Sure, I read the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal every day. I also visit a number of online newspapers from the Washington Post to the Haitian Time to Kenya's Daily Nation. But my one guilty pleasure remains the New York Post.
Politically, the Post is about a million miles to the right of where I am. And it's true that the paper's ink rubs off on your fingers as quickly as the "gold" from a dime store engagement ring. But the one thing the Post has that the others don't is Liz Smith. With everything that's happening in our world today, why in the world would someone buy a paper (that just doubled its price, by the way, to half a buck) just to read a gossip columnist?
Well, she hails from my neck of the woods, for starters. Her Texas twang isn't so different from my Oklahoma twang. She's also a great writer. And she supports some very worthy causes. And, because I just like her.
One day this week I picked up Post and, after reading Liz' column, I spotted a little article I'd not seen in any of the other papers. This article, buried near the sports section, indicated a steep rise in measles cases in New York. In fact, the city Department of Health reports that by May 1 there were five times more cases of measles reported than were found in all of 2007.
While measles might not be the threat it once was, it's still a serious disease. How is it spreading? Why are the number of cases increasing? Seems there is a growing sentiment among parents against vaccinating their children.
Since I have only a pit bull as a "daughter," I won't pretend to understand why parents would opt to not vaccinate their kids against preventable diseases.
In my relatively short tenure with CMMB I have seen children in Kenya, Zambia, and Haiti who are dying from preventable diseases. The numbers of such deaths worldwide are staggering. According to Jean-Pierre Habicht, a professor of epidemiology and nutritional sciences at Cornell University, 11 million children die every year from diseases that are preventable.
In developing nations, where medicines and healthcare workers are scarce, I can understand how this might happen. It is horrifying to me, but I can at least get my head around it. But in the United States? How is this possible? Don't schools require children to be immunized before they are enrolled? Cost can't be an issue because virtually every insurance plan including Medicaid pays for immunizations.
Organizations like CMMB work day in and day out to lower the death rate of children around the world. Why, then, would a parent in the U.S. choose not to protect a child? I have no answer to that question, but I sure hope someone else will offer one that will help me understand.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Spring Awakening
I walked through Union Square Park on my way to work this morning. This patch of green smack in the middle of New York City is a nice respite even in winter, so you can imagine how beautiful it is in the spring. Despite the blare of police sirens, the squeal of brakes on the cross-town #14 bus, and the ceaseless hawking of free morning newspapers, I could still hear the birds in the trees overhead. The sun, vibrant after several cloudy days, warmed gently the early morning breeze. I couldn’t help but think of those May mornings when I was very young, bare feet running through dewy grass and the promise of a summer free of school floating lazily in the puffy spring clouds.
As I wandered from the park’s lush greenery into the farmer’s market, I took note of the incoming bounty of the season: Asparagus as thick as your thumb but tender as can be; an avalanche of lettuces, most of whose names I don’t know, waiting to be tossed with good olive oil and a little aged vinegar; tiny red potatoes begging for a quick bath of butter and a shower of chunky salt; and herbs of every variety destined to lend their goodness to the creative efforts of many New Yorkers tonight.
The combination of a beautiful spring morning and the just-picked offerings of the farmer’s market must have mingled together to create some sort of organic time machine. It’s not uncommon for my childhood reflections to center on food—crusty fried chicken, Sunday roast with carrots and potatoes, meatloaf with edges burnt just enough to add extraordinary character—but the memory that surrounded me this morning was of a “food” equally interesting, if not nearly as mouthwatering.
When I was about 8 or so, I walked into the backyard to see my brother and sister, Clay and Lisa, making a meal for the neighbor boys. No doubt using a secret recipe handed down by their older brother, my younger siblings were hard at work making mud pies. With the garden hose at their feet, they were stirring and mashing the mud into old tins, explaining how they had to bake them in the sun. The neighbor kids were in awe as they eagerly awaited the pies that were baking in the sun.
The smile brought on by this memory lasted for a couple of blocks until I reached my office. I sat my bag down next to my desk and switched on my computer. While I waited for it to boot, I picked up a pile of photographs that had arrived late yesterday afternoon. They were from Jeffrey Austin, a photographer who traveled with me to Haiti a few weeks ago to document CMMB’s programs. I was taken by how well he had captured life in what is arguably the poorest country in the world.
One group within the stack of pictures made me pause. The photos were of a large roadside market that we’d come upon as we traveled from Port-au-Prince to the northern part of the country. I remembered it well because I bought an enormous bag of sea salt there. (It’s enough salt to last me for the next five years and it cost about 40 cents.) Amid the mountains of used clothes, dented pots, and some fresh vegetables, I spotted the pies. Some not much bigger than a hockey puck, others half the size of a Frisbee, these pies were presented as if they were in a bakery window or in the Union Square Farmer’s Market in Manhattan. The difference, though, was the pies in Haiti are not bursting with apples or plums, they aren’t filled with chocolate mousse or coconut custard. They are made of mud.
Literally, the pies contain dirt, water, a precious bit of oil or lard, and maybe some salt. And they are eaten as food by people who cannot afford even the cheapest vegetables in the market. They cost only a few pennies, but even pennies are scarce in much of Haiti. With armed guards standing watch over mangoes ripening in private orchards, only the most desperate Haitian would try to snatch the fruit from a tree. So the choices for sustenance remain slim.
I didn’t eat a mud pie when I was in Haiti. And, truth be told, I’m not sure I sampled those offered to me by my sister and brother when we were children. Even if I had, though, it would have been by choice instead of necessity.
At the farmer’s market this morning I could have bought some fresh asparagus for $6. Enough new potatoes for two of us for dinner would have cost me about $4. A cage-free chicken could have been mine for $15. The only reason I didn’t spend the twenty-five bucks is because we already had plans for dinner. I had the money in my pocket, after all, and will almost certainly buy an armload of fresh food at the market in a couple of days.
But one thing is certain: when I pop that chicken in the oven or slather butter over just-cut asparagus, or bite into the season’s first local strawberries, I’ll consider what my sisters and brothers in Haiti are eating for dinner. Or, rather, what they are not eating.
I take a lot for granted when it comes to food. A quick look at my belly will tell you that I’ve never been hungry a day in my life. Oh, you’ll hear me say something like, “I’m starving,” as I head out of the office to buy a $6 egg salad sandwich for lunch. But I realize what a poor choice of words that really is. When other folks are forced to eat dirt to survive, I have no right to ever say I’m hungry, much less starving. If you should ever hear me say that again, please put a mud pie in my mouth and send me on my way.
As I wandered from the park’s lush greenery into the farmer’s market, I took note of the incoming bounty of the season: Asparagus as thick as your thumb but tender as can be; an avalanche of lettuces, most of whose names I don’t know, waiting to be tossed with good olive oil and a little aged vinegar; tiny red potatoes begging for a quick bath of butter and a shower of chunky salt; and herbs of every variety destined to lend their goodness to the creative efforts of many New Yorkers tonight.
The combination of a beautiful spring morning and the just-picked offerings of the farmer’s market must have mingled together to create some sort of organic time machine. It’s not uncommon for my childhood reflections to center on food—crusty fried chicken, Sunday roast with carrots and potatoes, meatloaf with edges burnt just enough to add extraordinary character—but the memory that surrounded me this morning was of a “food” equally interesting, if not nearly as mouthwatering.
When I was about 8 or so, I walked into the backyard to see my brother and sister, Clay and Lisa, making a meal for the neighbor boys. No doubt using a secret recipe handed down by their older brother, my younger siblings were hard at work making mud pies. With the garden hose at their feet, they were stirring and mashing the mud into old tins, explaining how they had to bake them in the sun. The neighbor kids were in awe as they eagerly awaited the pies that were baking in the sun.
The smile brought on by this memory lasted for a couple of blocks until I reached my office. I sat my bag down next to my desk and switched on my computer. While I waited for it to boot, I picked up a pile of photographs that had arrived late yesterday afternoon. They were from Jeffrey Austin, a photographer who traveled with me to Haiti a few weeks ago to document CMMB’s programs. I was taken by how well he had captured life in what is arguably the poorest country in the world.
One group within the stack of pictures made me pause. The photos were of a large roadside market that we’d come upon as we traveled from Port-au-Prince to the northern part of the country. I remembered it well because I bought an enormous bag of sea salt there. (It’s enough salt to last me for the next five years and it cost about 40 cents.) Amid the mountains of used clothes, dented pots, and some fresh vegetables, I spotted the pies. Some not much bigger than a hockey puck, others half the size of a Frisbee, these pies were presented as if they were in a bakery window or in the Union Square Farmer’s Market in Manhattan. The difference, though, was the pies in Haiti are not bursting with apples or plums, they aren’t filled with chocolate mousse or coconut custard. They are made of mud.
Literally, the pies contain dirt, water, a precious bit of oil or lard, and maybe some salt. And they are eaten as food by people who cannot afford even the cheapest vegetables in the market. They cost only a few pennies, but even pennies are scarce in much of Haiti. With armed guards standing watch over mangoes ripening in private orchards, only the most desperate Haitian would try to snatch the fruit from a tree. So the choices for sustenance remain slim.
I didn’t eat a mud pie when I was in Haiti. And, truth be told, I’m not sure I sampled those offered to me by my sister and brother when we were children. Even if I had, though, it would have been by choice instead of necessity.
At the farmer’s market this morning I could have bought some fresh asparagus for $6. Enough new potatoes for two of us for dinner would have cost me about $4. A cage-free chicken could have been mine for $15. The only reason I didn’t spend the twenty-five bucks is because we already had plans for dinner. I had the money in my pocket, after all, and will almost certainly buy an armload of fresh food at the market in a couple of days.
But one thing is certain: when I pop that chicken in the oven or slather butter over just-cut asparagus, or bite into the season’s first local strawberries, I’ll consider what my sisters and brothers in Haiti are eating for dinner. Or, rather, what they are not eating.
I take a lot for granted when it comes to food. A quick look at my belly will tell you that I’ve never been hungry a day in my life. Oh, you’ll hear me say something like, “I’m starving,” as I head out of the office to buy a $6 egg salad sandwich for lunch. But I realize what a poor choice of words that really is. When other folks are forced to eat dirt to survive, I have no right to ever say I’m hungry, much less starving. If you should ever hear me say that again, please put a mud pie in my mouth and send me on my way.
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