Many of us (activists, thinkers, or students) whom thirst for a positive change for our communities, at times get discouraged by the many obstacles life presents. As much as we try to help in whatever we are most passionate towards, a negative backlash or situation may occur, leading people to feel hopeless and give up. For the past year I have been working on a campaign that I founded based on the need of my neighbors and friends. At the moment I decided to do something about the kind of global issue we were facing, I knew immediately it will take a lot of commitment from my part. With deep faith and willingness to bring honor to my sister and her baby (who were victims of this global issue) I decided to act and be that one individual to say “#iam4 change” regardless of the kind of obstacles life will present.

Today, I will not only #write4good for the sake of the competition, but to also bring awareness. In 2013, my home became a crime scene to a horrific murder. Two men broke into our home, where at the time my sister, who was 3 months pregnant, was the only family member inside. They did unimaginable things to her and then strangulated her to death. In order to cover the evidence, my sister and her unborn child were left to burn that night. I received support from the RGVEZ Victims of Crime Program and with many months of counseling, I slowly began my journey of personal healing. One year later, since that tragic day, I got the courage to stand up against the violence piercing my neighborhood by forming the “Strides for Fany / Ascensos por Fany” campaign to give voice and strength to my colonia. This campaign was a response to the high levels of crime activity that kept happening in colonia, San Cristobal. I learned that the tragedy that my family and I faced not only impacted us, but also the people around us, for this reason I started this campaign, to honor my sister Stephanie “Fany” Gonzalez. I want people to remember her as an independent and strong person and I hope that my colonia will be inspired by her character and stand up against the existing violence that upholds our colonia.

Since the initiation of the campaign, a small dedicated team from my university and I, have brought forth the crime issues to Commissioners Court, hosted monthly meetings with residents, launched a Facebook page for the campaign and are already beginning the implementation process of a Neighborhood Watch Program in collaboration with the Hidalgo County Crime Stoppers and the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department. Despite all the incredible work, we understand that in moving forward with the direction of the campaign, it is a necessity to sustain it both programmatic and financially in order to create effective change in the long term. That is a kind of obstacle of course I was aware of at the beginning but will not permit it to be the reason we stop moving forward in the future. The mission is to decrease the crime activity in Colonia San Cristobal by building a cohesive and trustful relationship with residents and reclaiming respect and dignity in our neighborhood. Once successful, we want to become a model and resource to help other colonias in the Lower Rio Grande Valley who are experiencing high levels of crime activities in their colonias.

In late 2014, with the assistance of Texas Rio Grande Legal Aid, the University of Texas Pan-American and 4 classmates, a short survey was designed and conducted to understand how residents felt about living in their colonia and what type of safety concerns and issues they were confronting. The results are as follows:

1. 64% of residents did not feel safe in the colonia.

2. 57% said they were victimized regularly.

3. 85% stated that there was lack of correspondence from local law enforcement.

Residents from San Cristobal also stated that the primary reason why they would not report these crimes was because they feared the “retaliation” or worst that a similar incident as the one that my sister endured, would happen to them. Therefore, to reduce the crime activity and elevate the fear that residents live in, the primary objectives of the campaign are:

1. Create a Neighborhood Watch Program to rebuild trust in the neighborhood.

2. Strengthen the dialogue and relationship between colonia residents, law enforcement and local government officials.

3. Involved youth through the establishment of youth programs and services. 4. Provide a leadership development platform for residents to rise and led the pathway for effective policy change through outreach and advocacy in their colonia.

5. Network and collaborate with other non-profits, government agencies and private entities to revitalize the colonia into a safer neighborhood and become a model for other colonias in similar circumstances.

Ultimately, the goal is to empower residents to take back their colonia and build a united front to combat the crime activity that penetrates their community. Since vandalism and theft happens anywhere and anytime, we encourage everyone that feels their neighborhood faces this kind of crimes in a regular basis, to reach out for help to their local law enforcement. But also, and most importantly, build a relationship with their neighbors (like us) you can create a positive change ONE STRIDE AT A TIME.

At this time, I would like to thank the time took to read my humble story and goals. As in for me, I will continue to pursue my degree in Criminal Justice to better understand the law and improve my campaign and neighborhood. I will continue to work hard to pay for college and give back to my community. This type of movement I decided to create can be yours too. You can help end this global issue! I look forward to learn about any feedback and collaboration , thank you.

P.S. If you would like to contribute or learn more on how to create your own campaign, please contact us!

Email: stridesforfany@gmail.com

Facebook: “Strides for Fany / Ascensos por Fany”

Mr. Yim's body no longer belonged to him. Against the pale pink walls of the convalescent home, his left arm jerked to and fro, a violent whip. Years before, Mr. Yim had been a school principal, but it was hard to imagine him as anything from his present vegetative state. In less than a decade, he had changed – no, he had disappeared, and in his place was this frail man in a wheelchair, a stranger. His neck deflated to one side as I slowly exited the room, an unintelligible murmur escaping from his jaw. No, Mr. Yim was gone.

Combine the cognitive decline of Alzheimer's, muscle spasms of ALS, and emotional irregularities of schizophrenia and you have a rough picture of Huntington's disease, a neurodegenerative disorder in which nerve cells in the brain accumulate toxins and die. The result is a progressive loss of control of both the body and mind, manifesting as involuntary writhing movements called chorea and deteriorating mental abilities. Typically, the first signs of illness appear around age thirty to forty, worsening until patients require full-time care. Some develop depression or unusual behaviors, a by-product of damage in multiple regions of the brain. Others gradually relinquish the ability to speak, no longer able to command their vocal cords. No matter the severity of symptoms, however, all Huntington's patients inevitably die from their disease.

Although less prevalent than cancers and less gruesome than Ebola, few disorders are as heartbreaking as Huntington's. In the hospital, I’ve watched it destroy not only the physical being of a person, but thoughts, memories, and personalities – the things that make us who we are. Losing a loved one is always painful, yet especially for Huntington's patients, death can be drawn out and humiliating. And while victims of the disease undoubtedly suffer, so do the caregivers. Children of parents with Huntington's have a 50% likelihood of inheriting the condition and may spend the rest of their lives in fear, reluctant to start a family of their own or plan a long-term career. With medical testing, those at risk can find out if they will have the disease, but because there is no cure, many prefer to not know. For these unlucky individuals, fate rests on a genetic coin flip. Half of them, free of Huntington's, will have the chance to lead normal lives. The other half, predestined, will endure the horrors of neurological degeneration.

Despite the dismal outcomes of Huntington's, I believe that there is light in the abyss. As an MD-PhD student, I've learned that the disease is caused by a mutation in a single gene, opening the possibility of repairing genetic material from patients through a process called gene therapy. There are still no treatments to stop or slow down the illness, but current research is promising. In particular, recent advances in genome editing and a technology known as site-specific nucleases could make it feasible to replace the faulty gene in Huntington's with a healthy variant, thereby eliminating the toxins potentially responsible for nerve cell death. While I have many years of clinical and graduate training remaining, I hope to one day pursue this topic as a physician-researcher and translate scientific progress on the disease into future medical care.

I stand for an end to Huntington's disease. I am only one person, but I will do everything in my power to promote awareness for patients, make new discoveries in the lab, and ultimately alleviate the suffering of individuals like Mr. Yim. Our generation is closer than ever to finding a cure. I know that we can make it happen.

“We’re going to do it this way today.”

And so began my struggle with school.

From a very early age, we’re taught that there’s only one way to do things. Only one way to learn to read, to write, to ride a bike. Everything must be done at a certain age. Not earlier, not later. And it all must be done one way.

I remember when I was taught how to write my letters--that was the worst year of my life. There are plenty of adults I know whose penmanship looks like nothing more than scratches on paper. But my teacher criticized and marked me down for each little mistake, and by the end of the year, when report cards came out, I received a check mark for handwriting that was not as neat and beautiful as it should be. But who can dare tell an eight-year old that her hand writing is bad? That the loops at the ends of her A’s are wrong or that I’s shouldn’t be dotted with hearts, she’s just being creative.

Every year the teachers give the whole “poetry is about being creative and expressing how you feel” speech.

Oscar Wilde tells us that “to define is to limit.” Because right after they tell you all about creativity, they give you directions on how you have to write a poem, counting out each individual syllable and making them rhyme. But I want things not to rhyme. I want to make someone cry by rhyming sunshine with raincloud and summer with winter and smile with tear. I want each stanza, wait, why should I even use stanzas if I don’t need them? I can have a million lines if I wanted because that’s what poetry is.

Art doesn’t have to be in the lines of the paper. Art isn’t meant to be taught, it’s meant to be experienced, learned, felt, made. Just because they colors don’t seem to “complement” or “represent” or “contrast”. I’ll distemper you, too bad I don’t know what that means because I didn’t pay attention in your class.

They teach you to do everything in your head, so as not to speak your mind, so when you get older you can keep opinions to yourself and fall below a power that in which you should take part.

So I stand for creativity. For the opportunity that each child is endowed with to write and not be told it doesn’t fit a curriculum’s idea of education. In a world where the college majors that are considered to be most profitable are the ones that rely on concrete facts, it becomes impossible to think for oneself. Although this cannot kill the physical body, the ability to be creative is what has saved lives around the world. It is a global epidemic that we can no longer ignore.

Creativity allows us to realize our discontent: with our government, with our world, with ourselves. When this is taken away, we cannot realize what we need.

#iam4#write4good

Blaxican, mutt, mixed, bi-racial, interracial, there is not a single word that can make up the sum total of me. For the better part of my life I can say I’ve spent more time explaining my genetic background than who I am as a person. I look Hispanic or black depending on your perception with a wild mane of curls that could or could not be my real hair and I sound “white.” I am a general rubix cube to most of the general population, but fortunately I am not alone. I represent a complicated past, controversial present, and for some a fearful misrepresentation of the future. A future where people are worried America will become at a loss of our identity because we are too inter-racially mixed.

I remember first experiencing racism when I was in fifth grade and a fellow classmate of Hispanic heritage asked me if I was going to be a “nigger,” for Halloween. At the age of ten I knew only that “nigger,” was a bad word used for black people and slaves in a colonial time period. I knew this because I spent much of my time in the library reading books on Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, and Frederick Douglas. At that time those were one of few books I had access to with characters that looked like me, shared my history, exhibited struggle and triumph relevant to my cultural background.

I wanted to ask my classmate why being a fellow Hispanic he saw or only chose to see my black ethnicity. What was lacking in my Hispanic side that he could not identify? Was I not being authentic to that part of me? I can say that my younger self was not eloquent enough in that moment to think on reflections like that and instead proceeded to cry in class. Unfortunately there were no children’s books or young adult books I could turn to that had any characters that could educate me or reflect who I was or could be. I searched for them anywhere and everywhere. Some text, guide, explanation or answer to mentor myself and my fellow classmates on being bi-racial.

Literature was my best friend growing up. We were so tightly wound I read myself right into glasses. Highlights magazine led me into fun adventures and puzzles that stretched my brain. The Baby Sitter’s Club took me through the pre-teen world of friendship and unity. I traveled down the educational journey into Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Beowulf and finally got to read about my first bi-racial character at age 15 in Zora Neale Hurston’s ‘Their Eyes Were Watching God’. I got to see racial dynamics with a story crafted around a character who resembled me in some fashion and was not in a pre-Civil War era wearing chains and picking cotton.

I remember classmates referencing the text as a black person book and being unable to have in-depth discussions of what was in the text versus what the text was telling us. I learned early in life that racism was not just a word spewed in hate, banner, emblem or insignia. Contrary to popular belief it wasn’t buried in our past with whips and auction deals selling slaves to the highest price. I was unaware racism could exist in literature and writing. I had to accept that racism was alive and crawling it’s way to the surface of our culture at an alarming rate.

Racism isn’t just a state issue reserved just for the “south” where historically controversial ways of thinking and acts of violence have bred and boiled over from the early 1800′s till now. It’s not just a symbol or figurehead as we saw this past summer when the Confederate flag was removed from the South Carolina statehouse. Organizations like the Klu Klux Klan stood out proudly protesting the decision vehemently and people argued that it was a matter of familial significance.Nor is it a simple matter of separation that comes with a border separating the United States and Mexico.

Racism isn’t just a national issue, though in the past few years tragedies like the murders of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown have brought worldwide media coverage and conversation regarding the relationship between race and justice. Even in America where our 44th President of the United States is often referred to as the “black president,” before his formal title of Mr. President or his legal name Barack Obama. Even now as we have contenders for the presidency perpetuating organized hate for immigrants. We can’t simply state that racism is just an American issue.

Racism is a global issue that has made an enormous impact on our society and day to day living as anything else. Growing up bi-cultural in with what some sarcastically told me is the “best of both worlds,“has always placed me at the forefront of discussion regarding race, relationships, and the larger context of what that means for me in the world. About 90% of the time I’m often asked “What I am,” before anything else and the “What,” always referred to my ethnic background. At a young age I decided to combat my struggles with racism through my writing and have dedicated myself to it every day of my life. I sought out writers and stories that I could find some peace in, solace, answers on how to make sense of questions and issues I face on a daily basis regarding who I am.

I come from a military background and I grew up in a small rural country town in the Texas panhandle with a population of less than 2,000 where my sisterand I were one of two mixed families in the area. I was taught very early about a “you vs. them” mentality that I never quite understood but, I got judged for anyway. I lived in the largest military base in the world where I met many children much like myself, they were mixes of several ethnicities and they were often challenged with a series of questions: What do we identify with? Who do we look more like? and why do we sound like this? I often wished I was just one race because then I wouldn’t be picked apart so much and cornered into questions I didn’t always have the right answers for. I lived in a city with one predominant race and culture. There I learned not only was I not brought up in the “traditional” sense of history and culture of my ethnicity, but that I wasn’t necessarily accepted since I wasn’t one full race.

When I began to attend graduate school in my early twenties I held tight to the fact I wanted to create literature and a stories regarding race and relationships for young adults. I was bombarded with the realization when I got to grad school I was the only hispanic in my cohort, the only mixed member, and one of four non-white students of eleven. “Eleven were picked out of over hundred of applications for this program,” our professor proudly boasted the first semester. Meeting with other students in our poetry and non-fiction programs I learned that there was even fewer minorities if any at all. I was forced to question whether minorities are running from the literary world or there was simply not a place for us in it.

I learned that in the literary world we study traditionally revered authors like Edgar Allen Poe, Flannery O’Connor, Ray Bradbury, and George Saunders (just to name a few) for structure, format, and their prose. Contemporary and writers of color aren’t historically revered for their writings and those that are had to make strong cases in the past and present for the legitimacy of their work like Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Sandra Cisneros, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Haruki Murakami. Having the opportunity to study writers like these not in the traditional literary “canon,” would benefit classroom’s that are void of culture in student writing. Being able to learn how a writer integrates Spanish or Spanglish would help writers like me who want to have bi-lingual text but no tools how to. It would create discussion and respect for a deeper insight into writing non-stereotypical characters of color.

I discovered racism within my own work when I had a peer refer to my mix of bilingual text on the page as “taco language,”a non-Spanish speaking professor tell me my writing needed more “context,” for non-Spanish speakers. Though it wasn’t malicious behavior, it hurt none the less. It brought awareness to the need for conversation within the classroom in regards to writing multi-language texts and how to read those when you don’t speak the language. I listened to classmates give stereotypical perceptions of non-white characters within their stories and observed with uncomfortable angst to the lack of ethnic characters in their writing. In one class we had a big time literary agent visit. He told us how hard it is to get characters of color brought to the forefront in the mainstream world of publishing.

When I attended the Association of Writers& Writing Programs last year I got to listen to panels discuss race in the literary world and how even in our current generation it is a long battle to get your story on bookshelves. I felt overwhelmed and ignorant of how unaware I was to these issues in a career I want to be successful in. I reflected on what I was attracted to reading, why I was compelled by it and how much of it had any characters of color. I listened to my peers discuss their struggles and frustrations on a dialogue that altogether was a foreign language nobody could translate in publishing. It empowered me to listen to fellow writer's of color seeking to educate readers and writers on the proper research needed to create dynamic characters.

Attending graduate school has opened my eyes even more to how progressive society is in areas of the world, but falls so short in so many other ways as human beings. Race is something I’m passionate about because it is who I am, years of history runs in my blood. Books are many things to people, an escape, an adventure, a learning opportunity,and I want to provide deep, insightful characters that don’t cater to one audience, but all audiences, not one city, demographic, gender or race, but everyone.There is a universal human need for understanding of our place in the world outside of our racial identity and I believe I have the power to create that change in my writing.

My experiences with racism transcends into my writing because I represent more than race. I have battled with both aspects of my culture and have received racism not only from the outside world but within my own people. Fiction writing allows me to tell my story and the story of so many others in a truthful and honest context. I am combatting racism in my writing. I want to help educate and create dialogue through dynamic storytelling about an issue we all live with on a daily basis. There isn’t a portion of the earth that isn’t inhabited by people who are seeking equality of some sort of the other, those of us just wanting to be understood, respected, and seen for WHO we are and not WHAT we are.

As president of my Graduate Student Organization here at school I hope to create a bridge of educated discussion regarding culture in literature and how to bring that to the forefront of our education. We will be holding our first “Literary and Race,” discussion in October, headed by different professors from our department and MC’ed by students. I hope to create a bridge of educated discussion regarding culture in literature and how to bring that to the forefront of our education in/out of school. Junot Diaz famously penned an article regarding the lack of diversity in MFA programs and I hope to help ignite a change for that in the future. I am a human, woman, person, activist, and author for change in race relations in education. I believe humans are beautiful people and we have the capability to exhibit kindness, understanding and respect for each other if we only given the tools to create that dialogue.

After explaining to my close friend of ten years that getting out of bed was one of the hardest tasks of the day, she laughed. “You’re just lazy,” she said, “you need to be more motivated,” and that was that. She had reduced my major depression to a simple idiosyncrasy- laziness. Unfortunately, her attitude towards mental illness isn’t new. For centuries, many people have seen mental illness, especially disorders such as schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, as “strange” or “taboo” purely because of their lack of knowledge. While the shame surrounding mental illness has decreased since way back when, most of society is still ignorant in regards to neurological disorders. Their unawareness contributes to the worldwide social stigma around mental illness, which negatively affects the mentally ill by causing discrimination against them and prohibiting them from receiving the help they deserve.

When one has a neurological disorder, social support is vital. The mentally ill need to be shown love and acceptance so they can feel less alone. However, many people who have been diagnosed with a neurological disorder are discriminated against daily. Some have had their identity reduced to their disease, being labeled as “crazy” due to their mental health, while others have lost the support of their family and friends. For some people, the discrimination against them can actually cause their mental health to deteriorate rapidly. For example, someone with depression will only become more depressed if they are ostracized by others. While living with a neurological disorder is a tough journey within itself, it would be easier if society was more understanding of what challenges the mentally ill face daily.

According to the World Health Organization, “one in four people in the world will be affected by mental or neurological disorders at some point in their lives,” which is around 450 million people total. However, only around 297 million will ever seek help for their disorder (“Mental Disorders Affect One in Four People”). How can one receive help if they’re too scared to ask for it? Due to the stigma surrounding mental illness, the mentally ill are afraid to ask for help because of the judgments that may occur when they seek treatment. For example, I kept my depression and anxiety a secret for years because I was afraid of what other people would think. While burying my head in the sand only made things worse, it did help me realize that I needed to talk to a therapist. My biggest fear when I told my parents I was suicidal and they sent to the hospital was how others would view me after I left treatment. Would my friends view me as weak? Would my parents see me as a disappointment? What names would I be called when I returned to school? Fortunately, many people were sympathetic of my situation; however, others looked down on me, labeling me as an abnormality. While I grew closer to people that understood my depression, I lost close friends who refused to accept me for who I was.

The social stigma surrounding mental illness causes discrimination against the mentally ill and prohibits them from receiving help. Due to the rational fears of rejection, many people with neurological disorders are afraid to seek treatment. Furthermore, the mentally ill are constantly isolated and labeled purely because of their mental health. If this issue was solved, the world population would be much healthier. The number of people with mental disorders would be drastically reduced since people would no longer be afraid of seeking treatment. Although the day is far off, my dream is that I will one day no longer hear mental disorders being referred to as “disgusting” while sitting at the lunch table. I stand for fighting the stigma surrounding mental illness.

Works Cited:

“Mental Disorders Affect One in Four People." WHO. World Health

Organization, 04 Oct. 2001. Web. 31 July 2015. <http://www.who.int/whr/2001/media_centre/press_release/en/>.

I turn to put the final rinsed off sippy cup into the dishwasher as I hear the all too familiar whomp- thud-sob trifecta that instinctively signals my mommy brain to be on full alert . My lower lip immediately juts out to mimic the scrunched and freshly tear-streaked face of my baby, while instinctively my nostrils flare as my eyes dart to my toddler. The eldest, who inherited my triangle shaped nostrils, matches my irritated nose and raises me a defiantly guilty glare. In his hand he clutches the item of iniquity. The empty water bottle my baby dug from the trash just moments before was the now coveted piece of rubbish that prompted the assault. Or was it actually my son’s greedy nature that sparked the tragedy? Regardless, it was a classic victim versus assailant case.

The adult part of me wanted to make a flippant remark about how it’s just plain foolish to fight and hurt our siblings over a piece of trash. Really?! That is completely nonsensical.

Luckily, three solid years into this parenting gig, I have strengthened my mom muscles enough to discern between a logical and passionate decision based reaction.

This was not a proprietary issue. This was a heart issue: brother against brother.

Scooping up the whimpering baby, I straddled him no my hip, and knelt down to face his, now remorseful, brother. By now his face had softened, and the corners of his emerald eyes pooled with anticipated tears of remorse. In unison, we once again repeated last month’s Bible verse from Sunday school.

Be kind and loving to each other. Ephesians 4:32

We chant these words so frequently, they have organically morphed into our home’s mantra. These words warranted reiterating a handful of times before the sun set that night.

During the long days of summer, our family had taken to playing the role of local tourists to our little slice of the world. One of our most anticipated destinations were the battlefields of Gettysburg. Only a couple hours away, we imagined an afternoon littered with fascinating historical facts and wide eyed stares of excitement as we would show our kids cannons and towering bronze statues of our country’s heroes.

Tickets purchased, we loaded onto the bus and settled into our nineties era geometric patterned seats that allude to the authenticity of the tour company. Decades have gone into mastering the perfect tour for the thousands of people who annually stream through the historical town. Our guide was masterful in painting the picture of the three day battle that tore across the now serene countryside of Southern Pennsylvania. We could soberly envision the young men marching across the fields, desperately establishing the high ground, bravely obeying their orders to attack, and valiantly laying down their lives for an ideal that was greater than one man.

My eldest son listened intently while the guide verbally transported us back in time. It wasn’t until after we strapped him into his car seat for the long ride home that the rapid fire of questions shot out from the backseat.

“Why were the Army men angry?

Why did they shoot people?

Are they all dead?“

Gulp. My husband and I locked panicked eyes and silently questioned who should take on the hard-hitting questions. I had not properly anticipated this. Give me a birds and the bees question over one addressing death and violence any day. These are the hard questions I was warned I would one day have to answer for. At the end of the three hour bus ride I had heard: bravery, altruism, determination, and national unity. My son had just heard: school aged soldiers, bloody wheat fields, traumatic injuries, mangled bodies, and shallow graves. To him, it was brother versus brother.

My mind spun, desperately searching for the right answers to help him understand. I wanted to get it right. I wanted to help him see. In the end I settled on the truth:

“I don’t know. “

It’s true. I don’t understand. How does one explain a murky grey matter to a child who innocently views the world in contrasting shades of black and white? How is killing you brother ever a solution?

I do know I am glad we live in a country where people automatically recoil in horror at the thought of slavery. I know I am glad to live in a unified country. And I know I am in complete awe of those who sacrificed their lives to live on the foundation of ideals and principles.

According to USA today, modern slavery sadly still exists in 167 countries. India has the appalling honor of being at the top of the list with 14.3 million entrapped souls. Africa boasts the statistic for being the continent with the most civil wars. Since 1960, twenty inter-country wars have endured armed conflict.

What is the cost? What are the options? Did we have to kill our brothers in order for the right to prevail? Was there some other way? Would we have be a divided country, still filled with human bondage, if it hadn’t been for the thousands of men who died? Even though these questions are sparked from my naïve three year old, they still hold profound gravitas.

If war has taught us anything, would it not be to always question violence- to shine a light of inquisition, always asking why? I certainly don’t hold the prowess of a political strategist, but I do know the world could benefit from more decisions rooted in love. Crouching down to the vantage point of a child yields a refreshing viewpoint, visible in stark hues of black and white. If I am eligible to chose a path it is this:

Be kind and loving to each other. Especially your brother.

#write4good #iam4

Set in a small church on Westwood Boulevard, just south of UCLA, Westwood Hills Congregational Church is a community of people both old and young, committed to social justice and putting faith into action in their neighborhood, greater Los Angeles, and worldwide. The sanctuary is a brightly lit room, with a symmetrical feeling that makes everything seem in place. It has high ceilings, small, stained-glass windows, and an organ that sounds as if celestial beings have come for a song. The opening song before the service sets the tone for the morning, ‘Filling the world with love’. The message is then enforced again by everyone getting up and introducing themselves, hugging the person sitting next to them, and passing on good vibes and excitement over the sabbath.

As an intern with CLUE-LA, especially one who comes from a mostly secular background, a large part of the educational experience this summer has revolved around learning what different religions believe about social and economic justice, and aiding those in need. CLUE’s motto, written on the now familiar burgundy picket signs reads: “All religions believe in justice,” and Westwood Hills Congregational is no different. Hosting what we refer to as Justice in the Pulpits, it is a powerful experience to see those most marginalized stand tall and share their story.

Reverend Samuel Pullen, guest preaching today while the Pastor is on sabbatical, focuses us with a centering song about being out of place, and opens with the words, “We are all so very far away from home.” This message is significant because before the backdrop of an involved community, CLUE organizer Guillermo Torres is translating for Sandra, a mother who is dealing with immigration courts that want to deport her son back to El Salvador.

UCARE stands for Unaccompanied Central American Refugee Empowerment. Guillermo has been heavily involved in immigration reform for most of his life, and has formed a coalition of faith and community leaders in the Los Angeles area to help these children gain asylum here in the U.S., and ease their transition once they accomplish that.

In 2014, there was a surge of unaccompanied children fleeing to the United States from Central America due to the gang violence and threats of harm. These children go through an agonizing journey over a thousand miles to get here, only to face more difficulties once they present themselves at the border. Many children, some of them with their mothers have been placed in detention centers in Texas, Arizona, and California, sometimes for months on end. Federal courts have already ruled these detention centers illegal, but enforcement is slow, if it comes at all. Most of these children have lost family, friends, their homes, and all sense of belonging on the journey here to the States, but simply crossing the border and applying for asylum is only one of many steps to gaining refuge here.

At Westwood Hills Congregational, Reverend Pullen asks people if they know of stories in the Bible that relate to unaccompanied children, or children fleeing from violence. At once a flurry of names comes forth. Moses, who was placed in a basket by his mother and sent down a river, in hopes that he would be found by someone who could take care of him. Joseph, who was sold into slavery by his brothers, a victim of human trafficking that is reflected today in many parts of the world, our great nation included. Jesus, who had to flee to Egypt, the threat of violence nipping at his heels. It was transformative for the congregation to realize that these biblical stories were not merely parables, but connected to what these children are facing today.

Sandra, mother of a twelve year old boy who is still going through immigration court in order to gain asylum here. Her son was living in an area in El Salvador where his school was located in an area controlled by one gang, but where he lived was controlled by another gang. One day, on his way to school with his caretaker, he was assaulted, and his caretaker stabbed, before the attackers told him to never come back. He immediately left his hometown, his country, to begin an arduous journey to meet his mother. He took trains, walked, evaded corrupt officials, and finally made it to the border, where he was promptly detained for a week, and then sent to a foster home for another three weeks before the government reached out to Sandra.

That wasn’t the end however. Once reunited, mother and son still needed to go to immigration court for a judge to make a ruling on whether or not her son could stay in the U.S. In 2014, the United States deported over 7,000 children back to Central America, ignoring pleas for asylum. These courts require children and families seeking asylum to get an attorney. The problem? Most of these children are unaccompanied, don’t speak English well, and if they have their parents here, most can’t afford an attorney. Sandra faced this issue with fear and trepidation.

“I was very scared about what I was going to do. I was shaking and crying because I couldn’t afford a lawyer,” Sandra shares with Westwood Hills congregation. With tears in her eyes just reliving the experience, Sandra tells us about her experience at the court. The second time she was present, this time with her son, the judge threw her out of the court for not having an attorney. Torres, advocate with an organization called Guardian Angels, approached Sandra to let her know Guardian Angels has lawyers working with them who represent cases such as hers, all pro-bono. Filled with relief at having a name to give the judge, Sandra is given another date to reappear before the court, this time with the backing of a lawyer who won’t let her son get taken away.

After the service ends, the congregation meets on their patio to share in some refreshments and talk more in depth with Sandra, Guillermo, and myself about this massive issue facing our country. I sidle up to one of the Deacons, Dr. Brad Stone, professor and chair of African American Studies at Loyola Marymount. When prompted about what he thinks about immigration in this country, he replies: “Compounded by California’s own racial history...where you have people who are after all, Mexican, and have always been here in Los Angeles, right? Here we are standing on Mexican ground, annexed in an American war against Mexico. Yet we then want to talk about who was here [first]. And I just think that’s a contradictory view.”

Guillermo Torres, point person at CLUE for immigration issues, has this to say about what needs to happen in these turbulent times. He says, “Well, I would say one of the most pressing issues is advocacy, and also welcoming these children and these families. Making them feel welcome, and showing them that there are people who are kind and compassionate, and love, and make them feel welcome.” This is particularly important amidst a backdrop of anti-immigrant sentiment that has taken the nation by storm, especially as espoused by one particular Presidential candidate who needs no introduction.

Reverend Pullen, as we start packing up, has an important message about the children, and call to action for his fellow clergy.

“We are called to be a prophetic voice. We are called to remind people of faith that the story of the Jewish people and the story of Jesus and the Christian movement is about supporting those who are most vulnerable, and remembering the times in our lives, and in our histories when we have been immigrants, when we have fled from injustice and violence.”

What is important to remember is that at one point, nearly all of us were immigrants to the land of opportunity. UCARE may represent those from Central America, but immigrants come from all over the world seeking a better life for themselves here in the United States. Our history is filled with narratives, accounts, and lore of people fleeing racial, religious, and ideological oppression. Many are vulnerable, but none more so than children. While immigration reform might take many years to be implemented, there are children here in Los Angeles who need help now. They are here, they are vulnerable, they have already been through some of the worst experiences that a human being can ever go through. All they ask is for that to not be in vain. Many organizations are working in conjunction to support these children. But organizations are made up of people, people who care and want to make a difference. Do you?

Brandy Martell- 37. Shot in the front seat of her car. She had ONE article written about her in the media. 2012.

Eyricka Morgan- 26. Shot by a man living in her boarding house. 2013.

Leelah Alcorn- 17. Committed suicide by stepping in front of a tractor trailer. 2014.

Mercedes Williamson- 17. Beaten to death and buried under debris at the murderer's father's home. 2015.

All four of the women above were murdered in a hate crime. They were murdered for something they can't help but feel, and caused no harm to others. It only caused harm for themselves.

Transgender and transsexual are not the same thing.

To understand the difference between them, you must understand the difference between gender and sex. For starters, gender is between your ears, or your brain. It's what you FEEL- either male or female, neither or both. Sex is, well, your sex. Your sex is determined by your genitalia, either male or female. Gender has nothing to do with your sexual organs.

Now, people who are transsexual are those who have had sex reassignment surgery. Meaning, they had their male genitalia surgically changed to those a female would have- and vice versa. However, transgender people are those that have changed their gender. So, if a person was born male, but they dress, act, or feel like a female, and they wish to identify as a female, they are transgender male-to-female. Or mtf for short.

NewCivilRightsMovement noted that .3 percent of the U.S. population openly identifies as transgender. That means out of 318.86 million people (as of 2014), 9,565,800 people openly identify as transgender in America.

Transgender people are at a 50% higher risk of being murdered than their gay and lesbian counterparts, in the U.S.

In the majority of the states, you can be fired/not hired/turned away by companies because of what you identify as.

Thank fully, however, schools HAVE to allow the students to use the bathroom of the gender they identify as. And if they don't, they're breaking a federal crime.

With transgender celebrities such as Laverne Cox, and probably the most known, Caitlyn Jenner, the transgender community had gained a lot of publicity. But with that publicity comes misunderstandings.

Many political powers have tried to pass laws where transgender people have to use the bathroom of their assigned gender. (The gender they were assigned at birth.)

This can and will cause many problems. How can you be sure someone is transgender or not? What about those on hormone treatments? Those transgender men who you are making use the female's bathroom have full on beards and those transgender women have breasts. Which bathroom do you think they should be using?

No, they are not in the bathroom to peep on your children. They are in the bathroom to do just that, go to the bathroom.

Transgender people should not have to wonder if the business they are going to will turn them away.

Transgender teenagers should not have to fear their peers at school.

Transgender people should not have to walk down the street and fear for their lives.

How can we change these things?

By educating.

We need to teach these kinds of things in school, because people fear what they do not understand.

Did you know that 41% of transgender people ATTEMPT suicide? 41%. That is not acceptable.

Ethics in research has been an old topic of discussion for over four decades and counting. I have sat through various discussions and workshops on the subject and heard the importance and arguments why all research institutes should uphold a high ethical standard and how much of those standards are depreciating in our society.

As an undergraduate research assistant in the Biomedical Engineering department here at the University of Houston, the importance of ethics in research cannot be over emphasized. I have learned to effectively work through frustrating research obstacles and build strong relationships in my research environment as a skill that will serve me well in years to come through the experiences I have acquired as an undergraduate.

Two semesters ago, our biggest project at the time in the lab where I work as a research assistant received a grant of over $500,000 from the National Institute of Health to conduct a cancer diagnostic research that involved the use of a novel non-invasive imaging technique. I was assigned to work on the project with a group of eight graduate students currently pursuing a Ph.D. We had completed the first part of our research about five months prior and currently working on the second part when we suddenly received a call from the National Institute of Health grant committee that the deadline to conclude the research and submit the manuscript for publication has been moved up by two months.

The sudden change and news came as a shock to our team, and the pressure to meet the new due date became more intense. For the next two weeks, my team and I did not see the sun, literally. We came in to the lab at 6:30am in the morning and left at midnight. My task was to conduct a thorough data analysis using several engineering software and platforms, interpret the data, and make sense of the results.

One Tuesday afternoon while we were all in the lab conducting some experiments, one of the major devices we were using suddenly broke down and stopped working. It felt like the world had come to an end and everyone on the team already under an intense amount of pressure was on a brink of losing their sanity. To meet the due date, the majority of the graduate students decided to formulate some part of the results without concluding the entire experiment. As an undergraduate who has heard quite a lot about the topic of ethics in research, I was suddenly faced with a tough reality of what it means to be ethical.

I made an unpopular decision at the time to do the right thing regardless of the pressure we were all under and convinced the team that it was not too late to do the right thing, and suggested that we either borrow a different device from another department or order a new one and have it delivered overnight. Fortunately, they went with the latter and we had a new device shipped overnight. Three days later, we concluded the research experiments with the right amount of results; completed the final manuscript and submitted it to the NIH committee. About a month later, we received a call that the research paper has been approved for publication – we celebrated.

The experience reaffirmed my position of the importance and growing need of ethics in research, and as a response to the topic of corporate ethics, I believe it is vital in our society today as the challenge has profoundly influenced my development and growth. I feel humbled to have done the right thing at the right time when it mattered.

In the winter of 2013, during a week of subfreezing temperatures uncharacteristic to the area, four homeless men died of hypothermia in the streets of San Jose, California. When I first heard the story, I found the news disturbing—that in wealthy Silicon Valley, the needy had been ignored, denied even the most basic resources. As I continued to follow the news reports, however, I learned some important details. It turns out, the victims had been offered shelter; the problem was that none of them had accepted it. When approached by volunteers from a local charity organization, they had turned down the help, refusing to abandon their makeshift encampments on the street.

We know that people with schizophrenia see the world differently, but questions remain as to what exactly they see. What threat, imperceptible to the passerby, makes freezing to death on the street seem more bearable than a night in a county shelter? Even when we understand that schizophrenia exists in a third of the world’s homeless, a diagnosis of schizophrenia in itself will not allow us to empathize with people who are suffering.

Though it might seem counterintuitive, my family’s battle with schizophrenia made me hesitant to embrace the idea of empathy. While the bodies of the homeless men were identified and removed from the city streets, my thoughts turned to a small house in rural Hawaii, hundreds of miles away, where voices in the wall had irreversibly fractured my aunt’s sense of reality. Dependent on ineffective medication and the care of my aging grandparents, my aunt has been fighting severe schizophrenia for decades. I have never seen more than a glimpse of her at a time, yet when I visit my grandparents, I can hear her muttering from the room where she hides: “I don’t know if you’re a man or a woman. I just want you to leave me alone.”

Rather than empowered to reach out, I felt scared to imagine an illness that had caused so much devastation. I found it difficult to acknowledge the millions of people whose lives had been shattered by hallucinations, delusions, and disordered thinking. Equally difficult, for me, was the reminder of the years and opportunities my own family had lost to the illness. Listening to my aunt’s disoriented conversations with the ceiling, I had come to understand schizophrenia as one of the most heartbreaking things that could happen to a person.

Surprisingly, it was a classroom discussion that shattered my artificial peace. During a lecture about gender-based violence, I watched in growing discomfort as my classmates—a group of fifteen of my peers, male and female—agreed that schizophrenia was a lie that rapists would perpetuate in order to reduce their prison sentences.

I had been sheltered in the past, I realized, because I had never encountered a situation where academics had clashed so profoundly with my personal views. I began to understand something important about my position: If I had witnessed even a fraction of the suffering caused by schizophrenia, then I had a responsibility to approach it on a human level. As one of the many people fortunate to live without the illness, I could do my part to advocate for a widespread unification of resources and, with the help of others, attempt to make the world a kinder place for those who are misunderstood.

Though initially scared to approach a problem I could not solve on my own, I started investing myself in personal ways. I talked to my family about the challenges they faced. I took an auditory hallucination simulation, as a way to appreciate how far we have come in understanding a human experience. (Through its limitations, it simultaneously reminded me how far we have yet to go.) I reached out to my local homeless shelter, in hopes that, together, we could find new ways of reaching out to others. Even though it made me nervous, I talked to my classmates. It turns out, not everyone saw schizophrenia in such simplistic terms, and I made friends who taught me more about mental illness than I could have imagined.

I was encouraged to find that my efforts fit into a larger network of advocates, mental health professionals, and lawmakers. Dr. E. Fuller Torrey, author of Surviving Schizophrenia, became one of my personal heroes. Like my mother, he grew up with a sister who suffered from severe schizophrenia, and, like thousands of people around the world, he has dedicated his life to mental health reform. Through the Treatment Advocacy Center, Dr. Torrey has connected people who want to bring intensive, personalized care to those who are underserved by our medical system. Many people with severe mental illness are not aware they are ill, and the Treatment Advocacy Center pushes for laws that will ensure they get the resources they need. By supporting this program, I stay current on the legislation in my state and the stories of individuals, like my aunt, who will benefit from a social movement that addresses the complexities of a debilitating psychiatric illness.

Piece by piece, we can work to build a better understanding of those most in need of our help. Schizophrenia already creates enough division—between hallucinations and reality, between the ill and the healthy, between resources and those who need them. When schizophrenia in one person is painful to accept, it can seem overwhelming to think about schizophrenia in millions of people, scattered throughout the world, who cycle through hospitals, jails, and homeless encampments. Yet these numbers also indicate to me that there are millions of friends and families who share the same hope for their loved ones. For every mind that has been shattered by schizophrenia, there is another that can help unify our efforts and, through human compassion, work toward a peace we can all share.