My favorite coffee shop

For the last three years, I have gone to the same coffee shop that is one block away from my front door. On good months, I go once a week. On bad months, I go once a day. But I always go. Yesterday, I cashed in my latest buy-eight-get-one-free coffee.

This morning, I was putting on my shoes and glanced at my blackberry to check my email, preparing to saddle up the dog and head over for a caffeine fix before class. The first email I saw was from Best Woman: "Isn't this horrible?" it said. And below that, an article from our local neighborhood bulletin board.

My favorite coffee shop had been robbed that very morning, while one block away, my husband, dog and I slept soundly. Not only that, but one of the baristas, the lovely baristas that I love so much because they are friendly, unpretentious and always remember my order... one of them was brutally sexually assaulted in one of the spacious bathrooms with the automatic light fixtures. It happened around 6:30 a.m. Right around the time they were opening.

Why should I write about this? It's not my trauma. These things happen around big cities every day. More than that. They happen in small cities, in suburbs, in towns across America. It happened in Richmond just before we moved there, to the family that owned our favorite toy store. It was worse, then.

But this is different because these are people I know. It touched my life. Rape. Robbery. Violence. It touched my life, in a way I've been privileged not to know. And more than scared, I am sad and angry. Why did this happen to someone I know? Why did they have to suffer this way, while just a couple hundred yards away, we were so close by? She ran to the convenience store that shares a corner with my apartment, and the guy who works mornings there called the cops. The cops, the news, they responded right away. And for that, this neighborhood is lucky.

I pray for justice, and for healing, and for repentance.

search engines

A while ago, like a year ago, I made a blog post poking fun of my 1L memo search terms. I mean, I was making fun of the search terms, but I wasn't making them up. They were something along the lines of "Chastity! Sex! or Homo!"

Now, I have a Mac. So I use Safari. Which means that whatever Google search terms I most recently used are up in the upper right hand corner of my browser.

Somehow, "Prostate biospy, likelihood of cancer" doesn't have quite the humorous ring.

Blurry vision

It's not that nothing is going on in my life. It's not that life is so exciting or busy that I can't update, either. It's just that I don't want to get into it. I don't want to write any more about the sad things that have happened. And I don't feel like writing about the happy things is the best way to enjoy them. In short, I'm avoiding self-reflection. That seems like such a daunting task.

My bridal shower is on Saturday. I can't believe my bridal shower is on Saturday. Like, this is actually happening to me. It's actually my turn to be going through this age-old ritual. Come to think of it, that's how I remember feeling about being in college, at the beginning.

T's grandma passed away yesterday. We knew she was really sick before all the stuff with my uncle started. In fact, when I heard my uncle "had a stroke" I thought it was a blip compared to T's grandma's sudden and unexpected cancer diagnosis. That turned out not to be true. But in either case, both T's grandma and my uncle have left us for a better place. Sigh.

Life, and all that comes with it. Since I got back from South America, I've been really trying to enjoy it. And I think I've done a pretty good job, all things considered. I'm just not writing about it.

The dog in the well

It was about 5:30 when I got a call from T letting me know he was downstairs at the entrance to my building. We now work two blocks from one another in the center of the Big City, and since my first work week has been very erratic, a new routine has not yet been established. I was just finishing up my first memo, which I'm still not sure if I actually needed to do.

"I'll be down in five or ten minutes, or you can come up," I offered. How quickly I slip back into work mode.

He opted to stay downstairs, probably smoking and people watching, while I finished cite checking and entering in case notes fourteen floors above him. Just as I was powering down the computer and getting ready to head out the door, my phone rang. It was T again.

"Best Man just called. Their dog got up in the attic and she's stuck. He needs me to come help."

I told him I was on my way down.

Thus was the start of a long afternoon of trying to rescue a very old dog from a very deep chute. The utterly frightening lightening storm this morning had apparently driven Best Man and Best Woman's dog up into their trinity loft, where she nosed her way into an unfinished attic with doors the size of a microwave, and promptly fell down a bricked-over chimney at the back of the house. Given that the storm was over by 9:30 this morning, and that the poor dog's predicament wasn't discovered until Best Woman came home at 5:30, and that nobody showed up to help until 7:15 and the wall wasn't finally torn down until nearly 8:00, it's quite a miracle that she was alive at all. The night ended with a three-hour long wait at the animal hospital and a giant hole in Best Man & Woman's rented home. But the old lady dog that they adopted two years ago is still alive, albeit with an ulcer in her eye and too much brick dust in her lungs to know what will end up happening to her.

As I was driving the car around to their block to take them to the hospital, just after the dog was pulled from the rubble of the bricks and drywall, I panicked for just a second, thinking that if I didn't hurry I wouldn't get there in time. After all that work to get her out, to have her die on the way to the vet.

She made it. Thank God. But today's victory feels somewhat hollow. My uncle died as I was waiting for my connecting flight in Georgia. He wouldn't have wanted us to see him that way, so I know it's for the best. I'm grateful that he knew how much I loved him, even as I'm sad I never got to tell him one last time and angry that he had to go so suddenly. I want to stop taking so much for granted.

passport? check.

everything just feels wrong. i'm calling the same family. i'm flying into the same airport. i'm staying with the same people. it's all the same motions. except, this time, i'm not going to the valley. i'm not going to stay with my uncle. we're not going to swim in his pool and he's not going to give me advice that makes me feel simultaneously annoyed and loved. and i'm not going to get to appreciate him the way i should have been doing all this time.

i'll fly in with my brother and i'll finally get to introduce him to the country where we are from and the family that always asks about him. he's never been before. we'll get in late, and go to bed. we'll wake up and go to the hospital. we'll see our uncle. i was warned by cousins to brace myself. but my dad says to stay positive. he says to tell my uncle that there's hope and to be patient. he admits to me that this is a little lie. he says to tell my uncle (his brother) that he'll be down soon. as soon as he gets his passport. he says we must give him hope, even if there is none. even if his eyes are closed, my dad says, i should stay positive, and give him hope.

consolation prize

well, i got my ticket. finally. for a while it was starting to look like i might not even get it. an angel at delta airlines basically told me how to fuck with the system and get around their stupid $150 72-hour booking fee. the work around (which involved booking farther in advance and then switching my date) only saved me $50, but it took the fare down to just below the threshold of what i could afford in order to fly down to see my uncle this weekend. so, between my amazing cousin who gave me all those frequent flier miles and the woman on the reservation phone line who helped bring the cost within my reach, i am miraculously going to be able to fly to south america and back in one weekend. (assuming i have no problem at the passport office tomorrow.)

usually when i make this trip, i'm at my happiest. i love going down there to see my family. it happens so rarely and a piece of my heart is always there.

today, i just want to get shit-faced drunk. bring on the aguardiente.

So far so good

Well, thankfully, I talked to the paralegal who was very encouraging about my situation, and then I talked to my boss. She said it was no problem at all for me to go to the passport meeting, and to leave work early on Friday to fly out of the country. Now I just need to make sure I can get a ticket and my passport, neither of which is a guarantee at this point.

So much is happening right now. I started my new job on Monday, but really I was just in training for the last two days. Along with people from about four or five other organizations, we had a training all about farmworker law, including tax issues, housing, field sanitation, H2A & H2B workers, the Agricultural Workers Protection Act and much more. It would be a lie to say that I was captivated and sitting on the edge of my seat the entire time. It's hard to stay focused for 8 hours in the same moot court room, two days straight, even when the subject is interesting, there is plenty of free coffee and you've had many breaks. Still.

As I sat in the room and looked over the agenda, and listened to the lawyers give their presentations, I was struck by how perfect this whole situation is. Three years ago, I was working for a mom-and-pop company training spanish-speaking laborers on how to avoid electrocution in a wet crawlspace or keep from being buried alive while digging a trench. I was helping co-workers complete workers comp forms when their backs gave out or the trench did collapse. I was calling landlords to ask why rent checks were never cashed, and handing out pamphlets on the free neighborhood clinics run by Duke. I loved it. Going to law school was my best guess as to how I could continue to do this type of work as a career. I didn't want to be a social worker. I didn't want to be a translator. Human resources was never going to work. This is it. And I feel so lucky. I'm excited about this summer!

Meanwhile, my uncle is laying in a bed somewhere far south of here, unable to move anything but his eyes. Six months ago, he was flying helicopters in Afghanistan, a fact that I was never comfortable with, but which speaks to his health and the manner with which he approached life: fearlessly. I am completly baffled and frightened by the fact that my macho, overly-protective, doting, hard-drinking, fun-loving, physically fit uncle, the oldest surviving son of my grandmother, the man who used to tell me I should have one boyfriend for every day of the week, who only just met T for the first time over Christmas, but immediately liked him and welcomed him into the family only two weeks ago... that he is now bed-ridden for life, and that he is stuck in this horrible medical, legal, ethical limbo. It makes no sense. It seems unreal. I can't believe this is actually happening to us.

At the same time, T and I went out to dinner tonight, where he brought up a concern that he had. He shared a story with me that he didn't have to share. The kind of story that is easier to keep to yourself to avoid questions. But because I am dating a wonderful man, and because we have learned the hard way about radical honesty and trust, he came to me and we talked. We're not a perfect couple by any stretch. I know that T and I will weather our fair share of storms in the future, just as any couple will have to do. We've been through some hell of our own already, which we were fortunate enough to have been brought together by, rather than getting torn apart. Sometimes I don't think I stop often enough to think about how lucky we are.

I was saying to him how as I've grown older I've grown more self-confident. It's true. It's not that I feel prettier (I don't) or smarter (I don't) or even wiser (I don't, usually). The difference between who I am now and who I was when I first met T has a lot more to do with how much more I believe in myself. And because I believe in myself, I don't walk around feeling fearful all the time, like I used to do when I was younger. Now, when I feel bad, whether it's insecurity, anger or disappointment, I believe my reasons and I trust myself enough to bring those feelings to the table. And I trust T to take me seriously. Because of that trust, I don't feel guilty bringing things up, and I usually feel better after we've talked. It's awesome. It's not perfect. It doesn't always work. But it's awesome.

So it's a mixed bag these days. Wedding planning. New job. No summer funding. Family illness. Sadness. Love.

Call for advice

Dear reader,

If you happen across this blog and have ever worked in a summer legal internship, I need your advice on a sensitive issue. I start my summer internship at a legal aid clinic on Monday. Well, technically, I'm at a training on Monday and Tuesday, and then it's to work. I'm excited about the job! I'll be working for a single attorney with a single paralegal, on a specific issue.

Here's the problem. Earlier this week, I received news that my uncle, who I am close with, suffered a stroke. This was a shock because he is physically fit, relatively young and healthy. He also lives in my family's country of origin (i.e. not in the USA). My uncle has generously hosted me for visits for years, and is all around a very loving, caring guy.

Flashforward to yesterday. The first reliable news comes in. He didn't suffer a stroke, it was an aneurysm that burst. Due to congenital defects, his brain cells immediately started dying, and he suffered serious brain injury. He is now stabilized, but he is quadripeligic, only able to move his eyes up and down. Most of the time he is sedated, but when he's not unconscious, they say he is aware of what's going on around him. This is not going to change.

Tio is on life support, but according to his will, he stated he never wanted to be left on life support. However, in the country where he is hospitalized, the doctors make the final decision. Family is rallying together to fly relatives to visit him this week. I am making arrangements to get my passport in order so I can go.

The problem? My work. I just plan to go for the weekend, which is amazingly possible. But all flights seem to leave during the day. I can take a night flight but I won't get there until Saturday morning, and I'd have to leave Sunday morning in order to be back in time for work on Monday. So I would either have to go for 24 hours, miss all/part of a day on Friday or miss all/part of a day on Monday. And this is my first week. I have to book my flight before my passport meeting this week.

Should I even bring this up to my boss, or just do the 24 hour visit and not say a word? If I do bring this up, should I e-mail her this weekend or wait to mention it at the training? Do I mention it casually to see what she says, or do I approach her directly? Please advise whether I will kill my reputation early by bringing this issue to the table!

Thank you ever so much, reader. I appreciate it.

Falling down the stairs

is how I started my first day of summer.

Scene: Living room, 9:30 am.

"Mijo, do you wanna go outside?"

Dog perks up his ears and trots over to me.

"Getcha leash!" I reach for my shoes, and pull my prescription out of my backpack. First on my list of business to take care of now that school is out: fill my scrip and take my much neglected dog to the dog park.

The dog is now panting and wagging his tail, as I snap his leash into place around his neck. Before heading out the door, I grab my to-go coffee and, since I'm feeling a little woozy from the last few days, a piece of cheese to fill my stomach.

We start out the door, the coffee and scrip in one hand, and my snack cheese in the other, the dog's leash looped around my forearm.

Normally, I let him charge down the stairs, not holding on to him. We live in a 3rd floor walk-up with one straight, steep staircase leading up to our front door. The 2nd floor neighbors have a dog too. My dog and their dog have a kind of Maggie Simpson-Unibrow Baby relationship. They bark at each other through the door, digging at the floor and making mean noises, even though if they were to actually see each other, they'd probably play all day.

So, for some reason, I am attached to Mijo's lease when we start down the stairs, and I'm still attached when he bounds down the staircase, literally leaping 3 steps at a time, to get to the 2nd floor landing where his arch-nemesis is waiting. I go tumbling down the stairs in slow motion, watching my coffee cup fly through dead air and land nearly at the bottom of the stairwell, and wondering whether I was going to end up there too.

But I landed, ironically, on the landing, screaming in pain because somehow I really hurt my knee in the whole process. Arch-nemesis dog is barking non-stop now and trying to dig his way to me from the crack under the door. My phone is upstairs on the charger, exactly where I left it, not having imagined I would need it for an emergency on my quick errand run. And Mijo has become suddenly stoic, perching himself on the edge of the landing, facing toward the bottom of the stairs and watching the legs of people walking by through the little window in the front door.

I laid there for about 10 minutes. First the pain was almost unbearable. But eventually, it subsided enough that I could think of other things, like whether I should try to call someone, or if I should go up or down. Finally, I stood up, prompting my dog to also stand up, tail tucked between his legs. He instinctively walked back up the stairs, knowing he had ruined our walk. And I followed him, slowly. We got back inside, and I crashed on the couch to sleep for 2 hours.

Now I'm sitting here icing my knee, wishing I had bought the health insurance and feeling sorry for myself. It could be worse. As T said, think of the kid who fell out of a tree on the first day of summer break and had his arm in a cast all summer and couldn't go swimming.

This can't be justice...

I followed the death of Luis Ramirez, a guy who was:
- 25 years old
- an undocumented immigrant from Mexico
- father to two young kids with a US citizen woman
- boyfriend to that woman's 15 year old half-sister
- a farm-worker of 7 years
- resident of Shenandoah, PA
He was walking through a park with the 15-year old when some high school boys, drunk from a block party, said to the girl, "isn't it a little late to be out?" according to the lovely AP article, "this enraged ramirez who began yelling at them in Spanish and calling people on his cell phone." from all the affidavits given prior to trial, i understand that he made phone calls only after the boys and him began fighting, asking his friends to come by because he might be in trouble. six drunken dudes, one sober guy on a date.

one guy went running after him, giving him a running punch that knocked ramirez to the ground. after ramirez was unconscious, one guy kicked him in the head, causing ramirez to go into convulsions and, ultimately, killing him.

So, flash forward to a jury trial, which only came about because the Feds got involved and media attention basically forced the local folks to press charges. The prosecution rested far sooner than anyone expected, which raises questions for me. Defense barely said anything. then, the jury deliberated, and according to the foreman it wasn't even a close vote. The two guys on trial were found guilty. Of simple assault. The end.

I feel sick.

frozen dinners

In the last four days, I've watched as my friends and I have been subjected to some of the most wonderful and treacherous parts of life. T got a 3 am text message announcing the arrival of our friends' brand new beautiful baby girl, their as-yet-unnamed and highly anticipated first child. Another friend was told at her first doctor's appointment that either the dates are off or the pregnancy isn't viable. She will be waiting a week in agony. This morning, a friend received a phone call informing him that his mother passed away unexpectedly. He will have to put law school aside to fly home for the funeral he had no idea was coming. I have been fielding calls all week from my wonderful cousins and aunts all expressing their excitement and happiness at our upcoming wedding, offering tidbits of advice and granting the use of their children for the day's ceremony. It will be a beautiful reunion of loved ones.

Fucking life.

I took the train an extra stop on the way home today so that I could walk through the market and pick up a couple frozen dinners for my mourning friend. It's a beautiful warm day outside, and half the city seems to be roaming the streets. On my walk, I passed a Mexican family, both parents holding a frozen popsicle and a toddler following along, whining and reaching for the mother's popsicle. As they passed me, I happened to hear the mom admonish her daughter (in Spanish) -- "No, because you'll drop it." I wouldn't have even remembered this, except that a moment later, I passed an old Italian man sitting outside a junk shop and smiling at me. I smiled back, and he said, "You see that? One for each of the parents, and none for the baby." He shook his head in dismay. "I wouldn't do that." At that point, I had already mostly passed him, but I felt compelled to turn and say, "She didn't want the baby to have it because she would drop it." "Then get her a small one," he said. For some reason, this exchange really annoyed me.

A Piedmonth death

The other blog is tentatively back up and running. I stopped a while back. At the time, I thought it had to do with my grueling exam schedule and general law school distractions. But upon later reflection, I've realized that it may also have been sparked by a couple of things...

I started the blog with the intention of posting articles about ICE raids on homes and work places. This is because there were so many rumors milling around Richmond about la migra coming at night and hauling parents away from kids, etc. I know how rumors spread rampant in this regard, but I also know that fear of ICE is very real. I wanted to try to figure out what is actually happening and where and when and to whom.

Not surprisingly, there wasn't much in the way of news reporting about these types of raids. It's so frustrating, because they ARE happening. They just aren't reported on. But, occasionally, there is a big raid, or an inspired journalist, and a story appears. So I wanted to post those, so I would have a reason to keep looking and others would have a way to keep track.

However, I quickly realized that there is a slipperly slope. I didn't want to post stories about criminals who were being deported after doing jail time, because that wasn't really hitting the heart of the issue as I saw it. The idea that people are just living their lives and then suddenly they are in jail was really upsetting to me. So I started setting guidelines: no articles about those who were arrested for other things and happened to be deportable, for example. No articles about drug busts at the border.

Yet those are the kinds of deportations that ARE reported on, and with regularity. It's no wonder people think all immigrants with brown skin are criminals. Every day there are 100s of articles about immigrants accused of molestation, beating their kids to death, smuggling drugs or killing pedestrians in drunk driving accidents. Tons of articles about those people being arrested and getting ICE holds placed on them. "Juan Garcia was arrested and an immigration hold has been placed on him by federal immigration officials." Which brings with it two problems: (1) Juan Garcia hasn't been tried, so we don't know if he is guilty or innocent; all we know is he is accused. (2) "Immigration hold" just means the person is suspected of being in the country illegally. It doesn't mean he is or isn't.

So many questions. Literally, they are endless. Even though these people are accused of crimes, I still consider them to be tied to the issue of immigrant rights. Because who knows what happens to Juan Garcia after the hold is placed. Is he held for 48 hours and released? Is he improperly held longer? Did ICE officials actually pick him up? Was he a US citizen? It's just another person who entered into the US criminal justice system only to be handed over to this Other World where the usual rules of justice and due process don't seem to apply. Just that instead of seeming totally innocent, they were already branded criminal.

The line became even fuzzier when I started seeing articles (or mostly just blurbs in Police Blotters) about individuals who were pulled over for the ever-generic "traffic violations" and ended up with ICE holds placed on them. Getting pulled over is not the same thing as having your house raided. But then again, making an illegal right turn on red is no reason to be thrown into that Other World, the maze of immigration that usually ends up in either swift deportation or months of languishing in prison (and then deportation). Who are these people? What happens to them? Are they receiving justice?

In short, there were way more questions than answers. I have had so much trouble distinguishing what to post and not post. What is appropriate and not appropriate. I wanted to be fair. I wanted to attract people from both sides, to just look at it from an objective point of view. But you can't pick and choose articles without choosing your perspective. And on top of that, I DO have a point of view, so I couldn't just leave out articles about detainee deaths.

Which is what I found today when I resumed posting on the blog for the second day. Friends of mine are organizing in Farmville, VA, and happened to be quoted in this New York Times article you will find on my other blog. I was proud of them for making the Times with their work. I was saddened by the horrific occasion. Another death in another jail by another detainee. A Piedmont death.

I have to keep posting, but I am going to continue to struggle with this. I guess we'll see.

Oh yeah, the other reason I stopped posting for a while: it makes me depressed to read this stuff day in and day out. On the other hand, I better get used to it. This is what I want to do for a living.

Maybe I jinxed myself. I didn't plan to write on here twice today, but then one of those things happened that made me remember that law school exams are really not that important. And also that life sometimes just sucks. Times like these, it's easy to feel. I feel angry sad and more sad.

The war and fallen soldiers

On the ride home from school a song came on my iPod ("Letters from Home" by John Michael Montgomery) that reminded me of how for a while I was watching a lot of fallen soldier tribute videos on YouTube earlier this spring. Don't ask why. I think it must have had something to do with the fact that I was very bored and also listened to a lot of country music. Anyway, that's why I started probably, but I kept watching them because they fascinated me. I mean, we're at war and at the same time, our t.v. stations aren't allowed to show the caskets of soldiers coming home to be buried. So, as YouTube so frequently does, it has lived up to its reputation as part of the new media, making real something that our administration worked so hard to gloss over for the rest of us. Anyway, I wanted to come home and post a link, and lo and behold, I remembered it is Veteran's Day. So, here are some links to some of the more recent fatalities -- please do not take this for anything close to a complete list, which you can find here, but just a list of people for whom I found tributes on YouTube. Sorry, I know this is morbid, but it seemed like something I wanted to do.

Sgt. William Patrick Rudd - October 5, 2008

Spc. Christopher T. Fox - September 29, 2008

Capt. Michael J. Medders - September 24, 2008

Staff Sgt. Kenneth W. Mayne - September 4, 2008

Sgt. Gary M. Henry - August 4, 2008

Spc. Jonathan D. Menke - August 4, 2008

Spc. Ronald Schmidt - August 3, 2008

Sgt. Brian K. Miller - August 2, 2008

Spc. Kevin R. Dickson - August 2, 2008

Staff Sgt. David W. Textor - July 15, 2008

Sgt. Alex R. Jimenez - Captured May 12, 2007 - Remains recovered July 10, 2008

Maj. Dwayne M. Kelley - June 24, 2008

Sgt. Shane P. Duffy - June 4, 2008

Spc. Jonathan D. A. Emard - June 4, 2008

"Elective Surgery"

Huge story in the New York Times today that virtually nobody is talking about: immigrants dying in federal detention centers.

Nina Bernstein's well-researched article represents true investigative journalism at its finest. I recently read about the death of Francisco Castaneda who developed penile cancer while he was being held in a detention center in California. Bernstein's article does not cite Castaneda's death, but tells tragically similar stories of other immigrants who died from medical neglect while in ICE custody from 2004 to 2007. Since nobody is talking about this issue today, I thought I'd honor the piece by posting some of Francisco Castaneda's testimony to the US House Subcommittee on Immigration:

Good afternoon. Thank you to Chairwoman Lofgren for inviting me, and to the Immigration Subcommittee for holding this hearing. My name is Francisco Castaneda. I was held in immigration detention for over 10 months, and was just released this past February due to my medical condition, after many letters from the ACLU were sent on my behalf.

First, I would like to tell you a little bit about myself. I am 35 years old. I came to the United States from El Salvador with my mother and siblings when I was ten years old to escape the civil war. My family moved to Los Angeles where I went to school and began working at the age of 17. My mother died of cancer when I was pretty young, before she was able to get us all legal immigration status. After my mom died, I looked to my community for support, and found myself wrapped up in drugs instead, which, today, I deeply regret. I worked, doing construction, up until I went to prison on a drug charge, where I spent just four months before I was transferred into ICE detention.

When I entered ICE custody at the San Diego Correctional Facility in March 2006, I immediately told them I had a very painful lesion on my penis. After a day or two, Dr. Walker examined me and recognized that the lesion was a problem. He said he would request that I see a specialist right away. But instead of sending me directly to a specialist, I was forced to wait, and wait, and wait, and wait. All the while, my pain got worse. It started to bleed even more and smell really bad. I also had discharge coming out of it. Apparently the Division of Immigration Health Services was deciding whether to grant the request. Dr. Walker submitted the request more than once and, after more than a month, it was finally granted. When I saw the oncologist he told me it might be cancer and I needed a biopsy. He offered to admit me to a hospital immediately for the biopsy, but ICE refused to permit a biopsy and told the oncologist that they wanted to try a more cost-effective treatment.

I was then referred to a urologist, Dr. Masters, but I only got to see that urologist two-and-a-half months later, after I filed sick call requests and grievances with ICE.

The urologist said I needed a circumcision to remove the lesion and stop the pain and bleeding, and also said I needed a biopsy to figure out if I had cancer. ICE and the Division of Immigration Health Services never did either of those things. They said that it was "elective surgery."

My pain was getting worse by the day. When you are in detention, you can't help yourself. I knew I had a problem, but with everything you have to ask for help. I tried to get medical help everyday. Sometimes I would show the guards my underwear with blood in it to get them to take me to medical, but then they would say they couldn't do anything for me. All they gave me was Motrin and other pain pills. At one point, the doctor gave me special permission to have more clean underwear and bedsheets, because I was getting blood on everything. A guard from my unit once told me he would pray for me because he could see how much I was suffering.

Several more requests for a biopsy were denied. They told me in writing that I could get the surgery after I left the facility - when I was deported.

In late November 2006, I was transferred from San Diego to the San Pedro Service Processing Center. When I got there I immediately filed sick call slips about my problem. After a few days I saw the doctors. I told them about my pain and showed them the blood in my boxer shorts and asked them to examine my penis. They didn't even look at it - one of them said I couldn't be helped because I needed "elective surgery." They just gave me more pain pills.

In the middle of December, I noticed a lump in my groin. It hurt a lot and was a little bit smaller than a fist, so I filed a sick call slip about it. Another detainee told me it could be a hernia. I never got any treatment for it, and I later found out that was a tumor, because the cancer had already spread.

...Finally, around the end of January, immigration agreed to let me get a biopsy. They made an appointment with the doctor, but just before the surgery they released me from custody. A doctor actually walked me out of San Pedro and told me I was released because of my serious medical condition and he encouraged me to get medical attention.

The first thing I did was call the doctor to see whether I could still get my biopsy. The secretary told me ICE had cancelled it. I then went back to the emergency room at Harbor-ULCA - the same place they had left me in the waiting room in shackles - and I waited to see a doctor and finally get my biopsy. A few days later, the doctor told me that I had cancer, and would have to have surgery right away to remove my penis. He said if I didn't have the surgery I would be dead within one year. On February 14 - Valentine's Day, nine days after ICE released me from custody, I had the surgery to remove my penis. Since then, I have been through five aggressive week-long rounds of chemotherapy. Doctors said my cancer spreads very fast - it had already spread to my lymph nodes and maybe my stomach.

I'm sure you can at least imagine some of how this feels. I am a 35-year-old man without a penis with my life on the line. I have a young daughter, Vanessa, who is only 14... The thought that her pain - and mine - could have been avoided almost makes this too much to bear.

I had to be here today because I am not the only one who didn't get the medical care I needed. It was routine for detainees to have to wait weeks or months to get even basic care. Who knows how many tragic endings can be avoided if ICE will only remember that, regardless of why a person is in detention and regardless of where they will end up, they are still human and deserve basic, humane medical care...

Francisco Castaneda died on February 16, 2008.

4000

This spring brings with it a zeitgeist of restlessness and dissent that nicely compliments the choices facing T and I in the coming weeks and months. When I read the morning headlines and ponder the issues of the day, my reaction is visceral.

4,000 American soldiers have died, another gruesome milestone. The occasion is marked by the obligatory news stories and slide shows. Unlike the 3,000th (overshadowed by its New Years Day timing) or even the 1,000th death, this occasion stands out to me.

Looking back, this spring will bring with it the memory of renewed hope in American politics, after so many years (read: 7) of numbed disillusionment. And it will bring with it the memory of sad benchmarks, and $3.23 a gallon gas, and the brink of a new chapter whose future can scarcely be imagined.

Desafortunadamente

"Desafortunadamente" is a word that I have always had a hard time getting right. For a long time, I would cut out a syllable here or there, making it "desfortunadamente" or "desafortunamente". Truth be told, I'm only crossing my fingers and hoping I spelled it right here. But it's the first word that comes to mind for this post, and I don't have the heart to look it up to verify its correctness.

I just did something that I have been putting off for two months. I submitted my resignation to the BOD for the organization I've been working with for three years. My heart truly aches to think about it, in a way that I suspect has more to do with me than with anything I ever did as part of the Board. But for the last couple of months, my only contribution has been to read e-mail subject lines before quickly closing the browser and shifting my mind to other thoughts. The experience, while eye-opening, is not what I had hoped for.

For one, and perhaps the biggest issue, I did not stay in the community. Shortly after I was nominated, I began to realize that my time in town was likely drawing to a close. Shortly after I was elected, T and I made the decision to move. Shortly after the first training, we were relocated a state away. But for a year, I made it work, for two reasons: 1) I love and believe in the mission of the organization and 2) my friends who nominated me for the position did so because they believed I could make a positive difference.

Obviously, to step down brings self-criticism in the form of inverse logic: stepping down means abandoning the organization, abandoning my friends. But I can't let that logic continue unchallenged, which is what I was doing by avoiding this topic altogether. The fact is, I love the organization and my friends, and can probably be more free to participate in a way that is right for me now that I am no longer a part of the BOD. But I had to swallow my pride and admit to messing up, because I have effectively abandoned my post, before moving on.

So that's what I did. I sent an e-mail to explain (but not excuse) my absence and I hope that I don't get too criticized for it, as I am coming to see that's what paralyzes me the most. In the end, though, I think this was the best thing for everyone involved, and I feel somewhat relieved.

Sigh.