Marcellus Shale

I wanted to post a letter to the editor I wrote for the Erie Times:

Dear Editor,

It has come to my attention that recently there has been quite a rash of “Pro-Marcellus-Shale-Drilling” letters to the editor, which has left me—I must admit—a little bit worried. Worried not only about the fact that I do believe people are being manipulated into thinking that fracture-style drilling will actually bring “JOBS”, “SECURITY” and “WEALTH” to the local region, but also worried that this manipulation will be used to support another money-hungry, boom-and-bust type of industrial pillaging that Western Pennsylvania has been so accustomed to in its long history: first Big Coal and Big Steel; now, Big Gas.
Information abounds as to why “Fracking” is not exactly the most beneficial industry to rear its head in Western Pennsylvania, as it itself has left its own trail of destruction and misinformation wherever its large boot has landed: destroyed watersheds, poor oversight in regards to dumping water, polluted rivers, annihilated forests, corrupt political campaigns, a total EXEMPTION FROM THE SAFE DRINKING WATER ACT (see Energy Policy Act of 2005, section 322), and worst of all, a total disregard for the people that its unregulated, haphazardly-placed wells have affected in the form of asthma-ridden lungs, neurologically-destroyed brains and ruined property.
And, honestly, the problems are not that far off from our safe abode here in Northwestern Pennsylvania. Has anyone been down to Washington or Greene County lately? Has anyone read about the numerous accounts of polluted wells and water shed systems there? Has anyone seen the eye-sores that are the drilling rigs perched atop the once-was-beautiful Southwestern Pennsylvania hills? I have. I went to school there. And, really, not much positive news is coming out of those regions. In fact, all I hear are stories of migrant workers from a laundry list of states—Texas, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Kansas (no Pennsylvanians)—who run into the town, build the drilling rigs and leave. I hear of bubbling faucets, fish kills and the largest amount of pollution in the Monongahela River since Andrew Carnegie’s blast furnaces burned brightly along its banks—30 years ago!
Which is why —as I’m sure you can tell—I am down-right perplexed as to why Marcellus Shale drilling is seriously still being debated as a possible “positive” development for our region: It has a terrible environmental record. The wells themselves are self-maintaining (and polluting), so there is not real need for a job. To actually “frack” the shale enough to release the gas, there needs to be a highly-toxic slurry of chemicals shoved down into the ground, of which, only 20% come back to the surface. And, we are not even so sure as to how profitable this gas will be to the state itself, as most of the companies are from out of state and are completely untaxed under Pennsylvania legislation, and will most likely be selling this gas to foreign buyers.
So, I think it is time to maybe rethink our love affair with Marcellus Shale drilling. After all, are not we—the residents of a state that for so long has given up her resources for the rapacious enrichment of a few tycoons—the ones who should stand up and speak up when a clear pattern of manipulation, extraction and misinformation is being perpetrated?
I do not know about you, but I’m not sold on Big Gas yet, as I do believe it’s got some rotting skeletons in its closet, and they sure do STINK.

Reflection from work

I saw a Sudanese man at work today trace the outline of a woman wearing a light sundress--beige in color and speckled all over with the pink petals of small embroidered flowers--with the mouse of his computer. She was a far-away woman both in reality and in gaze: her eyes were staring at the camera without much expression except that of the realization that she is nowhere with no future and, to top it all off, without her loved one. Was this man, the one who was in our computer lab, her husband? Her lover? Her best friend? Her brother? He kept tracing her picture with the cursor from his computer mouse; I watched the cursor lightly brush past her braided hair, down over her smooth cheeks and over pink lips that contrasted powerfully with her soft, dark complexion. He knew I was standing behind him, watching this most intimate of acts between himself and this far-off, once-loved woman, but he didn't stop. He just kept tracing, tracing her eyebrows, breasts, and thighs and body--a body that was shrouded in the long, curtain-like raiment of the dress.

A man by the name of Edwin has been enlivening our halls at work, filling the air with that deep African resonance that makes the English language seem almost exotic, even foreign to my ear. I don't know really what his purpose here is, but he seems to be in holding until the time comes when he will be able to move to Houston, Texas, to try his hand at trucking in the USA.

Yesterday, Edwin met one of the unruly teens we have coming through the center, Deng. Deng emigrated to the United States when he was only a two-year-old; his mother was a refugee fleeing the civil war between the South and the North of Sudan, while his father was a "General" in the Sudanese liberation army--by the way, it seems to me that all African women, when asked what their men do back in Africa, unhesitatingly reply that "he is a General." Deng fights, argues, and has a nearly uncontrollable animosity towards those individuals who have a better life situation than himself, which he barley manages to hide beneath layers of intelligence and an out-going personality. Often times he can be seen berating the racial and family history of other Africans, youth and volunteers for not being 'African' enough, or not "understanding me."

Anyways, Edwin ran into Deng in the hallway across from my office. He then proceeded for the next twenty minutes to lecture Deng on remembering the importance of an education and the necessity of staying out of trouble and not running amuck with lesser people who have a predisposition to steal, lie and cheat. Edwin, in a seemingly unwarranted and very dangerous statement, told Deng that he should never forget that "He will never be an American," and that he should "Always remember that he is a third-world child, not a first-world child." I could see that Deng began to feel uncomfortable. I, myself, was a little bit taken back by such a brash statement of "You are not who you think you are." This would have been acceptable if Deng had an actual working memory of "HIS country"--as Edwin kept saying in reference to Sudan--but Deng knows only Erie. He knows only snow in winters, boarded up buildings on Parade Street, and the struggles that his mother has in acculturating to the fast-paced, work-heavy American life. His Sudanese Arabic, I'm sure, has a thick American English accent on it. How could Edwin, a Kenyan who has been in the United States for a mere three days, speak to this young man about nationality and history with such authority? And how could Edwin feel confident and knowledgeable enough to assuredly give opinions on matters of what makes an American an American, and what it means to be accepted into the American nation?

After the conversation with Deng, Edwin plopped into my seat and sorrowfully exclaimed that "these African kids forget who they really are; that’s sad." This got me thinking: Didn't all of us Americans have to--at least at some point--forget who we were or where our family came from to accept at least a part of our own 'Americaness?' And, when is an American actually created? At the moment they make the decision to accept their Green Card? Or at the time their memory of the 'old country' is nothing but a collection of stories and photographs from family members long deceased?

School Day Frustration

Asking a 14-year old student what "3x10" is usually produces a quick computation and an assured answer of "thirty." Yet, for a majority of the children I work with on a daily basis, that simple question is as esoteric and incomprehensible as astro-physics or the federal tax code. My confident student, young in looks and sure of body, is left stumped. He doesn't respond. His eyes stare off into the sky in supposed contemplation, which does nothing but create a shallow veneer to make it seem as if he is right on the cusp of the answer. It's too late for him, though. I've already judged his intelligence, and I know that the answer will only be forthcoming from my lips, not his.

In the same room, heck, even at the same table, the fifteen-year old student across from me reads a book of poetry that is written on a second-grade level. One of my tutors is sitting beside him, encouraging him to continue on through the pages to the end of the story--a whole ten of them. Sometimes the student completely stops reading, glancing up at the tutor with eyes full of embarrassment and anger, as he struggles to read the word. "Because," the tutor calmly sounds out. "Be-cause."

Did that really just occur? Did I genuinely just witness the failure of a fifteen- year old to recognize and read a 'sight word'? Is it really true that eighth graders are unable to recite the 'threes' times tables, or get through the drudgery of reading a SECOND-GRADE level book!?

Is our afterschool programming a waste of time?

I've recently been contemplating the emphasis that the American school system places on math and science, and have often found myself getting all riled up, as I am seriously nauseated and tired of the 'competitive-advantage' justification that teachers, schools, newspapers, and even the President give: "We must improve math and science education in this country, so that we will always maintain an economic and industrial advantage over those upstart, intelligent, diligent students, THE CHINESE(fear and trembling)!?

Of course, improving science and math education is an admirable goal of the United States and school districts the republic over. And my experience with the times tables debacle is nothing but the strongest emphasis for such a trend. Yet, I am often disgusted at the seeming disregard, or even outright de-emphasis that is placed on the arts, language and history. I am one of the notion that students can't be good scientists without being able to read about those who came before them (speaking on this issue just very briefly, I found myself in the most uncomfortable of situations recently, when I had to explain to two African-American students the importance of George Washington Carver. This isn't inherently a problem for me; however, I became quite perturbed and shocked when both of them informed me that they had never heard of his name before. How sad. But, I'm sure they knew all about Lil' Wayne's recent spat of lock-ups). I am also fairly positive that the worst kind of scientists, business people or engineers that our school system could create, would be those characterized by a highly-specialized knowledge base, incapable of introspection or debate on the more 'cerebral' questions of their work: If we cut out the arts, music, literature and language, we are in my seriously humble opinion, well on our way to 'producing' (why not use industrial language for this most-industrial of educational philosophy) amnesia-ridden, profit-driven, competitive droids, much in the form of Karel Capek's R.U.R. (everyone should read this play; it was from this play that the world became acquainted with the word "Robot").

But, I guess maybe I'm just a bitter young man who constantly feels the need to justify his decision to study the Liberal Arts at school. After all, the question of "Whatcha' 'gonna do with that!?" still continues to stump me, even after five years.

I'll just resign myself to continue to battle on the frontlines, and attempt to help my students learn basic division before they are able to get their driver's permit. Heck, maybe even a chapter book is in the future....

Bus-riding reflection

Recently I've become acutely aware of a rather in-congruent habit of people who ride the public transportation in the City of Erie: they talk to strangers without inhibition.

Often times my days are spent sitting behind a desk tapping away on a keyboard into oblivion with the subconscious realization that my grant-writing skills aren't worth a damn: due to the fact that my comprehension of mathematical concepts encompasses only a cursory knowledge of all elementary arithmetic, my grants are shot down before the review committee due to a very shoddily-written budget report that--by some unaccountable reason--makes money disappear by the hundreds. I don't really interact with anyone besides my fellow coworkers--a whole three of them--whose conversations, although much-appreciated, end in some futile bantering and complaining, and my young, strong body full of pulsating blood not yet slowed by the encroachment of cholesterol is left to rot like a lump of meat with my lumbar pushed up against the back of my desk chair. Is this how I'm spending my youth? Lonely, sedentary, and with no real excitement to break the monotony of my day?

I jump on bus numbers 22 and 25 that traverse Erie city from West to East, as they follow pot-holed filled roads out towards the po-dunk town of Wesleyville, full of its 60's-era shopping malls and fast food joints. The most enjoyable of my fellow passengers are the modern-day stoic philosophers who have traded in their marble steps outside the courthouse, for a dirty, plastic chair in the midst of an Erie bus. I lend them my ear when I hear them speak, and I am enthralled at their brashness and their flawless ability to spark up a conversation with nearly just about everyone, even (more often than not) with themselves. Speaking in tones that fluctuate in crescendo and power like that of Baptist preachers, my philosopher friends of the bus, pose questions for all of us to ponder--often times looking us directly in the face in hopes of an answer. Even when an answer is not forthcoming, they break into a monologue that is at points boundless in scope and accurate in observation; however, usually ending in an abrupt distraction brought on by the sight of a nubile woman, or a beer-lathered belch.

Yet, I'm never uncomfortable with those more verbose fellow riders, as I find their ways more authentic than the public domain of today's social arena, which is often dominated by people continually texting and listening to ipods. Insular. Uninterested. Closed-off.

Upon exiting the bus, I make my way to Erie's local institution of scholarship and higher learning, Gannon University, where I proceed to make my way into their gym facility. And, as I stretch to engage in the upcoming run, I notice that out of all the 15 runners on the track, it is only I who does not carry within my palm an ipod. It is only I who can hear the repetitive click of my bracelets smacking together with the swinging of my arms, or the deep breathing originating in the straining of my lungs. And, with no one to talk to, with no one seemingly interested in communicating, I am lost in a world of my own thoughts--running, in circles, for the next thirty minutes. There is no one there to ask questions. No young scholars brash enough to engage those around them. That kind of experience is only found through daily meetings with the toothless alcoholic carrying a plastic bag and a life-long list of grievances and stories.

Martin Luther King Day Commemorative Service

Upon walking up the concrete steps and into the pallid, bare catholic cathedral, I came into the situation of seeing a large, rather obese man giving some kind of generic "we-still-have-a-long-way-to-go" type of speech, which then led into a song that I did not want to sing, as I was too concerned with getting my jacket off so I could cool off; hoping to impede the uncomfortable sweat from dripping down my shoulder blades and into the small of back. I sat down at the conclusion of the tune, and again broke into my usual scanning of the people, places situations around me. In front of me about three rows sat five people with mental and physical handicaps. They were brought to the ceremony probably by a local worker at one of the homes. The knew not the significance, nor the importance of the situation; I could tell it from their jerky head movements and roving eyes that seemed to be peering off into the ceiling into a state of serene inattentiveness. Behind me sat a white woman, bouncing a small toddler on her lap. She sang the chorus of the hymn loudly, and wore a perpetual smile upon her face as if she was genuinely happy all of the time. I assumed that she probably came from a well-to-do liberal family, and was educated and well-articulated in speaking of issues of poverty and 'social justice'. She sat like a bird, proud and beautiful and sure of her ability to sing and flutter about above the reality. I liked her, though, I have to admit. Across the aisle, my eyes came upon two elderly men and a group of black Americans, congregated towards the front. They were all trimly and nicely dressed, and the women had sparkling gold glasses frames that looked as if they were polished. They broke out into emotional exultation's along the lines of 'Yeah!' "Bring it home!" "That's RIGHT!" Aside from the fact that I began to notice the milk and oil split in the arrangement of where we sat--black in front, white in back--I was more shocked at the amount of empty seats that took up large swaths of space within the sanctuary. In front of me there was a formidable ocean of chair backs that gave me a great sight-line all the way to the pulpit, even though I had positioned myself in the second row from the back of the room. I found myself feeling ashamed for the speaker when she made reference to the 'turn-out' as if it was an impressive sight, seeing all those chairs, each representing the indifference of a person who probably had something better to do or work on their hands. It's too bad, too, because she spoke about remembering our history and knowing where we want to go as a people, yet the more common collective act of forgetting our own past left the most indelible mark on me. After all, most of us don't even get the morning off on this 'National' holiday; I guess it's not important enough to take time to reflect. After all, time is money and Dr. King is dead.

At the conclusion of our march that spanned about a mile in distance, the crowd of around 200 people began to make their way into the center doors in hopes of snatching a seat, seeing a friend and, most importantly, grabbing a donut while supplies lasted. People were generally in a polite mood, on this day of all days to be civil and non-violent to each other. That was, until of course, they opened a second entrance to alleviate the lines, which perpetuated a shameless stampede of peace marchers who were pushing shoving and cutting to get into the gymnasium. I was quietly behind a woman who was sitting in a wheelchair, who had the great misfortune of not being tall enough to be 'seen' by those impatient miscreants who thought more about glazed sugar than about the fact that the second entrance had been opened to let HER through in the first place. After watching wave after wave of ignorant person go around her, I finally had had enough and thrust my arm into the chest of a young black boy about the age of 14. I informed him that he would NOT take one step further into the gymnasium until the helpless, nearly-forgotten woman in the wheelchair was able to go in. He looked at me with a stupor full of youthful arrogance at the fact that someone had actually told him no to move. Under his breath he mumbled, "Well, just move her out of the way." Ignoring this offensive statement, I implored the usher to let the women take her leave into the gymnasium above the rush and echo of people. And, as I crossed through the two heavy steel doors, I heard the young boy and a women who looked to be about 25 say, "fuck them." I guess justice and the fight for civil rights is only afforded to those who lived forty years ago, and only comes to those who can physically STAND UP and show it up front. I guess we really do have, to quote today's most choicest of phrases, "a long way to go."

Breakfast with Grandma.

I stood outside in the chilly hallway listening to the static ringing of the telephone through the intercom. Normally, grandma picks up the phone by the third ring, as she anticipates these calls like all lonely, 87-year old women do. I'm used to hearing the spirited pep in her half-paralized voice, full of wrinkles and notches like that of old skin, and of the inevitable fumbling around of the receiver as she attempts to push the number 6 button with fingers too stiff and stubborn to hit exact; initiating a call back. Yet, this time, I heard the phone ring and ring and ring into oblivion. I hung up. I dialed again. I Listened to the answering machine, the one with my aunt's voice on it, because my grandma's is now to weak to record her own message. I dialed again. Futile.

'I hope nothing is wrong with Grandma." I thought. "How will I ever get in to know for sure?"

After about ten minutes of dialing, a delivery man opened the door and held it for me. I squeezed by him and hastily made my way up the elevator and to her room on the fifth floor. I was nervous as I approached the door knob. I knocked, and felt the static shock release from the steel into my fingertips, exacerbating the already cold nervousness that ironcially made my palms sweaty.

I cracked the door open and took a lunge inward, expecting to see her on the couch watching T.V. or reading. Instead, the couch was bare, and her recliner was tipped forward, as if she had recently left the spot. I glanced to the kitchen only to find a dripping tap and a few soft bananas, getting ripe on a plate. I peeked around the corner of the wall and looked into her bedroom. I had a straight-shot to where her bed would be, and I saw an almost ghost-like body laying, with her head tilted to the side. Eyes were closed. Lips were thin. Hands were folded. Cheeks were white. Feet and legs were inperceptiable. She looked as if she was already at the viewing. My heart raced. I dropped my yogurt and made a b-line for her bedside. "Hey! Grandma!" I said trying to mask the fear with a shallow veneer of cheer. "Jamie and I are going to eat breakfast with you." I didn't notice a movement, except for the opening of eyes. "Alive!" I reassured myself.

Grandma's voice sounded strong that day, and I was happy to help her out of bed, even though I was aware that her head hurts in the temple if she walks for too long. She wanted to sit with us out in the light that came in through the sliding doors, as the sun was exceptionally bright on this second day after New Years. My wife and I opened up our yogurt containers and put on a bowl of oatmeal. We recounted to grandma our travels to Tennessee and the party the night previous at Jon's place. She seemed happy to hear it. Jared and Abby showed up, joining the fun. We visited, reminised, heard stories, and did our best to reroute grandma when she would veer into a rut of repitition. She smiled at our friendliness amongst each other, and of course gave some stern advice that was mixed in with her Irish stubborness. A thrity minute visit went to two and half hours-- we all cherished the time.

Upon leaving, I remember standing up and thinking to myself, "Grandma is surprisingly strong today; her speaking isn't labored and her movements are fluid. Her memory leaves a little left to be desired, but her humor is still intact."

Needless to say, I was shocked when I found out she was in the emergency room the next morning. A second heart attack in six months. If I went there today and rang the phone to be let in, she wouldn't be picking up, and I would be left to wonder about the health of a women so fragile, and about the fleeting nature of time coming short, even after 87 years., Thankfully, fate had it wait for one day.

Writing. Who knew!?

I've entered into the realm of 'published Erieites' this past weekend, when I was informed that my article/reflection of my trip to Slovakia was run on Christmas day as kind of a 'family special'. In keeping up with this trend, I was also recently informed that another one of my op-ed pieces will be published on a Friday in January as a 'Friday Forum', which entails a discussion of the topic (on the newspaper's website) once the article has reached the presses. I'm curious as to the reactions that people in Erie will have to my suggestions on demarcating 'bike zones' on all major city streets. To say that I am ambivalent about the honor of getting two articles published in less than a month would be a lie. In fact, to the contrary, it's made me realize the power of words and the ability to evoke emotion just from writing. Now, I'm not even going to remotely say that I am a 'writer' by any means, but I will say that I've been pleasantly shocked as to the reaction I received from the public who read the article. I received emails and had phone calls--even from strangers! They told me tales of tears and unexpected joy at reading my story; they asked me to write more, and were even quite animate about the fact that it is MY calling to write for people to read. Now, of course, I'm sure some of this has to do with initial reactions to the ONE article I actually wrote for the Erie Times, but it made me feel nice.

When I sit down to write, I often go through about a twenty minute 'prep' period where I think about all the other, better things I could do with my time. I mean, I could peruse through pictures of friends on facebook, or in my yearbooks--after all, I am a very nostalgic person. Or, I could drink a beer and read a book. Maybe I could work on my language and read some Czech? (which I have been doing a lot of since my GRE). Or, I could just listen to some music while drinking some tea. And usually, in the end, the urge to write wins out, as I find the habit to be quite relaxing and important. Writing has a way of making me slow down, and really reflect. Even when I write quickly and I feel as if I'm just skimming through the pages and writing the shallow reflections from my conscience, I still acknowledge the worth in putting SOMETHING down on paper to reflect on later. It's personal therapy for me, and I enjoy the creative/artistic side of it. I've never been one to have a knack for all things cerebral and artistic, but I do realize my own natural grown talent to write my ideas--a talent I would like to nurture. It's so much easier for me to describe a scene through words than it would be to paint one on a canvas: I am the man who recently drew a 'Four-leaf clover' so badly that three people around me guffawed with the honest quiff, "Jesus, Jeremy, it looks like a 6-year old drew that."

I don't know what I'm really writing about now, and to tell you the truth, I'm not so sure I even had an intention when I started, which makes me wonder why I even post on a blog anymore. Do I REALLY believe that people want to read my thoughts!? Do I REALLY think my opinions on issues are anymore informed/observant than my neighbors? HA! I know they're not....so...sorry for dragging you through this post. It sucks. I know.

So, as I sit on the brink of ushering another new year, I'm dumbfounded as to what I'm going to do. I'd really love to take a few drinks, get a little buzz and speak at an octave or two higher than normal, but I'm a twenty-five year old in Erie with no real community. I could go to a pub, but I'd prefer to not have my ear drums ring for the forty minutes thereafter, and I'd like to call some of my friends over, but my house is a grimy mess, and I don't feel like sweeping the dust bunnies out from under the table. Ugh, the conundrum of being lazy on a Friday afternoon...

Yet, what will 2011 mean to me? Will it be another year of adventure, where I put my wanderlust before responsibility and jump to somewhere else on the globe? Will it be a year where I find my life's work? Will it be the year where I return back to school a little more experienced and mature than I was four years ago? Will it be a year of uneventful days and nights, where I live with Jamie, eating dinner, watching hockey and riding bikes? Is that such a bad thought? Oh, 2011, where will you take me? Will you bring me money? Will you bring me friendships? Will you bring me pain, sorrow, anger, joy, BOREDOM? Probably all...