NewsTaco

A teacher at an elementary school in Los Angeles was recently arrested and accused of abusing 23 of his students.  The allegations include, among other acts, blindfolding the kids in his class and making them eat spoonfuls of his semen, according to the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.

The man in custody, Mark Berndt, 61, had more than 30 years experience teaching at Miramonte Elementary School,  located in south Los Angeles, when he was let go in March 2011.

The news has made all parents shudder, thinking that when they drop their kids off at school they should be safe and protected from harm. Some measures that can be taken to help prevent these types of situations are:

1. Talk to children about the being touched or caressed in appropriate ways.  If someone tries to touch them in a way that feels uncomfortable, suggests or does things that are unpleasant or make them feel bad, teach them to say “no” to whoever is doing it and to tell you immediately.
2. Explain which ways of touching their own bodies are considered appropriate and inappropriate. They need to know that just because they’re kids doesn’t mean that they owe respect to all adults and have to put up with inappropriate acts that can harm them.  Tell them that not all adults do the right things.
3. Most important, teach your children to speak openly and to trust that you will be able to protect them.

Parents need to know that their child is not responsible for being sexually abused, even if they have spent a lot of time with the abuser and may not have said anything to their mother or father.  Children who are suffering from sexual abuse can’t stop it if they remain silent for fear of being misunderstood or if they are afraid that others will think they are lying.  Remember that the abuser will always make sure to threaten their victim into keeping quiet, but it doesn’t mean that the child isn’t suffering.

How To Help Victims of Sexual Abuse

• If your child has suffered sexual abuse, assure them that they did the right thing by telling you and that you trust them.
• Let them know that they will be protected and that it won’t happen again.
• Explain to them that they are not responsible in any way for what happened.
• Don’t tell other people about what happened without your child’s consent.
• Keep aware of all their future actions.
• Assure them that they aren’t responsible for the consequences that the abuser will have to face.
• Help them understand the importance of receiving professional medical and psychological help.

[Photo By  janet isn't real]

Dear Martha:

I live in Houston and I need advice on how to deal with what is happening with my daughters, ages six, three, and two. One day while we were watching the news, a report about a baby girl who had been abandoned in a garbage can came on and my children saw it by accident.

I don’t know if I made a mistake by letting them see the story, but it was early in the afternoon and I was unable to avoid it. Now my daugters constantly ask me why anyone would throw their children away like that. I don’t know what to say to them and I feel very confused. What can I tell them?

— Concerned and Caring Mother

***

Dear Concerned and Caring Mother:

Unfortunately, adults can’t always keep kids from seeing and hearing about such tragic situations. Many times they will be exposed to harsh images of violence or abuse, which is where parents must intervene and explain what happens in the world as gently as possible.  It must also be said in a way that doesn’t provide too much information.

You could tell them that there are parents out there who aren’t prepared to raise their children and that there are certain people and institutions that will take care of them.  Be sure to mention that it’s wrong to mistreat children or act violently towards them, but if it happens the authorities will intervene. It’s also important to let them know that cases like these are rare.

Eventually, they will see depictions of war or scenes of starving children living in extreme poverty.  Assure them that as their mother, you’re there to protect and care for your daughters and that nothing like that is going to happen to them.  It’s every parent’s desire to shelter their children from pain and sorrow, but in the real world it’s impossible.

[Photo By espensorvik]

I think I grew up within the generation that had it socially tougher than my parents, but not as easy as our children. Sure, my parents had to cross a border in the dead of night, but they never had to deal with going to elementary school as an ESL student. My parents might have been able to survive a Mexican devaluation crisis, but they never had to deal with the playground jungle.

Elementary school was the kind of environment where you kept your head above water by one of two methods: either you were the kid that came in and knocked people’s heads off, or you were that merciless kid that made fun of people until they broke down in tears and became a psychological mess.

I fell into the latter category; I was a mess of flabby dough, so the only thing I could do is rely on observational humor. I was an artist at my craft. Anyone can tell you that your mother is so fat that she fell in love and broke it. I was the kind of kid that would ask a kid if his parents considered him a regret, or just another mistake.

For the record, let me state that this demonic side was not a regular part of my repertoire, but sometimes someone would get out of place and make fun of my shoes — even though back then Nikes were a rarity, while anything off the Payless Shoe Source rack was the norm. However, if you took your Payless-wearing-behind and made fun of my Payless shoes, it was most definitely on. It was magical and profane, like watching rams in the wild lock horns for dominance – the only difference being that these rams wore shoes that came apart when exposed to rainfall.

My generation was the last generation to grow up without self-esteem or feelings. Some teachers were quick to tell you what was on their mind with flowery language filled with profane adjectives. I remember there was this one time in third grade when the teacher kicked out a student from the classroom because his sweat made him smell like a wet dog. Back then, it was rare for a parent to take the word of a child over a student.

Things are different now, for better or worse. I work at a public school and I can tell you that children no longer go after each other in an individual basis. They now rely on their packs, as they strike when their target is alone or disconnected from their own pack. As an adult, I need witnesses to back up any of my arguments. Parents have raised their kids to believe that their self-esteem is paramount — and that they are equal to any teacher, and any unsatisfactory form of discipline does not apply to them.

I am not an advocate for criminalizing youth or excommunicating students from the classroom, but I am sure that a realistic medium must exist. Self-esteem is an essential in formulating our self-worth, but we also need the instincts to adapt.  The world will not hold your hand, but it will definitely chew it off.  Maybe if some of these students realized that their moms are so dumb, they bought Cheerios thinking them to be doughnut seeds, the world would be a happier place.

[Photo By ND Strupler]

Okay, parents, let’s be honest. How many of you buy the candy you like for the trick-or- treaters? What’s your favorite? Three Musketeers? Mounds? Gummies? For me it’s the Candy Corn and Snickers. If you’re honest with yourself, you choose your favorites because you know you’re getting the leftovers.

I would eat hundreds of candy corns, many of them before Halloween even arrived and I would dig out my favorites from the kids stash when they went bed. The next day the kids would go right to their bags of candy and ask who took my candy? I told them, “the candy fairy.” That was when they were young and naive. By the time they got to the second grade they knew better and hid their candy from daddy.

I was happy to learn that I wasn’t alone in my gluttony. 71% of parents admit to behaving the same way — the other 29% were most likely lying!

Okay, so we have two problems, how to limit the amount of candy the kiddies eat so they don’t rot their teeth out and daddies don’t gain five pounds over Halloween? Remember, it’s all about moderation! If you limit the amount you eat to say one or two pieces a day for a few of days, everything should be fine.

Not to put a damper on the most popular holiday of the year, but too much candy may result in hyperactivity, weight gain, tooth decay, chipped teeth or damaged braces. I had to say this, because, after all this is supposed to be a column on health!

So, what do you do with the rest of the loot? Here are some suggestions I came across:

• Exchange candy for coupons the kids can use to “purchase” a trip to the zoo, to exchange for more story time, buy a video or do some other favorite activity.
• Some dentists are buying candy from kids to send to the troops overseas; ask your dentist about this.
• If your kids are very young you can help them box up the leftovers for the “candy fairy” and toss it in the garbage when they go to bed :-)

If you eat in moderation everyone will have fun and stay healthy.  Just remember to give your child’s teeth a good brushing! And,

Happy Halloween!

References:

• http://www.ivillage.com/parents-buy-eat-kids-halloween-candy/8-a-395723

[Photo By respres]

Dear Martha:

I feel terrible because of recent events in my life. I’m 27 and my sister is about to turn 20. We’re both affected by the behavior of our parents, but in very different ays. They are constantly yelling and they fight pretty aggressively.

I intervene and tell them that it’s not appropriate behavior and I become upset. My sister leaves the house telling me she wants to move away, that she can no longer handle the situation at the house and she wants to escape. If it weren’t for the fact that they pay for her schooling and her truck, she would have already left.

The worst part is that when she gets back, very late, she comes back drunk, putting herself in danger, either with an accident or by getting arrested. I’m afraid to tell my parents because the problem would just get worse and they may force her to leave the house. What do I do?

— Scared For My Sister

Dear Scared For My Sister:

Often parents who live in their own selfish worlds don’t realize that they’re affecting their children to such a great extent. You as an older sister cannot do anything about your parents, just tell them to not involve you and your sister in their fights. But with your younger sister you must be very clear and explain to her the consequences of her behavior could be grave, especially because in this country you’re not allowed to drink until you’re 21.

What’s more, she needs to realize that alcohol is not an escape, but rather it’s a trap door that will result in more problems. Why don’t you seek help from Alcoholics Anonymous? Why doesn’t she talk to a counselor? What does she need to take care of herself?

Parents can be dysfunctional, but nothing justifies that she choose to be as well.

[Photo By Dan4th]

By Christina Rodriguez

My family and I are currently mourning the loss of my 74 year-old grandfather, who was the victim of a massive stroke late last month. He was the heart of our family, along with my grandmother.

The loss of my grandpa is not just an emotional event for us. We aren’t just sad that this family man is gone. We are sad because he was a wonderful man. A man who grew as he got older. He was born into his own large family and lost his parents at a very young age. He always wanted a family of his own and got one when he was blessed with six children and many grandchildren.

But it was his six children who would challenge his beliefs as they all grew into their own.

One son was born premature and not given proper care by the hospital, which resulted in his legal blindness. My grandparents used the money they won in a lawsuit on his behalf on themselves and the rest of the family, leaving my uncle to find his own way to college and marriage. Another son was a great student with scholarships and plenty of opportunity within their community. He came out as a homosexual in the 1980s and my grandpa didn’t know what to do or think. He tried to beat him into being “normal.” This uncle never wavered in his identity, and eventually, my grandpa understood that this was who his son was.

Later, each son found fulfillment and love. The homosexual son caught HIV on the way, before many understood what it was or what it did. But he has persevered with the support of his partner and his family.

The reason I dig up old family conflicts is that these conflicts profoundly affect my father’s entire family. It caused greater understanding of both physically handicapped people as well as those who choose to live the way they feel they were meant to, as members of the LGBT community.

When my uncle recently celebrated 20 years of living with HIV, my grandpa made a small speech before they cut the cake — an emotional, tear-filled speech similar to the other ones he’d begun to say during the holidays at mealtime. But this didn’t involve thanking God for his family or possessions. This one involved an apology — for not understanding, for not knowing what to do. It also included a declaration, which was that he could not be more proud of his son, or his choices.

I am mourning the only grandpa I ever knew. I am mourning the man who raised my father. I am mourning a man who was born in the 1930s and was raised to judge others harshly, but grew as an adult into someone we can all strive to be. A Latino whose eyes were closed, until his children opened them to the future.

Christina Rodriguez is an aspiring writer and editor living in Houston, Texas. She vents and ponders in her blog, It’s not a show and can be found on Twitter @csaenzrodriguez.

[Photo By Flavio@Flickr]

By Dustin Mendus

Education has come to the forefront as a Latino issue in the past few weeks due to disappearing Latino students in Alabama. It’s raised eyebrows. The concerns about the American education system and Latino students are a huge issue that has gone unnoticed for too long. Immigration has been a big issue among the community, and immigration has been used by politicians as their way to get the attention of the Latino voters if they seek them.

While immigration is important, I can’t help but feel that we’ve neglected a domestic issue: our children’s education.

The appallingly slow decline of Latino dropout rates from high school (this does not include kids who go on to earn GEDs, just 16-24 year olds who have not earned a diploma or GED) has been a huge red flag since the 1980s. The National Center for Educational Statistics charts Hispanic dropout rates from the 1980s to 2009.

• In 1980, 35% of Hispanic students dropped out of high school.
• This percentage has gradually grew to 17.6% as of 2009.
• Compared to white, black, and Asian, dropout rates, Hispanics are a massive outlier: 5.2% of white students dropped out in 2009, 9.3% of black students, and 3.4% Asian students.
• Native American rates are another outlier, at 13.2%.

And we’re finally doing something about it. More scholarships? Programs to encourage kids to stay in school? No. A presidential advisory commission.

The White House states that the commission’s purpose is to “expand academic excellence and improving educational opportunities for Hispanics by providing advice to President Obama and Education Secretary Arne Duncan.” The swearing-in and meeting will be streaming on the White House website at 1:00 pm EST Thursday, and is made up mostly of professors and university employees from across the country, but generally from heavily Latino populated regions, a few school principles, as well as a very famous face, Shakira. Shakira seems like a strange choice, however, she’s a big philanthropist in education, helping build a school in her hometown of Barranquilla, Colombia, as well as being involved with UNICEF.

However great the star power behind a commission is, and whatever solutions that come out of it, there is one thing to keep in mind: time. Commissions don’t get things done overnight. Tomorrow’s events are not going to be debating and producing the answer to our problems now — that won’t come for days, months, maybe even years.

I’m only 21 and I’m no one to give parenting advice at this age or with this lack of experience, but the battle to provide Latino students with a proper education and a competitive edge that they are sorely lacking starts at home. Class might not teach what your son or daughter is interested in, but I urge you to get involved with your child, or children, and their educational lives. If you’re a teacher, help your students become interested in education. Reignite the fire of curiosity in children before they reach apathy and “make it by” with low grades, or simply drop out. Is your daughter interested in dinosaurs? Does your son love theater? Foster whatever it is. Their interest isn’t all they’ll learn in school, but with something they care about, they’ll have motivation to go to class and do their homework.

We don’t have the time to wait for bureaucratic solutions, unmotivated kids aren’t going to be in school when solutions reach Congress for a vote. Unmotivated kids are going to be adults on welfare struggling to survive when these solutions arrive.

Dustin Mendus is an undergraduate student at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. He focuses on cultural geography.

[Photo By Andres Arranz]

Dear Martha:

I desperately need your opinion because I feel like no one understands me, or supports me. I’m a 26 year-old divorced woman with two children currently living with my parents because they take care of my children when I go to work. I’ve been divorced for two years and the father of my daughters does not see them or support them financially. I am the only breadwinner in my parents’ home in Dallas and sometimes I think my parents don’t want me to be happy.

I’ve been in love with the perfect man for six months. He accepts me and my daughters, says he loves me and he wants me to go live with him in Miami. The problem is I’ve only ever met him on Facebook, my parents and friends are very upset because he just recently arrived from Cuba and hasn’t been able to find work.

I believe in him, if he keeps trying soon he’ll have work and he’ll buy me a house for me and my children. My parents have been so upset that they say they’re going to report me to the authorities if I take my children. I feel like no one understands me because I believe in him, do you think he’s not being honest with me?

—Love By Long Distance

Dear Love By Long Distance:

I congratulate you for taking charge of your children and supporting them as they grow up. I understand the concern of your parents, they don’t want you to be hurt again, since now you’ve got two young daughters and no one to support you financially.

It’s hard to know someone, really, through the Internet, and even more difficult to risk the stability of your children by moving to a different city with someone no one else knows. Choosing someone to date over the Internet can be risky, since you don’t know the real version of him. You can tell him that he should visit you first, and you can find a way to figure out his immigration status here. Also, if you want to see him first you have to do it without involving your two daughters, since you want to be sure that things can work first.

Your parents just want to protect you from what could happen to you and your daughters. look for a way to continue your relationship by visiting each other, and only when you’re sure that he’s a reliable person, a single person, that he can support you with a job, that you two have chemistry when you meet, then you can think of the next step.

Remember that your parents are only looking out for their daughter and granddaughters, what would you do as a mother to protect your children?

[Photo By VanessaO]

After a few years of consideration, I have ventured into the world of online dating. All my experiences in dating prior to this decision happened many years ago and had been face-to-face meetings before the first date. I was much younger and everyone was single. You know, you meet at a bar or party, or through a friend, small talk, a few laughs then exchange numbers after a few sips of liquid courage. Not very scientific, but it was an easy way to gage an instant physical attraction, or perceived one, between two people.

That has all changed now. I am older and wiser with more at stake than just my heart. And I live in the suburbs where everyone here comes in a family unit. Singles are a rare sighting. I go out with my girlfriends for dinner and wine, but the last thing I want to do now is find romance in a bar. The pitfalls are greater. You can miss a lot in the dim lighting of a bar when sizing up a middle-aged man.

• Too many age lines.
• Bloodshot eyes from too much drink.
• Their real reason for being there.
• The tan line on a finger showing a missing wedding band.

Oh yeah! Dating is so much easier now that I’m older.

Enter the cupid of our modern era: online dating. At a friend’s suggestion and a promising TV ad showing an embracing happy couple, I decided to cast my net out into the sea of cyberspace in search of a “good catch.” So far, the experience has been quite amusing, interesting and promising. I’m like a kid in a candy store.

I have signed up with Match.com and EHarmony. For $39 a month, anonymity and from the comfort of my own home, I can checkout numerous men without even getting dressed up and going out. I can find out what they like, their hobbies, their income level, what god they pray to, how many kids they have and what their preferences are in women. From their pictures, I can scrutinize their faces, hairline, smiles and physiques without making them uncomfortable. This is where the playing field evens out between the sexes. We all get a chance to be scrutinized, courted and turned down for the same price.

There are various ways to express your interest in someone on these sites. You can send them a “wink,” “like” their picture or mark them as “favorite.” You can send them an email, or imply and interest in their profile. The first time I responded to a “wink” I thought I was making a lifetime commitment. I’m more relaxed about those overtures now. A “wink” is just a wink. As in live meetings, the first impression is always the visual. I have to admit that there are many good-looking men on this sight. At least their pictures imply so. Then, there are the guys who need a 101 on uploading the image that says, “I’m worth a try. Keep reading.”

• First piece of advice: Do not post a picture of yourself with the bathroom tiles of your bathroom and your towel rack in the background. And please, put a shirt on.
• Second: Make sure you place the camera away from your face as you try to shoot your reflection through the mirror.
• Third: I appreciate your honesty in showing me your love handles through the thinness of your super tight shirt but, it’s too much information too soon.
• Fourth: One picture of you from ten years ago is not going to do it. “I want the truth.” More pictures are better than one. Smiles are good too.
• Fifth: Make sure you are not wearing “dad shorts” or “dad pants” that sit too high on your waist. Yes, we women look at that too.
• Fifth: Pictures of you at various partying locations with different women flanking you is not going to inspire me to want to be in the picture.

For those men who have awesome workout bodies, I don’t need to see all of the muscles in your body at once. There is no need to use a speedo to display your “confidence.” It leaves very little to the imagination. Most endearing are pictures of dads with their kids; yes they do tug at the heart- strings. You guys know what you’re doing. These are my personal evaluations. There is someone for everyone. I am sure that my profile is, at this very moment being scrutinized. That is a concept I am going to have to become more comfortable with.

I have waded cautiously, as we should all do, into this cyber world of dating. I have gone out on a couple of dates and they have been nice experiences. Mostly, I do more browsing than dating. But it’s a great window-shopping experience.

[Image By Iconspedia]

My grandma and aunts keep asking me when I’m going to start popping out some babies, now that I am living with my boyfriend. I’m 27 and my aunt insists that I will soon be too old and haggard to start a family. After all, I’m Mexican, and we often have babies young. I also grew up in the ‘hood, where teenage pregnancy was so prevalent that there was a daycare center in our high school. In addition, most of the women in my family had children in their late teens or early twenties.

I’m practically an old maid.

What my family doesn’t understand, however, is how much I don’t want children now. Not at all. I’d rather attend a dinner party hosted by a family of rats than have a child right now. And I’m not alone. For many highly-educated Latinas here in the U.S., the world is our taco, and we will not have babies cramping our style.

I’m currently indulging myself in things I couldn’t afford when I was younger. I occasionally like to purchase fancy beer cheese and other expensive gastronomic delights. A lot of my income is also spent on traveling, Before I settle down, I’d like to live in one more country and ride a camel or some other exotic creature. In sum, there is a lot I’m getting out of my system.

Before I even consider having children, I also feel I need to establish my career. After I get home from my mind-numbing corporate job, I usually just want to get home and write. I can’t even imagine having to care for a baby, too. My dream is to make a living as a writer or work in academia — Dear God, when will this Masters Degree pay off? I’m currently working on publishing a book. If that dreadful Eat, Pray, Love lady can do it, then so can I.

I also refuse to have children unless I can actually raise them myself. I hope to one day work from home or have a job with flexible hours. I don’t want to have to hire a Mexican nanny because I personally would like to be the Mexican taking care of my children. (Side note: this is so common that my Mexican sister-in-law is often confused for her own children’s nanny.) This economy is also so bleak and frightening right now. Before I have children, I’d like to make enough money to afford yuppie, organic food for them. I don’t want them growing up looking like little mutants thanks to all the hormones in our meat and dairy products.

There is a generation of young Latinas waiting to establish themselves in their careers and create more ideal circumstances before they take the gigantic step towards motherhood. For many of us, we are the first in our families to defy cultural expectations and traditions. Some of us experience a lot of criticism. I know that for some women, motherhood does not conflict with their career and life goals, which is great. But for me, it really does. Maybe I’m disappointing my family with my choices, but I try to make them understand that I’d rather be an older mother than an unfulfilled one.

[Photo By rachel_titiriga]

Today I am back on the clock. The morning ritual begins at 6 a.m. I walk into the bathroom and pull back my hair and wash my face with cold water. I look into the mirror but I’m not really focusing on the sleepy figure staring back at me. I’m already putting a rundown together in my head of what I need to do to get my son out of bed and to school.

Even though I haven’t been at a TV job in years, I still have the residual habit of keeping time to the minute and even to the second. It’s an instinctual survival skill I learned as a newscast producer where every segment of the news show was broken down into time blocks. End times were counted down to zero by the second — and there was no room for error. This morning my show is called, “First Day of School.” Today he is officially a first grader. This production is a one-woman band. I play a supporting role and also produce the show. We need to end this episode at 8:15 a.m. when the school closes its doors and gives tardy slips after that.

I walk out my bathroom into my closet and get dressed. (Won’t focus on my appearance today. I’m behind the camera.) As I walk into the hallway I begin turning lights on. I go into my son’s room where he is still sleeping, I glance at the clock of his Fios box. It reads 6:25 a.m. I pull out the clothes items that make up his school uniform. A white polo shirt, navy blue shorts, white socks and a belt.

I walk into another bedroom and turn on the iron. I run back to his room and start the process of coaxing my son to wake up. I flip on the lights. “It’s 6:30. Wake up sleepy head.” I see him stir a bit and walk back to iron his clothes. That done, I go back to his bedroom to get him out of bed. I lean down over him and hug him. “Wake up sweetie pie.” He feels warm and his almost too-long hair is a dark messy nest with the clean scent of Johnson’s baby shampoo.

I guide his sleepy body out of bed and down the stairs. I turn on the TV for him and let him get his bearings. He likes to start his morning with a cup of chocolate milk. (I’m very aware of the sugar jolt he’s getting.) I too, get my caffeine jolt. I run into the kitchen and put his lunch together: ham role-ups, grapes, crackers, Capri Sun drink, three Keebler fudge cookies. The oven clock reads 6:45 a.m. I begin to prepare his breakfast, which never varies: waffles. “A little more sugar please.” It’s 7:00 a.m.

I put the plate on the table and my show guest is beginning to come alive as he walks to the breakfast room. The cartoon playing on TV is Ben 10, another part of our morning ritual. Neither one of us mentions the significance of this day. But I can feel a little of the anxiety on this first day of school. I think it’s coming from me. My son finishes his breakfast. It’s 7:30. My iPhone rings. It’s his dad. He’s gonna meet us at the school at 8:50 a.m.

I tell my first grader he should get dressed and he does with a little help from me. I run upstairs to brush my teeth and I yell down that he should do the same. He’s already doing it! I am shocked and pleased. By the time I come downstairs he’s already putting on his shoes. Another surprise! Usually He’s in front of the TV with the toothbrush in his mouth held by a paralyzed hand and no shoes. This morning my guest is stellar. The digital clock over the TV reads 7:40, I grab the hairbrush in the downstairs bathroom and comb his hair. Checklist: backpack, purse, phone, glasses, kid. “Let’s get in the car,” I say. I look at the clock on my dashboard. 7:45 a.m.

We drive through the historic section of town, which is posted with 25 MPH school speed limits all the way to our target school. My show time is getting tight and I begin the instinctual anxiety of a producer. “Should I drop the dad segment? No. Need it. Make it work.” We get to the school parking lot. My watch reads 8:05. We sit in the car and wait. 8:12, Dad drive’s up next to our car. We’ve got three minutes to get to the door.

Our son walks us through the lobby of the school. I am not looking at the clock anymore. Now, I want time to stop. I try to take pictures of him like a paparazzi mom. “Mom! I’m embarrassed.” He says, putting his hand up. The halls are full with moms, and dads, and younger siblings. It’s semi-chaos of crying, flashbulbs, and teachers smiling wide. We find his classroom. Students hang their backpacks on the wall hooks and find their desks.

My son seems relaxed. I, and his dad are finding it hard to leave the room and keep going back to give him words of encouragement and hugs. We join the parents who are lingering a little too long in the hallway. I smile wide and wave at the teacher. “Have a great day. Good luck. Lots a sugar this morning.” We finally leave.

The show is over. I made my hit time. I am relieved. I sit in my car for a minute and let the feeling come over me. It’s a bag of mixed emotions that I’m sure many stay-at-home moms feel. “Freedom!!! I’m gonna miss him. I’m free! I feel a little empty. Freedom!” I love my son and I had a great summer with him. I’m sure he’s gonna have a great day and I’m gonna love hearing all about it. But if it’s anything like last year, when I pick him up and I ask, “What did you do in school today?” He’ll say… “Nothing.”

[Photo By dprevite]

At one time in our lives, our parents called us to their side, and even though they assured us we were not in trouble, we saw they were visibly nervous. It could not possibly be good news. Then they clear their throat and begin to begin. The talk – the only talk that mattered. The mighty sex talk about sex, and of course the dirty, dirty things sex led to.

For me, it was my dad who did all the talking while I did all the listening. I remember the moment where time simply stopped in its tracks and was replaced by white knuckled horror. I still do not know if I was disturbed at that moment of time or now as I try to recall it.

I remember it was a Saturday afternoon in 1990, and we were watching the Dodgers play the Mets. That was the way we would bond. My father would look for Jaime Jarrin’s Spanish broadcast on the radio, while I manipulated the clothes hanger substituting for a proper antenna. In the end, the snowstorm of static would always win, but for a few precious hours we had a picture we could both live with – provided we did not move too much. It was somewhere in the middle of the game, when my father turned to me and informed me:

“Did they already talk to you at school?”
“About?”
“You know. Making babies and condos – the ones you wear, not the ones you live in”
“My mom signed the slip. We are going to watch the movie on Friday.”
“Oh okay. Well remember gunslinger, you got a loaded weapon now. Watch out who you point that thing at. Who’s on second base?”

And just like that it was over. We never brought it up again. We both focused and concentrated on the ballgame, even though I could not tell you who won the game. I respected my dad a little bit more because I know it took a lot of him to utter those couple of words.

As the years passed, it was the white elephant in the room wearing a white sheet that everyone seemed to ignore. My dad would ignore the obvious – even if there was a random condom in the room. I was not even using them; I just thought that it was cool to go to nurse’s office and get them, because it was just as cool to let people know you were having sex.

My father invested his shaky faith in the school district. They had taught me long division and now he wanted them to put the fear of multiplication in me. He just wanted the school to take care of it. He felt school needed to be responsible for more than academic growth. He wanted my teachers to check my fingernails and dock me a couple of points if I needed a haircut. After all, his tax dollars were paying for a well-rounded education.

So now, more than 20 years later, the shoe is on the other foot. I have gone from showing the slide show to playing the video, and now we have the DVD. I press the play button and go to the other side of the classroom. After the movie is over, I have students asking me the same questions I was afraid to ask my dad, so I refer them to the nurse. In addition, I tend to blush and tell them to ask their parents. I have to give my father some credit for my method. Because there are some questions I do not know how to give answers to, so I just tell them to ask their mothers or fathers.

Follow Oscar Barajas on Twitter @Oscarcoatl.

[Photo By woodleywonderworks]

It is summertime now, and one of my friends wanted to go to the lake in order to swim. She was surprised to hear that I do not know how to swim. She figured it was a skill everyone simply picks up along the way. No, I told her, I cannot swim. I can float. I can sort of dog paddle. However I will never be confused with Michael Phelps, because I cannot coordinate my body to perform the proper physical functions actually involved in swimming.

I attempted to learn once. My mother signed me up for lessons at Pecan Park which was located a stone’s throw from my house. Although the lessons were free, my father did not think the price was right, since he would be the one to take me. I was seven or eight years old at the time. I was old enough to walk the two or three blocks to the park, however, I was not trusted to go by myself because the park was a den of drug dealing – which meant my dad would have to go and sit by the edge of the pool, while the lifeguard went over the curriculum.

My father challenged the wisdom of the curriculum, because after three lessons, all we knew how to do was float in place. We had not even been to the edge of the deep side yet. He had been barred from drinking at poolside, so my father thought he would outwit the lifeguard by already being drunk before the lesson began.

So one hot July day, while at Lincoln Park, my father decided to put my skills to the challenge. His friends were asking me how life outside of school was going. I told them that I was learning how to swim. They thought I should have been born with that skill already. My father decided to show them the curriculum. He grabbed me from one of the belt loops in my pants and threw me into the lake. The sudden rush of panic was the first thing to hit my face. The second thing I realized was that I was head over heels. I fought to find my center. I knew I had to get my feet on the ground, but it was so hard to remember past lessons, when they never included any mention of water going through your nose and into your lungs.

The water burned my eyes, because all kinds of things were floating in it. I remember it was so dark, I could not see past my hands, but I eventually found my balance. I was able to plant my feet on the ground and emerge from the lake which resembled more of a swamp. I found a towel, although it was somewhat pointless since I did not have an extra pair of clothes to slip into. I shivered as the afternoon turned into evening, wrapped around the towel.

It was a silent car ride home, but I stopped to ask my father why he did what he did. He waited about two street lights in order to give me an answer. He just wanted to see if I could sink or swim. He turned to me and put his hand around my shoulder and told me, “I’m proud of you because you did not sink – otherwise it would have made for a very uncomfortable conversation with your mother. Now, who wants a Happy Meal? You do? Well, then you are going to have to tell your mother that you fell in.”

I cannot remember another moment where I was as close to my father as that evening. I never went back to learn how to swim. I figured I would do well as a land dwelling mammal. I was just glad that I never asked my father for piloting lessons.

Follow Oscar Barajas on Twitter @Oscarcoatl.

[Photo By Aimanness Photography]

I believe in the power of neighborhoods and barrios. I believe public institutions devoted to our leisure, education, and civic engagement are sacred spaces. The people make the place, but the place defines the people. And, I want to live in a place where I know my neighbors will alert me if they see my child acting a fool, or if they see strange people lugging my crap out the door — I am not talking about living on a street known for chisme, I am talking about people who work for a living helping out other people who work for a living do the difficult deed of raising young, impressionable people.

I am talking about a place where I see myself reflected, and where the shadows don’t need deciphering

My wife and I don’t have a lot of money, and we definitely have the smallest television on the block (a paltry 19 inches). But, what we do have is a public library branch that’s basically in our backyard, and we borrow heavily from this library: cookbooks, DVDs, comics, magazines. We even borrow children’s books for our one year-old son, and “Baby Einstein” DVDs that he can watch instead of the brash and ultra-violent programming my wife and I like to consume.

We believe in neighborhoods because the institutions in them deliver services which help us to relax, take stock, and replenish our minds (and fill them with books). However, even though we are both professionals, owning a home for us, and staking a claim in our neighborhood seems more like a dream or flight of fancy.

If you hadn’t heard, Latinos were the most affected by the Great Recession of 2009 ( and 2010, 2011, 2012?). According to the Pew Hispanic Center:

Median household wealth among Hispanics fell from $18,359 in 2005 to $6,325 in 2009. The percentage drop—66%—was the largest among all racial and ethnic groups, according to a new report by the Pew Research Center’s Social & Demographic Trends project.

Likewise, “median household wealth declined 53% among black households and 16% among white households.”

The largest reason for the decline in wealth among Latinos was plummeting home values; also, the states that were in the “vanguard” of the housing fubar also happen to be states with a majority Latino population.

They say hindsight is 20/20, but my parents were able to buy the lower floor of a duplex in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn a little more than 10 years after having first landed in New York City. And, because their legal residence status was determined after my birth, the sum they were able to scrimp was a figure they had earned on an undocumented person’s wage — typically half the federal minimum wage.

So, my fears of never being able to own a home are not necessarily unwarranted or overblown. Latinos, as a group, seem to be losing wealth at faster rates than African-Americans or whites. I understand that many of the more beautiful things in life are not material things, but why, as a Latino, should wealth be yanked away from me faster than any other race?

If you think I am crying wolf, then chew on this: “the median wealth of white households is 18 times that of Hispanic households and 20 times that of black households.” If that alone doesn’t scare you, then maybe the fact that these, “lopsided wealth ratios are the largest in the quarter century since the government first published such data.” Basically, it seems that our representatives still haven’t learned their lesson from the “yarn” of trickle-down Reaganomics and the ones who are going to suffer as a result are people like me and my family, and you and yours.

Yago Cura is a writer based in Los Angeles. He edits the online journal Hinchas de Poesia and moderates the blog Spicaresque. Follow him on Twitter @theshusher.

[Image By Iconspedia]