One day I was talking to a friend who said, I talk black! What? I talk black? What does that supposed to mean? She said, “you know, you talk slang.” Ok, but because I talk in slang terms, doesn’t mean I talk black. If my vernacular contains words like “hot,” “Dip,” “bounce,” etc. , it doesn’t mean I’m talking black; I’m just communicating through a sub-culture that is from the street, where I grew up.

Our English, for example, is a diminished form of the British tongue. Which raises the question: are we speaking proper English? Absolutely not! We are speaking a form of the English language, but not the original, nor the most eloquent (in my opinion). Spanish is the same thing. Puerto Ricans and Dominicans eat letters and if they speak fast enough, you will think they speak something other than Spanish (I know what I just said, and I expect Puerto Ricans and Dominicans to say something about it). Mexicans have words that in Colombia could get you killed or looked at funny. In El Salvador, a bunch of kids are called “bichos,” in Puerto Rico un “bicho” is well… you know. In other countries the word “bicho” can be mosquitos. So, my question is, because certain words are different or take different meanings, do I stop speaking English?

Hip-Hop is a culture created in the United States, just like Jazz, the only true American culture (as in the definition of culture). In the early 1970’s a sub-culture was created called “Hip-Hop” and within this culture four very important elements were created; Emceeing, Dee-Jaying, Graffiti and breakdancing. Eventually the culture grew many different facets, encompassing beat boxing (creating musical sounds with your mouth) street knowledge, street language, street fashion, and street entrepreneurship (and no, for you ignorant people, this does not mean selling drugs).

One of my many mentors once told me, “You have to balance life out; you can’t just be walking around talking like you’re in the street because people in the business world won’t take you seriously. But you can’t forget how to communicate with the people you grew up with; that would be lying to yourself.” As I grew out of the street, I also grew out of the language, but I maintain enough that I can understand when young adults are talking. To me it is important knowing how to communicate with the young people. How are we supposed to understand them if we don’t know what they are talking about? We try to correct them so much that we forget that just speaking slang is intelligence being personified in and of itself.

For example, I was chilling with my dawg da other day and da click hollard on da celly that they were about to scrap wit these marcs from up da way who started beef with my other homie. Or, that same day, this happened; my ride or die chick was buggen cause she peeped me parlaying to another shawty that had my scriptures in her book bag. My lady was hot! Word is bond, she was boiling, I thought we was going to beef, but nothing came of it. Funny how things work out huh?

But the most impressive portion of the day came when I had a conversation with a business executive from a prestigious bank. A man in his mid-40’s heard me humming Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power” shortly after our meeting about investments. He looked at me, and he said, “You a Hip-Hop head?”

I said, “Word up.”

“That’s was up, and you hummen a good joint too, that was the jam back in the day, what else you marauding (that’s right, marauding is word used in Hip-hop) with your ears?” he asked.

I responded, “Son, I listen to more old school than any of the new bunk stuff that’s out in the hood or radio, you feel me?”

“I feel you, rap has lost its flava,” he responded.

“No doubt” I agreed. And out of nowhere he says to me, “So what’s the deally, can you rhyme?” I was shocked by the question because no one has asked me that in years, but being the trooper that I am, I said, “Son, don’t you know? This Merlin you hollaren at, you must recognize that you in the presence of pure genius with lyrics.” So, he beat boxed and I rhymed for about an hour and a half. We freestyled about everything, from politics, sports, Iraq, women, to slavery and much more.

My point is that now that we are moving into the 21st century the Hip-Hop generation is moving into the main stream of business. We are doctors, lawyers, educators, businessmen (women), social workers and much more. Hip-Hop was created to be a deterrent of gang violence, but like everything else the media turns and the powers that be make it into something that is not and now it has an ugly head. So, I can see where people can look at me and say hey, “he’s talking black” because majority of the people you see on TV talking in slang are from the Hip-Hop genre who happen to be black. But go to Germany or England, you will hear people talking slang and they’re not black. No, I’m not talking black, I’m talking Hip-Hop. Just like you are speaking broken English from Britain, or broken Spanish, we are speaking our language, our original language. All languages were created so a group of people from a certain culture can speak to one another. So, I speak with my Hip-Hop brothers the way I’m supposed to, whether he’s a doctor, lawyer or banker. We speak the same language and we can communicate and we can exchange ideas without anyone trying to bring us down in our words and work. Yes we speak professionally in front of the “man” because we have to. But we don’t have to if we’re in the street. And when they join in, they say, “Hey my son says that, what does that mean?” I highly recommend anyone interested in learning slang, gets Big L’s “The Big Picture” and check out track numba two. Yea, Imma finish this in slang, cause that’s what this article/ blog is about and if you don’t feel it, then too bad.

To dead the convo, I’m gonna have to just be a bit poetic. If you feel like parlayin in ebonics or slang, brotha do you, as long as you know that they peep your every mis-direction and they critical of everything from your gear to your hustle. As a matta of fact, they don’t know you have muscle for the hustle and if they do, then you already know that this is part of the struggle. Don’t dip on your youngens and don’t believe that our culture causes violence, cause peeps been scrappen here since before there were boroughs on the Island. And the boys are always going to be on you and let lead loose from the heat when they find you in the street, that’s guaranteed, believe me. Get your learn on, cause they feenen for you to be in the pine box or behind the steel cage, carried out your crib in silver bracelets, cause they found a bag of trees in your basement and now your moms and pop dukes is out there in amazement. Wade in the water G, and remember learn both languages, the corporate and the street, cause I feel you, “My word play only contain what the hood say.” — Xhibit

The number 8 intrigues me. As a matter of fact it’s my favorite number.

Eight is the symbol of infinity and the number of new beginnings. The word sake appears in the Christian Bible eight times. In Buddhism, 8 is a lucky number and Muslims believe that there are seven hells but eight paradises.

Eight represents regeneration and resurrection. It determines the life of a man in China. For example, a boy gets his milk teeth at eight months, loses them at eight years, and reaches puberty at 16 (which is 2 times the number 8).

In chess, each side has eight pawns and the board is made of 64 squares arranged in an eight by eight lattice. In most phones, the 8 key is associated with the letters T, U, and V, but on the BlackBerry it is the key for B , N, and X. In Colombia and Venezuela, “volverse un ocho” (meaning to tie oneself in a figure refers to getting in trouble or contradicting one’s self. Even more interesting, 8 is an often significant number in video games, particularly Mario games (8 worlds in Super Mario Bros., 8 chapters in Paper Mario, etc). I am a big Nintendo fan.

Barack Obama was born in August, the 8th month of the year, in 1961 (1+9+6+1=17……..7+1=8). Not to mention he is the Democratic candidate for this year… 2008. The eight-year-old orphan, El Chavo, from the popular Mexican television show, El Chavo del Ocho, lived in apartment 8. Even Selena’s popular song “El Chico del apartamento 512″ contains 8. If you add 5+1+2 you get …… 8!

Eight is everywhere!!

8 pints make a gallon.
8 legs on a spider.
8 vegetables in V8 juice
8 tentacles on an octopus.
8 is a Fibonacci number.
8 is the atomic number of oxygen.
8 letters in the word b-l-o-g-g-e-r-s.

Only 8 more days left.

In 8 days I will finally step on African ground. In 8 days I will be in Nairobi, the capitol and largest city of Kenya. I am so anxious to interact with the orphans and learn about the culture. I can’t wait to start constructing the orphanage and start traveling from slum to slum to give HIV patients medical attention. I can’t wait till I improve my Swahili and learn the cultural dances of the different tribes. I can’t wait to hold a child in my arms and speak words that will resurrect his soul.

Only 8 more days till my life changes forever. Only 8 more days till a new beginning, one full of hope and promise.

My father Roberto was born in 1898. You heard right. And no, I’m not 80 years old. Not even close.

You see, I was one of the last of the nine kids born to my father and my mother Ines – who was about two decades younger.

Over the years, I got used to hearing: “So, how’s your grandfather?” My response was automatic: “He’s not my grandfather; he’s my father.”

When I picture my father, I see a very handsome and elegant man who enjoyed puffing on his pipe and wearing tailored suits with bowties. People would tell us that he looked like the actor Cesar Romero, and I would feel proud.

Quite honestly, I was a little intimidated by him so I always was happy when we shared some kind of personal connection. And it usually happened with few or no words between us.

I remember my mother would sometimes ask me to take him a beer and a shot of whiskey. I would carefully hold the shot glass in one hand and the beer in the other hand and slowly and carefully walk down the hallway – afraid to spill a drop but thrilled that I was charged with this important task. And I clearly recall sneaking quick sips of the whiskey and the beer – and recoiling yet savoring this grown-up taste. I would hand him the drinks and he would smile at me.

When my mother bought me new clothes, she would often ask me to put on each outfit and show them to my father. I would go before him and perhaps do a little twirl. And he would smile and nod his head.

But there’s something more that sticks out in my memories when I picture my father – it was a constant in our lives during the few years we shared. He was always reading. He always had a newspaper or a book or a magazine in his hands or near him. Always.

To feed his hunger for reading materials, he’d head over to the library in Plainfield where we grew up. And, I’m not sure how it started, but I became his companion during those trips. I had already become a bookworm myself – it was a great escape for a shy young girl.

He’d announce that he was heading to the library and we would both scoop up our books and head out to the car. I don’t remember really even speaking on those short trips but I remember feeling happy. Once we got to the library, he’d go to the adult section and I head over to the children’s books.

One day, when I was in high school and hanging outside because I didn’t want to go to class, a friend came looking for me. He told me I had to get to Muhlenberg Hospital where my father had gone a few days earlier. He was already in his 70s and hospitalizations for heart attacks were almost a way of life for us.

I got to the hospital and was left alone with him while my mother and other family members went for a break. He was lying peacefully in his bed so I figured he would rest a bit more and eventually he’d come home like he always did. On his nightstand, there was a book with the place marked where he had left off reading.

I knew I’d have some time to while away till my family came back, so I fished out a book I was carrying that day and began to read. Once in a while, I’d look up to check the movement of his chest. And then I’d go back to the book. I eventually finished the book and – seeing no other recourse – I turned to the first page and began to read it again. Then I looked up and saw that he had stopped breathing.

When I look back at that day and the years that preceded that final moment, I realize the gift that my father gave me.

Perhaps, I wonder, he knew that it was difficult for a man in his 60s and 70s to connect with a young girl – even if she was his daughter. Perhaps he knew that reading would be that connection. An eternal connection.

I now wish I had kept his library card. But shortly after that day in the hospital, I went to the library and up to the front desk. I handed over his library card and said “My father won’t be needing this anymore.”

I’m still a voracious reader. I like to imagine my father looking down on me – with a smile.

Fathers and mothers – please read to your children. Please take them to the library because there’s one thing I know with certainty: Their lives will be changed forever.

Here’s a song for all the fathers in our lives — young and old:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=218TvjXZfi8&feature=related

Have you ever had an ironically productive and memorable day? I have. This past Wednesday.

My morning started out as usual. I woke up, prayed and got ready to go to school. (I am subbing part-time.) I had to sub for an art teacher. That was a first. Because I am the least artistic person, I had no idea what I was going to do with the kids. As usual the teacher left no plans. I told the kids they were the best artists in the school and I wanted their best work. I was not Tyra. I was Ms. Reyes and I was looking for America’s next top artist. Boy was I impressed. I never had such skills in 5th grade! The kids told me they had fun and enjoyed displaying their skills. Luckily, we had half day because of the heat wave so I went home early.

After school, I was busy with a new project I am working on for Domestic Violence. I am so excited about it! Since it was so hot, and I did not want to wait till the sunset, I decided I would change my workout for the day. I ran up and down the stairs of my building to work out my legs and do some cardio. By the time I was nice and sweaty my mind said “stop,” but my spirit said “keep going.” I decided to stop. My heart felt as if it was going to explode. “No more leg exercises for today,” I thought. Then I went home and had the best Abs workout. After a nice shower, I sat down in the living room to relax.

At about 9:15 p.m., the sky grew dark and my sister called me to the balcony to see the expected thunder. The wind almost knocked me out. There was a burst of random colors that faded in the sky. It looked like God was turning the light switch on and off and every other minute he would throw in extra colors. The wind intensified, causing me to go back inside.

My sister and I looked outside and I said, “Imagine if all the lights go out!” She laughed. Mami was watching her third novela and suddenly the power went out. The first thing out of my mother’s mouth was, “Ay, mi novela.”

We laughed. It reminded us of being in Dominican Republic and some old lady from the neighborhood would scream, “se fue la luz!” as if the rest of us were blind and could not notice the darkness.

Soon we lost service and there we were sitting in darkness. No water, power, or service. Moments later someone was knocking on our door with desperation. I opened and saw a familiar face. It was a young lady I always encountered in the elevator, but never had the chance to talk to. She was crying hysterically because the lights had gone out as she was walking up the stairs. Now I live on the 17th floor. She was going up to the 24th from the first floor. How she ended up knocking on my door in darkness, I don’t know. I pulled her in and gave her some water.

I looked out the balcony and noticed that the firefighters were not downstairs. What if someone was stuck in the elevator? I grabbed a flashlight and went through every floor with my sister banging on every elevator, hoping that no one would reply. For a moment I was transported to a movie scene. A long dark hallway, complete silence, and a flashlight running out of battery. All I could do was pray on behalf of those who might be stuck. Thankfully no one was trapped inside. I took a breath and headed back upstairs after my mother called me screaming that she was afraid of being by herself. By the time I went up the 17 flights of stairs (which I had already used 4 times), my mom had called half the world telling them that a small tornado passed by and she survived.

“Ay, m’ija un tornado que paso por aqui.” Is my mom the only one that exaggerates? I am still trying to figure out how my cousin saw a flying car in NJ from his 7th floor apartment window on 181st and Amsterdam in Washington Heights. I could not stop laughing.

We grabbed some chairs and sat on the balcony, and we saw the dark city in front of us. Police sirens were everywhere and in the distance we heard a car playing some bachata. We spoke till 1 a.m. and finally decided to hit the sack. It was hot, dark, and there was no water. I had no option, but to sleep like Eve. I laid in bed smiling. What a day! I ended up working out my legs again, spending quality time with my family (which otherwise would have been interrupted by the demon called TV) and I laughed. I reminisced and laughed. I felt as if I had just lived chapter one of “A Series of Unfortunate Events.”

Ironically enough, I was at peace and loving it. This is only the beginning.

I sat next to a woman in the nail salon today and was talking to her about the fact that they had the ESPN channel on TV. We were both laughing when I said, “This isn’t a sports bar, it’s a nail salon!” When we asked the staff why and if we could have the channel changed we were told they were not allowed. The conversation quickly turned to culture — how the Asian culture traditionally respects authority so much so that even if a customer requested a change they would not disobey their boss; whereas, in the US, customer service is the driving force. I even mentioned that culturally, looking into someone’s eyes is a sign of disrespect for many Asians. It was a good conversation about cultural differences. Or so I thought.

What a surprise when this kind, grandmotherly woman quickly turned the conversation to immigrants and the fact that immigrants come to this country and don’t want to speak English and expect to serve “us” but cannot communicate with “us.” I’m looking at this woman like, “Are you kidding me? Are you really attempting to have this conversation with me? Do you not recognize that I am from immigrant stock? Is it not obvious to you that I may have a different opinion on this matter?”

As my eyes bulged out of my head and as I try to suppress a smile of disbelief (I tend to smile when I’m in a situation I think is crazy like, this is a joke, right?, this can’t be happening, right?) So here I am trying to teach this old lady (no offense) the facts — that statistically most immigrants lose the ability to speak their language by the 3rd generation. That is, over time immigrants assimilate into the culture. I shared my example: my parents speak Spanish but know enough English to get by. I speak both English and Spanish although I think in English only. My daughter speaks English with a sprinkle of Spanish, the exact opposite of my parents. In fact, I told her, I’m sending my daughter to a Spanish-language immersion program for the summer. My point was, basically, don’t worry — eventually immigrants get there naturally.

But even the facts were not enough to deter her.

Then it was like a light bulb turned on for me. I finally got why people are so anti-immigrant — NOT anti-undocumented immigrants but immigrants as a whole. It was as clear to me as “day” as they say. Seriously, I never even considered this reason. Never even thought about it.

Why? Why all this animosity? Why no empathy for people who come to this country just like their own families did — most with nothing, just like their own families, to struggle and find a better way of life? Why would or could you not relate to this experience? It’s so interesting to me and quite profound when I finally got it at the nail salon talking to the modern day version of Aunt Bee.

They’re jealous. And arrogant. This may sound simplistic but frankly many things in life are simple; we just tend to make it complicated. Why jealous? Because I bet they wish they didn’t have to assimilate so much. I bet they wish they didn’t have to give up their language, heritage. I bet they wish they could have communicated with their grandparents more. They couldn’t because mom and dad would not speak to them in their language. I bet they wish they could have visited their home country more. It’s the attitude of “We had it hard, we had to do it, we had to suffer, why can’t these new immigrants have it just as hard as we did? Why should we make it EASY for them by accepting their language? By creating services for their language specifically? We didn’t have that, no one made it easy for me, why should we make it easy for them?”

It’s childish. It’s jealousy. It’s a tantrum. Essentially, America is going through a collective good old-fashioned temper tantrum. Just like a 2-year-old that’s jealous when mom gives brother a bigger piece of cake. “It’s not fair!”

As a mom — here’s the mom segment for those eagerly waiting; ok so only Donald — I teach my daughter about sharing, about leaving a place better than you found it, about helping others when you can and to make sure she takes care of herself first. If we can do better, be more helpful, provide more resources then why wouldn’t we? Why would we deliberately hold back and WANT others to suffer? Just because we did? Frankly, adults are allowed to get away with things we would NEVER allow our kids to get away with. We are allowed a temper tantrum and call it public policy, a debate, an issue.

Ok, so why arrogant? Well it’s the idea that just because we did it that way it’s the right way, the only way. There are no other options or the other options are wrong. That’s a flawed argument. Because the collective country agreed to assimilate in this way is that what everyone else should do? If people keep thinking this way they are gonna live frustrated lives. We don’t even watch TV or get the news the same way we did in the ’80s, much less in the ’40s, ’50s and ’60s. Times, they are a changin’ and you better change with it or some Gen Xer is gonna write about you in her blog.

So my nails were dry and we left on a positive note or at least I did, smiling and friendly as I always am. “Nice talking to you,” I said and wished her well. Walked out, my head held high. I’m sure that’s not a conversation or the person she was looking for.

I had to watch Hillary’s speech on Saturday. And I had to watch it live – on TV that is. And I have to admit I was touched.

No matter how you felt about her, she was a woman who ran for President and came about as close as you can get to being the party’s candidate.

As a woman – and as one of a certain age – I found it cool. I think her candidacy may have been especially cool for those of us who can remember a time when cigarette commercials beckoned us to an early death with the “you’ve come a long way, baby” slogan.

I found myself a little sad as I watched her read her speech, and I know I saw some deep sadness in her eyes. As usual, she was a pro although I’m sure her heart was breaking under that pantsuit jacket.

I’ve seen Hillary out on the campaign trail. The first time was when she came to stump for her husband and I was on press row at the Statehouse. I remember how young she looked as she stood outside on the Statehouse steps with a headband in her shoulder length hair.

Years later, I saw her give speeches when I was working on the Corzine gubernatorial campaign and I viewed her up close – but I never went up to speak with her. I’m not sure if I felt a little intimidated or just a little shy or I just didn’t want to bother the senator – or a combination of all these factors. She always held her head erect and her back very straight – no matter if she was on stage or waiting in the wings.

I also saw Obama when he came to a string of rallies for the same candidate. I remember an African-American man approached me before one rally began and asked me if I could get Obama and Jon Corzine to sign a program for him. They were both senators at that time. Not a problem, I said.

I went to a back room where Obama and Corzine were taking a needed break before they spoke to the crowd. Senator Obama was sprawled in a chair, his long legs stretched in front of him. He looked exhausted and hot. I introduced myself to him and found him very approachable. He and Corzine readily and good-naturedly signed the program. When I returned the signed program to the man, he was ectastic.

I can see why the crowds go wild for Obama. As a Puerto Rican and an American, I’m proud to see him run.

I know that sexism played a role in what happened to Hillary although I know that’s only one of the reasons that her campaign failed. I was recently reminded of the sexism entrenched in the political world when I was in the green room at a local television studio and a congressional candidate walked into the room and acknowledged everyone else in the room – all males – and shook their hands. He barely glanced my way. I instantly stretched out my hand and introduced myself.

So Saturday, June 7th, marks another chapter in this historic presidential campaign. But I’ll always wonder “What if …” when it comes to Hillary.

And if I ever get a chance to see Hillary again in person, I hope I will get an opportunity to walk up to her and shake her hand, and say “Thanks Hillary.”

Or maybe I’ll just dap her.

In California, there is a case that in my opinion demonstrates the cold, insensitive, and the downright negligence of our immigration courts as well as the U.S. Immigration & Customs Enforcement (ICE). The story is about a Fresno, CA high school student named Arthur Mkoyan (pronounced MI-KO-YAN) who came to the U.S. at the age of two. His parents came to the U.S. from Armenia because their father blew the whistle on a corruption case in the country and feared for their lives. In fact, in 1992 after Arthur’s father notified the Armenian authorities about drivers license corruption in Armenia, their house was set on fire, which in my opinion was an attempt on their family’s lives. To protect his family and child, they fled Armenia to the U.S.

Despite the well-documented risk to their lives in Armenia, immigration officials have begun deportation proceedings on the whole family, including the child who is now a senior honors student at Bullard High School in Fresno. ICE decided that since Arthur Mkoyan is graduating VALDICTORIAN from Bullard High School, they would allow Arthur Mkoyan to graduate with his class, get his valedictorian award (and all of the prestige that comes with it), give him 10 days to pack his things, and then deport him with his parents to Armenia, where his valedictorian status would be meaningless because he doesn’t speak Armenian and knows nothing about Armenian life. After all, Arthur Mkoyan is an American child at heart. He did everything right and is graduating at the top of his class. And to show how much the U.S. government values his academic achievement and value, he’s being deported by ICE.

And to think that former U.S. Senate candidate and Mayor of Morristown, NJ Don Cresitello actually wanted to deputize his Morristown police officers under the supervision of ICE to help in these kinds of cases at the local level? So glad he was blown out on Tuesday’s Primary Election Day.

The Arthur Mkoyan is yet another example of just how unbelievably senseless the government is with the deportation of students. This is also an example that the immigration issue is not just a Latino challenge. Arthur Mkoyan could possibly be a marked man if he returns to Armenia because he is the son of a whistleblower who exposed corruption in the distribution of drivers’ licenses in the country and it almost cost them their lives. There are thousands of Latino students who are deported to countries that are foreign to them because they were too young to remember their country of origin and are ill prepared for life in those countries.

These students are true Americans by heart. But the government doesn’t want these kinds of talented students in America, and thus you have cases like Arthur Mkoyan. It goes to show you the extremities that the anti-immigrant forces will go to promote their causes. This case as well as the many thousands of similar student cases could have all been resolved if Congress had passed the Development, Relief, and Education for Alien Minors Act (DREAM Act) last fall. However, it fell four votes short in the U.S. of the 60 votes needed to have a filibuster-proof vote.

My message to the federal government is simple: USE SOME COMMON SENSE. Many of these kids with immigration challenges have the potential not only to fill hard-to-fill jobs, but they may also succeed high enough to even create American businesses that may hire the very people who are complaining that Americans are losing jobs to immigrants.

Wouldn’t that be ironic??? Students whose immigration problems are fixed and later graduate college to start business that in turn hire AMERICANS!!!! It would be a whole lot better than the current corporate culture of sending jobs overseas backed by U.S. tax incentives pushed by the Bush Administration.

Either the Bush Administration (and those Senators who voted “NAY” on the DREAM ACT) are too naïve, or I’m just too smart of a blogger to see that this deportation case raises serious questions about the care and prioritization of our children in America regardless of their immigration status. I stand by my Armenian friends as I do with my Latino, Asian, Caribbean, African, and European friends that have similar student immigration problems. WE MUST PASS THE DREAM ACT NOW and stop this nonsense!!!

To see the CNN story about Arthur Mkoyan, click here: http://www.cnn.com/2008/US/06/05/armenian.valedictorian/index.html

I am perplexed. It’s been a month since I completed my Peace Corps service and returned home. Yet, despite the familiarity and excitement of being home, things do not feel the same.

Perhaps the two years has changed the country or, the more likely, it has changed me. Either way I realized that this is a period of discovery and finding answers to the new frontiers I encounter before I take the next step forward.

The main difference is (from as far as I can tell) the grandness of the United States. Before I went to Ukraine I never appreciated the natural beauty of America. From its sophisticated architecture in New York City and Chicago to the preserved parks in New Jersey and Pennsylvania to the clean rivers and lakes all throughout the land. When my brother Omar drove me home from JFK Airport, I was stunned by the sheer immensity of my surroundings: the wide highways, the Hudson River and the Verrazano Bridge. Even though these sights were familiar, it felt as though it was the first time I’ve seen them.

This past month has been a month of firsts, or shall I say second firsts. For example, as I wandered in my mother’s apartment, I discovered a kitchen closet full of grocery products. I stopped and stared at it. It boggled my mind. All the food we had in storage. It just didn’t really make sense. I lived with much less in Ukraine. Yet this closet was there before I left. I forgot about it and now that I rediscovered I asked: Why so much food? Why all the junk food? I know it’s not part of the shelter – we don’t have any – so what’s the deal?

So a part of the grandness in the States is also the size of our plates. I don’t remember the many times I defended Americans while abroad from the stereotyping that we are all obese. Now, I have a better understanding why they said this. The amount of food served during lunch and dinner is far more than an average human being should eat. And if you fall into the cycle of eating everything that is served on a plate then you are bound to be overweight. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts.

In conjunction with this is what occurs if you don’t finish that delicious t-bone steak with super-sized french fries, and a jumbo soda combo; you will be throwing the rest of that food away. That’s what happened when I went to American Steakhouse in Connecticut. The vast amounts of food that is being wasted everyday is an act of carelessness when there are children in Africa and parts of Asia that are eating a bowl of rice a day. Also, I don’t believe there’s a difference between throwing food away and throwing money away. They are both essential to our survival and if someone doesn’t want it, someone else will be there to take it.

So this is what I am going through. I feel like a foreigner in my own country. And I’m feeling like we need to take a step back and admire the beauty of our country … and minimize the excessive nature of our eating habits.

Today is the last day of the Democratic primary elections, and it might just be that after many months of debating whether Clinton or Obama should be the nominee, we might just finally get a presidential candidate that can start talking about getting our economy back in order. Don’t get me wrong, unlike many others political pundits out there, I believe that this primary season has been exciting and has brought energy to the Democratic Party; it has brought thousands of new voters to our ranks and it has demonstrated to young people that our party can have vision and be inclusive. These are the moments in history that define a country and whatever the outcome today is, the U.S. electorate has demonstrated that politics is not defined by politicians alone, but by the demands of people when they choose to make their voices heard.

And the American people are speaking; we want action on the economy.

During my recent trip overseas I was amazed at how merchants were declining to take my dollars. They wanted Euros. The reality is that around the world the dollar has lost value and has become “currency non-grata.” Long gone are the days that dollar was king and we could go anywhere in the world and our currency mattered. How did we get here? For one, we are spending too much on the war and too little on our national priorities. We are indebted to the Chinese and the Saudis for almost half of our national debt and we are not investing in our infrastructure. It now costs almost double to fill up our tank of gas; just a year ago I used to fill up my tank with $28, now it costs me $42. People are losing their homes and those who want to refinance cannot get a bank to give them a new loan. We are on an economic crunch and we need our leaders to start talking about how we are going to get out of this mess.

I, for one, believe that is time to STOP debating who should run under the Democratic ticket and start talking about how Democrats will fix the economy, end the war in Iraq, create jobs, address the healthcare crisis and fix our immigration system. Our problems are bigger than any one politician alone can solve. Therefore, we should be spending our energies in finding solutions as a party, rather than taking sides with one political ego over another.

For me, politics is about finding solutions to problems among competing interest, not about supporting one political figure over another. Clinton and Obama are both formidable individuals and I would happily cheer for either one of them come November (as a matter of public disclosure, I am an Obama Delegate for NJ). However, extending this stand-off further than tomorrow, will only take away from the real debate of improving the lives of the American people and continue to be about the legacy of two politicians.

Obama, Clinton, the economy … let’s make the debate about our economy.

The fight for the poor is not a necessary evil in a stance where terror has refocused our mission on spending dollars across worlds and nations. Our children are sacrificed every time a bomb explodes and more children are killed with aerial miscalculations. I sit and keep quiet because my words and my mind have been calling this excuse to kill a fraud. I heard this was called the war on “terrorism” but somehow I feel like we’re fighting on the side of the Christian God. And for some reason, no matter when I get paid, I feel the pinch because I’m paying $3.75 a gallon for gas because my dollar doesn’t go as far. I’ve stopped dry cleaning because it has become too expensive; I’ve even stopped drinking because the expense has been passed on to me at the bar.

So my point of view is more realistic than some, because I know that there are kids out in the streets running with guns. In 2005, a 5-year-old child was shot with one, and to prevent from this happening again, nothing was done. I sat and pondered what if that was my niece? Hatred and anger would have brought me to my knees. So with no financing and no help from state government I created a mentoring program to alleviate the pain with ease. With quick success I believed to have something worth living for and receiving support. Just like many things in my life, I was wrong. State government with smoke and mirrors created $100 million programs that already existed and to get this funding you need to be a non-profit already existing (and as we found out, it was money for more police, cameras, and correctional facilities). Unfortunately, I’m on the New Jersey Martin Luther King Jr. Commemorative Commission, meaning I have to fundraise because the state is in a deficit where it can’t even help its children (MLK is a volunteer commission). Even at the League of Municipalities my commission was a part of the smoke and mirrors along with myself. We presented programs that in theory would work well but we have no funding for them. So in essence we are presenting an empty promise to the people of the state.

So, I went broke funding the program, and the Amistad Commission assisted with a van to pick up some kids to take up to the College of New Jersey. Kids that didn’t want to attend college were mentored in the program and felt that this cause was now worthy. So hoping to receive financial assistance from the Commission being a state entity, I was told, “what a great program good luck fundraising” and put your personal goals on hold while this will give us good press needed greatly. So, I’m out here fundraising. Businesses don’t want to donate because they don’t want to fall in the whole “Pay to Play” bit. I found a non-profit to help and maybe things will alleviate, but I just wonder who will now really donate. The program begins again in September. I wonder if we will have money to actually take these kids to museums out of the state.

The vision is simple: teach children that education is the key to economic success. Why state government is placing our kids in last place has me vexed but I have to say no longer perplexed. People may call me crazy, but I work in urban areas where babies are killing babies. I’ve seen mothers burying children since I was 16 and trust me — none want to be dead before finishing their teens. I came to ask, is $20,000 going to make a difference in a $3 billion deficit? I’m in debt more than I can handle from being homeless and hungry in the past, but if I see someone less fortunate, I will give my last dollar or buy a meal because I’m a humanist first, Salvadorian-American or plain American last.

It’s funny how a commission created to commemorate a great man who gave his life to serve others, is not being provided support by a government “of the people, by people, for the people.” I just want funding so this program, on its own two feet, can stand. Then maybe I can concentrate on making my escape out of this place. I’ve been told that I’m just “frustrated”; well you would be too if your people were being castrated and left for dead with no help for education because of your skin color and race. Or maybe it’s not even that, maybe it’s just priorities go elsewhere like a war in Iraq and Vietnam, or a war on drugs 37-years-old going on more. Or maybe because there is plenty of land in the Midwest to build more prisons to put us all in, maybe that’s why we aren’t educated properly; just imagine if that’s the case, what a sin.

So fundraising ideas are great, but just know that while we waste time on feeding people so we can get a cut to fund programs, that’s a disgrace (and just so you guys don’t say I don’t do my part: I’m selling tickets for a fundraiser at the Trenton War Memorial on June 26th, $45 a ticket, get them while they’re hot!). And between now and then, more children will already have found their fate, either joining a gang, or being carried out in a box or found guilty to live the rest of their lives behind gates. Our state senators are also at fault. Look at me taking on everyone: what gall!!! Yes, they are who they are because we elected them, and when issues get tough they stay quiet like if they were losing votes for being pro-urban education. I ask all to make an observation: who built this great nation? Who was hung on trees and killed for learning to read? Oh…yes those African-Americans, but let’s not forget also the Mexicans. And Puerto Ricans are sometimes considered Americans, only when they can vote and join the armed forces for the sacrifice of unjust wars on nations (there is a connection from past to present to future). All this is intertwined in simple programs that don’t get funding, because while the elected officials are sipping on hot cocoa and “sitting down, I’m out-standing” organizing and slowly dying.

And now that I know what it feels like to be inside of government, I know now why our Latinos and African-Americans leave because it is such a discouragement. We fight the system and we fight our own people who are trying to make a difference, I don’t want hand-outs, well unless they are given, but for too long we are the ones suffering for sins that aren’t forgiven.

*Note: Other social services in the state are being cut, Health and Education to the poor especially. This has nothing to do with race, but class. Unfortunately the majority of the lower working class happens to be African-American, and Latinos. And the programs affected by this at the MLK Commission are the V-free grants, MLK grants, of course mentoring, etc.