I have found myself thinking a lot about sidewalks over my past few days in Texas. It is, of course, because I have been walking for miles and miles everyday. I have depended on sidewalks since arriving in Texas, and it's hard not to notice them.
One of my days in San Antonio, as I began a walk from one end of the city to the other, I decided to take on a sidewalk challenge: I was to navigate my way around as if I were traveling in a wheelchair or similar mobility vehicle. I could not use steps. Curbs without ramps meant I had to search for a driveway. Broken, cracked, uneven sidewalks were potential hazards. I needed real sidewalks.
It was miserable. I was already all in favour of further measures to increase accessibility in all places (and not just for those who travel by wheelchair), and, intellectually, I already understood that ramps placed out of the way on the side or back of a building, rather than in front where stairs might be, were in many ways a sort of "separate but (not) equal" access, but it was very different to experience it myself.
I had to turn around and backtrack way too much. Often, there were no ramps at all. When there were ramps, they were far out of the way and inconvenient. I frequently had to go into the street because a car was blocking the sidewalk (though I would have had to regardless in those cases). Sometimes, I came to a complete dead end. Other times, the sidewalk just became too uneven or overgrown with plants. It was endlessly frustrating and gave me so much more respect for everyone who has to put up with such frustration on a daily basis.
I didn't even have to deal with any sort of discrimination or prejudice from other people (and, believe me, I have heard people say some horrible things about and to "those people in wheelchairs") to understand that we have absolutely not done enough to make our businesses and public spaces and homes and cities accessible.
And it's not just about "those people in wheelchairs." It's about parents pushing strollers and children learning to ride a bike and you not worrying that your parents, grandparents, or friends might trip on the uneven path. It's about ensuring there are safe pathways for everyone and being intentional about inclusion and accessibility.
Check this resource out for just a few good reasons for having (functional) sidewalks, including dramatically reducing car-pedestrian collisions, and all kinds of other related information.
As I walked around Houston today and saw sidewalks, both good and bad, I asked myself what ways I could be part of the solution. I wondered about what my local chapter of The Harry Potter Alliance could do. I thought about community organisations that could take action and ways to encourage political decision makers to prioritise something so simple yet crucial. I tried to come up with other accessibility concerns not limited to sidewalks.
There's not one answer. For me, right now, talking about it is most important, involving others in the discussion and drawing attention to the issue. I have five and a half more weeks to take in more and more, to learn and grow and not try to single-handedly fix all of the world's problems overnight. (Though I'm tempted right now to try to fix all the sidewalks at least.) Maybe I will come up with a brilliant project to start once I arrive home that will help make accessibility a higher priority in Los Angeles.
05 August 2012
31 July 2012
Austin, Texas
It's Tuesday night, and I'm safe in San Antonio now. Austin was amazing. I'm trying to find a way to summarise my experiences here, and I simply can't. So much happened between flying in Thursday and boarding my bus away from Austin this afternoon.
I walked for hours and hours every day. I talked to so many new people. I climbed into the cars of people who had, not long before, been complete strangers. (Just pretend that sentence never happened, Mom.) I crashed meetings and shared stories and even played some Quidditch on Saturday. I laughed at complaints about the traffic ("If you're moving, it's not traffic."), drank more water than ever, and probably learned more about Austin than I know about my own hometown.
The people were wonderful. After sprinting in the Texas heat and humidity to catch a bus (and thus literally dripping in sweat), the bus drive said kindly, "I wasn't going to leave you! Come on in and cool off." Those words have stuck in my mind ever since.
As I explored town, one woman told me about her 48 years working in public education and how she insists on riding the bus, despite having two cars, because it gives her a chance to help others—and be helped by others, too. It was a reminder to me as to why I try to take the bus—not just to "save the planet" through reducing fuel consumption but also to connect me with my community in ways driving simply can't.
I talked with a cashier at a small shop at length about social justice and Quidditch and community. A priest and I discussed the similarities and differences in the ways Los Angeles and places in Texas gentrify neighbourhoods and force the poor and homeless further and further out of sight and away from resources. It's always nice to know that it's not just a couple of people in Los Angeles who care.
Unintentionally, I found myself in a group, meeting on the roof of Whole Foods, which sought to reduce waste and over-consumption and build community by regularly coming together with items and stories to share. We talked about all sorts of things, from car-sharing programs and composting to different religions and their historical roots (yes, I absolutely did tell the condensed history of the Episcopal Church). "Hey, you should start a group like this in L. A.!" I remember someone suggested.
Some ridiculously kind people took me out to lunch when I was tired and hungry and far away from the centre of town, which turned out to be a fascinating meal—there was a police standoff just down the street, and I can now say I've seen both the Austin SWAT team and their bomb squad (Ignore that, too, Mom)—with people who were even more interesting than any police standoff and much warmer, too.
Someone else offered to drive me home when it was late, took the long way, and showed me a great deal of the city, complete with history and other context to help me understand all that we travelled through.
People offered up their homes and their hospitality just about everywhere I went. I'm not yet sure if it's an Austin thing or a general kindness-to-travelers thing, but either way, I have met some pretty incredible people, and I have learned so much about myself in meeting them.
I was sad to leave Austin, but I am so looking forward to my time in San Antonio and beyond and all that I will learn along the way.
I walked for hours and hours every day. I talked to so many new people. I climbed into the cars of people who had, not long before, been complete strangers. (Just pretend that sentence never happened, Mom.) I crashed meetings and shared stories and even played some Quidditch on Saturday. I laughed at complaints about the traffic ("If you're moving, it's not traffic."), drank more water than ever, and probably learned more about Austin than I know about my own hometown.
 |
| Lady Bird Lake, Austin, Texas (I insisted it was a river, but the locals call it a lake anyway!) |
As I explored town, one woman told me about her 48 years working in public education and how she insists on riding the bus, despite having two cars, because it gives her a chance to help others—and be helped by others, too. It was a reminder to me as to why I try to take the bus—not just to "save the planet" through reducing fuel consumption but also to connect me with my community in ways driving simply can't.
I talked with a cashier at a small shop at length about social justice and Quidditch and community. A priest and I discussed the similarities and differences in the ways Los Angeles and places in Texas gentrify neighbourhoods and force the poor and homeless further and further out of sight and away from resources. It's always nice to know that it's not just a couple of people in Los Angeles who care.
Unintentionally, I found myself in a group, meeting on the roof of Whole Foods, which sought to reduce waste and over-consumption and build community by regularly coming together with items and stories to share. We talked about all sorts of things, from car-sharing programs and composting to different religions and their historical roots (yes, I absolutely did tell the condensed history of the Episcopal Church). "Hey, you should start a group like this in L. A.!" I remember someone suggested.
Some ridiculously kind people took me out to lunch when I was tired and hungry and far away from the centre of town, which turned out to be a fascinating meal—there was a police standoff just down the street, and I can now say I've seen both the Austin SWAT team and their bomb squad (Ignore that, too, Mom)—with people who were even more interesting than any police standoff and much warmer, too.
Someone else offered to drive me home when it was late, took the long way, and showed me a great deal of the city, complete with history and other context to help me understand all that we travelled through.
People offered up their homes and their hospitality just about everywhere I went. I'm not yet sure if it's an Austin thing or a general kindness-to-travelers thing, but either way, I have met some pretty incredible people, and I have learned so much about myself in meeting them.
I was sad to leave Austin, but I am so looking forward to my time in San Antonio and beyond and all that I will learn along the way.
24 July 2012
Jonah: Swallowed by a Giant Plane
It's late Monday night. I should be sleeping; I will take my little brother to camp for the penultimate time (at least for a long time) tomorrow morning. It occurs to me that I am going to miss him. A lot. I should sleep so that I can be fully rested and enjoy what little time I have left with him.
I'm too excited to sleep though. I cannot wait to find myself in Texas, and there is something so endlessly strange about that, being excited about Texas. My thirteen-year-old self would be appalled and furious if it weren't already preoccupied with gaping at me in utter disbelief.
"Texas?? But we HATE Texas," it is protesting. "Let a black hole swallow the entire state! Nothing good comes from Texas!" I grew up with a very big "thing" against Texas. Blame it on Bush, I suppose.
When I was about fifteen or sixteen, my best friend, on whom I had depended a very great deal, decided that they absolutely hated my very guts in that way only fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds can. It was one of the most painful losses I have ever experienced. It sucked. I was miserable.
In the midst of my grief, anger, pain, and swirl of incomprehensible emotions, my iPod played a song I had never heard before. There's a long, logical explanation for how it ended up on there, but in retrospect, I think I was just supposed to hear it. To use only a little hyperbole, it changed my life.
Imagine my horror when I found out the person who wrote that live-saving song, Bryce Avary (The Rocket Summer), was from Texas. It was a bit of an existential crisis. How could someone who seemed so nice, who wrote things to which I related so well, who clearly cared about the world, be from Texas??? It was impossible to comprehend. I knew the answer, but I didn't like it. I frantically fled from the suggestion that Texas might not be simply a hell-hole of pure evil.
Going to Texas feels like finally submitting to something that has been calling to me for the past four to five years. I feel like Jonah: I have been running and running from Texas, determined that nothing in Texas could possibly be good, and at last I will be swallowed by a plane which will, after three hours in its belly, spew me out in the very capital of Texas.
A few months ago, when I finally made my decision to go to Texas, I was mostly just terrified. I had already known for a couple years that I would have to face my (irrational) fear of Texas at some point, but it didn't make it any less scary. I lost plenty of sleep being afraid and nervous.
Tonight, I am sleepless with excitement. It feels so right to be rocking out to The Rocket Summer right now. "Let the revival rattle me and open my eyes, open my eyes!" I cannot wait to be rattled. I cannot wait to have my eyes opened. Texas, here I come.
I'm too excited to sleep though. I cannot wait to find myself in Texas, and there is something so endlessly strange about that, being excited about Texas. My thirteen-year-old self would be appalled and furious if it weren't already preoccupied with gaping at me in utter disbelief.
"Texas?? But we HATE Texas," it is protesting. "Let a black hole swallow the entire state! Nothing good comes from Texas!" I grew up with a very big "thing" against Texas. Blame it on Bush, I suppose.
When I was about fifteen or sixteen, my best friend, on whom I had depended a very great deal, decided that they absolutely hated my very guts in that way only fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds can. It was one of the most painful losses I have ever experienced. It sucked. I was miserable.
In the midst of my grief, anger, pain, and swirl of incomprehensible emotions, my iPod played a song I had never heard before. There's a long, logical explanation for how it ended up on there, but in retrospect, I think I was just supposed to hear it. To use only a little hyperbole, it changed my life.
Imagine my horror when I found out the person who wrote that live-saving song, Bryce Avary (The Rocket Summer), was from Texas. It was a bit of an existential crisis. How could someone who seemed so nice, who wrote things to which I related so well, who clearly cared about the world, be from Texas??? It was impossible to comprehend. I knew the answer, but I didn't like it. I frantically fled from the suggestion that Texas might not be simply a hell-hole of pure evil.
Going to Texas feels like finally submitting to something that has been calling to me for the past four to five years. I feel like Jonah: I have been running and running from Texas, determined that nothing in Texas could possibly be good, and at last I will be swallowed by a plane which will, after three hours in its belly, spew me out in the very capital of Texas.
A few months ago, when I finally made my decision to go to Texas, I was mostly just terrified. I had already known for a couple years that I would have to face my (irrational) fear of Texas at some point, but it didn't make it any less scary. I lost plenty of sleep being afraid and nervous.
Tonight, I am sleepless with excitement. It feels so right to be rocking out to The Rocket Summer right now. "Let the revival rattle me and open my eyes, open my eyes!" I cannot wait to be rattled. I cannot wait to have my eyes opened. Texas, here I come.
16 July 2012
Blogging Update
Over the next two months, this blog will be serving a new and specific purpose: to document my journey through the U. S., volunteering and learning and immersing myself in the communities I will be visiting. I won't promise a specific posting schedule, as I cannot predict how much time and wi-fi I will have throughout my seven weeks, but it would be reasonable to expect updates while I fly/bus between cities.
I have been fundraising for this trip for a few weeks now and am almost to my original goal of $700! I had to update my goal to $1000 when I found out my trip was being extended a few more weeks—read more about that on the page (check out the "Updates" tab to see how things have been developing). You can find the campaign at indiegogo.com/elizabeththraen.
I will try to get a post with all of my pre-journey thoughts up sometime in the next week and a half before I leave. Until then, thanks for all your support and I look forward to sharing my journey with you!
P. S. Yes, I know it's been a stupidly long period of time since I last blogged.
I have been fundraising for this trip for a few weeks now and am almost to my original goal of $700! I had to update my goal to $1000 when I found out my trip was being extended a few more weeks—read more about that on the page (check out the "Updates" tab to see how things have been developing). You can find the campaign at indiegogo.com/elizabeththraen.
I will try to get a post with all of my pre-journey thoughts up sometime in the next week and a half before I leave. Until then, thanks for all your support and I look forward to sharing my journey with you!
P. S. Yes, I know it's been a stupidly long period of time since I last blogged.
16 April 2012
Why "Tax the 1%!" Makes Me Cringe
On Sunday, since it was Tax Day, members of my church signed on to letters of concern to our elected officials about how our tax dollars would be spent. As I was reading the letter, a woman next to me said something along the lines of how we need to "tax the 1%!"
Now, I have never been a fan of this "99% v. 1%" language because, while I agree that there is massive and unjust inequality, it seeks to lift up one group of people by pressing down upon others. It (the language, not necessarily all of the people who use it) does not love its enemies. While "the 99%" may have every right to be upset, the language itself (again, not necessarily all of the people who use it) promotes a war-like mentality which seeks to destroy, not love, its enemy.
"Tax the 1%!" I cringed when the woman I was with said this, but for new reasons. I realised that not only did I not like the war-like rhetoric of trying to bring harm to another in order to solve a problem, but also that I didn't even want the government to have more money at all. Like a real conservative (not those phony ones running around with their expensive campaigns and big-central-government attempts to federally illegalise and control everything), I realised I wanted to cut taxes, if anything.
Why? Why should someone in favour of free health care, free education through college, free public transportation, free internet, and free just-about-everything else want to cut taxes? After all, these things cost money, as I am well aware.
Why? Because the government doesn't do these things, at least not with the vast majority of its money. When only 1% of the budget goes to "fighting poverty" in developing countries, and even that is spent with such inefficiency that it only gives money to Big Agribuisness while failing to provide adequate necessities to the people it claims to help, the government does not deserve any more money. I would never give money to a non-profit that spends only one cent of my dollar on what I actually want it to do, and I certainly wouldn't want others to give their money to it either. Why should I treat my government any differently?
The largest portion of our federal budget is, by far, military-related spending. The exact figures vary depending on who you ask (statistics are too easy to manipulate), but the cost of our wars is undeniable. Costofwar.com is a good site to check out if you want to get sick. The cost since 2001 to my congressional district alone, according to the site, is well over $3.6 billion as I write this. The "Trade-Offs" tab there puts it into perspective: what my district will spend this year on the Afghanistan war alone could pay for "36,288 Scholarships for University Students for One Year." I'd have loved a scholarship instead of a war, but since I got a war instead, I'm not going to advocate raising more funds for that government.
Because the problem is not a lack of money. The problem is how that money is spent. At what point do we finally realise that our country's budget problems are rooted in the private profitability of our publicly destructive military-industrial complex? Taxing the rich will not make war unprofitable, nor could it possibly alleviate the publicly held burden of the destruction and pain caused by war. Only by turning our spears into plowshares, by building an economy dependent upon growth and nourishment instead of destruction and warfare, can we possibly solve our budget woes and create a just, sustainable, and fair society, and until the US government actively supports the dismantling of our war economy, I have zero interest in increasing its funding.
Now, I have never been a fan of this "99% v. 1%" language because, while I agree that there is massive and unjust inequality, it seeks to lift up one group of people by pressing down upon others. It (the language, not necessarily all of the people who use it) does not love its enemies. While "the 99%" may have every right to be upset, the language itself (again, not necessarily all of the people who use it) promotes a war-like mentality which seeks to destroy, not love, its enemy.
"Tax the 1%!" I cringed when the woman I was with said this, but for new reasons. I realised that not only did I not like the war-like rhetoric of trying to bring harm to another in order to solve a problem, but also that I didn't even want the government to have more money at all. Like a real conservative (not those phony ones running around with their expensive campaigns and big-central-government attempts to federally illegalise and control everything), I realised I wanted to cut taxes, if anything.
Why? Why should someone in favour of free health care, free education through college, free public transportation, free internet, and free just-about-everything else want to cut taxes? After all, these things cost money, as I am well aware.
Why? Because the government doesn't do these things, at least not with the vast majority of its money. When only 1% of the budget goes to "fighting poverty" in developing countries, and even that is spent with such inefficiency that it only gives money to Big Agribuisness while failing to provide adequate necessities to the people it claims to help, the government does not deserve any more money. I would never give money to a non-profit that spends only one cent of my dollar on what I actually want it to do, and I certainly wouldn't want others to give their money to it either. Why should I treat my government any differently?
The largest portion of our federal budget is, by far, military-related spending. The exact figures vary depending on who you ask (statistics are too easy to manipulate), but the cost of our wars is undeniable. Costofwar.com is a good site to check out if you want to get sick. The cost since 2001 to my congressional district alone, according to the site, is well over $3.6 billion as I write this. The "Trade-Offs" tab there puts it into perspective: what my district will spend this year on the Afghanistan war alone could pay for "36,288 Scholarships for University Students for One Year." I'd have loved a scholarship instead of a war, but since I got a war instead, I'm not going to advocate raising more funds for that government.
Because the problem is not a lack of money. The problem is how that money is spent. At what point do we finally realise that our country's budget problems are rooted in the private profitability of our publicly destructive military-industrial complex? Taxing the rich will not make war unprofitable, nor could it possibly alleviate the publicly held burden of the destruction and pain caused by war. Only by turning our spears into plowshares, by building an economy dependent upon growth and nourishment instead of destruction and warfare, can we possibly solve our budget woes and create a just, sustainable, and fair society, and until the US government actively supports the dismantling of our war economy, I have zero interest in increasing its funding.
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