor Fernández and Corie</td></tr>
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We were also joined by Raúl, a 20-something man from Tegucigalpa who would be our translator for the next week. He became, arguably, the backbone of the whole operation, providing excellent translation for almost all of our partner meetings and interactions with Hondurans, as well as being a source of joy, humor and gravitas. <br />
<br />
We entered the front room of the building and sat in back. Ellen and Meredith prepared their camera and mic to record the proceedings. People filtered in, many hugging Corie and Ale before taking their seats. A few media members arrived later, setting up video cameras. Eventually, the program began, a bit later than advertised, a phenomenon I called “schedule drift,” endemic to Latin America. <br />
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At the table in front sat 4 representatives of MADJ: Martín Fernández, the general coordinator; Víctor Fernández, María Dolores Cabrera and Magdalena Díaz, whose husband, Ramón Fiallos, had been killed in a protest at Jilamito. Darwin served as the MC. They introduced themselves and then turned on the video from the Bremen group.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_ga5nLwhv9xROpX3xA9eSb3e2zUA3ElHxRXx89Gep-R6UppAWF8Lr3OWgN9Rj6femHoMw7NfKPpm8rY_KwfXiIR-zeXajcq0m2vpgPPowiNHQEke0kXED7SDX_JH48vuFjra/s1600/untitled+shoot-072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_ga5nLwhv9xROpX3xA9eSb3e2zUA3ElHxRXx89Gep-R6UppAWF8Lr3OWgN9Rj6femHoMw7NfKPpm8rY_KwfXiIR-zeXajcq0m2vpgPPowiNHQEke0kXED7SDX_JH48vuFjra/s400/untitled+shoot-072.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martín Fernández and María Dolores Cabrera of MADJ</td></tr>
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The video was shot in an ornate, Gothic church and clean, modernist offices. Although the Germans spoke Spanish, it was a stark contrast from our surroundings. Part of the video depicted Honduras. But why weren’t they here? I thought they could’ve shown more solidarity, considering it’s in the name of the freaking prize. <br />
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It’s not like they have much to fear in Honduras. They’re German! They enjoy the same bubble of protection in Latin America that we Americans have. But Martín and Víctor flew to Bremen shortly thereafter to receive the prize, so it’s not all bad (as long as Bremen footed the bill). <br />
<br />
It went for maybe an hour, each representative saying their bit about the group’s work. Then we broke for lunch. The media conducted some interviews while some simple food was served. <br />
<br />
Most of the WFP group clustered in back while Ale, Corie, Meg and Meredith chatted with the locals. This became a running theme of the trip, as with most of my trips to foreign lands. We’d traveled thousands of miles to meet them, but closing those last few feet was beyond us. We wanted to learn more about these people, but actually talking to them was a tall order.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <i>Salvemos al Merendón</i> crew (Magdalena Díaz is in the middle, wearing the checked skirt.)</td></tr>
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<br />
I think the class divide was what kept us apart more than the lingual or cultural barriers. It’s the curse of being upper-middle-class. I was, unconsciously, taught to believe that poverty was a communicable disease. I guess it’s also a sense that there’s a fundamental difference between us and the Poor, not necessarily a moral failing on their part, but maybe an intellectual deficit. I was looking down on them from academic heights of arrogance. <br />
<br />
But, even more than that, the higher you are on the socioeconomic ladder, the more uptight and reserved you tend to be, and I’m certainly no exception to that rule. The richer people are, the more cautious they become, because they think they have more to lose. <br />
<br />
Betty expressed some envy of me, saying that I could just go over and talk to the Hondurans if I wanted to. She seemed to be goading me to do so. I told her I didn’t remember enough Spanish from high school (or Oaxaca) to carry on a convo. I later discovered that Betty’s Spanish was, at worst, comparable to mine. <br />
<br />
A woman had come over to get us to pose for a picture holding bumper stickers printed with the message “<i>Salvemos Al Merendón</i>.” (“Let’s save the Merendón,” a local mountain.) I didn’t understand what she was saying, but one of us did, so we went up front to provide them a photo op. <br />
<br />
In the afternoon, we gathered in Martín’s office to listen to him talk about MADJ. The place was nice and clean, but not fancy. A TV showed footage from security cameras outside. This was another recurring theme of the trip. I felt no sense of dread, but it was a reminder of the ever-present threat of violence, from the state, gangs or a murky combination of the two.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Martín in his office</td></tr>
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<br />
MADJ was started by lawyers in 2006 during their hunger strike protesting injustice and impunity in the legal system. (God, if only lawyers in the U.S. were that conscientious! Can you imagine American lawyers doing that? I guess they do sometimes, but not nearly enough of them.) <br />
<br />
They support indigenous peoples’ struggle for survival and self-determination in the face of extractive megaprojects like logging, mining and hydroelectric dams. Even though the dams are not generally extractive in their operation, their construction pollutes the local water supply, and none of the projects benefits the local communities. The jobs created go to outsiders, and the profits accrue to the elite. <br />
<br />
They challenge the megaprojects’ legitimacy by questioning their social value. They’ve tried to set up areas free of extractive capitalist enterprises, where the government can’t effectively sell concessions. They’re demanding projects that benefit local communities instead of displacing them for the elite’s benefit. <br />
<br />
They take a three-pronged approach: Legal, Communications and <i>Formaci</i><i>ón </i>(training and debate). Decisions are made at the grassroots level. Members come from multiple socioeconomic classes. <br />
<br />
The tight nexus of state and corporate power has put them at odds with the government. The organization is barred from holding bank accounts. <br />
<br />
Martín explained how internecine quarrels among drug traffickers (including the government) generate violence. The violence creates insecurity, unease, impunity and a lack of economic investment. The rich build walls around their houses. <br />
<br />
The violence and poverty fuel immigration. As a result, remittances from Honduran migrants provide 17% of the national budget. But banks exploit this by charging high fees. <br />
<br />
After speaking with Martín, we visited MADJ’s pirate radio station, <i>Radio Dignidad</i>, out back. It provides them a wide reach and access to a largely illiterate population. They had a transmitter pole tied to the building and a little room for a studio. Ellen and Meredith were into that, as the resident media-makers. Ellen recorded audio at most events, and Meredith took pictures with her fancy camera.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darwin in the <i>Radio Dignidad</i> studio</td></tr>
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<br />
After a tour of the radio station, we went back to Progreso. There was a lovely dinner waiting for us from the quiet woman in the kitchen at<i> La Fragua</i>. There were also geckos on the underside of the awning in back. They were reminders that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, momentarily shaking me out of my detachment. <br />
<br />
We discussed US policy toward Honduras that night in the classroom. I’m sure I chimed in with something, but not as much as I wanted to. The US provides Honduras with $500 million a year in economic aid and $2.5 billion a year in security aid, just to give you an idea of where our priorities lie. The security aid mostly goes toward protecting the interests of Big Business. (I’ll be covering US policy in more depth in later installments.) <br />
<br />
Raúl slept in my room that night, depriving me of my privileged status as the only delegate with a room to himself. But I gained a roomie who didn’t snore, which was nice. He was usually off in the evenings, typing on his laptop, translating audio on his ear buds, hard at work or “on that grind,” as the kids say. He’d be up late doing that or something else. I usually didn’t know what he was up to. <br />
<br />
I had another shower that night in the military style. I don’t usually shower every day, but the heat and nerves made me sweaty. It was also an attempt to wash off the anxiety and tension that built up over the course of the day. <br />
<br />
I went to bed at 10 that night, because we had to leave at 4 am the next day. I didn’t actually get to sleep until 11, but that was good enough for me. Having to get up that early made me anxious, so I was glad to just get 5 hours of sleep. <br />
<br />
My cot was much more comfortable than I expected. That may have had to do with being on a mission I believed in and being with people with whom I felt a spiritual kinship. It was nice to be with Americans who shared my concerns about people in other countries, who don’t just try to put it out of their minds, who are aware of and actually willing to confront their own complicity in the crimes of the American Empire. <br />
<br />
I’d been unwilling and unable to confront my complicity emotionally. It was only getting out of the Imperial Core and confronting the victimes face-to-face that freed me from that paralyzing fear of the Other, the Unknown, the External Proletariat whom I exploit. Of course, the benefit derived from this exploitation is only material. The emotional, social and spiritual harm it does me is arguably much greater. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-48963903608741000042020-03-26T19:50:00.000-05:002020-03-29T14:07:15.809-05:00Honduras: Day 0<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i> <br />
<br />
I got a decent night’s sleep. I took the stairs down to breakfast and saw a Black guy sleeping in the stairwell. But he was wearing a nice, clean urban sports outfit, so I doubt he was homeless. He got up and left the stairwell after I passed. I had the complimentary breakfast and hopped on the shuttle after dropping my keycard at the front desk (the only check-out step they required). <br />
<br />
When I saw the bill on my bank account 2 weeks later, they ended up charging me $20 more than the advertised price, another thing I’m usually unwilling to question. This is another luxury of affluence: avoiding conflict. <br />
<br />
The delegation’s domestic coordinators, Meg and Meredith, were sitting near me at the gate in Atlanta, but I didn’t have the guts to talk to them. Plus, I was sick, which further hampered my courage and eagerness to say hi. I didn’t know for sure it was them, but I was pretty sure. (They were both White.) <br />
<br />
Like on the previous day’s flight, the plane had video monitors in the back of the seats, but I eschewed them in favor of my book, Niall Ferguson’s history of World War II, <i>The War of the World</i>. (He may be an incorrigible imperialist, but, according to my favorite <a href="https://www.ecosophia.net/">blogger</a>, he writes a mean history tome. To be honest, I’ve read better.) I must’ve done some writing too. It was only about 3 hours to Honduras. <br />
<br />
We deplaned onto the palm-lined tarmac at San Pedro Sula, a city of 600,000 I’d never heard of. When I stepped into the tropical sunshine, it was warm, but not hot like I’d expected. Inside, we stood in line in slightly uncomfortable tropical heat. A thin layer of tropical grime covered every surface. (I checked: Honduras is in the tropics.) It took maybe 20 minutes to get through customs, after which we had to put our bags through another x-ray machine for some reason. Then we walked out into the main terminal. <br />
<br />
It didn’t look much different from a U.S. airport, just smaller and less fancy. People were massed around the customs exit, waiting for friends and family. I spotted the Witness for Peace (WFP) group immediately, with Meg and Meredith. They spotted me and waved. We collected some more people and went to the food court to wait for the rest of the group. <br />
<br />
I stupidly shook everyone’s hand even though I had a cold, and then felt really guilty about it the rest of the trip. (One of them later came down with a cold.) I was afraid of getting too physically close to my fellow delegates for fear of infecting them, even though I’d almost certainly exposed them to my germs already. That inhibited my socialization, but it’s hard to say if I would’ve been any more outgoing under normal circumstances. <br />
<br />
I didn’t wanna talk too loudly either, for fear of spraying them with my contagious saliva, mucus and/or phlegm, but the cold made it hard to speak clearly, so I mostly kept quiet. I also missed a lot of conversation just because I didn’t wanna get too (physically) close to anyone, and I couldn’t hear them over the din of the food court. <br />
<br />
Once I’d “crossed the Rubicon” of shaking hands, I didn’t wanna mention having a cold, although I kept blowing my nose, so they must’ve known something was up. I was just hoping they’d chalk it up to allergies. Politely, they avoided the subject. <br />
<br />
There was some chitchat. Some people were friends who’d moved away. Emily and Diana were friends and roomies less than a year out of college. The conversation petered out several times. We were a shy bunch. <br />
<br />
(Sorry, but at this point I’m gonna bail on the whole “racially-identifying-everyone” idea. To keep it up would be very annoying and make me very uncomfortable. There’ll be a lot more pictures from here on out, so I’ll leave it up to the reader to identify everyone’s race. If you so choose.) <br />
<br />
I was the only guy in our group of 10, a situation I quite enjoyed. During the summers in high school, I took a poetry class, in the first year of which I was the only guy, which was great. Women tend to be gentler (because they’ve been socialized that way), and, being a sensitive person, I really appreciate that kind of treatment. I also think gentleness is my natural temperament, although being socialized as a male has made it difficult for me to show that side of my personality. <br />
<br />
I exchanged my dollars for <i>lempiras</i>, the Honduran currency, and bought a big, plastic water bottle. “<i>Una botella de agua, por favor</i>,” I told the young woman at the kiosk, nervously excited to get to use my high school Spanish again. There was a gift shop in the food court called “The Mayan Store.” Some of us milled about there. <br />
<br />
We’d been advised not to check any luggage, so as not to delay our departure from the airport, but customs slowed us down so much that I don’t think that would’ve been an issue. Maybe they were afraid of someone’s luggage getting lost and having to drive back to the airport the next day. I had no carry-on luggage, so my backpack was jam-packed, chockful of goodies (by which I mean underwear and clothes). <br />
<br />
Eventually, Corie and Ale showed up. They were WFP’s International Team in Honduras. They called themselves “IT,” an unfortunate initialism that always made me think of “information technology.” I had to keep reminding myself that they weren’t talking about tech support. <br />
<br />
I was struck by their youth. They were both in their 20’s, and Corie was less than a year out of college. I couldn’t have imagined taking on this kind of job fresh out of college. Even now I doubt I could handle the stress and emotional strain.<br />
<br />
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Mention"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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The itinerary for the delegation had been kept secret to protect
the people we’d be meeting with. Corie and Ale informed us the itinerary they
came up with had already changed due to security concerns. Not only did they
have to work under tremendous pressure, they also had to adjust on the fly. </div>
<br />
<br />
We walked out the sliding doors to a yellow mini-bus that would be our main mode of transport for the duration. Our driver was Carlos, a middle-aged, mustachioed Honduran man of modest stature who loaded our bags. The airport was in the middle of brush land. It was the dry season, which explained the dusty look and feel of the place. <br />
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The airport was on a highway outside San Pedro Sula. The bus turned on to the highway and headed away from the city. We drove by prickly pears and agave. After a while, we started passing fields of banana trees. The banana bunches on the trees were already bagged. Roadside stands appeared at regular intervals. In the distance in every direction were the faint outlines of mountains. <br />
<br />
Along the road were many storefronts painted blue with the Pepsi logo and the slogan “<i>VIVE HOY</i>” (“LIVE TODAY”). This was clearly Pepsi country, although I noticed some Coke penetration, as one would expect, given Coke’s long-standing grip on Mexico. <br />
<br />
After a while, we came to a bridge over a wide river, across which lay our destination, the city of El Progreso. In the middle of the river stood a concrete obelisk (probably the column of an old bridge). It too was painted blue with the Pepsi logo. <br />
<br />
El Progreso is a bustling burg of 300,000, spread out like a typically sprawling Third-World metropolis. Soon after getting into town, we passed a statue of a <i>bananero </i>(banana field worker) in front of an old colonnade. This is a tribute to the striking <i>bananeros </i>of the 1950’s. The city has a history of political and social struggle. <br />
<br />
Our first stop was Power Chicken, a Honduran fast-food chain with an English name for some reason. Corie and Ale really talked up the place on the bus ride, which came off as a bit unseemly to me. This was a human rights delegation on which we would be dealing with grave, life-and-death issues. Why were they waxing rhapsodic about a fast-food place?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_VbXbmsY49X03Fr6JabR-Bhtu4oWd98ZA42A_G8-Y1BwTDKS4oprjUNODsUJQKhkBUp8_9c7hv8KVccJ9TCcel3iowX-7gYSW4CVtgms6CenANLynXPOgi1_sxaT__1G8wQU/s1600/untitled+shoot-391.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij_VbXbmsY49X03Fr6JabR-Bhtu4oWd98ZA42A_G8-Y1BwTDKS4oprjUNODsUJQKhkBUp8_9c7hv8KVccJ9TCcel3iowX-7gYSW4CVtgms6CenANLynXPOgi1_sxaT__1G8wQU/s400/untitled+shoot-391.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The Power Chicken location was on a main drag filled with U.S.-based fast-food joints: KFC, Pizza Hut (which was way fancier there) and Burger King. Every establishment’s sign was huge and towering. <br />
<br />
The Power Chicken logo is a muscular, anthropomorphic rooster standing in front of a Superman-style insignia with lightning bolts coming out of it. The imagery is not subtle. The interior resembled an average U.S. fast-food place. We pushed some tables together and waited for the IT to bring the food over. <br />
<br />
They ordered a family-style meal, since ordering individually would’ve been difficult given our lack of familiarity with the establishment. Jet lag and shyness kept things pretty quiet at the table. The meal was grilled chicken, black beans, white rice, mixed veggies and little cups of different sauces. There were also long, thick French fries(?). <br />
<br />
We dug in voraciously, except for me. Despite being the only man in the delegation and, I would guess, easily outweighing everyone else, I had the smallest appetite. This pattern repeated throughout the trip, making me wonder about the calorie-burning power of emotional labor. Most of my energy was expended unconsciously, to shield me from my emotions. <br />
<br />
Thence we headed to our home for the first 3 nights,<i> La Fragua</i>, a former Catholic school. Our bags were deposited in the bedrooms on the 2nd floor, and we milled around the backyard. Some of us sat at a concrete picnic table next to a thick, mangled old tree trunk. Meredith and Lisa smoked, and we all took in the fading light and lengthening shadows.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikISFTZ2VcsWS_VJ0OS6tApvI26mNxPH5pqZKcBZMGirXCOnihWTQIPRewgk-zmb3jHgICT0CHa2toivzy9hh56mTMYLYQpVeBYgXPIQ0ml6nDcLXLkB9ZGagVtRrDB4nzaB6i/s1600/untitled+shoot-045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikISFTZ2VcsWS_VJ0OS6tApvI26mNxPH5pqZKcBZMGirXCOnihWTQIPRewgk-zmb3jHgICT0CHa2toivzy9hh56mTMYLYQpVeBYgXPIQ0ml6nDcLXLkB9ZGagVtRrDB4nzaB6i/s400/untitled+shoot-045.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>La Fragua</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The next activity was introductions in the classroom on the first floor. We assigned roles for each member, like in Oaxaca. I took medical bag duty, one of the easiest jobs, literally just making sure we didn’t forget to bring the medical bag. Predictably, I was reluctant to take on any responsibility. The others were more enthusiastic, as one would expect of such a self-selected group. <br />
<br />
We went to the cafeteria for a Honduran dinner, made by a quiet, little woman. We became chattier then. There were old, faded, 70’s-style Catholic posters scattered throughout the place, like the relics of a dying faith. They haunted me. It was as if they'd been salvaged from my memories of childhood.<br />
<br />
(If you’re wondering, I was raised Catholic, but it didn’t take. Or, in the parlance of the faithful, I’m a “lapsed Catholic.” I don’t know how one can “lapse” from something that was forced on them, but whatever.) <br />
<br />
After our group activities, we retired upstairs to our bedrooms. As the only man, I got a room to myself. This was a nice reversal of the usual deference to the lone female in a group. There were 3 cots in my room, with kids’ sheets on them, racecars on one and writing in English, like they were using U.S. hand-me-down’s. <br />
<br />
I took the first shower of the evening, employing the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Navy_shower">military method</a> due to the not-quite-lukewarmth of the water. It was slightly bracing. It should’ve been refreshing, given the heat, but that wasn’t my reaction. I just resented the inconvenience and gritted my way through it. <br />
<br />
I hadn’t brought toothpaste and I went the first few days without brushing my teeth. That’s how long it took for me to work up the courage to ask the IT for a stop on our travels to let me buy some. Nor had I brought shampoo, but that was much less pressing, since I only use it about once a week. <br />
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My cot was surprisingly comfy. The room’s windows were tall, stretching about 8 feet to the ceiling, starting at 4 feet from the floor. They had heavy wooden blinds that were adjustable by hand. I opened them easily. <br />
<br />
Since it was a corner room, there were windows on 2 walls, and the cross breeze was nice. I turned on the fan and went to sleep after my requisite adjustment period to a new, non-hotel sleeping space (in this case, less than a half-hour). The sounds of wildlife and people outside were minimal. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17232022.post-39151281299985980402020-03-26T15:54:00.001-05:002020-03-29T14:07:05.552-05:00Honduras: Day -1<i>From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of <a href="https://www.solidaritycollective.org/">Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective</a>'s delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."</i> <br />
<br />
I love flying. Or, more accurately, I love airports (except for security), so I was stoked to be heading out that Sunday. I came down with a cold the day before, which slowed down my packing, but I still had all day to get ready. I left my apartment after a dinner of leftover Pizza Hut. (I’ve always been a fan of the brand, even after working there as a cook in high school. I still have a weak spot for the Stuffed Crust, despite my mild lactose intolerance or some kind of dairy sensitivity. I’ve never actually been diagnosed.) <br />
<br />
I currently live in Minneapolis’s Phillips neighborhood, so on my way to the light rail I walked past the spot where over 200 homeless people (including many Native Americans) had pitched tents the previous August to December. A highway runs by there, as well as the light rail line between the airport and downtown, so I imagine clearing the encampment before the men’s Final Four came to town in April was a high priority for the city. <br />
<br />
Even now, more than a year since the tents were taken down, the area is still fenced off. The grass was torn up and the dirt covered with green powder. There’s a sign on the locked gate: “NO TRESPASSING - MNDOT” (Minnesota Department of Transportation). <br />
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The area has become overgrown with towering weeds, and a police camera stands sentinel from the middle of the sidewalk. What was once a pleasant lawn is now a vacant lot, apparently because local officials are afraid the tent city will return. Actually, they should be afraid; tents sprang up nearby this summer, and a teepee was there briefly last fall. But the police have been vigilant about removing them before they have a chance to multiply. <br />
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At the station, 2 Black guys literally ran up to me asking for donations or signatures to support the “Bucket Bros,” a group of street musicians. (I’ll try to note the race of White people too. I just think it would be a classic case of middle-class avoidance if I didn’t note people’s race. I don’t wanna pretend I’m blind to it or that it doesn’t matter.) That’s never really happened to me before in the Twin Cities. I wanted to listen, but my cold had me in a daze, so I just said, “Sorry,” and moved on. <br />
<br />
It wasn’t too cold, 40’s at least, so my spring jacket was enough. (I’m a native Minnesotan afer all.) I hopped the train to the airport. At the airport station (the only underground stop on the light rail) the up escalator wasn’t working. Usually, I take the stairs for the exercise, but it would’ve been really nice to ride the escalator this time, being sick. <br />
<br />
The next, extra-long up escalator leading to the airport was also out of order, so I had to climb those stairs too, which are like 3-4 stories tall. I managed alright and went through the whole airport security soft-shoe charade without incident. There was only a short line. <br />
<br />
On the TV’s by my gate was a men’s March Madness basketball game. I caught the exciting conclusion of the Duke-Central Florida matchup in which the Blue Devils escaped the Knights’ upset bid by the narrowest of margins. That was annoying since I’ve long hated Duke, but it was still a great finish, captivating and all that. <br />
<br />
The flight to Atlanta was fine, as I recall. We got in about 11pm Eastern time. I went outside to wait for my hotel shuttle. It was warm outside, so the only thing that bothered me was anxiety about when/if the shuttle would arrive and if the hotel had my reservation. <br />
<br />
When the shuttle finally came, there was some confusion about which Howard Johnson’s it was going to. I was so tired and sick that I didn’t even bother to figure out if it was the right one (although even when I’m in fine fiddle I’m often too meek to ask such questions). <br />
<br />
It turned out to be the right shuttle, and I didn’t even need a reservation, because some of the people I arrived with didn’t have one and they had no trouble getting rooms. <br />
<br />
The room was OK, but not all the lights worked. Usually, I need to read for a while in bed before I’m ready to “hit the hay,” but I was tired enough to turn out the light as soon as I got under the covers. Mickey Foleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05723005046720830100noreply@blogger.com0