Teenagers - An American Invention

For parents across the world the very word teenager conjures up trouble. To describe their hair, one often thinks of the barbaric German Warriors who brought down Rome. To explain their clothes, we need only look at our empty wallets and thank the most expensive designers known to man. Teenagers come with baggage too – emotion and attitude that is somehow combined to articulate philisophically well thought out rebellion against the establishment. But let us not forget the most crucial part of a teenagers existence, hormones – sweaty, throbbing, mind-pulsating hormones that we poetically sum up in one word, horny.

I’m in my late twenties now. The older I am, the more bewildered I become at the sheer significance we place on teenagers in culture and the media, almost as though they are the epitome of the universe. I certainly grew up believing that to be the case. I’m not sure if it was force-fed from an early age by way of Mtv or if I just observed the free spirited kingly walk of a hormonal wreck cascading past my door and believed it to be true, but whatever the case may be, I woke up one day as a twenty year old. The morning after my birthday I was obliged to consider what had transpired during the last several years of my life. To this day, now that the hormones have subsided and the pants have emerged above my crack line, I don’t know what the heck had happened. But that’s OK, because when it comes to teenagers, Dr. Phil and just about every other professional psychologist is also trying to figure that one out.

Recently I’ve been reading the 800 page biography John Lennon by Philip Norman. It’s a very detailed read on the life of rocks greatest twentieth century voice – a little too detailed, but worth the effort if you’re interested in the life of the Beatle. Philip Norman, who was personally assigned to cover the breakup of the Beatles in 1969 – 70 from the inside, is probably the most credible non-Beatle source on any of the fab four.

One particular insight into Lennon’s early Liverpool culture really caught my eye – teenagers, or the lack thereof. “Prior to John’s fifteenth year, the British had regarded the process of growing up as perfectly straightforward. The system was that children went on being children until puberty was well advanced; then, virtually overnight, they turned into grown-ups, wearing the same kind of clothes as their parents, aspiring to the same values, and seeking the same amusements. The effect of rioting hormones on immature and impressionable minds had yet to be studied in any depth by scientists or sociologists (Philip Norman).”

Watching American films depicting stateside youth as boys in jerseys and pony-tailed girls guzzling Coca-Cola, milk shakes and hamburgers, Lennon understood the difference between the youth of Britain and America. He later remarked “America had teenagers…. Everywhere else just had people.” Lennon, we might conclude, became one of the world’s first teenage converts.

When Elvis erupted on the music scene in the spring of 1956 “he gave release to the tension that had built up in young men with no more global conflict to burn off than testosterone (Norman).” The very opening words of Presley’s first hit, Heartbreak Hotel, said it all – "Well, since my baby left me…” Elvis goes on to speak of a bellhop whose “tears keep flowing” and a “desk clerk dressed in black”, we learn of “broken hearted lovers” who end up “down at the end of Lonely Street.” Unlike the adult themes of ragtime, jazz, and band in years previous, Elvis had, for the first time, channeled into and defined the teenage experience – adolescent emotion and melodramatic self-pity. To this day, the very word teenager conjures up these words.

The next time your teenage child storms off into the other room, pants dangling below their butt and barbaric hair that would bring shivers to the bravest of Roman legions, and you don’t know what’s going on in the mind of that child, break out an old Elvis album and belt it out in your best aching, crackling voice. You’ll not only embarrass your hormonally confused child, but you may uncover good insight into his American media and music conceived world.

Crying in Public - Strength or Weakness?

In the movie A League of Their Own, Tom Hanks’ character criticized his team of women players for shedding tears on the field when he exclaimed, “Crying? - There’s no crying in baseball!” It’s hard to imagine some of the athletic greats of yesteryear wetting their cheeks, just as I can’t comprehend presidents such as Eisenhower or Nixon giving speeches with misty eyes. But times have changed. I did a quick web search for crying athletes and found the list to be extensive, including a lengthy article by the New York Times citing the explosion of weeping amongst athletes and some politicians, such as former President Clinton. Studies show that men are crying now more than ever, and opinions appear varied.

While medical research and brain scans reveal that men and women feel the exact same emotions, how those emotions are released is still not completely agreed upon. Many psychologists agree that our culture shapes how we express ourselves. I may not consent with all of their points, but my personal observations do coincide with the fact that men have historically been seen as weak when it comes to showcasing their tears while women have generally been given the freedom to openly articulate their feelings, possibly because they've been seen as the weaker of the species. Whatever the case, I think almost everyone will agree that women and men still have uneven expectations in public and at the workplace.

President George W. Bush shed a few tears publicly after the September 11th attack. Only days before the election, President Barrack Obama also cried over the death of his grandmother. Neither case of the sniffles hurt their public image. Hillary Clinton didn’t have it so lucky. A recorded act of crying on the campaign trail is thought to have radically hurt her likelihood for the four-year. Jonathan Rottenberg, a professor of psychology at the University of South Florida, says men usually get a pass because society still perceives their crying as being a rare thing. Also, because we’re taught that men aren’t supposed to cry, we pay more attention when they do. We automatically think: There must be something really wrong if a man’s crying (John Tesh, intelligence for your life).

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I guess that means we still have a few sexist hurdles to overcome in our culture. Whereas a man’s tears implies something either wonderful or terrible, a woman’s soulful expression reveals weakness – culturally speaking.

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Am I right? Am I wrong? Let me know your thoughts.

Forrest Gump in 1 Minute

Forrest Gump is one of my top 10 favorite movies of all time. I love how the movie unfolds with constant movement, or how the three main characters, Jenny, Dan, and Forrest, all have handicaps to overcome - handicaps in relations to that movement. Dan has no legs, Jenny can't fly, and Forrest... well, we love Forrest. It's amazing the kind of stuff that comes off of Youtube. I couldn't help but post this video when I saw it.

the top ten worst jobs in America

In January, Jobsrated.com released a list naming the top ten worst jobs held in America today. Considering that some people live for the jobs rated on the current list, such as EMT's, Seamen, and lumberjacks, I suppose its like the saying, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The list was compiled based on stress, work hours, pay, physical labors, dangers of incident, and all that other good stuff.

10. Iron worker
9. Roustabout
8. Welder
7.Garbage Collector
6. Roofer
5. Emergency Medical Technician
4. Seaman
3. Taxi Driver
2. Dairy Farmer
1. Lumberjack

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I was reading some of the talkback posts on several websites regarding this list and I was saddened to see some bitter teachers who felt that they should be on the top of the list, and not so much because they worked hard, but the way they came across magnitizing themselves as superior to the dimwits they were teaching – one whose name was SexyBeast69 and rationalized “having to deal with little kids that don't know their place.” I unfortunately had several teachers growing up with her attitude towards the classroom. She's the kind of teacher who I certainly don’t want my future children associating with.

Even more absorbing was the online war of words that broke out between EMT’s and nurses, some of whom were arguing over who doesn’t respect the other person more. I’m not going to comment on which or whom disrespects the other more, but my theory on hospitals leans in the direction that there’s probably a lot of self-righteousness going on regarding relationships between doctors, nurses, specialists, firemen, and medics. Anytime this many people gather together with varying dimensions of expertise, I’d imagine that ego might often come with the diagnosis. Just note that it was particularly interesting that a wide range of nurses found it difficult to muster the apparent possibility that EMT’s have it harder than they.

I think what I really should be doing is writing a paper on online bullying, which seems to be getting out of control. It’s hard to find a website anymore where this sort of activity is not openly engaged in – and seemingly always without consequence.

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All that to say, if you glaze over the list and find that one of the titles describes your current or past occupation - or you in general - then my hat goes off for you, America. Some people work very hard so that the rest of us can have those daily conveniences that we take for granted - like knowing that the trashcan is going to be emptied on Tuesday morning if its dropped off at the curb. Thanks everyone for your hard labors. And yes, nurses, thank you also (even though you didn't make the top ten and EMT's did - so ha!).

saint or socialist?

I love this quote.

"When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a socialist." - Dom Helder Camara, Catholic Archbishop, Brazil.

The Worst Restaurants in America

As I’m approaching thirty, I’m accumulating a mounting interest in personal health. I’ve begun to observe that my body isn’t as resilient to the unnatural elements of deep-fried cookeries and high-trans fat as it once was. I believe it was Adam Sandler who once said “I drink a milk shake and my butt drags for a week,” which seems to describe the earthly changes that happen to most thirty something year old males.

I dug up this report in Men’s Health Magazine and found a few of the nominations for worst restaurants in America to be rather surprising. First off, I’ll list the restaurants which refuse to release nutritional information and so attain an immediate F grading from Men’s Health – restaurants which may actually hold average C scores otherwise. I suppose this means each establishment should be visited at your own risk.

Applebee’s
Olive Garden
Outback Steakhouse
Red Lobster
T.G.I. Friday’s

The rest of the restaurants on this list have been slashed down to either a D or F grading. I skipped over the C's, as they appear to be average. This report card is listed in alphabetical order, not by grading intensity, and retains original quotes from Men’s Health as they deserve the writing credit.

Baja Fresh: D

"Baja’s bad grade stems from an inability to serve a single kids’ entrée with fewer than 500 calories and 900 milligrams of sodium. Add to that an array of appealing, cheesy entrées and sides likely to catch a kid’s attention, and you see how hard it is to feed your kids well at this Cali-Mex chain." - Men's Health

Chipotle: D

"We applaud Chipotle’s commitment to high-quality produce and fresh meats, but even the most pristine ingredients can’t dampen the damage wrought by the massive portion sizes served up here. The lack of options for kids means young eaters are forced to tussle with one of Chipotle’s behemoth burritos or taco platters, which can easily top 1,000 calories." - Men's Health

Cosi: D-

"Half of Così’s kids’ offerings cross the 500-calorie threshold, with the pepperoni pizza being one of the country’s worst offenders with 911 calories. The adult sandwich section won’t provide much relief, either, considering that almost everything Così squeezes between two loaves soars into the 600 to 900 calorie range." - Men's Health

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Dairy Queen D+
"The lack of decent sides kills DQ’s chances of serving a healthy kids’ meal. Trans-fatty fries and onion rings are the only options, and you’ll be lucky to get out of the building without a cold treat to take along for the ride. The child-size ice cream cone is a nice touch, but DQ’s holy grail is the ubiquitous and often-mimicked Blizzard, which ought to be renamed the Avalanche." - Men's Health

IHOP: F
"IHOP refuses to serve up nutritional information, but thanks to the New York City Board of Health, they were forced to publish calorie counts on their menus in April 2008. The big reveal shocked New York diners: 1,700-calorie cheeseburgers, 1,300-calorie omelets, and four salads with more than 1,000 calories. Because IHOP doesn’t provide those numbers to the rest of the country, they still receive an automatic F." - Men's Health

Krispy Kreme: D

"What do you expect from a place that serves only doughnuts and corn-syrup–spiked drinks? The problem with Krispy Kreme isn’t so much the fat and the calories of its staples (though they have plenty of both!), but rather the utter lack of any real nutritional takeaway to be found anywhere on its menu. There is but one bright spot for doughnut devotees: Krispy Kreme finally switched over to trans-fat-free frying oils in January 2008. (Collective sigh of relief.)" - Men's Health

On the Border: D-
"On the Border’s eagerness to please might be detrimental to your child’s health. Each kids’ meal entrée includes a drink, side, and kiddie sundae. Added together, most meals top 1,000 calories. The regular adult menu, with its 1,900-calorie fish tacos and quesadillas, offers little refuge." - Men's Health

P.F. Chang’s China Bistro: D+
"Give Chang’s credit for offering options like “stock velveted” (which replaces oil with vegetable stock in the cooking process) and being flexible with substitutions. But without a designated Kids’ Menu, young eaters are forced to fly blind with the grown-ups, where massive, 1,000-calorie entrées are hard to avoid." - Men's Health

Pizza Hut: D

"Expect no surprises from this quintessential pizza parlor. The chain offers no kid-friendly beverage or side options, and with nothing else to choose from, a couple breadsticks and a soda tack hundreds of calories onto a pizza dinner. A thin-crust delivery can be a lifesaver in a pinch, but as for a buffet of nourishing options, Pizza Hut is an empty shack." - Men's Health

Romano’s Macaroni Grill: D
"Romano’s Macaroni Grill is home to a few of the worst kids’ dishes in America and a menu that is more sodium-saturated than any we’ve ever come across. The only redeeming quality is that they allow diners to create their own pastas—which you should absolutely do." - Mens Health

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I'm starting to sense a theme here - keep away from Tex Mex establishments. Seeing both Baja Fresh and Chipotle on the list was a bit of a surprise. I was also equally stunned at some of the fast foods that I had regarded as grease fillers but, according to their best restaurants list, slapped the fridge with a healthy A report card. Maybe I'll hit up that list another time.

Television Violence and Children

I’m personally growing tired of the amount of violence on television. As a regular viewer of Lost since season one, I am one of those millions of Americans who voluntarily tune in each week to see how J.J. Abrams and crew can up the human body count, sometimes as many as ten or more people each episode – finding new invigorating ways to spice the shock value through alarming acts of gore. Some recent incidents include a man falling on an open dishwasher with several cutting knives face-up, another victim who has his limb ripped from his body while a friend holds his hand, body parts exploding after stepping on a land mine, and possibly most troubling of all, watching a little boy apparently shot to death, an act in no way left to mere implication or imagination.

Look, I love the show and all, and plan to continue watching it through its proposed final season next year, but I don’t believe for a second that the weekly stack of bodies in any way builds upon the value of its production – it just holds it back. I love the art of storytelling, welcome the edginess of dark chapters in movie sagas and televised episodes, but knowing almost assuredly that somebody is going to be unsuspectingly beaten unconscious in the back of the head by one of their friends with a rifle each and every episode – where is the originality in that?

I read one survey recently that claimed Desperate Housewives as the most popular primetime show amongst children ages 9 – 12. And here I had always convinced myself, based on the little that I had seen and heard of it, that this program was intended for mature adults.

Let’s just say I’m concerned for the children who grow up watching these kinds of shows and the effects it will have on them in terms of physical and psychological. I can’t believe that I’m actually modeling this kind of talk, but when I was a child I remember shows like The Simpsons and Married with Children as the most controversial table-talk of the day. Look how far we’ve come in twenty years. Need I remind myself that my parents were saying the exact same thing in 1989 in reference to 1969?

Accumulating a total 4,000 studies examining televisions effects on young children, the A.C. Nielson Co. has found that the average child spends 1,680 minutes per week watching television, while only 3.5 minutes of a child’s week will be spent in meaningful conversations with a parent. It’s a grim contrast. I wouldn’t mind that number so much if television put an effort to showcase positive relationships between parent, child and spouses, but convincing themselves that this sort of bonding activity is myth, the good people over at the networks have decided to depict a so-called realistic world where normal people are butted over the head with rifles week-after-week.

73% of parents say they desire to limit the amount of television seen by their children and yet 66% of Americans regularly practice eating dinner while watching the television instead of engaging in table conversation – and over half of America’s children prefer watching television than spending time with their fathers.

These are sobering numbers. I have no intention of becoming one of those parents who relinquish the joys of a household television from their children, but I just can’t comprehend having only 3.5 minutes of meaningful conversation with my child each week. Something has to give. I think the best place to start is at the family table.

Children will spend 900 hours a year in school and another 1500 watching television. By the time that child finishes elementary school; they will have seen 8,000 murders and 100,000 violent acts on television. That number will double by the time that child has graduated from high school. It probably doesn’t help that 81% of children are watching unsupervised, and 56% have TV’s in their own rooms. I hear talk about how civilized a society we are in the western world, but I can’t imagine the average child in any other time in human history who has seen 8,000 murders, depicted murders even, by the time they were ten or eleven years of age, unless, perhaps, they were a Mayan altar boy.

Throw your television out the window - have more sex

According to MSNBC and the New York Post, a new study finds that couples with television sets in their bedrooms are apt to have half as much sex as couples who don’t. It’s not surprising, considering that televisions do the complete opposite to the mind as sex does to stimulate it.

“If there is no television in the bedroom, the frequency (of sex) doubles,” said Italian sexologist Serenella Salononi, who team of psychologists interviewed 523 couples over how television affected their bedroom behavior, according to the New York Post. The same study also found that the couples who don’t tune in to the tube have sex twice a week on average. For the baby boomer crowd, numbers are even more dismal. Those without television have sex seven times a month, while the numbers sink as low as 1.5 times a month for those who do.

Another survey finds that couples living together have sex 146 time per year, while married couples sink as low as 98 times per year. Personally, I think there’s more to the numbers than meets the eye, such as young children, who probably hamper married stimulation, as well as those living together who haven't done so for long. But thats just my analysis. I haven’t found numbers on that one yet, but I’m willing to bet children make a dent or two.

A very recent survey found that 21% of Americans are having less sex in 2009 than 2008. Of these 21%, 80% use exhaustion or illness to find an excuse out of it. That’s a lot of illness. The downturn in the economy has also been a highpoint of accusation. But here’s the bright news, 45% of couples who regularly engage in intercourse in 2009 schedule sessions on their calendar and actually turn down other activities, such as watching television, to finely tune and maintain a healthy relationship.

Come on, married people! We need to bring up our numbers and challenge the living-together couples with some serious competition. Let’s dismantle our bedroom televisions – store them in the garage or throw them out the window, see what I care, so long as the mind is stimulated in the act of loosing it – and put the kids to bed early. Married couples, let’s make 2009 the greatest year for mind-blowing sex in the twenty-first century.

ThruYOU - one of the most original home-cooked videos out there

This is by far one of the most interesting and orignal home-cooked videos for YouTube that I have ever seen. The individual, known as Kutiman, has put together a series of eight videos that are simply outstanding in quality. His online album, ThruYOU, comprised of various random videos that were assembled from the Youtube archives, pays tribute to the very culture that it has borrowed from. Currently, I'm seeing that there are eight in the series. If you like this one, you'll want to visit him on Youtube for others.

the evolution of dance

As a wedding photographer I devote much of my time to capturing the shifting tides of a dance floor. I think this video captures the mood of the wedding reception particularly well because the ever-changing trends of a modern night club have little appreciation in all things old school. No matter how campy the song might prove, young wedding attenders find favor with anything fun and reminiscent of past times, so long as its vintage. Enjoy the next six minutes of your life.

Seven Years

Today is Sarah's and my anniversary. We eloped in Las Vegas on Palm Sunday, March 24, 2008. We couldn't find any hotels with vacancy, except for Frontier. I remember it was raining. The lights of the strip glossed over the windshield. We made our way through the rain into a smokey lounge and put money down on the last available room. The last time I was on Las Vegas Blvd., I took a late night walk towards the first destination of my married life. The Frontier is now just an empty lot.

Bill Cosby on Parenting

Now that Sarah and I have been married for seven years, we’ve come to the point in our life where we can both equally concur that the time for starting a family in the next year seems wholly fitting. As we begin to mentally prepare for a new member of the family, I’m conflicted with emotions. On one hand, I can’t wait to hold the little baby in my arms for the first time. It’s one of those visionary landmark moments that people grow up contemplating – their wedding day, their loss of virginity, and their little baby. Still, the thought of responsibly raising a child in this world horrifies me. Over the next few years, don’t be surprised if I turn to several of you for advice. I’ll be looking to the battle scared veterans of parenthood to guide me in everything from bottle feeding and diaper changing to teenage angst and college fund banking.

My favorite comedian of the twentieth century is Bill Cosby. Cosby devoted much of his center stage comedy to addressing the pains, trials, and tribulations of parenthood. I always enjoy his outlooks on the divided gorge that separates children from adults. I thought I should share several quotes from his all-popular book, Parenthood.

“Having a child is surely the most beautifully irrational act that two people in love can commit."

“There is something about babyness that brings out the softness in people and makes them want to hug and protect this small thing that moves and dribbles and produces what we poetically call poopoo.”

"I guess the real reason that my wife and I had children is the same reason that Napoleon had for invading Russia: it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

"Always end the name of your child with a vowel, so that when you yell the name will carry."

“Calvin (Klein) is the slick operator who sells your kids things for eighty-five dollars that cost seven at Sears. He has created millions of tiny snobs, children who look disdainfully at you and say, ‘Nothing from Sears.’”

“The two most important things to the American female are man’s prevention of nuclear war and man’s putting the toilet seat down.”

"Mothers who have experience in the trenches of family warfare are sometimes even driven to what I call anticipatory parenting. They ask a child a question, he tries to answer, and they say, “You shut up! When I ask you a question, you keep your mouth shut! You think I'm talking to hear myself talk? Answer me!”

“After creating the heaven, the earth, the ocean, and the entire animal kingdom, God created Adam and Eve. And the first thing He said to them was ‘Don’t.’”

“To be fair, however, I must admit that from time to time children do like to share with siblings. For example, once in a while a brother will try to remove his sister’s arm so he can play with it.”

"Then, however, he suddenly waxed articulate and said, “Dad, I want to be able to control my own destiny.” ‘Oh, God,’ I said, ‘does this mean LSD?’”

"In spite of all the scientific knowledge to date, I have to say that the human animal cannot be the most intelligent one on earth because he is the only one who allows his offspring to come back home.”

“Look at anything that gives birth: eventually it will run and hide. After a while, even a mother elephant will run away from its child and hide. And when you consider how hard it is for a mother elephant to hide, you can appreciate the depth of her motivation.”

“I was wrong when I said that the big expense for you would be buying a car. Let us now discuss the cost of college – unless you would rather do something more pleasant, like have root canal work.”

Thank you, Cosby. The first of many coarse observations to come.

court your spouse

I've been married now for seven years. I began to notice somewhere around the five year mark that veteran married couples measured down the amount of advice that they were once willing to shell out in rapid proportions. It was always welcome - and still is, but I suppose they figured I’d come to appreciate a thing or two about how a relationship between two opposite sexes works. I've also observed that more questions have begun to come my way. I haven't been asked the big one yet – you know the one, the sarcastic inquiry that is typically reserved for long standing decades-old married couples "so what’s the secret," though I have been solicited for overarching advice on numerous occasions.

When you consider the hundreds of centuries that have spanned human civilization, seven really has no application in terms of longevity, but when you consider a day-by-day waking and staring down the barrel of a mirror, seven can be a long time, especially when that same person is looking at the same reflective gun as you, day-after-day… after-day-after-day. I’ve come to realize that neither Sarah nor I are the same people that we married. Those seven revolutions around the sun have brought so many circumstantial abrasions and philosophical alterations that we just can’t think, act, and often feel as we once did.

I’m ecstatic that Sarah and I have made a point to date each other regularly. I think married couples should see their relationship as a continued courtship. Another words, the journey to understanding each other doesn’t end with the I Do’s, it only begins. I have to learn to love Sarah each week as she mind-shifts, grows and matures out of her teenage self and into the late twenty-something woman that she has become. Its sometimes difficult to grasp with the changes, but I can candidly say that I love her more now than on the morning that we wed. I know it’s a cliché phrase to use, but it’s certainly not overstated in our culture.

And that’s my advice. Court your spouse. I know you didn’t ask for it, but if you’ve read this far, then it’s not forced upon you. So give it a try. It works. Who knows, you may actually learn to love your spouse in a fresh new way.

Say no to diets and yes to Girl Scout cookies

In recent weeks I’ve dedicated myself to an exertive schedule, embracing janitorial duties and taking care of my body. Exercise is imperative to me on several levels. It's also important to my wife. She's been overly kind in the last few years as I’ve swept these disciplines aside in favor of a heavy traveling schedule. She doesn't say much, but I know every person wants the paramount experience in their spouse’s body. I'm up to five miles now in my weekday runs and I hope to level off somewhere around seven or eight, which is comfortable enough to casually bump it up should I decide to participate in a half-marathon. There is something so exhilarating about the sensation of aching thighs. I love it - the sweat, bleating pulse, and my favorite, the tightening of the butt.

According to latest statistics sent to us by way of the Federal Government, obese American adults outnumber those who are merely overweight. Over one-third of all adults, that’s over 72 million people, are overweight. That number has doubled since 1980.

Other surveys indicate that 32 percent of US children are overweight, according to the CDC (Center for Disease Control and Prevention), 16 percent are obese, and 11 percent are extremely obese.

One consistent observation that has transfixed my thinking has come in understanding the thinly proportioned person as a lifestyle choice and not a diet. Our culture is infatuated with diets – you know, those new secret recipes for success revealed by magazine cover celebrities that can be unearthed in grocery store checkout aisles. I don’t want to come down on those diets, and I’m sure that they’ve worked for many curious people, but understand it’s a quick fix solution that may not answer a longevity problem. For years I held this idea that I’d diet for a couple of weeks to quickly shed the pounds, then I’d fix my eating and exercise habits. I think most of us will agree that those seemingly practical philosophies don’t work. First I need to adjust my lifestyle habits. Once a routine has taken shape, diets are most certainly welcome, but probably not needed, unless it be for the sake of healthy distributions of the food pyramid.

I should point out that this is possibly the most wonderful time of the year – Girl Scout Cookies are on sale. My favorites are the ones with chocolate covered peanut butter. I just finished off another box this weekend. And the best part, it was guilt free. At the end of the day I had taken my five-mile run.

A friend of mine just commented this weekend on how I was looking thinner than usual.

I said “thank you,” and then reached for another cookie.

My Own Genesis: Photographing the Oaxacan Indigenous Migrant Poor

The first time that I met Greg was at a Wendy's just south of Orange County. I had heard him speak a month earlier about the Oaxacan people and orphans living in Baja, Mexico, an account so stirring that I felt their story needed to be told. I hesitantly sent him an e-mail describing my wishes to narrate the stories of the Indigenous children by way of camera - and I stress hesitantly, for fear of the long digesting unanswered rejection waiting not to come on my end of the computer screen.

A week passed and those fears were finally cemented. And so I left for Thanksgiving holiday without any leads directing me towards what I believed to be my destiny, transforming my long digesting plans of focusing the lens on world issues in order to build on the foundations of allready established organization. Then I arrived on vacation to a single e-mail delivery. The responder, Greg, with a quick scribbled out note that he was actually interested in my crazy idea. And so we met on a December afternoon, he and his wife Patti - diagnosing our philosophies, theology, our understanding of anthropology, and hammering out strategies - all to the smell of grease cookers, the sound of crackling meat and the reverberation of drive through window microphone orders.

Greg is the CEO of Genesis Diez, an organization that serves several purposes. It specializes in running rehab programs for women formerly swallowed in the chains of the drug and prostitution culture of northern Mexico. The children of these women are often taken away by court order, and so Genesis Diez maintains a small, intimate orphanage with the mission of reuniting those children with their mothers once the rehabilitation has taken course. Among other countless tasks, such as food and aide distribution (or in the case of children, candy distribution), they work to attain birth certificates for the indigenous children who are unable to attend school.

Greg and Diez program manager Amanda look out over the town of El Zoreo.

"I was advised not to remain in the borders of the town at sundown"

Crossing south over the border, I was quickly reminded of two important survival don'ts. Don't drink the water, and don't liter the toilet. On the first piece of advice, I am glad to say that I was apprehended at the very moment that the glass penetrated my mouth, but the second came with slower conscious, and I fear I may have clogged a septic tank or two. For this crime, Mexico, I apologize, and direct my guilt. Punish me as you will.

And that was the fun with Greg. I could make the most dim-witted jokes in the world and he would pleasantly entertain the notion that they were actually funny. I saw Greg as a man of two contrasting extremes. He had a soft, gentle soul, tender in the very touch of his breath, though riveting enough to blow you over in a gust of his affectionate words, polarized by an extreme adventurous thrill-seeking side. Take for example a story that he told in sweeping, epic strokes, of his swim with a whale shark and the kayak that he sought it with, almost as though he were John Muir captaining Ahab's sails in search of the most beautiful tide-monster in the worlds blue cathedral. Somehow both the contemplations of his gentle soul and the exploits of rugged masculinity intertwined in perfect song-cycle.

the house of a young mother and her two children.

"where tenants use flattened cardboard boxes as baby cradles"

Tranquil stories of fin-rides with whale sharks were often short-lived. Conversations were ritually interrupted by such casual news of a boy who broke his leg, a little girl with an untreated lazy eye, cancerous growths, teeth infections, beaten spouses, a young lady who was being treated for aides due to multiple rape accounts while living on the streets, or another young lady who was caught in the middle of the border drug-gang war due to dating a gang leader and was swiftly murdered. These are just random glimpses, casual by-the-way stories of an indigenous migrant people of Mayan descent trying to find their way in a portion of the country where their own language isn't spoken.

As part of my first-trip introduction, Greg and a fellow Genesis Diez employee, Amanda, took me on the entire tour of their ministry to the Oaxacan people, which included individual house visits. We casually circled through the streets of Ensenada's rough backyard town known as El Zoreo, a growing focus of his ministry. Casual signs of the drug war were apparent there. For a number of reasons I won't give specifics, but I was advised not to remain in the borders of the town at sundown, which describes enough, I think.

I've seen poverty across the world, in Africa and Asia, and while shaken reactions from witnessing the trails of shattered bottles and needles leading up to ones front door or the foul stench of human waste smeared across ones living room floor may wear off in time, I can't imagine that I'll ever grow calloused to the offerings of a family living in the close proximities of that predicament, who hasn't been paid in five weeks, short of all supplies, yet gratefully feeds me a thick portion of breakfast. This included a mix of eggs, ham and coca-cola, a drink that is regularly shoveled down the throats of little children at even their most infant stages. While I can't even entertain the thought of eating a pig stateside, you can bet that I chewed on oinker skin here, touch with every lift of the fork.

"I can't imagine that I'll ever grow calloused to the offerings of a family living in the close proximities of that predicament, who hasn't been paid in five weeks, short of all supplies, yet gratefully feeds me a thick portion of breakfast."

The joy of my journey took a climatic turn when I ventured upon the remote property that is referred to as the apartment complex. The apartment complex is a long rectangular wedge with two rows of doors leading into dark cement block rooms - rooms that are often flooded out during rain storms due to a leaky roof - where tenants use flattened cardboard boxes as baby cradles, and heads of cattle often roam. The complex is owned by a local flower farmer who lends the rooms out to the families of migrant workers and delivers communal barrels of water about every week or so.

At the Apartment Complex - "Its so strange to see a society of children who still play and laugh as children, though act very much like adults."

I spent the majority of my time on the complex grounds, touched by the lives of over a dozen indigenous children, all ranging in the ages of toddler to elementary, who couldn't attend school and so were left with no other option than to form their own daycare service while their parents were out in the fields. But I don't think the description daycare service does these children justice. I'd almost liken it to a Lord of the Flies society, where subjected law appears as flimsy and spontaneous as American children arguing over which ridiculously named cherry bomb, bubbles, or bus stop rules apply to a game of tetherball. It's a society where well-grounded parent to child policies such as don't play with fire have no application, where children run alongside barbed wire, snakes adorn stacks of rusted tin sheets serving as playgrounds, and streams of human waste serve as pathways to a nearby field for a young girls flower picking.

It is so strange to see a society of children who still play and laugh as children, though act very much like adults. I can't say I've seen anything else quite like it in America.

And that is the story that I told - an indigenous migrant people of Mayan descent trying to find their way in a portion of the country where their own language isn't spoken. It began in Wendy's over a conversation with an e-mail recipient backed by the smell of hamburger grease. It ended in a newfound friendship with a contemporary who shares in my vision that the expression of art is an adequate, if not at times necessary, component of connecting the human expression and experience to the pursuit of missions.

"It's a society where well-grounded parent to child policies such as don't play with fire has no application"

For my second of several planned outings to Genesis Diez, I chose to return to the apartment complex that so heavily dictated my emotions the first time around. What made this trip especially unique was the fact that several men from my church had come down to tar the roof of the development, amongst other random tasks, simply so that the farm workers living there might have more comfortable sleeping arangements.

I've had many people tell me that they aren't in any way religious but they really love the work that I desire to expose, particularly in Mexico. Look, watching those men slave under the butchering stabs of a sweltering sun, pulling their calloused hands away from a bucket of tar to dry the sweat from their brows, then scrapping liquid rubber across a rooftop - that is true religion. There was no agenda here. Nobody stood on a soap box ejecting right-wing American Conservatism or denominational banter then packed up the van for a return trip to a cheering Sunday morning crowd. The men who journeyed here to slave over faulty wiring and tar came here out of a sheer need for expression, much the same as I; the hunger to serve a people who cannot furnish in return, all in response to the overhaul that God delivered through a man two-thousand years ago, and still does to this day. Watching them from behind the lens of my camera, sitting in the shade waiting for my next shot to roll along, I felt so small and inadequate in a large world, as though I were staring at the throbbing muscles of men much greater than I.

And that is the kind of people that Genesis Diez attracts because they themselves are leading the way with great men and women. Case-in-point, my last day of shooting on my first trip came to an abrupt halt when one of the little boys was spotted with an obtrusive looking growth just north-west of his chest. Greg was quick to react, and seeing how this fitted the perfect opportunity to experience a Mexican hospital, I followed along. Upon arrival, I was escorted out of the hallway by hospital staff, and so settled into the neatest little torn and stained cushioned seat that I could find, listening to the wretched cough of an infected person across the way. Apparently, the boy had some sort of tumor. I'm not certain on the specifics, but the point it, he didn't have to pay for any of it, nor would his mother, still in rehab from the sex circuit.


It wasn't until recently that I finally understood the disinterest, even dismissal, of the missionary life by many individuals in the church. It's not just the voluntary discomfort of a dusty road or the surrendering of material comforts, it's the continual daily giving without the promise of a thank-you or applause from checkout aisle tabloids. The ovation of a missionary spotlighted on center stage on Sunday mornings is a thrill short lived, certainly not enough for pleasure seekers, nor does it contain the hype of candle lighting or the sweet soul-quenching sounds of song. But it's because they believe in something. Faith - No, not coffee talk of faith - real faith, the kind you can't see but you can hold in your hands in the form of tar buckets and odd-shaped brooms.

"the kind you can't see but you can hold in your hands in the form of tar buckets and odd-shaped brooms."

Here's what it comes down to. God abandoning his throne, becoming the image of man, cleaning the feet of his friends with a servants apron and then cementing that love by bleeding the next morning on an a tree - all so that we might have equal standing with God. It is this world view that has driven numbers of men to the edge of the earth, to crawl through bog and barb, in lands with languages that they do not know or speak, sometimes handing their flesh to the perils of death, all in response to an unconditional love experienced nowhere else. There was something mighty special about the way that Greg carried the boy into the hospital, almost as if Greg would have spotted the cancerous growth on his own body if it meant the cleansing of the boy, and I am a better man for having been involved in the short walk from the car to the waiting room.


"apparently, the boy had some sort of tumor."

I don't know why I'm writing these words. I've been turning it over in my mind for weeks. At one point, I even disassembled everything that I had inked on paper and abandoned any thought of exposing these words to the light of day. Then I remembered a particular event during my first trip to Genesis Diez - the last dinner that I had with Greg and Patty in their home. In between the shoveling of the fork from the plate to his mouth, Greg (probably enlightened by Patti's amazing cooking creation) paused, turned to me and declared that this was my Genesis. Furthermore, he was excited to be part of it.

And that got me thinking. Yes indeed, he's absolutely right. This is my new origin. The pictures that you see here, they are my genesis - a novel beginning for a struggling soul who has spent or spoiled his every church inheritance, and, if inspiration and personal desire should take its course, a fresh commencement for others also. I'm not sure how the rest of the story will flow, but I have an idea or two - heck, maybe even three. Sit down with me sometime and we can talk about it.

Genesis Diez intern Stephanie reads to a sun-weary crowd of children

"Among other countless tasks, such as food and aide distribution (or in the case of children, candy distribution)"

changes to my Where is Sarah? series

Good-bye to Niagara Falls 08

gone... but not forgotten

Mexico Indigenous 09.2 and 09.3

the 1 and only picture that i took in wdc