Yo Soy el Army

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Wrapped in It: Armed forces recruitment is increasingly focused on the Latino community, luring young soldiers with the promise of citizenship for them and their families.

By Deborah Davis

Jesus was an easy mark for the recruiter. A boy who fantasized that by joining the powerful, heroic U.S. Marines, Jesus thought he could help his own country fight drug lords. He gave the recruiter his address and phone number in Mexico, and the recruiter called him twice a week for the next two years until he had talked Jesus into convincing his parents to move to California.

Fernando and Rose Suarez sold their home and their laundry business and immigrated with their children. Jesus enrolled at a high school known for academic achievement. But the recruiter wanted him to transfer to a school for problem teenagers, since its requirements for graduation were lower and Jesus would be able to finish sooner. He was 17-and-a-half when he graduated from that school, still too young to enlist on his own, so his father co-signed the enlistment form, as the military requires for underage recruits.

Three years later, at the age of 20, his body was torn apart in Iraq by an American-made fragmentation grenade during the first week of the invasion. In the Pentagon’s official Iraq casualty database, his death is number 74.

In the Iraq war, citizenship is being used as a recruiting tool aimed specifically at young immigrants, who are told that by enlisting they will be able to quickly get citizenship for themselves (sometimes true; it depends on what the Immigration and Customs Enforcement branch of the Department of Homeland Security finds) and their entire families (not true; each family member has to go through a separate application process). Nevertheless, with the political pressures on Latino families growing daily under this administration, many young Latinos are unable to resist the offer, which immigrants’ rights activists see as blatant exploitation of a vulnerable population.

Jesus, like the large majority of new military recruits, was signed up through the Delayed Entry Program (DEP), which operates in high schools, GED programs and home-schooling networks across the nation. The well-crafted messages on the DEP website have been in development ever since the draft ended and the all-volunteer military was initiated after Vietnam. The DEP’s persuasion campaigns originally targeted black teenagers with the message that military service equaled jobs that promised fair treatment regardless of race. Recruiters were able to easily meet their quotas until the early ’80s, when enlistment rates of young African Americans began to decline and the rates for Latinos began to rise for reasons the military did not understand.

Over the next decade, the military commissioned a number of studies on the relationship between race and ethnicity and the “propensity to enlist.” As Latinos became a more important source of recruits, the Pentagon hired market research firms to design advertising campaigns that addressed the issues they care most about: family pride, education and citizenship.

Today, the Navy, Marine Corps and Air Force recruitment campaigns focus largely on education and benefits to families. The Army’s campaign, created by Cartel Impacto, a cutting-edge firm from San Antonio, uses the firm’s proprietary “barrio anthropology” and grassroots “viral and guerrilla marketing” techniques to “go deep into the neighborhoods and barrios” in order to tell Latino families how the military can help them have the kind of life they want in America.

These marketing campaigns support the work of recruiters who, as mandated by the No Child Left Behind Act, must have free access to students in every one of the country’s public schools. Recruiters operating in high schools try to get children as young as 14 to sign up for the military’s DEP, which allows them to finish high school before going on active duty.

Under the program, these young “men and women,” as recruiters are trained to call them, are targeted, tested, gifted, video-gamed, recruitment-faired and career-counseled into enlisting before they turn 18. They are also paid $2,000 for every friend they talk into signing up with them and, until recently, were paid $50 for every name they brought in to a recruiter.

In addition to cash, students who help recruiters to enlist their friends are promoted to a higher military rank, from Private E-1 to Private E-2, even before they are out of high school. Private E-1’s are paid $1,301 a month, while E-2’s earn $1,458 per month. Further, getting a second high-scoring friend or two more low-scoring friends to enlist earns the student another promotion, to Private E-3, and kicks the entry pay up to $1,534 per month.

Another way DEPs can earn extra money is to volunteer for hazardous duty. Students who sign up to be in a combat unit or dismantle explosives or handle toxic chemicals get an additional $150 per month on top of their basic pay. Volunteering for hazardous duty, however, is a relative concept. Since DEP recruits do not, by definition, have a college education, there are few other military occupations open to them.

With the greatest need in this war being combat soldiers—so much so that even highly trained Air Force personnel are being sent to work with Army ground troop units—the chances of any DEP recruit getting out of combat duty and its attendant hazards are slim. The implications of these conditions for young immigrants can be deadly.

The Department of Defense’s casualty database doesn’t publicly break down the dead and injured by ethnic group, but a tally of Latino surnames found that between Jan. 10 and July 1, 2007, 20 percent of the 174 young people ages 18 to 21 who died were likely to have been Latino. With the intensification of DEP recruiting efforts in largely Latino high schools since the invasion began, this is no surprise.

How many of these young Latino recruits are illegal immigrants? “Nobody knows,” says Flavia Jimenez, an immigration policy analyst at the National Council of La Raza. “But what we do know is that recruiters may not be up to speed on everybody’s legal status. We also know that a significant number of [illegals] have died in Iraq.” The recruitment of illegal immigrants is particularly intense in Los Angeles, where 75 percent of high school students are Latino.

“A lot of our students are undocumented,” says Arlene Inouye, a teacher at Garfield High School in East Los Angeles, “and it’s common knowledge that recruiters offer green cards.” Inouye is the coordinator and founder of the Coalition Against Militarism in Our Schools, a counter-recruitment organization that educates teenagers about deceptive recruiting practices. “The practice is pretty widespread all over the nation,” she says, “especially in California and Texas. The recruiters tell them, ‘You’ll be helping your family.'”

Inouye referred me to Salvador Garcia, a student whose father had been deported and who had been approached by a recruiter when he was a freshman (he is now a senior). Garcia says the recruiter told him, “If you need papers, come and fight for us and we can get you some, and then you’ll never have to mess with immigration.” When Garcia told the recruiter that he was born in this country, the recruiter responded, “Do you have anybody in your family that needs a green card, needs papers?” Garcia told him that his father, who had entered the country illegally from Mexico, had recently been deported. “If you join the military you can get your father back,” the recruiter reportedly said. “It’s not a problem. We can get him his papers, and nobody will ever bother him again.”

Garcia says he almost signed the enlistment form right then, but says he was stopped by the realization of “how it’s all connected—the war and Mexico and immigration.” He is now active in the counter-recruitment movement.

Despite the mounting evidence of these recruitment practices, the Pentagon denies that illegal immigrants are in the military. “If there are any,” says Pentagon spokesman Joseph Burlas, “then they have fraudulently enlisted, and when they’re caught, they are discharged.”

An illegal immigrant serving in Iraq, Jose Gutierrez was one of the first members of the U.S. armed forces to die during the invasion. Gutierrez had made his way to this country from Guatemala in 1996, at the age of 15, to escape the violence perpetrated by the death squads, only to be killed in Iraq by friendly fire. When the Pentagon announced his death, it came in the form of a carefully managed PR campaign that included a posthumous award of citizenship for Gutierrez, presumably to show that if an illegal immigrant manages to enlist and make it to Iraq, he will be rewarded.

However, Gutierrez remains the only illegal alien on the U.S. casualty rolls whose real place of birth is listed, while others who die are reported to be from Boston or Los Angeles, or wherever a recruiter finds them. In New York City, according to counter-recruitment activist Melida Arredondo, whose young stepson was killed in Iraq, DEP recruiters instruct illegal immigrants to write “New York City” as their “home of record address” on the enlistment form, and to write “pending” for their Social Security number.

Why is all of this happening, when the enlistment and expedited naturalization of illegal immigrants serving in the armed forces is specifically authorized in U.S. law? An executive order signed by President Bush on July 3, 2002, provided for the “expedited naturalization for aliens and noncitizen nationals serving in an active-duty status in the Armed Forces of the United States during the period of the war against terrorists of global reach.”

Under this order, any noncitizen in the military can apply for expedited citizenship on his first day of active duty. Not only is this order still in effect, but it has been codified in the National Defense Authorization Act 2006. With the law so clear on this issue, the treatment of illegal immigrants in the military is difficult to understand.

“Apparently,” says Lt. Col. Margaret Stock, an immigration attorney and professor of military law at West Point, “nobody at the Pentagon reviewed the [regulations] on immigrants when the war started.” She adds, “If the Pentagon has any immigration attorneys, I haven’t met them.”

Stock notes that a section of the 2006 Immigration and Nationalization Law locates the naturalization of immigrants serving in Iraq firmly in the tradition of naturalizations during wars dating back to WW I. During these wars, citizenship was granted solely on the basis of three years of honorable service or honorable discharge.

“Recruiters trying to fill slots have historically pressed vulnerable people into service,” says Dan Kesselbrenner, director of the National Immigration Project, a program of the National Lawyers Guild. “But for some people, it’s the only way they are ever going to get citizenship.”

What recruiters do not tell their targets, however, is that the military itself has no authority to grant citizenship. It forwards their citizenship applications to ICE, which will then scrutinize them and their entire families for up to a year.

Recruiters also do not tell their targets that citizenship can be denied for the very same past criminal offenses that the military may have overlooked when admitting them—such as being in the country illegally. Nor do they tell recruits that citizenship can be denied for any kind of dishonorable behavior, which includes refusing to participate in combat.

The Comprehensive Immigration Reform Bill, which failed to pass the Senate in June, proposed to give legal permanent residency to any “alien who has served . . . for at least two years and, if discharged, has received an honorable discharge.” In other words, illegal immigrants have been in the military all along, and the government was getting ready to admit it. With the bill’s defeat, they will be forced to remain hidden, and the sacrifices they have made for this country will continue to go unacknowledged.


Jive, Live!

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08.29.07

It all began when we were in a cafe in—get this—1993, wondering what the heck everyone around us was scribbling on about. Seated at counters and small tables, sprawled on benches and cross-legged on the floor, writers were humming away, marking up notebooks and unaware that such marvels as laptop computers soon awaited them. What are you writing about, we demanded. As it turns out, you were mostly writing about sex, which makes perfect sense to us.

So began the Bohemian‘s—we were then known as the Sonoma County Independent—annual Java Jive writing contest. (This year’s contest is scheduled to commence Sept. 26.) In honor of the North Bay’s luminous literary legacy, the Page on Stage reading this month—recorded for rebroadcast on KRCB 91.1-FM—salutes Java Jive with actors reading from the works that we’ve published over the years. It’s a synergy thing and we’re more than a little thrilled.

If you’ve ever been published in our Java Jive issue, you should be more than a little thrilled, too. At press time, we here in the Old Media have no idea what the lineup is for the Best of Java Jive, slated for Wednesday, Sept. 5, at the Glaser Center, 547 Mendocino Ave., Santa Rosa. 8pm. $5. 707.568.5381. See you there!


Museums and gallery notes.

Reviews of new book releases.

Reviews and previews of new plays, operas and symphony performances.

Reviews and previews of new dance performances and events.

Chocolate Rain

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08.29.07

I don’t usually champion YouTube videos, but the surprising and hilarious success of Tay Zonday’s 7-million-views-and-counting “Chocolate Rain” has brought me great joy, and it’s been fueling many a buckled-over guffaw to everyone I know who discovers it. The reactions are always fivefold:

1. This is the funniest shit I’ve seen in a long time.

2. OK, no, wait, this is the funniest shit I’ve seen, period.

3. As repetitive as this beat is, it’s actually pretty fresh.

4. You know what? This is totally creative and one-of-a-kind.

5. Lemme listen to it again. I think he might actually be singing about something important.

It’s rare to find entertainment, creativity and social commentary wrapped so tightly together, especially with an arrangement that all but gets down on its knees and begs the listener to join in; everyone who hears “Chocolate Rain” wants to start making up their own verses. It’s the new haiku: come up with nine syllables, and increase their contextual power with a James Earl Jones&–style recitation sandwiched between strange gurglings of the words “Chocolate Rain” (my favorite syllables so far, from one of hundreds of YouTube tributes by Darth Vader, Tré Cool and a fecal monster named “Turdzilla,” are “Barry Zito Colonoscopy”).

Also, the music’s not as redundant as it may appear on first listening. If I’m not mistaken, Zonday plays swift, arpeggiated sixteenth notes that fly all over the upper keys, and listen to his left hand—it’s hiding right around middle C, playing tricky almost-triplets against the right hand, something I think Bud Powell would get a kick out of. Then, somewhere around the chorus, he drops the left hand and pounds low octaves with an entirely different and more complex syncopation, like a production trick off Dr. Dre’s The Chronic.

Which takes us to the lyrics, the sweetest surprise of all: “Chocolate Rain,” far from a collection of random nonsequiturs, turns out to be a metaphor for racism. Zonday is so goofy-looking and has such a weird-ass voice, we don’t expect him to be singing about insurance rates, test scores and criminal law. Yet after a few listens, his poetic indictment hits right up there with Phil Ochs, bringing to a new, tech-addled generation a list of unanswered questions that are unfortunately very old.

Song of the year in my opinion.


‘The 11th Hour’

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08.29.07

As a warning about global warming, Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Truth was surely direct, but it was also relatively polite. The former vice president told us that what we were doing was wrong, but he was so well-mannered about it that he never really made us feel like the callous jerks we are. Thankfully, as earth’s environmental outlook grows more and more bleak, The 11th Hour steps in to deliver some crucial knockout blows.

Produced and narrated by Leonardo di Caprio, The 11th Hour attacks us, the humans who caused all this in the first place, more fiercely than Gore would ever dare. News footage, nature shots and talking-head commentary mingle to form a driving narrative that indicts our foolish choices. There is the standard array of scientific projections and statistics, but filmmakers Nadia Conners and Leila Conners Petersen take the bold stance that the heart of the problem is our way of thinking—our culture of rampant consumption and our opinion of ourselves as somehow superior to nature.

For instance, the film rightly takes issue with the oft-repeated phrase, “saving the earth.” In reality, no matter how much environmental havoc we wreak, the earth will still be here. It may be uninhabitable, but it will be around. It is, of course, the human race which will be wiped out by the cataclysms of global warming.

Though the film effectively argues that we are indeed on our planet’s last stop en route to Armageddon, it avoids such pabulum as that hybrid cars are the salvation; as the title suggests, we simply don’t have any easy options left. While it could leave one feeling totally hopeless about our chances of survival—we can’t un-cut the trees or bring back extinct species, after all—The 11th Hour does provide the tools to help change our way of thinking ASAP. The downbeat disposition may be too much for some, but as the film shows, the direct approach is really the only one we have time for.

The 11th Hour opens Friday, Aug. 31, at Rialto Lakeside Cinemas (551 Summerfield Road, Santa Rosa; 707.525.4840) and the Century CineArts at Sequoia (25 Throckmorton Ave., Mill Valley; 415.388.4862).

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The Byrne Report

08.29.07

In a recent column, to the dismay of some of my dearest Bohemian readers, I disparaged the elitist worldview of Harry Potter’s creator, J. K. Rowling. Please allow me to elaborate.

In Potter-dom, technology is monopolized by wizard humans who lord it over genetically inferior humans known by the ugly sobriquet “Muggles.” Through magical violence, wizard warriors dominate such nonhuman “races” as goblins and elves. According to the neo-Nietzschean Rowling, positive social change emanates solely from the acts of supermen. Critics of my analysis of the noblesse-obliging Potter gestalt are eager to salvage a modicum of hope from Rowling’s framing of reality as forever capitalistic and racially determined—and, sadly, they fail.

The Potter works are powerful because they reflect reality. But if you want to fight the Dark Side, you must first recognize it. Bohemian reader Forest Staggs (see Letters, p6) writes that Rowling is “stirring up powerful latent magic of creative transformation.” The archetype-wielding author does tap our lust for social change, but Staggs errs in defining Muggles as “obedient consumers” driving SUVs. More aptly, carbon-burning American consumers are members of Wizard Nation; it is exploited Third World workers and peasants who are Muggled.

Wizard society is divided into upper and lower classes, with wealth being key to social position. Its comfy lifestyle is maintained by control over the ownership of wands, which are both the means of production and punishment. Weapon-wielding wizards deny systematically uneducated Muggles opportunities to change the real social order of which they are kept oblivious; Muggles who witness magic are mind-wiped. Their “democratically elected” officials are political puppets of the wizards. Please note that Rowling approves of social engineering in secret.

Another critic, John Rose (also Letters this week), finds the Potter corpus to be “possibly the most subversive and influential book since the Bible.” Nonsense. Karl Marx’s Capital or Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species or Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle fit that bill. The Old and New Testaments do not favor liberating the wretched of the earth, quite the opposite. Today, it is used to legitimize slaughter in occupied Iraq and occupied Palestine. Rowling, on the other hand, may actually oppose torture and chattel slavery, but that does not make her subversive, just another angst-ridden liberal mired in the mud of neocolonialism.

Averting his eyes from the true cause of suffering—that is, economic exploitation—Potter refights WW II ad nauseam. A “good” ruling class faction battles “bad” rich guys and saves the world for “freedom” and wizardly business as usual. Sorry, but we have heard that bit before. America and England won WW II, and look at the bloody messes they have made of things. Wake up Potter heads: Rowling favors plutocracy over genuine democracy.

And she is a racialist. Informed people understand that “race” is not biological; it is a political concept, a social construct, a phenomenologically induced fallacy that keeps the poor fighting the poor. The racialist Rowling defines humans, goblins and elves as separate “races” marked by biologically determined characteristics. Her unclean Goblins are born greedy, obsessed by love of gold and money. They are untrustworthy, they have bad table manners. They are employed by their wand-wielding Caucasian conquerors as bankers to the nobility. This grotesquely Shylockian metaphor is deeply rooted in British literature and European socioeconomics and Christian culture starting from the Middle Ages. In other words, Rowling’s dirty goblins are Jews.

House elves are good Negroes. They are cast as domestic slaves to white wizards, the wisest of whom sport blue eyes. Lucky house elves belong to liberal slave-owning wizards who have the option to “free” them by giving them a stinky sock. Dobby, who is Potter’s manumitted house elf (where, pray tell, are the field elves, out of sight picking cotton?) is so ridiculously grateful to his teenage master that he cheerfully sacrifices his life for him. Uncle Dobby’s Cabin, anyone?

Although human, the laboring Muggles are biologically and socially inferior to wizards. One out of a billion Muggles carries the genetic mutation (magic gene: smart gene) necessary to qualify for promotion into the wizard world. That slim chance of upward mobility apparently justifies the turning of a blind eye toward Rowling’s system of Muggle apartheid by her hand-wringing liberal devotees in the fascism-exporting countries.

Rowling’s social vision is so narrow, so constrained, so corporate-approved that to promote her tales as a source of political inspiration for liberation from tyranny makes as much sense as believing that Democrats will magically save us from military-industrialism.

Disgustingly, at the end of the final Potter book, Rowling’s flagrantly exposes her ideological agenda. Potter becomes a Christ cliché and wizardry is saved from its sins by his crucifixion and resurrection. Fundamentalist Christians can rejoice: Potter is Jesus. Barf.

The Byrne Report welcomes feedback. Write pb****@***ic.net.

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Sizzling Tandoor in Santa Rosa

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08.29.07

Editor’s note: First Bite is a new concept in restaurant writing. We invite you to come along with our writers as they—informed, intelligent eaters like yourselves—have a simple meal at an area restaurant, just like you do. This is not a go-three-times, try-everything-on-the-menu report; rather, this is a quick snapshot of a single experience.

“It’s a Culinary Nirvana Here!” boasts the sign at Sizzling Tandoor, a restaurant that’s flourished in downtown Santa Rosa for an admirable 20 years. And perhaps it is where true Nirvana lies now, since the restaurant of that name (Nirvana Indian Fusion Sanctuary), which for a short while occupied space directly across the street, closed last month.

I liked Nirvana. But I’ve got to say, after a recent feast at Tandoor, the best Indian restaurant has won. Even if our dinner service was interrupted for almost half an hour by a belly dancing display (note to management: I can eat and watch at the same time), leaving us ravenously chewing on the tablecloths after being taunted with a too-tiny plate of appetizers, I left happy, impressed and putting the place in my Rolodex of must-recommends.

My group ate just five entrées, which means that there are still 112 more dishes I would like to sample from the extensive menu. I didn’t find a misstep in the bunch, even finding consensus among a covey of companions who are generally pretty tough to please.

My brother, a hardcore saag snob, deemed Tandoor’s lamb version ($14.95) perfect, and it was: the meat ladled in a wet clump of fiery spinach curry kissed with cilantro. His girlfriend, who often painstakingly makes her own korma, was enraptured by the presence of crunchy cashews, pistachio and almonds in the creamy chicken sahi ($14.95). My sister, a vegetarian when the cooking is good enough to make the practice convenient, found great joy with bhindi masala ($9.95), an intricate stir-fry of julienned okra, onion, curry leaves, dry masala, mustard seeds, spices and cilantro.

Mom’s choice was a masterpiece, curiously described as “globules” that turned out to be fabulous falafel-like dumplings of homemade paneer cheese and vegetables stewed in a thick, savory onion and cashew gravy ($10.95).

My mixed grill ($21.95), meanwhile, brought the best of everything together on a small, sizzling platter overloaded with tandoori chicken and shrimp, chicken and lamb tikka, shish kabob and fish tikka. There were none of the dry, overcooked meats I’ve come across way too often; rather, these were expertly tender, juicy specimens, piled atop crunchy roasted vegetables.

We dipped and wrapped it all in pillowy naan plus a side of whole-wheat paratha ($3.25), and scooped forkfuls of it up with aromatic basmati rice studded with peas ($3.50).

To be fair, it was my own fault that the starter had left us starving. Next time, I’ll know to get several orders of the “assorted Indian snacks” ($7.95); the single serving wasn’t meant for five, and was too good to share anyway, with its flaky spiced potato-pea samosa, plump potato-cauliflower-eggplant pakoras, shish kabob, chicken tikka and crispy papadam.

No wonder Sizzling Tandoor has been Nirvana’s earthly home for almost two decades.

Sizzling Tandoor, 409 Mendocino Ave., Santa Rosa. Open Monday through Saturday for lunch; daily for dinner. 707.579.5999.


Quick-and-dirty dashes through North Bay restaurants. These aren’t your standard “bring five friends and order everything on the menu” dining reviews.

The Bigotry Tour

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08.29.07

Early this summer, one of our contributing writers was out near the Russian River interviewing a woman of Puerto Rican descent. On the way there, he passed a private residence outfitted to look like a Civil War fort, replete with a Confederate flag and a white dummy in a gun tower, pointing a rifle out to the trees. Upon arriving at his subject’s home, he asked her about the fortlike structure. She passionately related how, as a woman of color, she feels threatened by this residence and what she perceives to be its racist posturing.

I’ve passed this place many times and only thought of it from a feminist perspective—sure wouldn’t want to be the woman on that property, I’ve muttered, imagining the many men who must certainly live there, striding around like soldiers hunkered against an enemy. As for our reporter, he had never before thought anything of it at all; as a white man, he’s top of the chain, what novelist Tom Wolfe likes to call a “master of the universe,” and it takes more than a wooden fence and stuffed mannequin to unnerve him.

But the story got us all thinking about how our discrete experiences of the same thing differ wildly according to our status in the world and how, even in a supposedly progressive bastion like the North Bay, prejudice flourishes, often in ways many of us never notice. Perhaps the curious props that decorate the faux fort have no meaning at all. And perhaps it’s merely true that prejudice flourishes wherever humans do. We’re not sure.

We wanted to know more about your experiences, so we sent out a mailer and posted a survey on our website asking you to relate your brush with otherness in the North Bay. On the following pages, we reprint a sampling of the comments we received as well as other stories on prejudice and racism not only in our area, but in our world. We think enough of this topic that we’ve rearranged this week’s paper to better accommodate what we’ve tenderly begun to call our “bigotry package.” We hope that it prompts discussion in your home as it has in ours. The discussion needn’t end here. Write ed****@******an.com with your impressions and thoughts. This is an issue that won’t be going away any time soon.—Gretchen Giles

I FEEL LIKE “the other” more often than not here in Marin County, with the exception of parts of San Rafael and in West Marin. I am one of a few Mexican-Americans where I live in Marin. In fact, there are so few of us that I don’t think that we even constitute a percent of the population. However, Marin is a fairly open-minded place concerning most political views, but when the subject of immigration comes up, things tend to get a bit more conservative, and this is one of the several instances where I definitely feel out of place here.

When my wife and I and our then-infant son came to Marin 15 years ago to look for a place to rent, our first appointment was in, of all places, Fairfax. I dropped my wife and son off at the house while I went to park. After I had parked around the corner, I walked back to the house and found my wife chatting with the owner. He was all smiles and I could hear him telling her how she’ll love the house and location (my wife is white, and blonde to boot).

Once I approached, I could see the owner’s face change dramatically as I smiled and put my hand out while my wife introduced us. He weakly shook my hand, frowning and squinting at me and asked me to repeat my name, which I did, still smiling. He then said, “That’s a Mexican name, ain’t it?”

I told him that it was and he then began to nervously apologize for making us drive all that way, but the house had already been rented. My wife was shocked. I just chuckled. That was 15 years ago in Fairfax, which is still unbelievable to me.

Another instance of racism that impacts me heavily is when I hear disparaging remarks about immigrants, especially Latino immigrants. When I voice my opinion on the subject, I get, “Oh, we don’t think of you as Hispanic,” as if that’s supposed to be a compliment because I am lighter-complexioned. Because I don’t speak with an accent? Because I am college-educated? The other remark that is just as offensive is: “Oh, I don’t mean you. I mean real Mexicans.” Once again, is this supposed to be some sort of compliment? By not being from Mexico but raised Mexican as a first-generation Chicano I am, what? A fake Mexican?

Clearly, the individuals who say these things are probably not aware of the ignorance involved in such statements, but it is very hurtful and thoughtless nonetheless.—Jaime, Marin County

I AM A WHITE woman. I once dated a highly educated, incredibly sweet, fabulously articulate, beautifully dressed, impeccably polite and very successful young lawyer who also happens to be black. I had no idea that here in the North Bay there was such archaic and ignorant behavior going on toward our fellow human beings; this is a place I considered evolved and idyllic.

The many ways and everyday situations in which he was slighted, rudely ignored or blatantly targeted and/or insulted based on his skin color alone were truly astounding and rage-inducing for me to witness. If we were out to dinner, wait staff would ignore him entirely when he tried to get their attention, or take my order and then walk away before he ordered. He was targeted by police on Highway 101, getting pulled over for “speeding,” even though he was following traffic speeds. I will stop there, but the list goes on.

The worst of it for me: his enduring politeness in the face of these slights. There is no way I could handle myself with a modicum of the patience and tolerance he showed for these many injustices endured daily.—Anon, Sonoma

I GREW UP in Marin but went to college in Reno, a place where one would think an openly gay man would receive dirty looks and insults. But the only times I’ve experienced homophobia were in Marin, most recently in San Rafael a couple months back. I was walking hand in hand with a date, enjoying the summer stroll down Fourth Street when a guy in a pickup truck slowed down and yelled out “Faggots!” while flipping us off.—Nicholas, Novato

GROWING UP in San Rafael, I enjoyed the distinction of being the only Filipino student in school until I reached college. So when my high school’s African-American security guard, who use to harass us kids for no reason, called me a “fucking flip” my sophomore year, I thought it was just some outmoded slang from the ’70s. It was years later that I learned “flip” is a racial epithet for Filipino people, either an acronym for “fucking little island people” coined by U.S. soldiers during World War II or a derivative of the word Filipino, depending on whom you ask. Outweighing my anger, though, was my gratitude for having grown up in a place where such naiveté was possible. Interestingly, the security guard was discovered to be molesting students at a boys’ school nearby.—David, Novato

I USED TO WALK around Marin County feeling like I had a big sign on my forehead in bright red letters spelling “Other.” When I moved to Marin from the East Bay at age 18, it was a bit of a culture shock. I was not used to being in a community dominated by white faces, and sometimes I felt really out of place. I blamed racism for my discomfort, and I blamed my discomfort on white people.

But in reality, no white person ever directly said “Go home” or “You don’t belong here.” As a matter of fact, I have sometimes felt just as uncomfortable in all-black communities. Being a bi-racial and multicultural woman, sometimes I’ve struggled with feeling a full-fledged member of any group. That feeling was a lack of understanding on my part that I, as a human being, belong to everybody, and therefore I belong wherever my feet may stand. People’s opinions of me are their business. I no longer give anyone the power to make me feel like the “other.” As an active citizen in my community, no one’s opinion of me, my people or my history can penetrate what I know: I am a good person, a good mother, a conscientious neighbor, a lover of nature. —Amy, Novato

HAVING A cigarette with a few co-workers recently, a female colleague affectionately referred to my eyes as being “chinky.” Needless to say, all our jaws dropped. “What?” she said, truly confused by our reaction. We then informed the girl, an Asian immigrant herself, that “chink” is a slur and should never be uttered. She quickly apologized and thanked us for telling her. I know she didn’t mean it maliciously, but I shudder to think of how many times in previous company that she’d unwittingly offended with the word. Worse yet, I wondered where she first heard that word.—David, Novato

I JUST HAD an experience at work—a local community college—in which a Latino employee gave my boss shit for hiring a white dude (me). My boss fielded his phone call and defended my good name, but also kind of justified why I was chosen for the job (my skills, abilities, background, etc). This felt a little slimy. How would a Latina worker feel if a white colleague called up the Latina’s boss and said, in so many words, “Why’d you hire a person of color?” And if the Latina’s boss had said (in so many words and euphemisms), “Yes, I hired her and stand behind my decision. She’s Latina, but she has these great skills, abilities, etc.”

I had a similar experience when hired for a job in Marin City. I interviewed for the job, got the job by a telephone call telling me so, then got another call saying I didn’t have the job because the executive director wanted a black person for the job. Then a meeting was set up, which I thought was a second interview, and I met with the executive director and got the job. It was all very weird and, I believe, borderline illegal.

Both of these examples strike me as reverse discrimination, or what I call “institutionalized payback” or institutionalized discrimination. They both go against Dr. King’s hope that we judge each other solely on ability, skills, personality and not surface features. Ironically, both these incidents happened not to a person of color but to a white person, and not out on the streets but in a community-college setting and a nonprofit workplace in the so-called progressive North Bay. (It could be argued that lacking the ability to speak Spanish is cause for questioning my hiring choice, but my particular jobs have not directly necessitated that I speak Spanish—or be black, for that matter.)—Matt, Petaluma

I HATE RACISM so much that sometimes I do not even notice that it’s happening; that is to say that I feel in my gut, “He cannot actually mean that!” and assign another reason when I hear a racist comment. When I taught “at risk” teenagers, everyone I knew assumed that my classrooms must be primarily black. No! It’s a class question, and more and more the class of people who get sent to the school at which I taught, rather than at Phillips Exeter or Taft, are multiracial. The truth is that the same skills that make Bill Gates so successful can be used on the street to sell meth or crack and build an empire.—Ruby, Santa Rosa

INSTITUTIONAL RACISM, social prejudice and internalized racism are far too complicated to jot down in this format. They’re interrelated, yet different. All people are impacted by racism, even white people. All of us have something at stake. Racism and prejudice are like smog: we can’t see it when we are in it, yet it penetrates our pores and lungs and poisons us, eroding our mental, physical and spiritual health. Racism has impacted my life for sure, on many levels, but I have worked a lot on the internalized stuff. Due to that, a lot of the external stuff doesn’t stick as much as it used to.

—Amy, Novato


Winery profile: Woodenhead in Forestville

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As a diehard Zinfandel fan, I hardheadedly hold out for my idea of the ultimate Zin. The usual press on our heritage grape is that it’s a reliable producer of hearty, jammy stuff, while superior examples, expressing the concentrated essence of what it can offer, are maddeningly hard to find. (Mini review for readers unwilling to wade through several paragraphs of palaver to get to the point: Woodenhead makes damn good wine. Pinot, Zin—yum, yum, yum. Now, back to rambling wine talk; that’s why I get the big bucks). It was at the ZAP tasting in San Francisco that I first saw Woodenhead. Seem to recall it was neighboring Blockheadia. Yes, it’s like rule number one not to prejudge a vintage on the basis of a graphic design-challenged label, but time was short and the wines were many.

Still, seeing one afternoon that this micro-winery had opened a tasting room on River Road piqued my interest because, you know, might be some Zins there. After a U-turn and some wrong turns, we arrived at 4:29pm, but my companion would not get out of the car. With restaurant-industry sensibility, she adamantly refused to walk into a place at closing time.

At a more appropriate hour and in other company, I finally made it to the rambling house that overlooks the Russian River Valley. Inside, it’s remodeled in subdued dark earth tones, low-lit, with a little staircase giving it the appearance of a pub stage set. The deck out front looks like an excellent picnic redoubt; bring your own as they only serve a dish of olives. Here I learned that Woodenhead is an old nickname that former deadhead winemaker Nikolai Stez earned for his stubbornness. Nothing to do with, say, barrels. In stainless steel dairy tanks behind the old Topolos Winery he vints only Pinot Noir and Zinfandel, doggedly chipping away at these squirrelly varietals. Must be some magic in those old dairy tanks.

The wine? Absolutely frickin’ brilliant. On the ultra-premium end of pricing. Dig deep. The 2005 Russian River Valley Pinot Noir ($38) has an allspice nose and lightly meaty, firm palate, The 2004 Wiley Vineyard Anderson Valley Pinot Noir ($46) is a Zin-lover’s Pinot, a candied cherry aroma promises and delivers a sweet mouthful of fruit, and the fine dry tannins leave the tongue gullet-bound with reluctant splendor. The 2004 Martinelli Road Old Vine Zinfandel ($40) opens with a lovely aroma of raspberry jelly, the kind that tops a cheesecake and delivers a full gulp of plush rhubarb and raspberry fruit.

And it gets better. At 16 percent alcohol, the 2005 Guido Venturi Mendocino County Zinfandel ($30) is exceptionally balanced, and I forgot what else, because next was the 2005 Braccialani Vineyard Alexander Valley Zinfandel ($35). The riparian, wet, briary aroma evokes a muddy path leading to the edge of the river; a plush river of brambly fruit that washes over the tongue luxuriously, with no complaints on the finish. My notes actually read, “Raspberry velvet love tongue?”

I found myself jealously gripping my glass toward the end of the tasting, although only a drop remained. These are big, but approachable, wines, high in booze decimals but not hot, and layered in fruit with nary a raisin to be found. And there are new releases to come this week, including an intriguing Humboldt County Pinot Noir. I’ll be back, and if I’m not feeling so stubborn about my budget (I was kidding about the big bucks), I might even buy a bottle next time.

Woodenhead

Address: 5700 River Road, Forestville

Phone: 707.887.2703

Hours: Thursday–Sunday 10:30am to 4:30pm

Price Range: Tasting fee, $5.



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News Briefs

08.29.07

Seals with hats

Harbor seals along the Marin and Sonoma coastline are sporting new accessories: brightly colored plastic “hats,” each marked with an easy-to-read number. Coastal residents and visitors are asked to report the color, number and location of any tagged animals as part of a harbor seal health study by Denise Greig, a biologist at the Marine Mammal Center in Sausalito. “The harbor seal’s coastal habitat is influenced by human-produced pollutants, including sewage, agricultural and surface runoff, and industrial pollutants,” Greig explains. “Our study may tell us if exposure is affecting seal health, and the seals in turn may tell us about possible impacts on human health.” Studies using hat tags have been done elsewhere, but this is the first in the North Bay. To report a seal hat, call 415.289.7350 or e-mail se*****@**mc.org. People should only report tag sightings, Greig says, and never approach or in any way disturb the seals.

Lion shuts school

On the second day of school, classes were cancelled for approximately 300 preschool-to-eighth-grade students at St. John’s Lutheran School in Napa, thanks to a reported campus visit by a mountain lion. Shortly after 7am on Thursday, Aug. 23, two school neighbors made independent sightings of the animal and called police and animal control officials. School principal Joel Wahlers was notified of a possible but unconfirmed mountain lion sighting, and as a safety precaution he locked down the campus and shut the school for the day. “We’ve never seen anything like that here before,” Wahlers says. He adds that the suburban campus is surrounded by houses, but is located less than a mile from the open, wildlands-style Alston Park and vineyards. Local and state officials searched the area but couldn’t find any signs to confirm that a mountain lion strolled onto the campus.

Parking suits

Dispute over parking-lot rights has prompted two Marin County lawsuits. Dave Corkill, a Petaluma resident and operator of the Tiburon Playhouse movie theater, recently filed a lawsuit claiming that, beginning in April, his patrons were unfairly denied free parking in the next-door lot, a policy that had been in place for 13 years. The lot’s owner, Laleh Zelinsky of Belvedere, says that deal ended when she officially transferred ownership of the theater building to her daughter-in-law as part of a complicated family real estate split. Zelinsky is suing Corkill for defamation.

Faxing it In

Faced a court hearing, Marin County officials reversed their ruling disqualifying Judy Schriebman as a candidate for the Las Gallinas Valley Sanitary District board because she faxed in her paperwork. Although state guidelines prohibit candidates from filing by fax, Marin County’s written guidelines don’t include that specific stipulation, says Marin County Registrar of Voters Elaine Ginnold. Schriebman was out of California on the final filing date, so she called the registrar’s office and was incorrectly told by a staff member that she could fax in her paperwork. She did, and a representative turned in her required payment. On Aug. 13 the county ruled that Schriebman was disqualified because they her papers were faxed. “The main thing is that we have to have an original signature on these documents,” explains Ginnold. Schriebman took the issue to court, and county officials re-visited their decision. “The county counsel advised us to put her on the ballot,” Ginnold says. If Schriebman had not qualified as a candidate, incumbents Douglas Colbert and Craig Murray would have kept their seats on the North San Rafael board without an election. The county, Ginnold adds, is revising its written election guidelines to specifically ban faxed-in paperwork.


‘Urban’ Wednesdays

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Daddy Day Camp stars Cuba Gooding Jr. as a hapless counselor of a kid’s summer camp gone awry, and it contains the usual hijinks of the genre—vomiting children, out-of-control school buses, lovestruck nerds—all while championing the charming wiles of children and the importance of family. It’s your basic light family comedy, except for one barely noticeable distinction.

It opened in theaters last month on a Wednesday.

In one of the small, almost undetectable instances of race determining certain factors in the entertainment world, many so-called urban movies—industry doublespeak for films aimed at black viewers—open on Wednesdays instead of the more traditional Fridays. It’s no secret, and although the studios that set release dates are reluctant to talk about it, most people in the movie industry are aware of the practice.

Wednesday film openings are rare, and can usually be sorted into one of three groups: a huge blockbuster with high expectations, timed early to divide large crowds and maximize opening-weekend box office grosses; a film scheduled during a holiday week, which capitalizes on the public’s vacation time; or a limited opening in New York and Los Angeles intended to build interest before wide release.

The Wednesday films that don’t fit into any of these categories, such as Bones, Get Rich or Die Tryin’ and The Wash have a category—and a color—all their own.

“It was right around Boyz n the Hood, Do the Right Thing, Juice, South Central,” remembers Chris Johnson, manager of the Roxy Stadium 14 multiplex in Santa Rosa, one of hundreds of theaters that screened Daddy Day Camp. “Studios talked about them as being ‘project films,’ but basically everybody realized what they meant.”

The practice goes back to the early ’90s, when most movies with predominantly black characters were about street gangs and drug running, and when an outbreak of shootings and gang violence plagued openings for films like Colors and New Jack City. As a result, the openings for the majority of movies aimed at black audiences were moved to Wednesday, with the unspoken aim of keeping black violence away from white Friday night crowds.

So why does the practice persist today, and for such harmless films? Are studios really scared of the PG-rated Daddy Day Camp attracting machine-gun-wielding crack dealers hell-bent on violent rampage bringing their random gang shootings to crowded theaters and killing whitey?

Well, not exactly. Over the years, the practice has dwindled somewhat, but when studios apply old reasoning to ridiculously light fare like Beauty Shop and Johnson Family Vacation, both of which opened on a Wednesday, it begs speculation. Could there really be concern that Queen Latifah’s hair-salon wisecracks will incite ticket-buying customers to beat each other’s asses?

Daddy Day Camp was made by Revolution Studios, a company well familiar with the “urban” Wednesday release: Are We Done Yet?, starring Ice Cube, and White Chicks, starring the Wayans brothers, were both Revolution films. I spoke with two separate studio representatives about the Wednesday release scheduling for these movies, but before I could even utter the word “urban,” their lips zipped: no comment.

A representative from Sony Pictures, the distributor of Daddy Day Camp, also hesitated when asked about the film’s release date. “If possible,” he said, “I’d like to abstain from answering that question.” After requesting anonymity, he reiterated the status-quo aspect of the Wednesday-opening phenomenon. “I think it’s a pretty self-explanatory thing,” he said. “For whatever reason, it seems to do well, so it’s something that people stick with. To be honest, it’s not something we sit around and talk about.”

This year’s Wednesday releases for Are We Done Yet? and Daddy Day Camp represent a new low, and it would be nice to think that they are mere coincidences. But consider that both Ice Cube and Cuba Gooding Jr. starred in Boyz n the Hood, one of the original impetuses for the Wednesday release, and it gets a little fishy. One of two things is happening here: either unquestioned and outdated models are still being applied to ludicrously nonviolent movies, or there is at work an actual calculated effort to separate black and white audiences.

Johnson, who has worked at theaters for 25 years, puts it down to sheer inertia. “I don’t know if a lot of them even know why they do anything,” he says of studio executives. “You encounter that all the time, where people just keep doing things the same way.”

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News Briefs

08.29.07 Seals with hatsHarbor seals along the Marin and Sonoma coastline are sporting new accessories: brightly colored plastic "hats," each marked with an easy-to-read number. Coastal residents and visitors are asked to report the color, number and location of any tagged animals as part of a harbor seal health study by Denise Greig, a biologist at the Marine Mammal Center...

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Daddy Day Camp stars Cuba Gooding Jr. as a hapless counselor of a kid's summer camp gone awry, and it contains the usual hijinks of the genre—vomiting children, out-of-control school buses, lovestruck nerds—all while championing the charming wiles of children and the importance of family. It's your basic light family comedy, except for one barely noticeable distinction. It opened...
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