Diversity Series

Welcome To America, Leave Your Voice At Home
By Alejandro Fernandez

Small adobe shacks. Unforgiving heat. Modest economy. Rampant corruption. Religious fervor. Compared to the world of HDTV, satellite radio, Starbucks coffee, Big Macs, iPods, and countless other luxuries, those descriptions appear insultingly gruesome.

Few Americans can imagine such living conditions outside of PBS documentaries airing on their plasma television screens. Even fewer Americans can dream of living under such conditions.

“When I tell people what life was like in Venezuela, many people feel sorry for me,” says Coralia Blanco, 69. “They envision a little, frail girl with dirty clothing and a sad face. They assume I am happy now in America, the land of abundance and choice,” she says, “and that I would never want to return to La Asuncion.”


Coralia Blanco enjoys a group hug

Blanco, a widow for two years, was born in La Asuncion, the capital of Margarita Island, the largest and most important island of Nueva Esparta, one of the 23 Venezuelan states. Margarita covers an area of approximately 410 squared miles. Its tropical climate, two mountain ranges, and countless exotic beaches explain its honorable nickname, The Pearl of the Caribbean.

“I left the Pearl of the Caribbean and all my people for the epicenter of concrete,” Blanco says. “It’s really difficult to get up and go outside sometimes, especially now that the heavenly father has taken my Manuel [her husband for 45 years]. It’s difficult knowing that clear blue water, salty air, and friendly smiles do not await me on the streets of Newark.”


Blanco’s gentle nature makes her an ideal
Nanny, one of her part-time jobs.

Blanco says she misses hearing the waves break, the birds sing, and the church bell announcing the time. "I miss sneaking off to the beach for a few hours after school before I had to go home and help my mother with the chores. You might think I’m crazy, but I even miss my mother punishing me for being late, or for ruining my Sunday shoes hiking. I miss it all,” she says.

Immigration statistics are often difficult to collect, and many times unreliable. In any case, it is safe to say that Coralia Blanco is not the only Venezuelan who misses her land. The U.S. Census Bureau’s 2000 census, lists the total Venezuelans in the U.S. at 126,000, while unofficial figures indicate that as many as 150,000 Venezuelans have moved to the U.S. under Hugo Chavez’s rule. According to The New York Times, the Venezuelan community in the U.S. has grown more than 94 percent this decade, from 91,507 in 2000, the year after Hugo Chavez took office, to 177,866 in 2006.

Other sources, like El Venezolano and El Nuevo Herald, two Miami-based newspapers published in Spanish, estimate as many as 180,000 Venezuelans currently live in Florida alone, whereas Census Bureau demographers believe 40,781 live in the Sunshine State.

If nothing else, these statistics reveal changing trends. During its oil boom in the 1960s and 1970s, Venezuela absorbed more than 500,000 Colombians and Caribbeans, and an estimated 1.5 million Europeans (primarily from Spain, Portugal, and Italy) between 1940 and 1970. Now, Venezuelans are the ones seeking social stability and financial opportunities elsewhere.

Coralia Blanco was born at a tumultuous time. In 1939, the Western powers prepared for what eventually became a long and costly war—in terms of both money and human resources. While Venezuela did not enter World War II, times where no less turbulent. Malaria was the biggest killer. Personal feuds and rivalries dominated political affairs. Marx, Castro, Betancourt, Medina, Chalbaud, and Contreras were household names. Foreign companies salivated over the prospect of Venezuelan oil.

“When I was six or seven years old, my brother told me stories about American and British businessmen who went to our lagoons and mountains,” Blanco explains. “They were very excited about a black gooey substance that came out of the earth. The children were awestruck by the men’s interest in it. Our mothers had reprimanded us for getting dirty, and yet here were these white men wearing expensive suits and smiling like little children.”

When narrating her country’s history and its current position in the world, Blanco diverts her round brown eyes. She is embarrassed and disappointed by the fact that the rest of the world seems to paint Venezuela in a poor light. Venezuela rarely makes it onto the pages, airwaves, or websites of The New York Times, CBS, CNN and other news outlets. When the news media does run a story on the South American country, it often revolves around Hugo Chavez’s corrupt government, border conflicts with Colombia, or crimes like kidnappings and murders.


Blanco yearns to be heard.


Blanco has tried to expand Americans’ knowledge of Venezuela since she first landed in Newark, New Jersey in 1969. Her first significant encounter was with leftist students from Rutgers University who embraced the Argentinean revolutionary Ernesto “Che” Guevara.

“Che Guevara had been killed two years earlier in Bolivia. People thought I embraced his ideology simply because I fled a country—probably the only country in South America—that did not embrace Guevara or Castro and their ideologies,” Blanco says. “You can’t begin to imagine the reactions Manuel and I received when our neighbor’s son found out our stance on a lot of issues of the time. People thought that we would be Socialists just because we came from Venezuela. They did not understand that Venezuela had a very functional democracy at the time and that our reasons for emigrating were of a more personal nature.”

Herein lies the biggest problem all immigrants face. Their voices are not heard. Sociological “experts” often cite the difficulty of leaving loved ones behind and the need to adapt to new languages, customs, schedules, people, and lifestyles as the prevalent challenges for people moving to new countries, especially after childhood. But these problems are miniscule when compared to the solitude, helplessness, and repression that result from being mute.

“I do not dislike America. America has given me a lot more than I could have imagined," Blanco says. I send a good sum of money to my family every month. I live in an apartment bigger than anything I ever read about. I have a television set. I have all these great things and yet I feel sad at times."

Some people define such sadness as nostalgia, a yearning for one’s home. “Maybe it is nostalgia,” Blanco acquiesces. “I yearn for the days I spoke and people listened.”

Diversity Series

No Longer Feeling Out Of Place
By Kelly Lafarga

A bell rings and suddenly halls fill with loud, vivacious children. Some of the older ones settle into their new classes while the young ones run outdoors for recess. The vast field is covered with the newest playground equipment. Within minutes, dozens of students are clamoring over the various choices, deciding who gets to take their turn.

A young first-grader named George Jones is among the children at play. He is actively engaged with his fellow classmates and nothing strikes a wrong chord with him. He has many friends and is happy in his school. Little does he know that one day it will dawn on him that he is slightly different from his other friends. He will soon realize that he is the only African-American boy in his prominently white grade school.

Today, Jones, 23, who was born in Arlington, Va., grew up in the Washington D.C. metropolitan area. Shortly after his mother died, he moved in with his grandmother, who lived in Halls Hill, a predominantly African-American neighborhood that was founded in the late 1800s. Soon after his arrival, Jones was sent to private school -- St. Ann’s, located in an upper class white neighborhood, which he attended from kindergarten through eighth-grade. Throughout all of those years, Jones was the only African-American child in his class.

“At first I was fine with it,” Jones says. “I was almost too young to know any better. I felt the same as everybody else and didn’t even realize that I was slightly different.” Jones took part in many activities and converted to Catholicism in the second-grade where he had his first communion. He was also a Boy Scout for a few years.

“All of my friends treated me like I was just like them. I would do everything that they did. Their families at times even took me in as if I was part of the family. It was cool,” Jones says. “It wasn’t until I entered middle school that I suddenly realized that something was different, that I was different.”

When Jones entered fifth-grade, he became more aware of his surroundings. The older he got the more he knew that even though his friends at school didn’t treat him differently, he still wasn’t the same as everyone in his class. What really made it settle in was finding that the kids in his own community began to treat him poorly.

“The kids in my neighborhood didn’t like me because I went to a private school,” said Jones. “Where I lived wasn’t exactly a ghetto, but it was pretty close to it. They weren’t receiving the kind of education that I was and looking back now I realize that they probably resented me for that. I began trying to be more social. I would go out of my way to hang out with the kids in my neighborhood, but they never accepted me. This was really hard for me to understand at the time.”

Jones continued attending St. Ann’s until the eighth-grade. However, dealing with the serious issue of race at such a young age really began taking a toll on his overall outlook. He was confused like so many other children in his position are, especially during that period. Whether it’s an African-American in an all white school, or vice versa, or any other race being singled out, eventually the child will feel out of place and question why he or she is so different.

Luckily, Jones moved on to high school at Bishop O’Connell, which was also a private school. But the difference was that it had a much richer and more diverse community.

“I was accepted to Bishop O’Connell on a basketball scholarship,” he says. “Like me, many other black kids were accepted for the same thing. I was surrounded by kids who were just like me and I began to make great friends. There were kids of many other races too.”

Jones is not the only one who has dealt with racial issues. For children it is especially hard to cope with. No one ever wants to be the outsider or the “different” one. Now living in New York City, Jones has no connection with the feelings he once had as a child.

“I admit at the time it was hard trying to find myself. I didn’t know where I belonged,” he says. “I felt so insecure and alone at times. It was really hard being a part of two immensely different worlds at the same time and not truly feeling comfortable in either. Now living where I do, I feel like I’ve found a nice balance for myself. I never feel like I don’t belong because honestly, in this city, everybody does.”

Diversity Series

Will An Implant Eliminate Deafness And Demolish A Community?
By Jamie Cohen

The Cochlear implant can change many lives. The device works by stimulating any working auditory nerves with the electrical impulses inside the cochlea, the auditory portion of the inner ear. For many, this operation is a complete change of life. It can give a person who is born deaf the opportunity to hear and live comfortably in a hearing society.

In 2002, The University of Michigan conducted a study that said by 2007 approximately 120,000 people will have cochlear implants worldwide; only approximately 10,000 of those people will be in the U.S. This number includes children and adults. Although it is mostly recommended for children because the older a person is when getting the surgery the harder it becomes to adapt to speech and hearing.

While the number of cochlear implant recipients grows every year, there is a fear in the deaf community that deafness will one day be nonexistent. If more and more children are implanted, then even though they are legally deaf, they will still grow up hearing, with the possibility for no use of sign language. This not only brings fear to the deaf, as they have a very strong deaf pride in their community, but to those who work with the deaf.

Laurann Siprell, 61, a retired American Sign Language (ASL) teacher disagrees that the cochlear implant will affect the deaf employment opportunities. “I can understand the fear that the cochlear implant will affect jobs of those who teach or work with the deaf. My job was to teach hearing parents with their deaf toddlers, how to sign, and create that communication between parent and child.” She says. “If for example, their child had gotten a cochlear implant, signing wouldn’t be necessary, but that doesn’t mean the child is 100% hearing. There has to be speech therapy, and other learning techniques to provide to these special children. So, while I could not be teaching ASL, my job might become more focused on speech. I’m here to help these children in any way possible; I won’t stop helping because their problems are different.”

This is only one side of the argument. When discussing cochlear implants and the effects on the deaf community there are two different sides. One side is those who are hearing and have deaf children, and the other is those who are deaf with deaf children. The hearing parents usually opt for the cochlear implant because they are nervous of the overall effect of being deaf in a completely hearing environment.

The deaf on the other hand have no need for hearing, and see no point in one person hearing while everyone who surrounds them is deaf. This is what brings us to deaf pride, which might be the very point that keeps the deaf culture alive.

If you were deaf and grew up in a hearing family in the 1950s and 60s there weren’t many options available to you. You were often stuck confused and isolated from the hearing world. Like many handicaps, you might also have found yourself as a constant point of ridicule. It is not unfamiliar to the deaf to be giggled at, when surrounded by the hearing, especially the hearing who are uneducated in regards to deafness. But through the years, more schools were created for the deaf, and from those more deaf communities.

Mark “Deffman” Drolsburgh, 38, a deaf online blogger who was raised by hearing parents, describes finding the deaf culture as a life changing experience. In excerpts, Drolsburgh writes, “My own definition is that: deafness is a disability which is so unique, its very nature causes a culture to emerge from it….as a youngster I was downright embarrassed. That is, I was embarrassed until I got a chance to join Deaf culture. I may have joined it late, after years of unsuccessfully trying to be a hearing person, but the old cliché is true: better late than never. Meeting other deaf peers like myself, sharing similar stories of oppression and ridicule, swapping humorous anecdotes, learning ASL, and seeing other deaf adults succeed has completely changed my attitude...I am no longer ashamed of my deafness, I am proud of it.”

The sense of bond that a deaf person feels towards another is very similar to the bond that many people who have gone through traumatic experiences feel towards one another. As Drolsburgh says, “deafness is a disability which is so unique, its very nature causes a culture to emerge from it.”

It is reminiscent of the bond Holocaust survivors share. Once WWII was over, survivors automatically bonded to each other out of the experience that only they could share with each other. Slowly that community has died, because even though the survivors could pass along their stories, the experience could never be transferred. This is where the deaf community is different, and why the cochlear implant will never affect their community.

Those who are deaf, and have deaf children, share that bond of both being a part of the deaf world. There is no need for sound, because neither has experienced it, so neither person knows what they aren’t experiencing. So when the deaf have deaf children, they are quickly emerged into deaf culture from birth, feeling a bond with other deaf people. This is a place where they feel accepted where as in the hearing world someone who is deaf can often feel misplaced.

In email correspondence, Christi Aquilino, 20, a deaf student at Gallaudet University explains her view of deaf pride. “I grew up in a hearing family, and my parents decided not to get me a cochlear implant because they thought the risk of surgery was unnecessary. My mother took ASL classes, and I started learning ASL as soon as my hands would let me. I went to a deaf school, so I always felt part of the deaf world. But when I was home with my family, it was much harder. My family knows sign, but not as well as me so it was frustrating being with my friends all day, and then coming home, where the communication wasn’t as good.”

She continues: “There were times when I wish they would have gotten me the implant, but now that I am older I’m glad they didn’t. I always think about when I go out with my boyfriend, and how he tells me I look beautiful, and I always think would he still think I was beautiful with a machine sticking out of my head. We talk about it sometimes, and being deaf isn’t something to be embarrassed about. It isn’t about proving yourself to anyone. You should not have to prove that you are a part of the world if you’re black, white, yellow, red or purple, so you shouldn’t force yourself to be part of the hearing world if that’s not what you were born a part of.”

While the deaf community fears the day that their community may no longer exist, it is in their own words and beliefs that will keep the future of the community living. They bond together to form a family of their own with each other, creating an environment of comfort when they couldn’t find one among the hearing society. While it is true that the number of cochlear implants is rising, this will always happen as the world will continue to populate itself.

So while the deaf, who hold pride in their uniqueness, might see more and more people with the implant, they will also see their community grow among themselves as they create a larger and better community that will be a place where those who feel isolated from the hearing world can go and feel at home.

Diversity Series

Happy To Have Lived A Traditional Village Life
By Gunes Atalay

Bahiya Soran, 45, from a little village called Kuyulu outside of Mardin in the southeastern Anatolia region of Turkey near the Syrian border, doesn't know her birth date because no one recorded it. She only knows she was born in summer and that she is one of 16 children of a father who has three wives.

“If someone asked my father how many children he had, he would say nine because there were nine boys and seven girls. He wouldn't even bother telling them about the girls because girls don't really matter in my village. Boys, are to be proud of,” Soran says.


Bahiya Soran

Soran, who is Arabic, lives in an area with a diverse population of mostly Kurds, Arabs, Syrian's and Turks. She never went to school even though it is illegal in Turkey for children not go to attend school at least through high school. However, the government never knew because she was not registered when she was born. Legally, she doesn’t exist.

A young woman today from a modern Turkish family in an urban city like Istanbul who could attend school wherever she wanted would be shocked by Soran’s life story. Soran doesn't really remember her childhood. She says she never played any games. “I would either take care of my little sisters, or go to the field to work. Once, me and my sisters made little dolls out of whatever we found at home. But when my mom found them, she beat us up and told us that we were being useless by wasting our time with dolls.”

At age 12, coming back from the water fountain with a bucket full of water, Soran saw the village matchmaker in her house. All of her older sisters were matched with someone and got married around age 12 and 13. Soran knew this one was for her. She was a little confused, because she didn't feel grown up, let alone ready for marriage.

In many traditional eastern Turkish villages, marriage has strict rules. Girls can only be seen in front of the village’s water fountain, filling their buckets. After a matchmaker, or in some cases men, see them in front of the water fountain they let the parents know. After the man’s family is informed, his mother would create ways to observe the girl, such as visiting the girl’s house as a guest and asking for a certain type of food that is hard to prepare to find out if the girl is diligent. If the girl seems like she can cook well and is kind to the guest, the man’s mother would go to the village Turkish bath to see the girl’s body.

If the girl passes all these tests, the man’s family asks around to find out information about the girl’s family and to find out how much money they want for the girl. The amount usually decreases as girls get older. If the family is respectable and fits the ways of the man’s family, they send the matchmaker to inform the girl’s family that he is interested. The girl’s family then researches the man’s family to see how much money they have, what religion they belong, and other information. The actual process of moving forward with the marriage plans only begins after all of the research is completed. The girls usually have nothing to say about the marriage.

Before Soran turned 13, all of the traditional marriage processes were completed. She said she saw her future husband only a few days before they were married. “I wasn’t very happy to see an old man in front of me, but I wasn’t surprised or unhappy either because they had told me it was a good family and they had a lot of money. My money was already paid so there was nothing I could do other than try to be happy with it. At least I would be able to get away from my crowded family,” Soran says.

When asked if she had even gotten her period by this age, Soran was silent on phone until the question was repeated. “What is that?” she said. When the monthly bleeding was described, Soran giggled with embarrassment, and finally said, “Yes, I had it a little while before marriage.”

Soran was the second wife of this 40 year-old man. Like all traditional families in the east, he lived with his parents. That meant one thing. This 12 year-old girl would have to respect her mother-in-law, her father-in-law, the first wife, who was older, her husband and her husband’s siblings.

“I was actually very lucky. My mother-in-law treated me a lot better than she treated most others. They gave me time to adjust. I got beat up here and there by her or my husband but only when I deserved it by being lazy or disrespecting them. I was never hungry or cold. They took very good care of me.”

By the time Soran turned 25, she had four children and her in-laws were dead. When she turned 40, her husband died and she was left alone with her children. She began looking for a job, even though her children had incomes from their father’s fields. “I didn’t know what to do at home all day. Nobody would marry me because I am second-hand and old now. My kids were grown up working all day in the field. I just couldn’t stand being home alone,” Soran said.

For a while, Soran couldn’t find a job because no one in Mardin would hire her because she never worked in her life, she didn’t know how to read or write, and she was a “woman.” Then she met my aunt, Suheyla Yalcin. Being a successful woman born and raised in Istanbul, Yalcin was sent to Mardin by the government. Owning the notary in Mardin with many offices, Yalcin was still shocked frequently by the life she saw around her. When she met Soran, she said she liked her instantly and hired her to clean.

“I didn’t like making her work too much. I actually just hired her to be able to help her. However, she is such an honest and hard working girl, she never complains and says she doesn’t deserve the money and the good treatment when I don’t give her a lot of work.”

Soran is very happy now. She has something to keep her busy and she is making money, on her own, for the first time in her life. When asked she says: “I was happy before too. I don’t see anything wrong with my life. I just lived the way my mom and the other girls in my village lived. This is just the way it is. Thank God, nothing went wrong, except for being left alone for a while. But, it is OK. I lived everything because of my fate. God wanted me to live this way, and I have no complaints.”

Diversity Series

Two Steps To The Right, Then Two Steps To The Left
By Lindsay Cooper

It was a formal reception in which classical music was playing in the background and champagne and hor d’oeuvres were served in the upstairs room of the “Firebird” restaurant located in Midtown Manhattan. Within half an hour my father, Douglas Cooper, the groom was married to Barbara Benisch, a tall slender woman dressed in a silk white long dress with her blonde hair pinned up. They appeared like a typical bride and groom.

Soon after the quiet and elegant ceremony, everyone aged 50 and under piled out of the restaurant into the crisp afternoon air and the caravan of eager party guests set out towards the New Jersey skyline for the festive reception party. Arriving in Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, I walked into a small, cozy suburban house and heard the loud beats of drums and the scratching sounds of spoons running up and down a washboard wafted into my ears.

Suddenly, a traditional style wedding was turning into an unexpected non-traditional evening. The crowd was extremely diverse: from suburban Jews to Louisiana Bayou natives. I’ve never met nearly half of these people. Walking through crowds of people chatting and drinking, I made my way to the bride’s small, quaint living room, which was filled with dozens of people dancing closely together. I could feel the heat rising as everyone’s feet and hands moved quickly to the pulsing sounds of the Louisianan band.

My father introduced me to a woman named Lisa, known as “Zydeco Lisa” who was dressed in tall black boots. She taught me the basic Zydeco steps. “It’s quite simple,” Lisa said, “you move your feet two steps to the left and then two steps to the right.” As I followed her moves to the beat of the music, she told me that Zydeco dancers develop their own variations based on the simple two-step.

As I left the dance area shortly to catch some fresh air, Lisa strolled over to me and immediately explained to me how she got involved in Zydeco music by attending concerts and lessons at studios held throughout New York City and New Jersey. She also said it only took her a short amount of time to master this type of dancing because she had previous experience in other similar types of dancing that used a lot of the same steps. She enjoys Zydeco dancing, almost on a daily basis and is even interested in becoming a Zydeco dance instructor.

Zydeco is a modern form of Creole music from Acadians, which developed soon after World War II. It is a popular kind of music based on the accordion and rooted in the southern Louisiana Creole culture. Today, Zydeco has adapted many pop music elements like the blues, soul, disco, rap, and reggae using modern musical tools such as the drums, electric and steel guitars, saxophones, horns, and keyboards. Songs may be sung in English, French, and Creole.

As the evening progressed, I noticed that the Zydeco culture my father and his new wife were passionate about attracted quite a few older eccentric people. Another couple named Jeffrey and Laura who I talked to at the wedding party knew the bride and groom from Zydeco lessons they all took together in the city. They were an older couple that initially appeared quite serious and conservative— one would not have guessed that they were experts in this type of Cajun style dancing. Both of them told me how much you have to appreciate live music to really enjoy this kind of dancing.

An hour later, they were confidently swinging each other across the dance floor. Another guest who I spoke to was a younger man named Arturo who also became very interested in Zydeco dancing because he felt that it was not a competitive and high pressure activity like some of the other types of dancing. To him, Zydeco dancing is “simple fun” and a very relaxed activity that helps distress him from life’s other stressors.

Although most of the people at the reception were quite experienced and fully involved in the Zydeco culture, the band members truly represented the essence of this southern folk scene. The band was originally formed by Chubby Carrier who started this family orientated music group in Louisiana. His brother, Troy Carrier, known as Dikki Du, played the drums.

The band has been around for eight years now and is currently touring New York. In a brief discussion with Neal Carrier, the youngest band member and son of Dikki Du, he expressed his passion for Creole style music as a traveling musician. Carrier, also known as “Zydeco Neal” plays the Scrub board. He explained to me how Zydeco music and dancing has influenced a large part of his identity growing up and that performing it across the country reveals a sense of familial pride.

The other band mates are Charles LeMark Jr, Kevin Carrier, and Levi Rivers. Charles LeMark Jr., known as “Big Red” or “Cool Daddy” plays the drums and has played with Chubby Carrier for two years. Kevin Carrier plays the bass and is the nephew of Roy Carrier. Levi Rivers is the new member of the “Krewe” and plays the guitar. He is very experienced in Zydeco dance particularly the two-step and the slow bunny hop. “I didn’t even think twice about hiring this band for the wedding—they are just very friendly and always attract a large crowd of people” my father informed me.

At the end of this eventful and unforgettable night, it became clear what the craze and excitement of Zydeco dancing was all about, which attracted many older, working city dwellers like my dad. It is a vibrant, and loud folk type of dancing that has gained popularity among a variety of people because it also creates a strong social network of people. This holy union today occurred because of the unordinary and energetic hobby of Zydeco dancing that brought two of these soul-searching individuals together.

Diversity Series

The Silent Plague
By Parisa Esmaili

Hundreds fidget with their gadgets while others obsessively rummaging through their bags quietly reciting their checklists as they bring clear Ziploc baggies of liquids to their sides. Others read and re-read their gate information as they graze their fingertips along the edges of their tickets.

Some people mutter and let their heads fall back to their neck, their eyes rolling side to side, scanning the never-ending line. The air has become a thick muggy mixture of old women’s perfume, stale cigarettes, coffee, and little boys who smell of wet dog.

Once the four airport security guards, who point their fingers monotonously directing people where to go, come into sight, men begin unbuckling their black leather belts and untying their shoes. Women carefully take off their rings and necklaces and unzip the sides of their chocolate colored boots.

For many travelers, the security gate is the most frustrating part of the airport experience. Yet, nothing could compare to the experience of first time flyer, Fatima Lawal Aliyu, a 34 year-old Nigerian fistula patient. “You know the security has to check you very well so that you cannot enter their country with something that is illegal,” she says.

Aliyu suffers from an Obstetric Fistula, which occurs when a young girl or woman endures a prolonged obstructed labor. Over the three to five days of labor, the infant slowly suffocates and shrinks; this is the only way the woman is able to deliver the baby. Due to the labor, the blood supply to the tissues of the vagina, the bladder, or the rectum is cut off. The tissues die and a hole, known as a fistula, forms. Because of the fistula, urine or feces can pass threw uncontrollably.

“You see, I had two or three big towels that I put behind me, and at that stage if I cannot do that, there is no way for me to escape from the stains or being soiled with urine. When the security guard began to check my body I was praying he would not touch this section, because if he does he will think there is something illegal on this woman,” she said. “He just asks me, ‘great lady, what is it?’ I said ‘it’s a kind of pad.’”

The security guard continued to patronize Aliyu, commenting on how large her “pad” was, and then led her to a search room where a female guard awaited them; Aliyu was given a strip search. “Imagine. I feel very bad because I had been degraded. I’ve got all the embarrassment.”

The guards then asked Aliyu to remove the pad, “So he sees, and I say, it is just a pad. He asked if it was an illness and I said yes. After I share all my secrets, all the [shame] I have for life […] it is something unpredictable even to us patients. Terrible and so devastating.”

In February 2007, Aliyu was the first woman affected to speak in public forum about her own personal history with fistula in hopes of bringing awareness in Brussels before the European Parliament. Following immediately after Aliyu’s speech, a declaration urging to support fistula was written. Before Aliyu, there were no formal documentations of fistula suffering patients who speak and understand both their Native tongue and English.

Women who develop fistulas are often abandoned by their husbands, rejected by their communities, and forced to live an isolated existence. For some, it could mean the rest of their lives. Shame and loneliness are bound to meet.

Fistula has been coined as, “the women’s plague in developing countries.” Since 2003, the United Nations Population Fund, UNFPA, has been dedicated to end fistulas. “There was no coordinated global effort being done with fistulas at the time,” said Saria Stewart, Media Officer of UNFPA. “What UNFPA decided to do was pull all the community-based organizations together to create the ‘Campaign to End Fistula.’” The campaign works to prevent fistulas from occurring, treat those who have been affected, and support women post-surgery. Their goal is to eliminate fistulas by 2015.

Over two million women are living with fistulas in more than 35 countries including, Sub Saharan Africa, Asia, and the Arab region. However, according to UNFPA, those figures were taken in 1989 and are grossly underestimated because it represented the number of patients who had or were being treated. Many are unaccounted for due to the lack of knowledge and under-representation. An estimated 100,000 cases develop each year. The Fistula Foundation, created by Dr. Catherine Hamlin, reports roughly 6,500 women receive treatment each year.

In 1974, Dr. Hamlin and her husband, Dr. Reginald Hamlin, opened the first fistula hospital in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. It was also the first free fistula repair center. For over 30 years, Dr. Hamlin’s hospital has treated over 25,000 patients, roughly 1,200 per year with an additional 30 long-term patients.

During her July 2004 United Nations Population Award acceptance speech, Dr. Hamlin, often referred to as the “Mother to fistula” said, “childbirth should be a joyful occasion. But for these fistula girls, it has developed into a nightmare and a horror, to suffer the agony of days of labor, with nobody but the village women to help and nothing to relive the pain, to deliver their longed for child as a stillbirth, and then to experience the awful consequences of this ordeal.”

The whole picture is an unimaginable plight, and one which no woman should be called on to endure, but one that is being repeated all over the Developing World, where women have no access to medical help. All these injuries are preventable. Fistulas are treatable. But, as with many developing countries, women with fistulas are either unaware that treatment is available or they simply do not have the financial resources to afford it.

Those who are fortunate to learn of available treatment, often hear through radio or by other women who have come back to their home villages after being treated. The cost of treatment, including surgery, post-operative care and rehabilitation support is $300. The fistula surgery itself costs $80.

For many women seeking treatment it is the first time they have stepped foot outside their village. Sadly, these women are poor, illiterate, and living in remote rural areas. When they come to the hospitals, they have been traveling for days; perhaps weeks and either have little or no money.

The most important goal to accomplish, concerning obstetric fistula is education, says Stewart of UNFPA. It is the key in knowing fistula is not a woman’s fault and it is the key in preventing more fistulas from occurring. “So many are poorly informed about the risks of childbirth and the need for medical care,” Stewart says. UNFPA, and countless other organizations, feel it is imperative to emphasize pressure in educating men.

“Men hold the key to education. Community, religious, political leaders… it’s all men who have the say in women’s health. We live in a man’s world, especially in areas where things like this occur,” Stewart said. Informing men about reproductive health issues through the community can encourage and empower them to be aware of the issues.

Empowering women is also very essential in acknowledging and preventing fistulas from occurring. There are certain stigmas whispered, slandered, and passed through villages and communities about fistula patients. Often they are blamed for their uncleanness condition and the years of isolation a woman experiences as, “For their own good,” but it is long, painful and enduring torment.

Once women go back to their villages many of them do not want to talk about their experience. After years of attention drawn to their isolation due to their condition, they do not want to draw any more attention for having been treated. “In their mind, it only further reminds the community and humiliates the woman. That’s the problem,” Stewart said, troubled by her own statement. Enduring shame, mentally and physically, for so long, the last thing they [fistula patients] want to do is become a walking advertisement of what happened.

From February 21 to March 6, 2005, UNFPA launched the “Fistula Fortnight,” a two-week training and treatment project that addressed the problem of fistula in Nigeria, one of the larger areas affected.

Twelve Nigerian doctors and forty Nigerian nurses, as well as four volunteer doctors from the US and UK, participated in the Campaign. An additional 60 Nigerian nurses and Red Cross volunteers trained in counseling and post-operative care for patients.

After two weeks of learning and maybe a little bit of self-growth, doctors preformed 572 operations on 564 women. According to the campaign, the closure success rate was 87.3% determined at six to eight week’s post-operative. The other 20 to 30 percent were expected to progress over the following months, but determined as normal.

When Aliyu spoke in Brussels, the media and Parliaments asked the same repetitious question, ‘What can we do?’ Her answer was fitting, “The solution for people in the world is to raise a helping hand or to raise capital towards good medical facilities, attendants and medical personnel. I have to repeat the point again. Better birth attendants, and better health care facilities and also a kind of community-based intervention program have.”

During the Clinton administration, a signed proposal guaranteed setting aside $34 million in funding towards UNFPA. Instead, since 2002, the Bush administration de-funded UNFPA on claims they [UNFPA] support Chinese government in force sterilization and coercive abortions.

In June 2005, New York Representative, Caroline Maloney, reintroduced legislation, “Repairing Young Women’s Lives Around the World Act,” that would mandate $34 million strictly for fistula support.

Stewart’s eyes scanned the perimeter of the café, taking in the women on their lunch breaks, chattering to their girlfriends and laughing. Her eyes softened but remained adamant, “I think everyone would agree, this is not something political, this is strictly women’s health, and something needs to be done.”

Diversity Series

A New Beginning Makes A World Of Difference
By Laura Matteri

War broke out all around. 100,000 people were killed in the fighting. A girl and her family left everything they’ve ever known behind, including family, and moved to the safety of another country. While in Bosnia, the girl witnessed killings, massacres, and shooting of innocent civilians, including her mother. All of this happened before the age of seven.

Lejla Dobraca and her family fled Bosnia in 1993 and found relief in Germany. Dobraca’s father had been on a business trip to Libya before the war, so he and the family were separated for three years until he joined them in Germany. The Dobraca family kept their strength throughout the journeys they have made.

Bosnia is bordered by Croatia, Serbia, and Montenegro. Its independence was established during the Yugoslav Wars of the 1990s. Its capital is Sarajevo, which is located high up in the mountains.

There were several sides of the war. Serbia supported the Serbs who were loyal to Yugoslavia, while Croatia supported Herzegovina-Bosnia. Since there was involvement from so many sides, it was questioned whether it was a “civil war” or a “war of aggression.” It was ruled a war of aggression, although the genocides were not blamed on Serbia. There were mass killings and rapes, along with the siege of Sarajevo.

Dobraca started school without knowing a word of German. According to Dobraca, going to school there was “awkward.” Used to her native Bosnian language, she entered a program similar to the American ESL (English as a Second Language), although hers was GSL (German as a Second Language). “When you’re surrounded by [German] for eight hours a day, you just learn it,” Dobraca said

Dobraca, also known as “Leki” when she was young, was seen as a “troublemaker.” She was often jealous of the attention that her younger sister got. Once, Dobraca inhaled a bean to divert the attention from her sister to her. Needless to say, Dobraca’s mother had to call 911 because the bean got stuck. Despite her issues of jealousy, she loves her family immensely.

Dobraca, her mother Azra, her father Ekren, and her sister were a close family. As a child, Dobraca was “happy”, and her best memories are of time she spent with her grandmother. Days of cooking and storytelling were best spent while her parents worked every day. An ideal day of her childhood would be “playing in the park in Germany with my friends.” Her best friends were Amanda and Anita. They met at school in Germany and still keep in touch today.

In addition to witnessing the war as a child, one of the worst memories of living in Europe was when Dobraca and her family packed their apartment in Germany when they moved to America. The furniture remained in the apartment. They just “left the key downstairs and left.” It was hard for her to leave somewhere that she knew she would never see again.

The Bosnian war ended in December 1995 when Dobraca’s were living in Germany as war refugees, so they had to leave the country. The family visited Bosnia and Dobraca said the ruins were “surreal.”

Memories flooded her mind as she went through the towns that she knew so well. The memory of her mother being shot by a sniper will be with her forever. Thankfully, her mother survived with the loss of a kidney. After the visit to Bosnia, her parents applied to move to America and arrived in Vermont in 1999.

Family traditions were always important to the Dobraca’s. They speak Bosnian at home. There are a lot of family get-togethers and their Muslim religion is important to them. Dobraca said, “I was never pushed to learn about [my religion], so I’m going to learn about it on my own time. I don’t say that I’m Muslim just because my parents are. I want to learn about it when I’m ready.”

The war had a great affect on Dobraca’s life. She feels she has no hometown; that she doesn’t belong anywhere. “I’m a foreigner in my own country.” Even with Bosnian traditions practiced at home, it’s not the same. If she could do anything right now she would “go to Bosnia.”

Life has taught her many lessons. As a student at the University of Vermont, she works two part-time jobs in Burlington. She has learned from watching fellow employees “not to bring my personal life to work.” She’s deciding between working towards a major in journalism or psychiatry.

As for social aspects of her life, Dobraca said she hasn’t fallen in love yet. She has cared deeply for some, but no “love” yet. From previous relationships, she has learned to “do what you feel at the moment. Don’t hide feelings. You are going to want to look back and be able to say that you did everything you could to make the relationship work.”

Despite the harsh world she left, Dobraca has managed to create a new environment for herself where she can thrive. Her life in America is quite different from that in Bosnia or Germany, but a home is what one makes it. No matter what’s going on, if family is present, it creates a world of difference.

Diversity Series

Touched By An Angel: How My New York Super Kept Me Afloat
By Julie Buntin

Angel Marquez is the mechanic for my building. Before our conversation for this story, he was just the guy who hovered around the shed outside my stoop, lugging a bright orange toolbox and wearing a dirty white t-shirt. I noticed him, smiled at him, thanked him when he fixed the leaky water pipe in my roommate’s ceiling and filled the mouse hole behind the stove—but I never asked him a single personal question or even offered him a glass of water.

On Sunday, April 12, when my apartment flooded drastically, Marquez was the only person in the building who helped me. Together we transported several bags of stuff from the flooded basement into the upstairs kitchen, and Marquez even waded into the deepest sections of the downstairs living room to help me move my books to safety.

The water continued to rise, and after an hour or so, sweaty and soaked in dirty rainwater, the two of us sat down in exhausted, amiable silence at my kitchen table. To thank him for all his help, I insisted that he stay and help me eat a pizza I ordered from Ray’s across the street. The first thing one notices about Marquez—he is a shy man.

His voice is soft, and low, and often I found myself asking him to repeat answers to various questions. He has a round, kind face, framed by white fuzzy facial hair and an almost French looking white mustache. While we devoured huge slices of cheese pizza and the water in my basement continued to rise, I found myself growing more intrigued with Marquez by the minute. His heavy Spanish accent began to make sense to me, and through it, I could detect all the hallmarks of a quick and lively sense of humor, as well as a keen, observant mind. It isn’t that I hadn’t expected Marquez to be intelligent. I’m not that backwards. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to like him so much.

After a few minutes or so, I rather awkwardly asked him if he would allow me to interview him for my journalism class. It seemed somehow the perfect time. Disaster was striking me from every angle, and downstairs the notes for my other journalism story were floating in a soggy mess. At first, Marquez seemed tense and unwilling to answer with any great detail the questions I asked him about his life. But after a few minutes, he loosened up, and by the end, I dropped my notepad and let the conversation flow freely.

Marquez was born in Spanish Harlem on August 12, 1950, into a working class family of Mexican immigrants. This information was the first surprise of our conversation. From Marquez’s accent alone, I would have guessed English was his second language. The perfect encapsulation of a culture in my own city had never occurred to me. That someone could manage to speak Spanish more often in an English speaking city hit me like an epiphany, which speaks to my own lack of observation. According to Marquez, he grew up in a small apartment on 117th street and Third Avenue, sharing a room with his younger brother Javier.

During adolescence, Marquez’s father worked as a cab driver while his mother went through a stint of jobs—waitressing, working at a Laundromat—while attending night classes at CUNY. She never completed her degree, but the necessity of a college education for success in American culture resonated with Marquez from an early age.

“Getting a degree, that is what matters here. I didn’t listen, I did other things, never cared about school—I was making plenty of money doing odd jobs for people by the time I was sixteen. School was worse than a job, it was a waste of time… but even when I was skipping I could hear my mother saying no, Angel, this is a bad idea… I told my girls every day, go to college. And now they do!” Marquez said, before taking a huge bite of pizza.

Marquez has two daughters with his wife of 25 years. When he talks about his family, he grins uncontrollably, and his eyes grow a little distant. “My oldest daughter is an accounting major at Hunter College,” he says. “And the youngest, she hasn’t picked her major yet, she doesn’t know what she wants to do. She goes to CUNY. She’ll figure it out. Be a lawyer, that’s what I say, you can take care of me when I’m old!” Marquez laughs.

Following the questions about his family, I asked Marquez a list of favorites. His favorite food is steak. Good old American steak, medium rare. His favorite place to walk is right along the East River. Color? Blue.

Growing up in Spanish Harlem wasn’t as difficult as the media or even New Yorkers would have you believe, according to Marquez. “There were punks, and gangs, and people who would jump you walking down the street at night, sure, but it was no worse than anywhere else and if you kept your eyes out, you’d be fine.” At this point in our dialogue, the fire department arrived and we were interrupted.

Now when Marquez is over refinishing the floor down stairs and helping fix the flood damage, I make sure to chat with him for a few minutes and offer him something to eat or drink. In fact, I’d say we are friends. The last question I asked him? If he could go anywhere in the world, he would go to New Zealand. “No place like it in the world I hear.”

Diversity Series (Commentary)

The Blame Game
By Mark Moran

The timeless and enduring issue of prejudice has once again been pushed to the front of the American consciousness. This revisiting of our culture's attitudes towards minorities resulted from WFAN talk show host Don Imus' referring to members of the Rutgers women's basketball team as “nappy headed ‘hos.”

After Imus' comments caught the eye of the media, he became a figurative punching bag for nearly every American news outlet. America took action to conceal its shock. Al Sharpton called for Imus' resignation, the Today Show ran stories on ethnicity in the U.S., and on news programs, the self-righteous expressed how surprised and offended they were. His comments were unprofessional, offensive, and he should be held accountable for them: but why did they shock America so much?

Our culture sends such mixed messages about the ever-so-taboo topic of race. When comedians like Sara Silverman, Dave Chapelle, and Carlos Mencia spout off slurs and reinforce stereotypes, Americans don't burn them at the stake in the name of equality. In fact, we not only let these comments slide -- we laugh at them.

Chappelle's Show and Mind of Mencia have produced big ratings for Comedy Central, and Sara Silverman recently landed a show on the same network. There is, however, a big difference between these comedians and Don Imus: their remarks were in the context of a joke. But we still laugh.

Stereotypes and comedic prejudice are the basis for some of television’s highest rated shows. We stand on moral high ground when it comes to Don Imus, but still sit in front of the television and eagerly absorb shows that promote stereotypes. We call Imus a racist for labeling esteemed student athletes “hos”, but we call Eminem an artist when he labels gay people “fagots”.

It's sad but true -- we seem to be hypocrites. The VH1 reality show “Flavor of Love” has been criticized by many for not only reinforcing stereotypes, but for capitalizing on them. Yet, “Flavor of Love” is the highest rated show in the history of the network. There seems to be a large gap between our words and actions when it comes to prejudice.

Like previous calls to action during controversy, this illogical leap between words and actions are ignored and something or someone is designated the enemy. Marilyn Manson took the heat for Columbine, and it seems that the Hip-Hop industry will take the fall for Imus' stupidity. Every outraged commentator on every news show is now blasting rappers for using the “N” word. Just like how Manson's dark, tortured lyrics brainwashed the Columbine shooters, the Hip-Hop industry apparently gave the thumbs up to Imus' ignorant remarks. It seems that history is once again repeating itself.

When the American public's emotions run high, they wait for someone to direct their condemning finger. To pick who will play our moral foe, news commentators merely need to choose an unpopular public figure and use a minimal amount of reasoning. This avoidance tactic rarely fails; the public ignores the holes in logic and throws their stones.

One could see where these outraged commentators are drawing this conclusion from: rappers often use the “N” word and misogynist words/attitudes are almost standard. However, this hypothesis is giving far too much credit to the power of Hip-Hop, or rather, music in general.

Music is indeed a powerful art form, but implying it has the ability to shape or create wide spread cultural ideals is beyond ludicrous. This aside, it sill makes no sense that rap music allowed Imus to feel comfortable referring to the Rutgers team as “nappy headed hos”. It's hard to imagine Don Imus getting his groove on listening to Biggie or 50 cent.

Singling out one thing, in this case Hip-Hop, as the root of the problem seems to be the most popular course of action because it's the easiest. If the Hip Hop industry is blamed for America's views of minorities, the issue of prejudice can be treated like a disease.

From here, the solution is simple and simplified: Hip Hop is diagnosed as the virus infecting America, the treatment is censorship, and the children along with our fear of self-examination is protected. It's as easy as pie -- one problem and one solution -- a solution that never addressed the real problem.

To recognize the problem of prejudice and hopefully solve it, we must give up our blinded blame game. The problem isn't Hip Hop, ethnic comedy, television or any one thing deviously brainwashing us. The problem is within each of us as individuals. Some rappers say the “N” word and send misogynist/homophobic/bigoted messages, some comedians tell ethnic jokes, and some television shows reinforce stereotypes.

What these critics who love to point the moral finger must realize is that these things exist because we want them to. The American public buys these records, laugh at these jokes, and loyally watch these television shows.

The question isn't how these things influence us. If critics truly think these people and institutions are promoting bigotry, the question is why does America desire it? Musicians, comedians, and television shows that promote hate aren't the source of the problem they are the results. American attitudes regarding prejudice did not and do not stem from one thing.

Slavery, oppression, power, history, censorship, tradition, imperialism, and capitalism are merely a few of the forces that shaped and continue to shape how America views/treats minorities. These things not only affect how America treats minorities, but also how its people in general regard those who are different from them.

Many of people standing on their soapbox chastising Don Imus are part of the problem. As they look to Imus to see what wrong with America, they avoid looking at themselves and their own biases. Fueled by his self-satisfying self-righteousness, Al Sharpton called Imus a bigot and demanded his resignation. Does Sharpton know what the definition of bigot is?

Maybe Al forgot some of the bigoted comments he's made. Maybe he's forgotten his lecture at Kean College in 1994 where he was quoted saying, “We taught philosophy and astrology and mathematics before Socrates and those Greek homos ever got around to it.” Not only is Sharpton a hypocrite, but also like many condemning Imus he is part of the problem.

We must look to ourselves first if there is any hope of living in a society where race, gender, religion, sexuality, and every other differentiation that can be made are non-existent. Blaming the entertainment industry, Don Imus, or even Al Sharpton for bigotry in America is a fruitless effort. The comments Imus made has given our country and its people the opportunity to address prejudice.

If we want any sort of change, we must look at the whole picture: at our history, our government, our culture, and ourselves. We must acknowledge our own biases and ask ourselves why we have them. We need to show the same amount of outrage we are showing Don Imus when our government oppresses those based on their minority status.

What do we expect to happen from blaming Hip Hop for supposedly creating a culture where demeaning slurs are accepted? By blaming Hip Hop will censorship ensue in the name of equality? The continuation of the moral blame game offers only a hoax disguised as an answer. America doesn't need any more smoke screens; we need some old fashioned honesty -- from our country, our culture, and ourselves.

So America, do you think you can handle the truth?

Diversity Series

Making A Choice: Family Over Career
By Hillary Trautmann

Growing up in the 1950s was by far very different than growing up in the 2000s. Besides the differences in technology, among other cultural changes, people’s moral values seemed to be quite different as well.

When I sat down to interview Rosalie Morris, I was not expecting what I got. At age 68, she is still very talkative, opinionated, and full of energy. She stands at only five feet, but her bright red hair gives her at least another inch and a half. A mother of four children, two girls and two boys, says that she “has had a very fulfilling life.” That her family is the most important part of her life, and that she has never regretted giving up a career in the fashion industry for them.

Born on February 29, 1939, with the name Rosalie Nappi, to a Jewish mother and an Italian father, she has always been very open-minded and liberal in her beliefs. “Being born with mixed religious beliefs was not very common at that time, and I have found because of that, that it has made me more understanding of things such as, homosexuality and interracial marriage. Really, I believe that people should be able to do whatever makes them feel at their best.”

At 15, Morris met her future husband, Stephen, at an ice skating rink, in Bronx, New York, where they both grew up. They quickly began going “steady”, and were high school sweethearts, attending the prom together at William Taft High School. Two years later, they were married while he was attending The Fashion Institute of Technology and working towards an associative degree in fashion design. After graduating, Morris found out that she was pregnant.

“The thought of an abortion never crossed my mind, but of course in 1958, the times were so different from now. Abortion was still widely considered inhumane,” she said.

After the topic of abortion came up, I was interested to know what her feelings were on a women’s choice now, which is quite a controversial issue. “Let me tell you a story. A few years ago, I was walking to the store. It was very cold outside so I was wearing my fur coat. As I walked past two young girls, probably in their late teens, they commented on my coat. Telling me that I was an animal killer, yet all I could think was that they were baby killers.”

Morris explained this story by saying that she felt that because women have such a right to choose that they are no longer careful. That women seem to be much more promiscuous than ever before, that they almost seem to be taking advantage of a medical procedure. “This is not saying that I don’t believe in abortion in extreme circumstances, but I believe there is always another choice,” Morris said.

It is interesting that Morris feels that way though, because according to statistics from the Center for Disease Control, in 2003 in the United States there were 854,122 legally induced abortions done. Whereas, in 1989 the highest recorded number of abortions was done in the United States, being approximately 1.3 million.

Morris was on the right track though with the reasons for abortions. In 2000, only 1% of abortions were because of cases of rape and/or incest, whereas, the number one reason was simply the want to postpone childbearing, with a whooping percentage of 25.5.

So, even if abortion were an option for Morris’s life, would it have made a difference?

“Absolutely not. Although my life could have gone in an entirely different direction, and maybe I could have been a successful career woman, I am a successful family woman instead. I was in love when I became pregnant, and still am. I wouldn’t change my life for anything,” She says this with a smile, and she means it.

Diversity Series

Finding God
By Cara Schweikert

At first glance, Mitchell Hernandez is a good-looking, fit, young, vibrant man. Even in his orange jumpsuit. He walks with a certain swagger, one that most men coming from the streets do, and his brown eyes portray a painful seriousness. Hernandez is a 34 year-old inmate stuck in the prison system.

Hernandez is what the state and federal system would characterize as a nonviolent drug offender. He is serving federal time at the Nassau County Correctional Center in Long Island New York. He is an individual raised in unfortunate circumstances, sadly becoming the thing he knows best, a victim of the streets. Hernandez has been in and out of prison three times, first for five years, the second time for eight years, and now he is awaiting his sentence.

Born and raised in Sunset Park Brooklyn, Hernandez is of Puerto Rican and Costa Rican decent. He describes the neighborhood he grew up as, “diverse, mostly white, Spanish and Mexican.” Mitch has acquired three felonies throughout the years, all drug-related. In the first few minutes of speaking to him, he said several times that he believes “everything happens for a reason” and that beyond all the sadness life has brought him he still feels that “God has a greater plan.”

Mitchell Charles Hernandez was born on August 31, 1972 at Momoides hospital in Brooklyn. Both of his grandparents immigrated here from Puerto Rico and Costa Rica in the 1950s. Hernandez was the first of three siblings born to Mirna Millan when she was just 16 years old. He has two siblings Charley and Erica, who came shortly after. His parents were never married and separated when he was young, “I hardly ever saw my father. My mother was so young, she was more like a friend to me.”

Hernandez had anything but a normal childhood. He enjoyed having fun being “adventurous”; he liked skateboarding and playing handball in a nearby parking lot with his brother and sister. His favorite childhood memory was a school play he was in when he was nine because “I got a lot of attention.” His worst childhood memory was discovering his mother was a heroin user when he walked in on her in the bathroom one day “with a needle in her arm.”

Hernandez enjoyed school and was an average student but found himself easily distracted by the absence of his mother’s love and the constant worry of her drug use, which began to progress. Besides the fact that their mother neglected him and his siblings, his father was also a drug user, a “violent drug user” and continued to fade in and out of their lives and in and out of jail, even today. His father was diagnosed with HIV 10 years ago due to his heroin use.

Hernandez doesn’t remember the exact day or month, but when he was 13 years old, he and his brother had returned home one afternoon to find his mother lying naked in the bathtub unconscious. Mirna Millan died in 1987 of a heroin overdose. She was 26. His grandmother took them in after his mother’s death, but she died six months later of cancer. Hernandez said, “it wasn’t just the cancer that killed her, she died of a broken heart, losing her daughter was too much for her to take. I loved my grandmother.”

Shortly after, Hernandez said began hanging out with the wrong crowd and doing stupid things for attention. “I dropped out of high school in the eleventh grade and began selling and using cocaine. The first time I got locked up, I was 17 years old and I did five years.” It becomes clear where the painful seriousness in his eyes comes from, the memories to him are clear as day and he has not begun to move forward and overcome his past.

The U.S. Justice Department recently conducted a survey comparing childhood neglect involving New York State inmates and found that 68% percent of inmates in county jails in 2005 did not complete high school, and 60% of these men were abused or neglected as children.

For the survey, the Justice Department selected subjects at random from convicted male felons in New York State maximum security facilities. This was either the first or second incarceration for 89% of the subjects. The average age of these men was 30 years old. The definition of neglect used in the study included examples of children being left alone while their parents were gone for long periods, hearing from others that they were not getting enough to eat, not receiving proper medical care, poor hygiene, and being cared for by other relatives because no one was home.

These circumstances were a fact of life for Hernandez, and when asked how he dealt with this neglect as a child, he said, “when you’re in a bad situation, as a kid, you learn to do things to make yourself happy, you rely on yourself more than anyone else.”

Another study taken by The Journal Urban of Health shows that high rates of nonviolent inmates have grown immensely since the Rockefeller Drug Laws were enacted in 1973, which require harsh prison terms for possession or sale of relatively small amounts of drugs, regardless if the individual is a first time offender. These drug laws apply to any individual involved in narcotics sales without regard to the circumstance of the offense, or the individual’s character or background.

The Journal of Urban Health says, “high rates have begun since the Rockefeller Drug Laws, young minority males from inner city neighborhoods of New York. If instead of the prison inmates, these figures represented the progress of a new epidemic disease (e.g. AIDS epidemic) we would employ a set of standard methods to assess their impact. But prison data are not normally viewed as collective events that warrant such an assessment.” In other words, the casualty of drug inmates is so high that it could be described as a disease.

Hernandez is not just a drug offender, and he is not just an inmate. He has lived a life “full of ups and downs.” When asked if he has a girlfriend, he says, “I fell in love in 2004, of course I had girlfriends throughout the years, but when I met her, every time I was around her I had so much energy, she gave me energy and my attitude changed for the better.” Hernandez said when he is released he wants to get married, have a family, and look into opening his own clothing store. He loves art and has always been into urban men’s fashion.

Hernandez does not know yet how much time he will be serving. He has been held in Long Island for eight months awaiting federal sentencing for selling and possession of 30 pounds of marijuana, which he says, “is not a significant amount compared to most other individuals.” He is expecting to serve from two to five years because this is his third offense.

When asked about the most profound spiritual moment of his life, Hernandez said, “when I finally saw and felt everything I wanted in my life, when I realized I had everything I wanted, when I was content with my relationship with my girlfriend and my life in general, that same day I got locked up, that’s when I turned to God --for strength.”

Hernandez is involved in the drug program, bible study, gets weekly visits from his girlfriend and continuously goes to mass at the jail. He spends the rest of his time, “Mostly worrying, and praying. Worrying about losing my girlfriend, losing what I had and praying.” As the prison visit ends, he says, “Never take anything for granted, if you love someone, love them with your all, treat them the best you can because a person will never forget if you hurt them.”

Diversity Series

Coping With The Leap To Urban From Rural
By Leigh Baker

The uncomfortable, homesick feeling that comes when one moves from the comfort of home is intense enough. When moving from a severely rural area into a brutally urban setting, however, the pressure becomes immense. According to the Network of Rural Ministries Serving Youth, one third of the nation’s students live in rural America, which describes the age at which most people leave their homes to venture into “the real world.”

Although this is not an overly startling statistic, it goes to show that the small percentage of students who are enduring these conditions are in for a surprise when the time comes to leave their humble abode.

Matthew Engel, a 20 year-old student in New York City, says that his transition was especially difficult. Engel comes from a small beach town in Northwest Indiana that lines Lake Michigan with sand dunes and saw grass. Its population is a mere 1,300 people.

“It takes me 25 minutes just to get to the grocery store,” says Engel. He loves the place from which he comes and is truly thankful for the plethora of childhood memories that he now has. Engel enjoys talking about his home, despite its rural qualities. “It’s quiet, it’s friendly, and everybody knows everybody. I love the familiar faces.”

So why make the transition if home is where the heart is? Despite this vast appreciation, he says, “I understand what I have to do.” He came to New York City to find the opportunity that he felt he needed in order to succeed, opportunities he says he could never find in his hometown. He says, “City life is tough. Some days I love it, some days I hate it, but in the end, I really appreciate the chances I’m going to get out here.”

Engel says he really does love the life of a hardened New Yorker, but it’s so chaotic that it sometimes seems to be too much to handle. That is why, he says, going home is such a treat. “It reminds me of my childhood and gives me a nice break from this hectic thing I call my life.”

Growing up in a small town, as many people do, has its advantages and disadvantages. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, 24.8 percent of the total population is considered “rural.”

Another young adult, Kristin Cieresewski, grew up in a small town in Southwest Michigan replete with cornfields and friendly neighbors. The high school she attended is set next to a cow farm in which, during the warmer months, she says that you can smell the manure wafting through the air vents. The town itself only has 2,500 people, though the school district slightly exceeds the town’s boundaries. The district is continually growing, but Cieresewski spent her elementary years in classes of no more than fifteen students.

She speaks of her hometown with longing. “I love my home, but I was definitely ready to get out of there when the time came.” She left for college at Grand Valley State University in Grand Rapids, Michigan, only about an hour’s drive from her house. The main campus itself is in a rural area, but Cieresewski is attending the downtown campus, which is set in a city of nearly 200,000. Though this doesn’t quite compare to Engel’s jump to a city of eight million, Cieresewski faced struggles of her own.

“I’m not used to the people. They all seem to be in a rush when I seem to have no place to go. It’s almost scary,” she says. Similar to Matthew Engel’s move, the shock of city life took some time to set in. Now, Cieresewski says, she has become used to it, but sometimes it’s a little overwhelming. “Sometimes, I just need to relax and take a break from all the madness.”

Many teens leave home with no regrets until they realize that their friendly hometown truly holds a special place in their lives and hearts. These two fresh city faces, Matthew Engel and Kristin Cieresewski, are enjoying their newfound freedom in a new place, despite its differences from everything they have come to know thus far in their lifetimes.

The rural areas of America are some of the most comfortable places to grow up, but leaving home sometimes poses a predicament. Many people are strong enough to handle the change, but there are a number of options for those who have difficulty. Some end up revisiting their rural homeland, while others take advantage of the services offered through their school or community to cope with their stressful surroundings.

City life may not be for all of those who first think it is, but those who endure the initial struggle seem to love the experience in the end. “It’s all simply an experience,” says Engel, “and I’m glad that I’ve stuck it out for this long.”

Diversity Series

Poetry Slam Host Bids Adieu
By Benjamin Peryer

It has been called an institution for underground artists by critics, an utterly brilliant diamond in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, but for Nathan Pierce of the Nuyorican Poet’s Café in the East Village, it was home.

Pierce, the host of the Friday Night Poetry Slams at the Nuyorican, is better known at the café as Nathan P. With his cool personality reminiscent of Shaft and an inspiring impersonation of Prince, Pierce has energizing Poetry Slam audiences since Fall 2000.

This coming month will be last for Pierce at the Nuyorican. “It’s time to move on, not forgetting the past, but continuing on to a newly creative future.”

Pierce came across the poetry scene in New York by accident in 1999 when a friend dragged him to a poetry slam. Pierce remembers his reluctance towards poetry saying, “daffodils, and bunny rabbits, I haven’t done poetry since eighth grade.”

Pierce recalls his reaction to the slam as being a life changing moment. “I’m sitting there, listening to this phenomenal art thinking, poetry? This can be poetry?”

The night following Pierce’s first slam he began to start writing the first of would become an impressive installment of poems called “It’s Madness.”

As the poems began to build up, Pierce wanted to learn more about the poetry scene in New York. This is when he told about the Nuyorican Poet’s Café.

What began in the living room of founder Miguel Algarin in 1973 with the mission of bringing New York work into the public eye soon became a sought out form of communication for many young artists in the city. Poetry was a vital sign of a new underground culture in New York and needed to be heard live.

By 1980, the Nuyorican opened in its current home of Thirst Street and Avenue C. The café’s mission of creating a multi-cultural venue for new artists has only strengthened in time. Slam performers at the café have moved onto film, literature and theatre projects, including 1987 Slam Champion Sarah Jones who won a Tony for her one-woman show “Bridge and Tunnel” in 2006.Pierce first entered the café in 2000 after hearing about it through a mutual friend. What he found was a stage he would stand upon every Friday night for seven years.

For Pierce, poetry became a part of who he was while hosting the slams at the café. “It’s such an easy art form to do, yet it has so much power over people.” It has created a certain atmosphere. “There is electricity in the air, like it was a rock concert.” And you can ask a stranger for a seat without being met with stuck up attitudes. Pierce recognizes poetry as an art form that has the power to bring people together.

New York has been a creative feeding ground for young underground artists. Pierce’s well-known poem “It’s Madness” looks at social issues ranging from politics to poverty. The hook of the poem reads “it’s madness, yo, sheer madness.” It looks at the way someone would beg in the street for sixteen hours, but not take a job for eight hours.

“This is madness, I thought, and I wanted to know if anyone else was seeing these types of things.” For him, New York was a fuel for that.

This subject matter comes from Pierce’s daytime job, social services. Pierce works as welfare reform working with programs that put people back in jobs. “This has always extended into my poetry,” he says.

His last night will be a bittersweet one for Pierce and the audience that has come to adore him. His relationship will not end with the café or with poetry, but for Pierce, it is time to continue with his work.

His message with his poetry: “Change yourself, you can change the world.”

Diversity Series

Kenneth Goldsmith: A Life Of Service
By Aimee La Fountain

“I had always expected to be of the helping profession,” says Kenneth Goldsmith, 70, director of volunteers at the Museum of Jewish Heritage. He has fulfilled that expectation through his work, training volunteers for various organizations in New York City.

Goldsmith grew up in Salem, Massachusetts, “a small city with a lot of history”, as he refers to it. The son of a neighborhood pharmacist, Goldsmith and his family were prominent members of the community. Goldsmith recalls that the worst even of his youth was the “untimely and unexpected” death of his mother while he was studying at New York University. Her passing motivated him to transfer to Boston University in order to help care for his younger brother, Eddie.

Family unity is a resounding theme in Goldsmith’s life. When Eddie moved to New York City, Goldsmith decided to return to the city to be with him. Through his years residing in New York Goldsmith has watched the city evolve. The most dramatic change Goldsmith observes is how the city has become safer over the years.

He says, “It seems safer now, even with the threat of terrorism. There was a lot of street crime until about five years ago. One felt personally threatened.” Goldsmith says that being close to his brother is one of his favorite aspects of living in New York, though he readily provides other attributes to the city.

One of which is the city rich cultural life. When Goldsmith first came to New York he was offered work with renowned French mime Marcel Marceau as a publicist. Goldsmith considers the city to be his gateway to many of the experiences he has enjoyed in his life. He says, “I really get to see and do a lot that only happens in New York.”

The rise of the AIDS epidemic in New York during the 1980s led Goldsmith to his career as director of volunteers at the Spellman Center at St. Claire’s Hospital. The Center for Disease Control reports that 100,777 people died from AIDS from 1981-1990. According to the American Council on Science and Health, of the 116,316 New Yorkers diagnosed with AIDS from 1981-2001, 72,207 have died.

Goldsmith says, “I wanted to work for ‘my people’- gays and [members of] the theatre community. I didn’t realize that my people were also the intravenous drug users.” At the Spellman Center Goldsmith counseled those working directly with AIDS patients and he also ran the National AIDS Hotline.

Goldsmith remembers that those living with AIDS were estranged from society early in the epidemic. “It was an exciting and challenging time. People living with AIDS were very much marginalized and not a lot of people were willing to work with them,” he said. For this reason, those who were willing to work with AIDS patients often found themselves overworked. Said Goldsmith, “The physical work and the emotional strain were very hard. It was truly being in the frontline.”

Goldsmith recalls this time in his life as a challenging experience. “The work was so overwhelming that any small escape, dinner out, theatre, music, was powerfully restorative,” he said. Despite these challenges, Goldsmith remained loyal to his cause. Goldsmith observed, “It seemed we were always tired, but never enough to think about stopping the work. It was a time best described as vocation, being called to true service.”

Another challenge Goldsmith faced was working with people he didn’t always agree with morally or professionally. He commented that this struggle turned into a lesson in patience for him. “[My] work life has taught me to try to love everyone, even the people I don't like very much,” he said. Goldsmith adds that his life philosophy is to “try to be accepting of all people and avoid being judgmental.”

Reviewing the occupations Goldsmith has held over the years, his professions reflect his desire to live a life of goodwill. He says, “I really don't feel I have chosen a career. Each job I've had has put me where I am today.” Where Goldsmith is today is a place of modest contentment. “I don't take pride in any individual accomplishments, but I am happy to have led a life which seems to have meaning,” he said.

It has been 25 years since Goldsmith first moved to the city. His fondness for New York and his work has inspired him to alter how he envisions his future. Goldsmith said, “I [had] imagined that I would [eventually] retire and be living at the beach. The truth is that I don't think I will ever leave the city and I don't think I will ever fully retire.”