You betta Belize it: Global ESCAPE Team IV and I had a wonderful time in Belize, C.A. From the time we all met up last Sunday afternoon in Miami International Airport to yesterday afternoon’s parting over a last cup of (remarkably good) café con leche from the airport edition of the Miami institution Café Versailles, the 11 of us navigated customs, learned to live on Belizean time, saw Mayan ruins, ate mountains of fryjacks, demolished pounds of rice-n-beans, tortured our taste buds with Marie Sharp’s famous Belizean habañero sauce, roasted in the sun, sweated through outfit after outfit, got drenched by the beginnings of the rainy season, shook it with Garifuna dancers, “went slow” on Caye Caulker, sampled a few bottles of Belikin (the Beer of Belize), saw crushing poverty butted right up against relative opulence, and in so many other ways crammed a remarkably large slice of Belizean life into a weeklong trip—oh, and let’s not forget: we left a bright yellow, 16-by-16 foot home behind as a lasting legacy of our time there.
After snatching about four hours of fitful sleep, my trip started with the beep-beeping of my alarm clock at 3:55 AM on the 23rd. I shoveled a bowl of cereal, threw a last few items in my bag, and jumped in the car with Dad for the ride to Logan to catch the 7:05 American flight to Miami. There, I met up with the rest of the group, which was making its way in from New York, New Jersey, and Washington, for the flight to Belize City and the more official start of the trip.
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Aggravating/Enjoyable Travel Note of the Week I: Sitting at the gate in Boston, sipping a Starbucks and perusing the Sunday Globe, I’ve been watching Nervous Nellie a few seats away fidgeting and glancing worriedly out the window for some time. Turns out she’s concerned about the fog that’s blanketing the airport; unable to contain herself any longer, Nellie turns to the gate attendant and asks, “What do you think are the chances of these clouds lifting in the next hour and a half [before takeoff]? I mean, how do we know if there are other planes flying around out there so we won’t hit them?” Mystified gate worker: “Ummm, it’s all electronic, ma’am.” Welcome to the 21st century, Nellie: the fog didn’t lift, but we took off on time and without incident.
Aggravating/Enjoyable Travel Note of the Week II: Thanks to a booking snafu, I was not ticketed with the rest of the group, and ended up being booked in business class, front row, port side, aisle seat. I’d never flown anything but steerage before in my life, and, especially given that American’s nickel-and-diming is especially noxious (you have to pay for snacks, blankets, pillows, and earphones, for crying out loud), found that the front row suited me just fine. I spent the first half-hour of the flight luxuriating in my leather seat, stretching out for every inch of that legroom, figuring out where all of the tray tables and stuff are stowed (in the armrest, apparently), turning down glass after tiny plastic glass of champagne, and scoffing at Celebrated Living, American’s special in-flight magazine for the upper classes. The extra-attentive service, warm dish of mixed nuts at takeoff, and curried rice and shrimp entrée with salad, bread, and dessert served on real china and silver were also much appreciated.
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Unsurprisingly enough, my 96 minutes of celebrated living ended rather abruptly upon deplaning. That will conclude the climate-controlled portion of today’s service, ladies and gentlemen: a giant staircase improbably perched in the bed of a 90’s-vintage Ford pickup made a few awkward passes at the side of the aircraft before coming to rest squarely against the door, which was duly opened into the 80-plus-degree heat with 80-plus-percent humidity that is Belize on the cusp of the rainy season. After letting the less-celebrated folk catch up inside the terminal, we all cleared customs and immigration together and got the Belizean portion of the trip officially underway.
Aside from the heat, the lifestyle contrast was the most striking thing: I’d gone from business class to the land of the bicycle right-of-way (“They have to ride, you don’t have to drive,” explained one of our hosts) in a matter of minutes. Hand In Hand Ministries, the Kentucky-based organization that was our in-country host group, sent us Roxanne and her giant maroon van to meet us outside the terminal. That van, and the Starfish House to which it would take us, would be our twin homes for the next week.
After getting settled in at the Starfish, we met in the kitchen over chips and salsa (to sate those who’d missed out on the curried rice shrimp-and-scallop bowl) to go over the schedule for the week and other orientation matters with Roxanne and Bridget, the ESCAPE director our group’s leader. Once we’d gotten the logistics ironed out, Roxanne introduced to the story of the starfish, for which the house we were staying in was named. As the story goes, a little boy is walking along the beach, throwing stranded starfish back into the water. Along comes a cynical old man, who watches for a while, then chides the boy for the futility of his action: he can’t possibly save every starfish washed up on the beach, so why bother? The boy simply tosses another one back, then turns to the old man and replies: “I made a difference for that one.” The metaphor was well-chosen. Starting Tuesday, we’d be headed into one of the poorest parts of a very poor town in an impoverished country—the entire population of which is about half that of Washington, D.C.—to build a house for one woman and her daughters. We’d see a lot of other struggling families in the area, some only feet away, that we couldn’t help, but we knew that we could make a real difference in the life of one of them.
That night, we attended Mass at the local Jesuit parish, St. Martin de Porres. The celebrant, Fr. Brian, began his homily with an anecdote from his days as a student at none other than Boston College. After a very upbeat worship service that induced a serious case of “ministry envy” in Keith, our Jesuit novice, we went back to the Starfish to rest after a very long day of travel, feeling immersed in the Belizean culture and reminded of the high calling of our mission that week. Exhausted, we fell asleep to the unique drumming sound of heavy tropical rain on a zink roof.
Having celebrated the birthday of the Church the previous night (Pentacost), Monday marked another birthday celebration: the Queen’s. A former British possession—hence its English-speaking presence in a decidedly Spanish-speaking neighborhood between Guatemala and Mexico and its membership in CARICOM despite its Central American location—Belize celebrates Commonwealth Day, the Queen’s birthday, as a bank holiday. That being the case, not much work, including of the Global ESCAPE variety, gets done on Commonwealth Day. Instead, we reverted to some good old-fashioned volantourism, taking a field trip to the Maya ruins at Altun Ha with Roxanne, her husband David, and their adorable youngest son, Asher. After climbing the pyramids, we piled back into the van for a trip to Old Belize, a very cheesy tourist location that attempts to market “old-time” Belizean heritage along with a Zipline Adventure and artificial lagoon (yours with Slippery Conch waterslide access for $10BZ). Resisting the temptations of the Slippery Conch, we took a van tour of the north (nicer) side of the city, giving us an image of Belize that would be challenged by the beginning of the build the next day.
Tuesday morning, we arrived onsite to find Miss Amybell, the woman whose home we would be building, standing in the door of her colorful but obviously precarious shack with a gaggle of children and grandchildren. In front of the house (such as it was) was the 25-by-25-foot square of more or less packed and leveled soil, required by Hand In Hand of all potential home recipients, on which the house would be built. Besides the dirt patch, all we had to work with was a load of lumber, some coarse aggregate and cement mix, cinder blocks, tools, and our site bosses, Beto and Alfonso. After a quick opening prayer, we unloaded the truck and set up the tent that would offer some shade to those working beside the foundation site throughout the week.
The work went blindingly fast. In the space of three and a half days, we went from dirt patch to fully-constructed (if sparsely-appointed) house. By 4 PM on Tuesday, we’d constructed the five cinder block columns that would form the house’s foundation, built and laid the two halves of the floor, and framed two of the exterior walls. As the day progressed, many of the neighbors (some of them daughters of Miss Amybell, some recipients of Hand In Hand houses themselves) pitched in to help with the construction. This had not been planned, but more hands made for lighter work and they were welcomed onto the jobsite.
Before we’d even reached the site that morning, however, we’d had an incredibly touching visit to a Hand In Hand homeowner named Lauren, whose house had been built by the first Global ESCAPE team three years ago. Roxanne had driven us on a somewhat meandering route through the south side of the city to get a glimpse of what the impoverished half lived like, Lauren’s house was our last stop before heading to work. After seeing what she’d done with the home in three years—a remarkable transformation from basic structure to small but very personalized and well-kept home—Lauren launched into a parting soliloquy on what a blessing the house had been in her life the past several years. She concluded that all good things came from God and that she was convinced that we doing His work—a powerful sentiment with which to begin the workweek—then told us to wait one moment before we left.
Ducking behind a doorframe into the master bedroom, she retrieved a card and held it out to us. There, in a poor but proud home in the poorest section of Belize City, we beheld a picture of Healy Hall, the main building on Georgetown’s campus. This card was one of the GU bookstore staples, one we’d passed by half a zillion times on our way through to pick up textbooks or trinkets. It was a note from the members of GET I, which she read and then passed around the group. On the back of the card were the signatures of all the team members, many of whom we knew personally. It’s hard to describe what it feels like to see something like that, lovingly preserved for three years, in such a foreign corner of the world. “Hoya Saxa” doesn’t quite cut it; I think our other, unofficial, slogan may do better: Georgetown Forever!
The next days passed in a sweaty haze of sun, occasional rain, and furious work. We made so much progress on Wednesday—walls framed, planked and painted; bathroom nook floored and framed; first cuts made on the next day’s lumber—that there was hope of finishing the entire build on Thursday. As it happened, that was getting a little ahead of ourselves, but by the end of Thursday the end was clearly in sight. Another few hours, we knew, should do the trick. Caught up to the schedule of the week, we knew we’d have time to make our planned visit to Hand In Hand’s older ministry, an outreach center for children infected and affected by HIV/AIDS on Friday morning before finishing construction and blessing the home that afternoon.
The trip to the outreach center was both touching and devastating. First, we talked with the Belizean director of the center and its two nurses, one a Belizean woman and the other a nun from Wisconsin who’d spent years as a nurse practitioner in Belize working with HIV/AIDS patients. After a question-and-answer session with them and a quick tour of the facility, we got to meet and play with about two dozen children of preschool age who were attending the center that day. Closer inspection of these apparently happy, normal, young children quickly revealed the lesions on their legs characteristic of their disease. Though they are all nominally on antiretroviral drugs, ensuring compliance of these children (whose parents often don’t tell them that they are sick or what ails them) with their drug regimens is always a challenge. It was absolutely heartbreaking to see these kids running, playing, eating watermelon, and doing all the other “kid things” that their peers in would be while knowing that they were all living under what could be viewed as either a life sentence (of ARV’s, doctors, and sickness) or a death sentence (of noncompliance, ignorance of their illness, infection, and eventual death, reviled by a society that deeply stigmatizes HIV and AIDS).
Still running on the deliciously fresh local pineapple and bananas Bridget and Keith had surprised us with at breakfast that morning, we headed for the worksite and the completion of the project. A few hours of especially energetic work saw the roof completed, the final paint jobs completed, the windows and doors installed, the interior partition nailed up, and me earning the title “Wet Boy” by remaining outside to finish nailing false rafters up under the eaves despite a sudden tropical downpour while everyone else worked inside the house. Toeing in the last nail atop a ladder, water pouring down off the roof into my face, and swinging the hammer with one hand while trying to hold electrical wires out of my face (smart move, Colin) with the other, Beto finally called me inside. Another nail here, a little redecoration with a Skil Saw there, and it was time to hand over the keys.
By that point, the directors of Hand In Hand had arrived to participate in the blessing ceremony, and they brought Miss Amybell and her daughters from their old house out to their new home. After singing a few songs, dripping onto her new floor, Keith led us in a blessing focused on sharing what we were each grateful for in life, in hopes that the new home and its owners would be filled with the spirit of gratitude long after we had left. After the sharing concluded, we extended our hands over the family in blessing and then “grabbed a wall” and blessed the home. That done, Bridget handed the keys, a card, and a housewarming gift to Miss Amybell, who held them up, smiling and wiping away a tear. After hugs all around, we sang Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song,” posed for a group photo in front of the house, and then waved goodbye to Miss Amybell, clambered into the van one more time, and left the bright yellow house—the newest address on Freedom Street—to its proud new owners. We couldn’t help every family there, but seeing Miss Amybell hold up her new keys made clear beyond any shadow of a doubt that we’d made a difference for that one.
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The rest of the trip put the tourism in “volantourism.” Friday night, a troupe of Garifuna dancers came to the Starfish to share their culture with us through dance. Though their people make up only seven percent of the population of Belize, as the dancers said, the Garifuna make a disproportionate amount of noise. Their singing and drumming is loud, to be sure, but his point was more broadly taken: they might be a minority but the Garifuna, children of the Arawak, Carib, and African peoples, exert a loud and proud influence on the culture of Belize as a whole.
Early Saturday morning, we were off to Caye Caulker (pronounced “key”) for a day of fun in the sun before leaving the country. Fun it was, but sun there wasn’t: yet another rainstorm rolled in and blanketed our one day on the island with clouds and showers. The official motto of the island, Go Slow, set a vastly different tone from the jam-packed days of construction that had preceded this one. We started out with a wonderful snorkeling trip out to the reef, then spent the rest of the day wandering the streets haggling at tourist traps, drinking coffee and playing UNO at a café, and generally going slow. Being ESCAPE leaders, we couldn’t really go a night without reflecting, so we all went up to the roof of our hotel after supper to stare out over the ocean, shoot the shit one more time, and simply enjoy each others’ company for one last night.
Sunday was a blur, from 5:30 AM (central time) wake-up to 7 AM water taxi back to Belize to 9:30 flight to Miami to 6:10 flight to Boston. After an excruciating odyssey through the T (thanks for the heads-up on the maintenance work, D line), I arrived at Woodland station pretty spent and hungry (nothing to eat that Cuban coffee and pastry in Miami just after 5). Sans car, though, I decided to walk home. Turns out the Newton to Wellesley schlep takes a bit longer by foot (with duffel bag) than by car; about 45 minutes after leaving Woodland, I finally unlocked the door to my empty house just after midnight. Fighting back the initial panic at seeing the note from my family (away camping on the Cape) that apologized for the lack of food in the house, I managed to put together enough leftovers, cereal, and granola bars to make a very late supper. Tired beyond sleep, I read a few pages, fell asleep on the couch (a time-honored tradition of mine), woke at 4 AM with all the lights on, and stumbled to bed. And slept till 9.
And so ended, for good this time, sophomore year and my time as an ESCAPE leader. I covered what those milestones meant to me last time; suffice it to say for now that those feelings have only been deepened by this past week’s experiences. It was a wonderful and challenging experience that was also deeply rewarding and memorable. I’m sure I’ll treasure it for a long time, especially as I head into the summer and then into my year abroad. I’m certainly glad to have had this taste of life in a foreign country before heading out into the world (God willing, I’ll be touching down at Ataturk International in Istanbul in less than three months).
More than anything, the feeling that abides with me from this trip is the one that I felt at the beginning when Lauren showed us her Healy Hall card and that I felt again when Miss Amybell held up her new keys. Quite simply, that feeling is this: Georgetown, no matter its faults, has a longer reach and a wider net than I ever could have appreciated before this, and it produces a lot of good people who do a lot of good in the world. We might not be able to save the entire world or even an entire neighborhood, but we can be angels to a woman and her family, and at the end of the day it’s a real blessing to be part of something like that and to have the wherewithal to have done what this group did. Few twenty-somethings in this world have the resources and opportunity to do something like that, and few of those that do choose to make use of them. Back in my multi-roomed, multi-storied, fully-wired and –plumbed yellow house on Clifton Road, I’m immensely grateful to have been one of nine students at a school that provides and encourages such opportunities to have said Yes to the chance we were offered.
Who can know what becomes of the starfish the boy in the story rescues, how many little starfish they have, what sorts of lives they live? The important thing is that live they do, and that’s difference enough for each that gets rescued to justify the apparently quixotic effort in the first place. Who can know what will become of Miss Amybell’s new home, how it may impact the lives of her and her family and any future inhabitants? Perhaps a solid structure will be satisfactory enough, perhaps she’ll take what she has been given and run with it as Lauren has. At least we helped give her a chance. And that’s something, isn’t it?
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
How Long's It Been?
WASHINGTON, D.C.--That's the last time you'll see that dateline from this writer for at least a year. This show is indeed hitting the road sometime Sunday morning, not to return to the Hilltop till the fall of 2011. That's a really big thought and I'll get to it, but I'm going to lead with a few paragraphs of the more political/polemical nature that you're probably more used to seeing on this site. As my last post of the first half of my time at GU and given that it relates to an issue near and dear to my heart, I hope it makes up for the two-month lag since the last one.
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As most of you know, I spent my spring break this year in Biloxi, MS with one of Georgetown's Alternative Spring Break trips called GU HERE. GU HERE--Georgetown University Hurricane Emergency Relief Efforts--began five years ago in response to Hurricane Katrina. I never did get around to putting some words on the experience to my pictures; before going further, however, the trip does deserve a little bit of background.
Katrina, in most people's minds, conjures up images of New Orleans and especially the Lower Ninth Ward. The city and the Lower Ninth were indeed inundated; I wish to take nothing away from the catastrophe wrought there. As one of the people I met on my spring break trip smartly pointed out, however, New Orleans was fundamentally a man-made disaster: terrible errors in human judgment and the failure of man-made safety measures were primarily responsible for the cataclysmic damage suffered in that city.
What fewer people remember, though, is that the eye wall of the storm--the most intense part, with the highest storm surge, the highest winds, and the most natural damage--actually hit a little town called Bay St. Louis in Mississippi, the third-oldest city on the Gulf Coast. Bay St. Louis is just a little bit west along the coast from Biloxi; we were working in a town just in between the two called D'Iberville, in which, like in Biloxi proper and Bay St. Louis, the damage from the storm is still very much visible. In my estimation, in the poorer sections of town in which we were working, probably every third lot or so had only a concrete slab in the shape of a house's footprint where the house once was. At least one of the other two homes usually showed evidence of storm damage, too.
GU HERE was set up in response to the storm to give students a chance to go down to the coast, lend a hand in reconstruction in some of the hardest-hit neighborhoods, and also to see the New Orleans side of the story on the way back, driving the hour and a half west along the country's southernmost interstate, I-10, to spend a few hours in NOLA before turning back north to Chattanooga and Washington.
Don't get me wrong--my time in D'Iberville and Biloxi was absolutely incredible, filled with great people and great experiences that I will carry with me for a very long time. That said, I lost a big piece of my heart in New Orleans in the four hours we spent there, and it hasn't returned yet. As my parents will tell you, the second I got back on campus, I whipped out my cell phone and called home to say that, yeah, we'd had some fun building on houses and stuff down in Missi, but damn, I was ready to move to NOLA!
I've never been so captivated by a city in my entire life. We parked at the old Jackson Brewery (now a mall), walked a half-block over to Cafe Du Monde, somehow managed to seat 25 people with no wait, demolished a staggering amount of coffee and chicory au lait and the Cafe's signature item, heavenly French doughnuts called beignets, little triangular delicacies that come with about a half-pound of powdered sugar over top of them (standard order is three).
After a couple of hours exploring the French Quarter--including the requisite photo op under a Rue de Bourbon street sign--we piled back into the vans and headed down into the Lower Ninth. I don't have an appropriate adjective to describe it. Most homes are still sealed from the storm five years later, bearing the spray-painted "X" the National Guard troops who searched the area after the water drained left on the front of each building denoting the date of inspection, the unit that opened the home, and the number of dead found within. It's absolutely haunting.
We had some more spectacular cultural experiences in the Big Easy, but I'm already pushing the envelope on the "short" description I promised. The take-away point I left with was that the people and the land of the entire region had been deeply and unforgivably wronged by other people, especially by the government at all levels. Resentment towards local, state, and most of all federal government handling of the hurricane and its aftermath still bubbles acidly just beneath the currents of daily life there; it doesn't take much prodding to bring it to the surface, and with good reason. FEMA, justifiably, remains a four-letter word.
I'm sure you know where this is going by now. Gulf Coast...combined man-made/natural catastrophe...threatened economy and way of life...rebuilding yet again...preventable disaster...Katrina-esque deja vu all over again: it's time to talk about the Deepwater Horizon debacle. The first thing I'll say is this: it's almost physically painful to read the Post's stories each morning about the coming coastal apocalypse. As one resident was quoted as saying about a week ago, it's like watching a train wreck unfold inevitably in slow motion: you can only imagine just how horrible it's going to be, but there's no way you can turn your head. In semi-deference to finals week, I've only been skimming so far and I haven't explored much coverage beyond the Post, but even a story a day is sickening.
The next thing I have to say about the crisis is: What. The. F---. Were they thinking?! I'm going to go way out on a limb here and say that whatever thinking was undertaken here had solely to do with the bottom line; in an ironic echo of the financial crisis, blinding greed has hoisted BP on its own petard (only with the potential for real consequence for the firm, unlike what has happened in the financial industry). Harold Meyerson wrote a great op-ed in the Post on May 12th referring to the "Doomsday Machines" embedded in the financial sector, lurking unseen to destroy the system at some future time. He did extrapolate his point to cover the drilling disaster and other contemporary instances of severely lacking morality, but I'd like to ride his point out a little bit further here.
A couple of months ago, I went to a great lecture on campus by an innovative Shenandoah Valley farmer named Joel Salatin, who's been featured in The Omnivore's Dilemma and "Food, Inc." Though he was railing against the evils of industrialized agriculture (which are legion, but will remain for another day), one of Salatin's big themes was that the pace of human technological advance has outstripped our moral capacity. Thanks to modern science and technology, he argues, we are able to do things that we simply can't comprehend on a moral level because they are so new and unprecedented, leading us into the awful position we so often find ourselves in of seeing immoral and illogical practices develop in the name of efficiency. Therefore, said Salatin, the liberal arts education we all were receiving as students of Georgetown was vital to the future of the human race: we can always learn the science of farming later if some of us want to be farmers (or whatever else), but if we don't get the moral grounding of a traditional liberal arts curriculum in the first place, we will be unable to instinctively see the wrong in Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations--or deep-sea drilling, or letting industries police themselves, or the unregulated market, or a NINJA loan, or a sub-prime mortgage, or...
If someone asked you what you thought of putting 20,000 genetically mutant cattle on a feedlot not much bigger than the area needed for that many beeves to stand side by side, then feed them things they were never meant to eat (from corn to the brains and other non-saleable entrails of their predecessors), shoot them all full of antibiotics and steroids to keep them alive just long enough to be killed for meat while spending their whole lives wading in a vast lake of their own excrement (into which their food is dumped), you'd be revolted, right? Well, that's a CAFO, and it's not only considered "sound agricultural practice" by your very own USDA (i.e. encouraged by the U.S. government), when beef is what's for dinner at your house, nine times out of 10, that's how it lived before you found it on a styrofoam tray.
The implication should be obvious: offering a NINJA loan (No Income, No Job, no Assets); a sub-prime; a Collateralized Debt Obligation; or drilling through 13,000 feet of the Earth's undersea crust about 80 miles from land should be just as obviously wrong as any CAFO from the same common-sense morality standpoint. At the risk of sounding a bit shrilly populist, the fallacy of letting the same kind of people who seek to boost their own bottom lines (and line their own pockets) with such "innovations" regulate themselves should be equally apparent. Memo to the "the government is the problem" crowd: how's that market self-regulation working out for you?
The ultimate cynicism, of course, is that the benefits of these utterly immoral innovations go to their inventors, while the costs of catastrophic failure are socialized, whether through government bailouts of the financial sector or massive federal mobilization to contain an oil spill. There are some things, like those mentioned above, that it should be pretty clear to anyone with a functioning moral complex that you just plain shouldn't do. Drilling where BP was drilling is like sticking a needle down into the deepest, hardest-to-reach recess of your body to draw blood; you'd better hope there's a truly "fail-safe" equivalent of the oil well's blowout preventer to shut things down if the needle happens to break off deep inside you.
That's the best analogy for the spill I've come up with: we stuck a needle way deeper into the Earth than we were ever meant to, it broke because we didn't fully understand what we were messing with down there (!), and now no one's sure how to stop the bleeding. The blood analogy is especially useful for understanding the spill because of the environmental consequences: just as blood is one of the most toxic substances to the human body when found outside of its normal place in the circulatory system, oil released unchecked into the environment is horrific. I won't retread the Exxon Valdez comparison--that coverage is easy enough to find elsewhere--other than to say that Prince William Sound is still very obviously feeling the effects of that disaster today; there is already serious talk of this spill setting a new standard for oil-spill catastrophes.
In the case of the Gulf Coast, moreover, the environmental effects will be quickly and harshly tied into economic effects for local residents. No matter what happens to the "cute" animals (sea turtles, pelicans, dolphins...) and the beaches or how you feel about that, consider this: thanks to BP's greed, an entire way of life and virtually the only source of income other than the casinos on the Gulf Coast will be destroyed for at least a generation. The Post ran a heart-wrenching feature about a week ago on a fisherman whose father made his living out of the Gulf back when it was the seafood capital of the world (it was only eclipsed in the last couple of decades) and who has carried on the family business. The shellfisheries have already been closed by federal fiat, likely never to open again in this man's lifetime. He knows no other trade; he cannot hand his operation off to his son as he planned. After vowing on Page One to never sell his soul in such a way, by the end of the story he goes meekly to put his name in a hat for BP's daily employment lottery. The only thing left to fish for in the Gulf these days is oil; the region's famously skilled fishermen have been reduced to working on contract for the very people who destroyed their cultural heritage and way of life, hoping each day for their names to be called to have an opportunity to go out and skim oil off the water and into the very holds they used to fill with fish.
Regardless of whether or not BP collapses from the expense of the cleanup efforts, they've already torpedoed the traditional ways of life and livelihood of a very culturally rich part of the country. For anyone who's ever enjoyed a fresh oyster, a rich gumbo, or a shrimp etouffee, consider that those dished all evolved thanks to the Gulf's bounty. As if the continued rebuilding from Katrina wasn't challenge enough, making a traditional area dish will now likely require importing or captively raising the main ingredients. That is immoral, and it is shameful.
***
On that happy note, I'll revisit my lead and tack on a post-script commemorating the completion of my first half of college. As of 2:25 this afternoon, when I turned in my last exam, I'm two years, [redacted] dollars, and a whole lot of life experience into this Georgetown thing. I've seen some of my very worst days here; I've also seen some of the very best. I've thought there weren't any of "my people" amongst the 6,000 Hoya undergrads; I've been humbled and proven wronger than wrong in finding some of my most treasured friends here. I've learned the difference between my degree and my education; I'm still learning how to balance the two. I've ESCAPEd, I've learned the Jesuit ideals and what they mean in my life, I've become a blogger, I've agonized over my major, I've seen the grand life plan my high-school-aged self concocted go up in smoke, and I've learned to appreciate all of that and more. I've certainly gotten older (I'm 20? WTF? [I hear a lot of guffawing from some of my loyal readers, but 20 was a big deal once for you, too, and you know it!]) while I've been here; here's a little attempt to see if I've grown any wiser along the way.
As most of you know, last year was the hardest of my life. All the gory details aren't relevant anymore; it was just a hell of a lot harder from September to March than anyone ever expected, most of all me. I thought I'd love it here, thought I'd "find my people," thought I was finally off the the races of Real Life. Not so fast, as it turned out. Depression, loneliness, homesickness, workaholic-ness, and a bunch of other ugly little "ness"es got in the way. Let's just say I wasn't my best self last year, and I sure didn't learn to appreciate Georgetown properly. Thankfully, there was a very strong ray of hope by the end of last year, and I left here hurriedly but optimistic that Act II would be a lot better than Act I.
With about 60 hours left here until sometime after May 27, 2011, when I'll finish exams at the National University of Ireland, Galway, let's hear a "Hoya, Hoya Saxa!" for the dear old Blue and Gray. Hoyas always yell "How long's it been?" to lead into our fight song; I'll try to answer the question as it relates to my time as a Hoya so far.
How long's it been? Last May 9th, I took my International Relations exam, packed the van in such a haste as to forget my toiletries in my room, and hauled ass, utterly spent. Tonight, I'm deliberately avoiding the packing project I haven't started yet. (Of course I'll be all boxed up when you arrive on Saturday, Mom!) Sure, blogging's kinda fun, but the real reason is that I'm simply not ready to think about leaving. There's so much to look forward to--a week in Belize, starting a week from Sunday; a semester in eastern Turkey, starting August 25; and a semester in Galway, Ireland, starting next January--but closing the curtain on this year and saying goodbye to the Hilltop for that long is simply too big a thing to contemplate right now. A "180" doesn't even begin to do justice to the changes I've undergone in the past 369 days.
Better, I think, is the example I thought of when I first returned this year. Remember the end of "It's a Wonderful Life," when Jimmy Stewart leaves the dystopian Pottersfield fantasy the angel Clarence puts him in and comes back to the real world? He simply can't contain himself, running up and down Main St., shouting hello to every person and building he sees, seeing a new value in each of them that he never saw before and simply bursting with newfound life. That was me when I came back here in August, and I haven't really stepped down off of Cloud Nine yet. For the first several weeks of school, I joined a new activity or club at a rate of about one every 36 hours; almost every night, I'd walk around campus and the neighborhood and call home, bursting with my own newfound happiness and life energy, and simply unable to contain it. "Hello, Healy Hall! Hello, Intercultural Center--you sweet old thing, I might have all my classes in your windowless bowels, but I still love you! Hello Lauinger Library, embodiment of all that was wrong with 70's architectural aesthetic! Hello Leo's dining hall, purveyors of the food (?) Georgetown loves to hate!"
Just as Jimmy Stewart's greatest joy and ultimate salvation is found when he returns home to his family and the townspeople who are his best friends, though, my greatest joy and development was to finally start finding friends here. They weren't few and far between and they hadn't been hiding--I'd been the one under a rock, and once I started looking, I found "my people" everywhere. Let's not get carried away here; there are still people, places, and things here that make me roll my eyes and say "Oh, Georgetown!", but at the end of the day, I'm one happy Hoya.
What happened? I haven't been introduced to my Clarence yet, but I firmly believe that he's out there somewhere and that he earned his wings (Lord knows I made him work overtime for 'em!). More temporally, though, I've found a sense of place here through the people I've met that have given me a sense of belonging; people that clearly care about me, and that I care about right back. Basically, that's what was missing last year, and I paid the price--feeling friendless in the midst of 6,000 people is a hard way to live. To appropriate a phrase from one of my favorite Jesuits here, Fr. Ryan Maher, while my progress towards my degree has remained on track, I've finally started getting the education that is the real goal of my time here. A GPA is just a number and a diploma's just a piece of paper with fancy words I can't read on it; each pretty much worthless unless I can connect them to some real personal growth and meaningful relationships. I think I've finally started to get it together in that department.
Just a couple of nights ago, I ran into one of my best friends and we ended up walking around campus, just talking. At one point, sitting on some stairs overlooking the football field and watching the sun set over the Potomac, she asked if I ever felt I took this place for granted. I had an answer ready for her; it's something I think about a lot. The answer was, "Not as much as I might if last year hadn't been so bad." I've finally started to see the benefits of having been tried like that. If I hadn't had to work so damn hard at learning to love this place, I probably would take it for granted. Instead, I can honestly say that there have been very few days this entire year when I haven't gone to bed at night without feeling a deep gratitude towards and sense of connection to this school and the people here. And that, to me, is a true blessing.
In fact, one of the things standing in the way of packing up right now is a sense that I'm just finishing my first year of college. If I'd had two years to learn to take Georgetown for granted, I'd be totally psyched to go gallavanting across Europe for a year. As it is, all I can think of is that I've finally had a year of feeling like I've got a handle on this place, from friendships to ESCAPEs to lattes to half-pound burgers to dinners with Jesuits to the Dupont Circle farmers' market to beautiful long runs around Arlington, over Memorial bridge, around the monuments, and back up the Potomac river. Every so often I have to pinch myself: how many people get to roll out their door and have all that at their fingertips every single day?
Finally, there's this readership. Yes, y'all. We all know I've got enough opinions/hot air to go around; it's nice to have so many people who actually seem to want to hear it. Go figure. Part of the reason I datelined this post was as a little preview of coming attractions: get ready for BELIZE CITY; ALANYA, TURKEY; GALWAY, IRELAND; and probably another exotic locale or two along the way. I won't actually have my computer with me in Belize two weeks from now, but I'll try to encapsulate the experience as soon as I'm back in the First World. I certainly owe it to you all: in response to my request, you've more than paid for that trip. I've opened up a commanding (and still-growing!) lead in team fund-raising for the trip, covering the entire cost of my participation and then some. I've been absolutely floored by the response I've gotten (as has been the program director!); you all deserve a huge thank-you that I haven't figured out how I can every properly express.
I am, finally, about out of gas. It's been a pleasure to share this little foray into the blogosphere (love that word!) with you all over the past year and a half and I very much look forward to providing you with updates of my future adventures. I'm not exactly sure how that will look yet; I might start a new blog and leave this one for domestic political use, keep writing on this platform, or mix the two. No matter what, you'll be informed of where and when to check in for what I hope will be some fun and interesting travelogue.
Till senior year, that's all from Washington, folks! Happy summer, and HOYA SAXA!
***
As most of you know, I spent my spring break this year in Biloxi, MS with one of Georgetown's Alternative Spring Break trips called GU HERE. GU HERE--Georgetown University Hurricane Emergency Relief Efforts--began five years ago in response to Hurricane Katrina. I never did get around to putting some words on the experience to my pictures; before going further, however, the trip does deserve a little bit of background.
Katrina, in most people's minds, conjures up images of New Orleans and especially the Lower Ninth Ward. The city and the Lower Ninth were indeed inundated; I wish to take nothing away from the catastrophe wrought there. As one of the people I met on my spring break trip smartly pointed out, however, New Orleans was fundamentally a man-made disaster: terrible errors in human judgment and the failure of man-made safety measures were primarily responsible for the cataclysmic damage suffered in that city.
What fewer people remember, though, is that the eye wall of the storm--the most intense part, with the highest storm surge, the highest winds, and the most natural damage--actually hit a little town called Bay St. Louis in Mississippi, the third-oldest city on the Gulf Coast. Bay St. Louis is just a little bit west along the coast from Biloxi; we were working in a town just in between the two called D'Iberville, in which, like in Biloxi proper and Bay St. Louis, the damage from the storm is still very much visible. In my estimation, in the poorer sections of town in which we were working, probably every third lot or so had only a concrete slab in the shape of a house's footprint where the house once was. At least one of the other two homes usually showed evidence of storm damage, too.
GU HERE was set up in response to the storm to give students a chance to go down to the coast, lend a hand in reconstruction in some of the hardest-hit neighborhoods, and also to see the New Orleans side of the story on the way back, driving the hour and a half west along the country's southernmost interstate, I-10, to spend a few hours in NOLA before turning back north to Chattanooga and Washington.
Don't get me wrong--my time in D'Iberville and Biloxi was absolutely incredible, filled with great people and great experiences that I will carry with me for a very long time. That said, I lost a big piece of my heart in New Orleans in the four hours we spent there, and it hasn't returned yet. As my parents will tell you, the second I got back on campus, I whipped out my cell phone and called home to say that, yeah, we'd had some fun building on houses and stuff down in Missi, but damn, I was ready to move to NOLA!
I've never been so captivated by a city in my entire life. We parked at the old Jackson Brewery (now a mall), walked a half-block over to Cafe Du Monde, somehow managed to seat 25 people with no wait, demolished a staggering amount of coffee and chicory au lait and the Cafe's signature item, heavenly French doughnuts called beignets, little triangular delicacies that come with about a half-pound of powdered sugar over top of them (standard order is three).
After a couple of hours exploring the French Quarter--including the requisite photo op under a Rue de Bourbon street sign--we piled back into the vans and headed down into the Lower Ninth. I don't have an appropriate adjective to describe it. Most homes are still sealed from the storm five years later, bearing the spray-painted "X" the National Guard troops who searched the area after the water drained left on the front of each building denoting the date of inspection, the unit that opened the home, and the number of dead found within. It's absolutely haunting.
We had some more spectacular cultural experiences in the Big Easy, but I'm already pushing the envelope on the "short" description I promised. The take-away point I left with was that the people and the land of the entire region had been deeply and unforgivably wronged by other people, especially by the government at all levels. Resentment towards local, state, and most of all federal government handling of the hurricane and its aftermath still bubbles acidly just beneath the currents of daily life there; it doesn't take much prodding to bring it to the surface, and with good reason. FEMA, justifiably, remains a four-letter word.
I'm sure you know where this is going by now. Gulf Coast...combined man-made/natural catastrophe...threatened economy and way of life...rebuilding yet again...preventable disaster...Katrina-esque deja vu all over again: it's time to talk about the Deepwater Horizon debacle. The first thing I'll say is this: it's almost physically painful to read the Post's stories each morning about the coming coastal apocalypse. As one resident was quoted as saying about a week ago, it's like watching a train wreck unfold inevitably in slow motion: you can only imagine just how horrible it's going to be, but there's no way you can turn your head. In semi-deference to finals week, I've only been skimming so far and I haven't explored much coverage beyond the Post, but even a story a day is sickening.
The next thing I have to say about the crisis is: What. The. F---. Were they thinking?! I'm going to go way out on a limb here and say that whatever thinking was undertaken here had solely to do with the bottom line; in an ironic echo of the financial crisis, blinding greed has hoisted BP on its own petard (only with the potential for real consequence for the firm, unlike what has happened in the financial industry). Harold Meyerson wrote a great op-ed in the Post on May 12th referring to the "Doomsday Machines" embedded in the financial sector, lurking unseen to destroy the system at some future time. He did extrapolate his point to cover the drilling disaster and other contemporary instances of severely lacking morality, but I'd like to ride his point out a little bit further here.
A couple of months ago, I went to a great lecture on campus by an innovative Shenandoah Valley farmer named Joel Salatin, who's been featured in The Omnivore's Dilemma and "Food, Inc." Though he was railing against the evils of industrialized agriculture (which are legion, but will remain for another day), one of Salatin's big themes was that the pace of human technological advance has outstripped our moral capacity. Thanks to modern science and technology, he argues, we are able to do things that we simply can't comprehend on a moral level because they are so new and unprecedented, leading us into the awful position we so often find ourselves in of seeing immoral and illogical practices develop in the name of efficiency. Therefore, said Salatin, the liberal arts education we all were receiving as students of Georgetown was vital to the future of the human race: we can always learn the science of farming later if some of us want to be farmers (or whatever else), but if we don't get the moral grounding of a traditional liberal arts curriculum in the first place, we will be unable to instinctively see the wrong in Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations--or deep-sea drilling, or letting industries police themselves, or the unregulated market, or a NINJA loan, or a sub-prime mortgage, or...
If someone asked you what you thought of putting 20,000 genetically mutant cattle on a feedlot not much bigger than the area needed for that many beeves to stand side by side, then feed them things they were never meant to eat (from corn to the brains and other non-saleable entrails of their predecessors), shoot them all full of antibiotics and steroids to keep them alive just long enough to be killed for meat while spending their whole lives wading in a vast lake of their own excrement (into which their food is dumped), you'd be revolted, right? Well, that's a CAFO, and it's not only considered "sound agricultural practice" by your very own USDA (i.e. encouraged by the U.S. government), when beef is what's for dinner at your house, nine times out of 10, that's how it lived before you found it on a styrofoam tray.
The implication should be obvious: offering a NINJA loan (No Income, No Job, no Assets); a sub-prime; a Collateralized Debt Obligation; or drilling through 13,000 feet of the Earth's undersea crust about 80 miles from land should be just as obviously wrong as any CAFO from the same common-sense morality standpoint. At the risk of sounding a bit shrilly populist, the fallacy of letting the same kind of people who seek to boost their own bottom lines (and line their own pockets) with such "innovations" regulate themselves should be equally apparent. Memo to the "the government is the problem" crowd: how's that market self-regulation working out for you?
The ultimate cynicism, of course, is that the benefits of these utterly immoral innovations go to their inventors, while the costs of catastrophic failure are socialized, whether through government bailouts of the financial sector or massive federal mobilization to contain an oil spill. There are some things, like those mentioned above, that it should be pretty clear to anyone with a functioning moral complex that you just plain shouldn't do. Drilling where BP was drilling is like sticking a needle down into the deepest, hardest-to-reach recess of your body to draw blood; you'd better hope there's a truly "fail-safe" equivalent of the oil well's blowout preventer to shut things down if the needle happens to break off deep inside you.
That's the best analogy for the spill I've come up with: we stuck a needle way deeper into the Earth than we were ever meant to, it broke because we didn't fully understand what we were messing with down there (!), and now no one's sure how to stop the bleeding. The blood analogy is especially useful for understanding the spill because of the environmental consequences: just as blood is one of the most toxic substances to the human body when found outside of its normal place in the circulatory system, oil released unchecked into the environment is horrific. I won't retread the Exxon Valdez comparison--that coverage is easy enough to find elsewhere--other than to say that Prince William Sound is still very obviously feeling the effects of that disaster today; there is already serious talk of this spill setting a new standard for oil-spill catastrophes.
In the case of the Gulf Coast, moreover, the environmental effects will be quickly and harshly tied into economic effects for local residents. No matter what happens to the "cute" animals (sea turtles, pelicans, dolphins...) and the beaches or how you feel about that, consider this: thanks to BP's greed, an entire way of life and virtually the only source of income other than the casinos on the Gulf Coast will be destroyed for at least a generation. The Post ran a heart-wrenching feature about a week ago on a fisherman whose father made his living out of the Gulf back when it was the seafood capital of the world (it was only eclipsed in the last couple of decades) and who has carried on the family business. The shellfisheries have already been closed by federal fiat, likely never to open again in this man's lifetime. He knows no other trade; he cannot hand his operation off to his son as he planned. After vowing on Page One to never sell his soul in such a way, by the end of the story he goes meekly to put his name in a hat for BP's daily employment lottery. The only thing left to fish for in the Gulf these days is oil; the region's famously skilled fishermen have been reduced to working on contract for the very people who destroyed their cultural heritage and way of life, hoping each day for their names to be called to have an opportunity to go out and skim oil off the water and into the very holds they used to fill with fish.
Regardless of whether or not BP collapses from the expense of the cleanup efforts, they've already torpedoed the traditional ways of life and livelihood of a very culturally rich part of the country. For anyone who's ever enjoyed a fresh oyster, a rich gumbo, or a shrimp etouffee, consider that those dished all evolved thanks to the Gulf's bounty. As if the continued rebuilding from Katrina wasn't challenge enough, making a traditional area dish will now likely require importing or captively raising the main ingredients. That is immoral, and it is shameful.
***
On that happy note, I'll revisit my lead and tack on a post-script commemorating the completion of my first half of college. As of 2:25 this afternoon, when I turned in my last exam, I'm two years, [redacted] dollars, and a whole lot of life experience into this Georgetown thing. I've seen some of my very worst days here; I've also seen some of the very best. I've thought there weren't any of "my people" amongst the 6,000 Hoya undergrads; I've been humbled and proven wronger than wrong in finding some of my most treasured friends here. I've learned the difference between my degree and my education; I'm still learning how to balance the two. I've ESCAPEd, I've learned the Jesuit ideals and what they mean in my life, I've become a blogger, I've agonized over my major, I've seen the grand life plan my high-school-aged self concocted go up in smoke, and I've learned to appreciate all of that and more. I've certainly gotten older (I'm 20? WTF? [I hear a lot of guffawing from some of my loyal readers, but 20 was a big deal once for you, too, and you know it!]) while I've been here; here's a little attempt to see if I've grown any wiser along the way.
As most of you know, last year was the hardest of my life. All the gory details aren't relevant anymore; it was just a hell of a lot harder from September to March than anyone ever expected, most of all me. I thought I'd love it here, thought I'd "find my people," thought I was finally off the the races of Real Life. Not so fast, as it turned out. Depression, loneliness, homesickness, workaholic-ness, and a bunch of other ugly little "ness"es got in the way. Let's just say I wasn't my best self last year, and I sure didn't learn to appreciate Georgetown properly. Thankfully, there was a very strong ray of hope by the end of last year, and I left here hurriedly but optimistic that Act II would be a lot better than Act I.
With about 60 hours left here until sometime after May 27, 2011, when I'll finish exams at the National University of Ireland, Galway, let's hear a "Hoya, Hoya Saxa!" for the dear old Blue and Gray. Hoyas always yell "How long's it been?" to lead into our fight song; I'll try to answer the question as it relates to my time as a Hoya so far.
How long's it been? Last May 9th, I took my International Relations exam, packed the van in such a haste as to forget my toiletries in my room, and hauled ass, utterly spent. Tonight, I'm deliberately avoiding the packing project I haven't started yet. (Of course I'll be all boxed up when you arrive on Saturday, Mom!) Sure, blogging's kinda fun, but the real reason is that I'm simply not ready to think about leaving. There's so much to look forward to--a week in Belize, starting a week from Sunday; a semester in eastern Turkey, starting August 25; and a semester in Galway, Ireland, starting next January--but closing the curtain on this year and saying goodbye to the Hilltop for that long is simply too big a thing to contemplate right now. A "180" doesn't even begin to do justice to the changes I've undergone in the past 369 days.
Better, I think, is the example I thought of when I first returned this year. Remember the end of "It's a Wonderful Life," when Jimmy Stewart leaves the dystopian Pottersfield fantasy the angel Clarence puts him in and comes back to the real world? He simply can't contain himself, running up and down Main St., shouting hello to every person and building he sees, seeing a new value in each of them that he never saw before and simply bursting with newfound life. That was me when I came back here in August, and I haven't really stepped down off of Cloud Nine yet. For the first several weeks of school, I joined a new activity or club at a rate of about one every 36 hours; almost every night, I'd walk around campus and the neighborhood and call home, bursting with my own newfound happiness and life energy, and simply unable to contain it. "Hello, Healy Hall! Hello, Intercultural Center--you sweet old thing, I might have all my classes in your windowless bowels, but I still love you! Hello Lauinger Library, embodiment of all that was wrong with 70's architectural aesthetic! Hello Leo's dining hall, purveyors of the food (?) Georgetown loves to hate!"
Just as Jimmy Stewart's greatest joy and ultimate salvation is found when he returns home to his family and the townspeople who are his best friends, though, my greatest joy and development was to finally start finding friends here. They weren't few and far between and they hadn't been hiding--I'd been the one under a rock, and once I started looking, I found "my people" everywhere. Let's not get carried away here; there are still people, places, and things here that make me roll my eyes and say "Oh, Georgetown!", but at the end of the day, I'm one happy Hoya.
What happened? I haven't been introduced to my Clarence yet, but I firmly believe that he's out there somewhere and that he earned his wings (Lord knows I made him work overtime for 'em!). More temporally, though, I've found a sense of place here through the people I've met that have given me a sense of belonging; people that clearly care about me, and that I care about right back. Basically, that's what was missing last year, and I paid the price--feeling friendless in the midst of 6,000 people is a hard way to live. To appropriate a phrase from one of my favorite Jesuits here, Fr. Ryan Maher, while my progress towards my degree has remained on track, I've finally started getting the education that is the real goal of my time here. A GPA is just a number and a diploma's just a piece of paper with fancy words I can't read on it; each pretty much worthless unless I can connect them to some real personal growth and meaningful relationships. I think I've finally started to get it together in that department.
Just a couple of nights ago, I ran into one of my best friends and we ended up walking around campus, just talking. At one point, sitting on some stairs overlooking the football field and watching the sun set over the Potomac, she asked if I ever felt I took this place for granted. I had an answer ready for her; it's something I think about a lot. The answer was, "Not as much as I might if last year hadn't been so bad." I've finally started to see the benefits of having been tried like that. If I hadn't had to work so damn hard at learning to love this place, I probably would take it for granted. Instead, I can honestly say that there have been very few days this entire year when I haven't gone to bed at night without feeling a deep gratitude towards and sense of connection to this school and the people here. And that, to me, is a true blessing.
In fact, one of the things standing in the way of packing up right now is a sense that I'm just finishing my first year of college. If I'd had two years to learn to take Georgetown for granted, I'd be totally psyched to go gallavanting across Europe for a year. As it is, all I can think of is that I've finally had a year of feeling like I've got a handle on this place, from friendships to ESCAPEs to lattes to half-pound burgers to dinners with Jesuits to the Dupont Circle farmers' market to beautiful long runs around Arlington, over Memorial bridge, around the monuments, and back up the Potomac river. Every so often I have to pinch myself: how many people get to roll out their door and have all that at their fingertips every single day?
Finally, there's this readership. Yes, y'all. We all know I've got enough opinions/hot air to go around; it's nice to have so many people who actually seem to want to hear it. Go figure. Part of the reason I datelined this post was as a little preview of coming attractions: get ready for BELIZE CITY; ALANYA, TURKEY; GALWAY, IRELAND; and probably another exotic locale or two along the way. I won't actually have my computer with me in Belize two weeks from now, but I'll try to encapsulate the experience as soon as I'm back in the First World. I certainly owe it to you all: in response to my request, you've more than paid for that trip. I've opened up a commanding (and still-growing!) lead in team fund-raising for the trip, covering the entire cost of my participation and then some. I've been absolutely floored by the response I've gotten (as has been the program director!); you all deserve a huge thank-you that I haven't figured out how I can every properly express.
I am, finally, about out of gas. It's been a pleasure to share this little foray into the blogosphere (love that word!) with you all over the past year and a half and I very much look forward to providing you with updates of my future adventures. I'm not exactly sure how that will look yet; I might start a new blog and leave this one for domestic political use, keep writing on this platform, or mix the two. No matter what, you'll be informed of where and when to check in for what I hope will be some fun and interesting travelogue.
Till senior year, that's all from Washington, folks! Happy summer, and HOYA SAXA!
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