Africa takes something from you that you can’t name—it’s unidentifiable.  It’s the kind of thing where you think you are entitled to water, and that such water should always be hot on demand.  It’s where you bitch when your roads aren’t smooth or your bus is crowded.  Where you need new clothes every season and your children have to have the best teachers available.

            In its place, Africa leaves an unexpected acceptance that will never leave.  That’s where walking two miles to do your weekly shopping is completely ordinary, and a day without running water is just as normal as the next.  Where a bus, a “matatu,” is packed with ten more people than seats and costs 35 shillings (about 18 cents) to take you anywhere along it’s route since the driver probably doesn’t have a license anyway and that’s as common as the potholes in the roads they take you on.

            It’s not about thinking, “they have it worse than we do”; it’s not an appreciation.  Everyone always thinks that’s what you learn—a realization, if you will.  But it’s not about that.  It’s about loving something and letting it go but having it follow you like you never broke apart from it in the first place.  It’s about not being able to go to sleep at night because the sounds of the monkeys on the thatched roof are gone, and the soft rain that used to filter in through only the blinds over holes in the walls is now blocked by the glass panes.

            Even relations in Africa seem closer than they do here.  I felt closer to the two-month-old child strapped to my back all day than I ever have to any child in the US.  The pounding of his tiny heart beating against my shoulder blades forced my own to speed up, beating in harmony with his as we worked on preparing lunch for the day.  In America, there isn’t a lot of effort that goes into daily living—our water comes straight from pipes, through out taps and into our drinking glass or our pot or our tub.  There is always food available in a refrigerator somewhere and microwavable treats in the pantry on the off chance that the fridge is empty that day.  Here, it is completely normal for a family of four to have four different meals in four different places at four different times.  It’s also completely normal to call those four the “family” unit. 

            In Africa, you learn what it means to be a family.  Your family doesn’t just consist of you, your parents, your siblings, your children and your husband.  It doesn’t even limit itself to aunts and uncles, or cousins or nieces or nephews.  The African family is an entire community.  You live together, you collect food together, you cook it together, and it’s a group effort simply to feed your “family.”  Family isn’t just the people you put up with at Christmas, they are the people with whom you survive.

            There is a great feeling of emptiness when your lifestyle changes from the Kenyan to the American.  In Kenya you belong to everyone.  Everyone waves and says hello as you pass, most know your name and your life story.  They will strike up a conversation with you just walking down the street—even if they don’t speak the same language as you.  But here in America nothing is personal.  Everyone calls you “ma’am” and no one ever asks your name or shakes your hand for no reason.  Even when people know your first name, it is seldom used.  You are simply a “Miss” or “Mrs.” Somebody—you either belong to someone or to no one at all. 

            Everything in America runs at a pace unknown to Kenya.  The motto in Kenya is “pole pole,” or “ slowly, slowly."  If you are an hour late somewhere then you are plenty early.  No one rushes to do anything and they would spend their entire day talking to you if you wanted them too.  In America, people ask “How are you?” but never actually want to know the answer—they don’t have the time.  Always in a hurry to reach some pre-ordained destination or to meet an unsubstantial deadline, never stopping to get to know you.  If they did have the time, most wouldn’t want the truthful answer anyway—it’s simply a polite conversational piece.  In Kenya, if they ask then they want to know—and in great detail.

            Africa is not a place you go to “get away” from things.  If you have a story to tell, it will be dragged it out of you within twenty-four hours.  If you’re going to “forget about men” then you’ve gone to the wrong continent—you will be proposed to by a random stranger on the street within a few days of arriving.  Nothing about Africa leaves you alone.  Not while you are there, and not after you’ve left.  It’s like a pesky, whiney child craving for more of you than you can give—but a child which you could not love more.

            The only wish Kenya can grant is love.  If you’re looking for love, then you’ve gone to the right place.  It doesn’t have the luxurious hotels and the rich restaurants and the huge monuments that attract tourists, but it doesn’t need any of those to be the most gratifying place one will ever encounter in life.  It has a people who make you feel at home before you’ve even made a footprint in the red dirt of the land, a culture that teaches the value of a pole pole life, and an experience that will follow you throughout your entire life.  When you leave you will be in upendi—in love—with the only country you’ll ever meet that sweeps you off your feet with a bucket of water on your head and a monkey stealing your sandwich right out of your hand.

            Africa takes a lot from you—but I wouldn’t want any of it back.

 مئة الخطايا

Karbala, Iraq

10 Muharram, 1429 A.H.

12:41pm

            It was a sea of black on the morning of Ashura.  We all bent in prayer at Mashhad al-Husayn in honour of our fallen hero, Husayn ibn Ali.  Hundreds of thousands of Muslims had come to Karbala just for today—just like every year prior.  Somewhere men were reading the soaz and latmiya, and the Sheikh was reliving the battle of Karbala to all his willing, prayer, silent following—even the baby was quiet on this day.

            We were meant to be thanking Husayn for his sacrifice as the battle was told, but I was neither prayer nor listening—I could only think of what was to come.  In just a short bit of time, the zanjeer matam would start; our mourning clothes would be stripped and replaced by bright white to be stained in red.  Hafeez and Umar were still too young to participate, and with our father in the military this year it would just be Qasim and I running with the other Muslim men while our mother and sisters watched and read surahs from the Qur’an. 

            I was thrown out of my thought process as we were released from prayer.  As we stood, our family collapsed in together and began babbling about the rest of the day.  A tap on my shoulder pulled me away, “Hey! Khaliq!”

            I spun directly into a friendly hug from a family friend, Ibrahim, “Hey Ib.”  Ibrahim was to marry my sister, Fatima, at the end of Muharram (we weren’t allowed weddings near Ashura) as my father had promised before he joined into the military. 

            “Where’s Fatima?”  He was genuinely happy with the arrangement, at least there was that much.  And for a first wife my sister was perfect.  I pointed her direction and was immediately left in the dust. 

            Qasim and I stepped off to the side into a small room where we had left our garments for zanjeer matam, “You ready for this, little bro?” Qasim smiled my direction as he changed his black pants into white and motioned for me to do the same.

            I nodded and pulled my shirt off, replacing it was a white tee shirt which had had the back cut out of it—fabric would defer the ceremony, “First year doing it without father.”

            “He’ll be there, somewhere, wishing he was with us.  We’re the lucky ones.”  Qasim was always the more mature of us, always made any situation more comfortable just with his presence.  Ever since I was a boy I followed his footsteps wherever they led, and I would do the same today.  “Here.”

            He tossed me a chain, string and knife from the pile in the corner to make my zanjeer from.  I watched him carefully as he constructed his own.  I had done this for nearly ten years on my own, but every year I felt as though I had to relearn the process or all would fall apart.  Qasim lay his aside and helped me tie the knife to the end of the chain tightly.  He ran his fingers over the blade carefully, pulled a tiny line of blood from his fingertip as he did so.  He nodded, handing it back to me, “It’s ready.”

            “Let’s go.” Qasim grabbed his zanjeer and we headed out into the streets with thousands of other men dressed in white, blood dripping from their backs as they celebrated. 

            We stopped on the sidelines for a moment, taking in the thrill of Ashura as if it were a fragrance to be inhaled.  Men danced around in circles, ran in packs, jumped up and down.  Screaming, yelling, praising as she struck their own and others backs with their zanjeers.  Littered sparingly among them were both Iraqi and American soldiers, dressed in full camouflage attire and armed with weapons.

            Glancing to my right I found one such American standing beside me, shaking his head slightly.  For the past four years these soldiers have invaded our home, patrolled our streets, and sacrificed our people—but they could never understand us, and they would never try.

Karbala, Iraq

19 January, 2008 A.D.

1:15pm

            Since the fall of Hussein and the shift of power from Sunni to Shi`i, the day of Ashura had become more and more violent.  This year was no different than any other as I stood in the crowd, watching boys as young as six years old striking themselves with axe heads, chain, knives, whips and anything else that would cut the skin.  It didn’t matter to them that it was illegal—not in the least—and we could do nothing to stop it.

            I felt eyes watching me and turned to my left, where a young boy looked me over, unsure of what to think (or what I was thinking).  He nodded to him and let out a small smile, but I was not happy to see him in matam gear.  Looking over his stature a bit, he couldn’t have been much older than my own son who had just started and seventh grade.  I couldn’t even begin to imagine Adam out here in pain with blood running down his back proudly, all just to feel physically what the Muslims felt emotionally thousands of years ago.  That didn’t make sense—not for anyone, no matter how young of old.

            The boy cocked his head to the side and gave a glance up to the boy beside him.  They looked similar, and I guessed they were brothers—but, that was an easy guess here.  The other boy was quite a few years older and had a proud look about him, while the younger expressed more fear than anything, but possibly a bit of pride for his brothers attention. 

            The elder whispered something to the younger, and they ran off into the crowd with chains flying.  Such violence for something that happened so long ago.  I often wondered about the chain of thought for events like these.  Didn’t prophets die so that others wouldn’t have to feel pain? 

            I shook the thoughts from the head and brought myself back down to my position, surveying the area a bit and looking for suspicions.  Since the power change, there was frequently violence other than that of self mutilation on Ashura, and that was our job.  We had made a clean sweep of the area earlier that morning, but there was no way to stop one of the millions of people crowding the streets of Karbala from bringing their own explosive—and that’s what we were on the look-out for.

Karbala, Iraq

10 Muharram, 1429 A.H.

1:30pm

            The first time the zanjeer strikes the back is the worst.  I let out a cry as the knife sliced my skin, but no one could hear it—everyone was yelling and crying out.  We stood in a group of about thirty men, and the next few hits on my back came from strangers.  I nodded to thank them and returned the favor.  They say “a single tear shed for Husayn washes away a hundred sins” and that is what we are all about.

            Qasim smiled and howled in excitement as he turned to me, silently telling me to turn around.  I obeyed and another cut ran through my back.  I could feel the blood running down onto my white pants as I returned one for my brothers—an honour we had both saved until this moment and cherished, as we would not touch each other throughout the rest of the ceremony.  That was the last strike I would feel the rest of the day; the rest would blend in with the numbness.

            We didn’t see it coming.  There was a man dressed in white in the middle of the crowd.  He was smiling and holding his rather large stomach as he bounced on his feet.  It didn’t occur to us that he wasn’t carrying a zanjeer, nor was he missing the back of his shirt.  Qasim was on a roll, spinning in circles and twirling his chain above his head before dropping it on a friends back.  He didn’t stop to examine this man before extending it to him. 

            Half a second was all it took for more than fifty men to disappear.  Qasim was gone, I couldn’t even begin to look for him.  There was silence around the missing circle of worshippers.  Soldiers and Iraqis alike lay still in the mix. 

            “A Sunni!” Somebody yelled, followed by yelling from nearly every man in the crowd.  I didn’t scream; I couldn’t.  I had been thrown onto a pile of building rubble.  I couldn’t move—I could hardly breathe.  I couldn’t feel my limbs or my heart beating in my empty chest. 

            My head fell to the side as a cockroach crawled beside me, scurrying to get to safety, and I wondered for a moment who died so that he could life.  Was it Allah?  Was it Husayn?

            …was it me?

He punched me in the face.  He stood right there in his Armani suit and all his lawyer glory and threw his fist into my nose.  

            “Did you kill him?!”

            I felt the blood rolling down my face onto the floor where I currently laid with his foot on my chest.  The carpet beneath me was the only true blessing I had at that moment—at least my shoulder blades weren’t pushing into ceramic.  I touched a finger to my nose just to make sure it was still there; it was immediately numb from his bulky fist smashing into it, but the pain was starting to come now.

            “…what?”  His voice was that of an angry father.  Not a yell per se, but forceful and loud just the same.

            “Jonathan Turk.  Did you or did you not kill him?!”  He hunched over me blocking the overhead light, causing his form to become a silhouette—his facial cues unreadable.

            “What?  What the hell difference does it make?  We won the case.”  His foot immediately pressed further into my chest, the slight heel digging into my lungs like a knife.

            “Did you?!”

            The silhouetted voice grew in volume, turning almost evil with deepening.  I would have answered sooner, but it took a while to store up enough air to answer, “Yes.”

            Silence.  Well, on his part anyway.  Mine was more like audible gasps for air until he placed his killer heel back onto the floor and closed the door to my apartment. 

            I was still, trying to regain normal breath as quickly as possible, as I watched him cross the room and take a seat on one of the boxes.  He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped under his chin and his gaze on the carpet. 

            A few moments passed in quiet, so I leaned up and wiped my nose again with my already bloodied hand as I pulled myself onto a stool.  My poor nose was bleeding quite a lot, but it didn’t feel broken, “Jesus, Evan.  What the hell is up?”  My annoyance with the blood running from my face came through my voice as much as I had intended.

            More silence stuffed the air between us.  Evan was still studying the carpet several minutes later, though a leg did start to bounce.  I wondered if I should be nervous, but I was too pissed off to care. 

            ‘Hello moto…’ My cell phone pulsed near the window.  My bruised chest ached as I swung my body that direction on the attack.

            “Don’t.” 

            The sweat beads on his forehead practically shouted the word at me.  I eased my body back onto the stool, my legs still placed for a mad dash to the phone.  There was only a slight silent pause before the ring started again.  I chose my tone carefully, a calm statement of fact, “She’s not going to stop.”

            “I said don’t!”

            Evan’s stare still hadn’t left the carpet in front of him.  I studied his face a bit while we were serenaded by Motorola.  I had only known Evan for a month or two—since the incident.  Up until now, I would have said he was completely harmless.  And, even though he just barged into my apartment and broke my nose, I still wasn’t sure he was anything but.

            I turned my body back to face his direction and leaned forward as well, “Look, if it’s any consolation, I swear it was an accident.  We were on the boat, we got in an argument, I threw a punch, he hit his head as he fell backwards over the railing.  The only thing I did was drive away.”

            Immediately, Evan sat up and narrowed his eyes in my direction.  There was something determined, yet disappointed about his expression.  His steel grey eyes bore into me without mercy; his thin lips pursed so tightly not even air could slide through them.  With a swift shake of the head, he stood and left the apartment in a blur, slamming the door behind him.

            After a short moment, I hopped to my feet and opened to door, sticking my head out to make sure Evan had really gone.  All clear.  My cell phone was still pushing out its rather unpleasant melody as I scrambled to get it out of my bag, “Sam!”

            “Keith!  I think Evan’s on his way over!  He knows.  You should leave.”

            I had to smirk to myself just a bit as I reclaimed my spot on the stool, rubbing my chest a bit, “No kidding.”

            There was a bit of silence on the other end of the phone as Samantha tried to work that comment into context, “What does that mean?”

            “He just left.” 

            I had only hired Evan on the recommendation of Samantha.  This was his first big case—a murder case, nonetheless.  I would never have trusted him to get me off.  But, with Samantha molding Evan, he was bound to be unstoppable so I gave him a chance.  Turns out he was good, but maybe a little too good.

            Sam let out a long sigh into the receiver, “He’s going to tell, Keith.”

            I couldn’t help but turn up the side of my mouth, “So?  There is no way they’ll do a retrial.  They can’t.  It’s Double Jeopardy.”

            “But it’s only a matter of time.  I know him, he’s a determined man—he’ll find a way.  You saw him at the trial.”

            Her voice rang worry.  I knew that voice well: we had been best friends for nearly ten years and Sam’s worry-voice was more common than any other voice she could be harboring.  A beep rang into my ear—call waiting.

            “Hey I’ll call you back, another call.”

            I pulled the phone off my ear, my eyes bulging at the name I read: Evan.  But, at this point I figured it was better (for me, anyway) to hear him out rather than ignore him, “Hello?”

            The sounds were rushed, almost as if recorded, “Meet me at McAntly Bridge.”

Evan
 

            The water below the bridge was gleaming in the sunlight as its rays penetrated the ripples and poured out a streak of orange on the blue surface.  Cars whizzed back and forth behind me as I stood on the shoulder, leaning over the rusting railing, the light green paint chipping off in my hands as they gripped onto it with tremendous strength. 

            For a two-lane bridge, the shoulder was actually quite wide.  No one had even honked their horn at me yet as they passed by, even though it was clear I should not have been standing there.  The roadway was busy in spurts—every five or so minutes a group of maybe twenty or twenty-five cars would pass each other behind my back.  But, for the other four minutes, three cars would pass through at the most.  I assumed this was caused by traffic lights on either side, but had never actually paid much attention while driving through before.   

            My heart had calmed down by then, no longer racing but rather back to its normal pace.  I knew what I had to do—it didn’t take much figuring out.  It nearly smacked me with such force while I was leaving Keith’s apartment that I was surprised my face didn’t resemble his afterwards.  It was obvious, and I had to do it.

            I pulled my cell phone out of the pocket of my suit pants, quickly finding Samantha’s information and dialing.  She needed to know, and I needed to be the one to tell her. 

            Only half a ring before her voice rattled my eardrum, “Evan?  Where are you?”

            Samantha always sounded worried.  It was her faux pas, the minute she started to like someone as a person and not as a stranger the voice would come out and it never went away.

            “I’m at McAntly Bridge.”  I made sure my voice gave no indication of my emotions or what was to come—she would have picked up on it too easily. 

            There was a long, awkward pause before she spoke, though.  Longer than I had ever heard her make.  Samantha was a thinker and, along with her worried tone, she was famous for her pauses.  They were what made her famous in the courtroom; she became known as “The Perfect Pauser” in the law business.  Everyone knew her and knew her strategy, though it’s never good as a lawyer for other lawyer’s to know how you work.  That makes it too easy to combat you in court—the moment she lost her first case was the moment she started putting most of her time into teaching lawyers-to-be like I was.

            “What are you doing there?”  It was a simple question, one much too simple for Sam to ask.  She was always the one with a million questions about everything she ever heard.

            I chuckled a little, squinting my eyes into the sun, “Just enjoying the scenery.”

            Another long pause.  Samantha was being cautious.  She was never cautious—certainly  not with me.  A sigh so large it sounded like static filled through my speaker before she actually said anything, “Evan, what are you doing?”

            I sighed myself, now, just to mimic hers.  It seemed appropriate.  I had to be vague, and she had to get here in time.  But, she had to know…in a vague not-knowing, not wondering sort of way, “I can’t do this.”

            This time she was quick with her answer—advice was her department, “Do what?”

            “ This.  I can’t live knowing that I’m the one who got a murderer off the hook.”

            “You were just doing your job, Ev.  And amazingly, I might add.”

            “I know.  It’s not that I’m not glad I won the case, because I am.  I’m just not okay with what that meant.  He’s a killer, Sam.  What if he kills again?  That will be on my head, and I can’t handle that.”

            “He won’t, he didn’t really in the first place.  It was an accident.  Didn’t he tell you?”

            My brows closed together in the front, anger flowing through my face and out in my mouth, “You knew?”

            More silence.

            “How could you not have told me?  I had a right to know that.”

            “No, Evan, you didn’t.  As a lawyer you’ll never know the full truth, and you have to live with that.  I thought I had prepared you well for this, but I guess I didn’t.”  A sigh interrupted her defensive speech, “It’s okay, we’ll just do a few more trial cases for awhile until you are comfortable with this.”

            “What makes you think you know the whole truth, then?  Couldn’t Keith easily be lying to both of us?  What if it wasn’t an accident, what if he killed him on purpose and then dumped his body?  It could happen again—it could be you next.”

            Samantha didn’t answer.  I had made her think something she had never considered.  Sure, they had been friends for a long time, but she ought to know that clients lie all the time.  There was no reason why he would be any different—maybe he was telling the truth, maybe he wasn’t.  It didn’t change the fact that he had killer Jonathan Turk.

            I continued in her silence, “No more trial cases.  No more cases, period.  No more studying, no more law for me.”

            “You can’t just stop because of one case, Evan.  You’ve been working for this for eight years—all the schooling, all the internships, the bar exam: this is what it was all for.  You can’t give it all up now.”  She was almost pleading with me, her voice more like a mother now than a worried friend.

            “You don’t understand, Sam.  I’m done with this.  I can’t live like this.  There will be no more anything after today.”

            “You stay right there and don’t do anything, I’m coming down.” 

She hung up the phone quickly and I smiled to myself, closing mine and sliding it back into my pocket.  She never would have come had I told her the truth, and I knew that.  Every lawyer needed a strategy.

Keith

            I wouldn’t have disputed his request—even if Evan had given me a chance to say something before he hung up.  I had learned never to mess with crazy people.

            His request was a simple one, short and sweet enough to induce panic in anyone who heard it.  But I’d be damned if I let him kill himself without me at least there to witness it—I wasn’t about to be blamed for another death.  And just incase my word was not enough, Samantha was on her way too.

              The drive from my apartment to the bridge was not a long one, but it took hours today.  McAntly Bridge was a “no stopping anytime” bridge, but I pulled off the road behind Evan’s car just before it the bridge anyway.  I quickly slid the key out of the ignition but sat in the car for a moment afterwards, eyeing him on the bridge. 

            Evan was leaned over the edge of the bridge as if watching a fish swim beneath it, his face solemn and calm like it was just another normal day.  Between the apartment and the bridge he had shed his suit jacket somewhere and now wore a blue dress shirt in the summer sun, a golden tie blowing in the soft river breeze.

            His head turned slowly in my direction like a jarred toy, followed by his body that flipped to lean backwards against the bridge railings.  He crossed one leg over the other and intertwined his fingers, calmly waiting for my company.  

            I couldn’t present myself with the same relaxation Evan seemed to steal somewhere between 5^th and McAntly.  I stormed out of the car and slammed the door behind me, forcibly making my way to the bridge.

            “What the hell are you doing, Evan?”

            He didn’t look at me as I stood beside him, his vision was set across the bridge on the setting sun, “You’re a murderer.”

            I let out a sigh that was louder than intended and scratched my head, looking to the ground for support, "Jesus, Evan.  It was an accident.  Alright?  Besides, you did your job and got the credit.  And there’s no way they’ll retry it, you know that.  I don’t understand the problem.”

            He shook his head a bit, squinting into the horizon, “I can’t let a murderer go free.”

            “Killing yourself is not going to solve anything.”

            Evan’s mouth curled a bit at the edges as he turned to me and I heard a car squeal to a halt behind me—the smile of a man with the answer.  It was then, and only then, that I noticed he wasn’t sweating as he placed his hand on my shoulder, “You’re right.”

            I guess that’s why he killed me.

It came like a tornado.  One day he was there, the next he was gone—but she knew it was coming.  It warned her like the sirens; like the darkened sky and the deathly still air and the settled dust.  It isn’t fair to call it the calm before the storm—no one was calm before he left.  No one but him, anyway.

            Two short months ago Tobias had come home with a sullen face.  He didn’t say a word at first, just walked in the door and sat at the kitchen table while his beautiful wife did a few dishes.  For a few moments she didn’t even hear him come in—didn’t know he was there.  But as the turned to get a dry dish towel she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye.  Needless to say it quite frightened her.  She sucked her breath in and put a palm on her chest, “Tob, you could kill a woman like that!”

            Allyson turned off the faucet and dropped the dish towel, quickly taking a seat at the other end of the table and forming a sweet smile on her face, “Hey baby.  How was work?”

            There was a silence about the kitchen that was almost disturbing.  The sounds of the children playing in the other room filtered in through the doorway but seemed to stop before they reached the two at the table.  Tobias and Allyson locked stares, both of them searching for something in the others eyes—neither sure exactly what that was. 

            Allyson leaned forward on the table, crossing her arms on its top and switching her facial expression from excitement to worry in a split second.  “What’s going on?”

            Tobias shifted a little in his seat and looked down to his hands nervously.  He glanced into the living room at his children, smiling for just a moment.  As he turned back to Allyson his smile stayed, though he wasn’t sure why.  He couldn’t put it off any longer, “I’m being deployed in April.”

            Allyson nodded and looked down herself.  They both knew this moment would come, and they tried their best to be prepared for it but there was just no way to be ready.  She turned up to him, “Where?”

            “Iraq,” this time a quick response; no more lingering.

            His wife glanced into the living room as well and back to her husband, “Should we tell the kids?”

            “Let’s wait until tomorrow.” Tobias nodded to convince himself it was the right thing to do, not for Ally’s sake.

            Allyson sighed and stood back up, heading back to the sink.  “Okay.”  She picked up a plate and started scrubbing it.

            Toby abandoned his place at the table and joined her at the sink, “Babe, that plate’s clean.” 

            She dropped the plate into the sink but didn’t turn her attention from it.  Tears filled her eyes and she moved a hand to them.  Tobias turned her towards him and cupped her small cheeks in his strong hands.  “I don’t want you to go.”  A single tear poured over from Ally’s eye, falling to his hand.

            Tobias pulled her close to him and wrapped his arms around her, “I know baby.  But it’s all going to be okay, I promise.  Alright?  It’s going to be fine.” 

            But it wasn’t.  Tobias had promised Allyson everything would be okay, but he had lied.  Toby was gone on the day the tornado came.  It touched down into their bedroom and stole him from Ally before she knew what happened.  She wouldn’t talk to him for at least another month, and even then she wasn’t allowed to know his whereabouts. 

            For months Allyson lived a very repetitive life.  Get up, feed and change the baby, get the older kids off to school, run errands, pick the kids back up, cook dinner, bathe all three kids, get them to bed, sleep, and get back up to do it all over again.  Ally didn’t really favor this life.  Her husband was always there for her, always around to be with the kids, to help with dinner…to sleep next to her at night.  The family spoke to Tobias once every two or three weeks, but every night the kids asked for him.  The baby had learned “dada” and he wasn’t around to hear it—Allyson planned not to tell him, to let him think when he heard it for the first time it was the first time she had said it. 

            In early October Ally had received a videophone call from Tobias—he was coming home in two weeks!  Allyson and the kids spent the next weeks planning a coming home party for him.  The clouds were rising—the love of Ally’s life and father of her children would soon be home to make their lives whole again. 

            The day they had waited eight months for had finally come.  Allyson piled the kids in the car with their homemade signs and headed off to the airport.  There were families everywhere waiting for their loved ones.  Some father, mostly mothers, children of all ages, girlfriends, boyfriends, fiancés.  Allyson looked around at their faces, all desperate from the love that has been missing from their lives.  Some happy, some worried, but all anxious. 

            Allyson lead her children through the crowd to a spot before the fence, a clear shot of the plane that was about to unload.  It was a bittersweet feeling for Ally, being here amongst a crowd of dozens whom all shared her pain yet none that she knew.  The kids stood beside her waiving their signs they had made for daddy in the air excitedly, the baby sat on Ally’s hip calmly observing her surroundings. 

            The plane door lowered slowly to the pavement; Ally’s heart began to race, she could feel a smile forcing its way out—though she did nothing to stop it.  A couple flight attendants filed out of the plane and stood at the bottom on either side of the railing, as if their small blonde frames would be strong enough to help the passengers with anything they could do themselves. 

It was only a few seconds before the soldiers filed off themselves, one by one with their carry-ons in hand.  They looked handsome and strong in their uniforms and matching hats, their badges and pins flashed in the sunlight as if they were heaven-sent.  Allyson watched as one by one the soldiers and their families embraces.  There were smiles as wide as Texas itself and tears as joyful as a new born baby.  She quickly pointed her gaze back to the plane, watching every last soldier exit and walk the pavement to their waiting loved ones. 

The last soldier in the line exited the plane.  It was not Tobias.  Toby had not been seen.  They all stared at the stairway, hoping he would come out next.  He didn’t.

A small hand tugged at Ally’s shirt, “Mama, where’s Daddy?” The small boy batted his eyes up at the woman, who didn’t know what to say.  She turned up and looked around her.  The crowd was starting to clear out as soldiers went home to fill their voids. 

As the crowd filtered out Allyson’s glance fell on a homeless man sitting on a bench.  In his hands he held a cardboard sign:

“All’s Fair in Love and War.”

              Illegal immigrants from Mexico are causing problem upon problem in the United States.  They cost natives jobs, taxes, jail space, resources, proper government—and most of all, illegal immigrants make a mockery out of our country.

             When bringing up the fact that Mexican immigrants take American jobs, you often hear that Mexican’s do the jobs that American’s don’t want.  This is not true.  Although about two-thirds of Mexican immigrants are high-school dropouts and only about four percent have any college degree at all, more than ten million natives are high-school dropouts that are now in direct competition with the immigrants.  In fact, in the 1990’s alone, Mexican immigrants accounted for an eleven percent increase in the amount of high-school dropouts in the U.S., but only increased all others by one-half percent.  This massive increase in the amount of unskilled workers has also caused a five percent reduction in high-school dropout wages in the 1990’s; high-school dropouts already have the lowest wages.  Mexican immigrants are responsible for taking 730,000 jobs from Americans every year.  So, as you can see, the argument that Mexican’s do the jobs that American’s don’t want is not true.

            In America, the amount of taxes we pay is based on our amount of income.  Therefore, Mexican immigrants pay very little taxes—yet thirty-one percent of Mexican homes [more than double that of natives] use at least one major welfare program.  Ninety-six percent of the increase in public school enrollment is due to immigration, but the middle and upper classes are left paying taxes for the illegal immigrant’s children to attend them.  In fact, when combining illegal aliens and the legal children of illegal aliens, taxpayers fork out a hefty $28.6 billion a year for education.  It is estimated that the amount of government money an average Mexican immigrant will use over $55,000 more in their lifetime than they will pay in taxes.

            Recently, there have been issues of overcrowding in jails.  This is another thing we can thank the Mexican immigrants for.  In 2003, our American jails held over 270,000 Mexican immigrants, one out of every five of those were illegal aliens convicted of a crime they committed in this country.  And who pays for these aliens to be held and taken care of in prison?  That’s right…the taxpayers [vicious cycle, isn’t it?].

            Another worry of mass immigration from Mexico is that Mexico may be attempting to reclaim the land in the southwestern portion of the U.S. that was taken from them in the 1800’s.  This is known as the Huntington Theory, developed by a Harvard scientist named Samuel P. Huntington.  But even if they aren’t making such a movement, Mexican immigrants still have a grave affect on the U.S. government.  Mexican’s are often uneducated on the election topics, and more often than not will vote for a liberal candidate just because they are a liberal candidate.  Overpopulation also comes in to play with a quickly increasing U.S. census and a quickly decreasing amount of available natural resources.  Of course, the growing rate of legal immigration is also contributing to these problem and should be severely restricted until our environmental uses are back on track.

             Global Warming is definitely something to be concerned with.  Over the last couple of years, it has become more and more apparent that something very bad is happening to our world.  There was a horrible Tsunami in India, an extremely dangerous hurricane on the coast of Florida [‘Charlie’], and the worst ever hurricane recorded in history on the banks of Louisiana [“Katrina”]. 

            One personal example of how our seasons are changing is the thunderstorms and tornadoes in Ohio.  Ohio has always had thunderstorms, but here in the past couple years we have had more thunderstorms highly capable of forming tornadoes than I have ever seen.  The last tornado I can remember that happened around my area occurred something like seven years ago, but we’ve had two touch down in a month’s time this year.  Ice caps are melting, sea levels is rising, islands are being devoured by the rising waters, average temperatures are changing, forests are becoming deserts, and natural disasters are becoming more and more severe and more and more frequent than ever before (Global).  It is time to take a serious look at the effects of Global Warming on our world before it is too late.

            Scientists have done studies that have proven the link between a rising carbon dioxide concentration in the atmosphere and a rise in temperature.  The two have been found to have a positive correlation—meaning when the carbon dioxide concentration goes up, so does the temperature (Evidence).  Carbon dioxide being the dominant greenhouse gas, this also brings into account the greenhouse effect on the atmosphere and on the temperature as well with the reflection of the suns radiation onto the earth from the atmosphere (Greenhouse).

            Two decades ago, during the 1980’s, 7.2 billion tons or atmospheric carbon was released by human beings.  Some was taken up by the ocean and other sources, but it still left 3.2 billion tons of the total amount to add into the atmosphere itself.  Since the 1980’s, many undeveloped countries have become more industrialized and developed countries are becoming more advanced—in turn, fossil fuel emissions continue to increase with every passing year.  If these issues continue to increase in this way, it is estimated that by 2035, 12 billion tons or atmospheric carbon will be emitted in one year alone by humans (Culprits).

            If these problems are not taken into consideration soon, there may be deadly consequences.  Temperatures will continue to rise, ice caps will continue to melt, sea-level will continue to rise, islands will eventually succumb to the rising water levels and millions [and possibly billions] of people will be effected and probably forced to leave their homes, human health will be affected by the widening difference in day and night temperatures,  forests will continue to deteriorate, animal species will become extinct due to climate change,  and even food production will lose out due to these changes (Environmental).  This is a serious issue and it needs to be taken care of as soon as possible.

Works Cited

“Global Warming”. http://www.erasmatazz.com/library/Politics/GlobalWarming.htmlhttp://www.erasmatazz.com/library/Politics/GlobalWarming.html

“Evidence of a Warming Earth”. http://www.whrc.org/resources/online_publications/warming_earth/scientific_evidence.htm

“Greenhouse Effect”. http://www.whrc.org/resources/online_publications/warming_earth/the_greenhouse_effect.htm

“Environmental Outcome of Global Warming”. http://www.whrc.org/resources/online_publications/warming_earth/potential_outcome.htm

“Culprits of Global Warming”. <http://www.whrc.org/resources/online_publications/warming_earth/culprits.htm>

             Farming subsidies are a must for the United States economy.  Farmers today have learned to live off of the assurance of receiving their subsidies, and with our growing economy they and their families would not be able to survive without them.  These farmers are not living a luxurious life with the subsidies as it is.  One perfect example is Darald Olson, a farmer in North Dakota whom owns a 2,000 farm and only grossed around $40,000 the entire 2004 year.

            Subsidies are an important part in a farmer’s life for many, many reasons.  The first of which is stability.  Stability is attained, from the producer’s point of view, when a natural disaster occurs causing market prices to make large and frequent changes and the subsidies protect the farmers from these low/high prices.  From the consumer’s point of view, they/we aren’t forced to pay higher prices when the crop supply is low.  In this way, they also protect the farmers when their own supply is low due to fluctuating weather conditions during the growing seasons.  Subsidies also protect our homeland security in a way.  For example, if we were to stop farming here and get all our crops from another country and then something happened and we could no longer trade with that country, we would be in a world of hurt.  These subsidies make it possible for the United States to provide for itself. 

            It is a fact that farming subsidies do not only help the producers and no one else.  They help lower the prices involved in the pre-production needs through direct benefits and this turns around and helps lower the cost of the actual production, which makes the cost lower to anyone assisting the farmers and to the consumers as well (known as the “Pass-Through Effect”).  These direct payments made to the producers also help keep the prices of the market low for consumers.  The government sets a standard price for a certain crop, and if it is selling lower than that on the market it makes up for it by paying the farmers directly rather than raising the price of the crop to the consumers.  The government also helps the producers out by setting a constant price for a crop and refusing to allow the price to change.  In this case, if all the crops are not purchased by consumers at this price, the government buys the left-over’s from the farmers to make up for it.  To avoid a large excess of left-over’s that they have to buy, the government assists in crop reduction by paying farmers not to grow their crop at certain times.  This way, the farmer’s are still making a living but not contributing to an over-excess in crops.

            Farming subsidies have been used for the last hundred years and they have always been very successful, so why change now?  In fact, compared to other countries, the Unites States gives very little into our agricultural subsidies.  70% of Norway’s agricultural profit comes from the government, but only 20% of the United States’ profit comes for the government.  Similarly, the United States farm economy is much large than that of the European Union’s, yet we spend $56 billion dollars less on our subsidies every year.  The bottom line is, we need farming subsidies to survive in the United States.  Without them, farms would drop like flies and we would be without the stable food supply that we have now.  It would harm the producers and the consumers and have a negative affect on the country as a whole.  Who wants that?

Works Cited

Drum, Kevin. “Farm Subsidy Grumbling”. Washington Monthly. 3 Aug. 2006. 29 Oct. 2006. http://www.washingtonmonthly.com/mt/mt-comments.cgi?entry_id=9280
"Getting Your Share of Farm Subsidies. “. AmosWEB is Economics: a PEDestrians guide to the Economy. 29 Oct. 2006. <http://www.amosweb.com/cgi-bin/awb_nav.pl?s=pdg&c=dsp&k=20>
Goodman, Robert. “A Five-Point Defense of Farm Subsidies”. ALFA Farmers Federation. 29 Oct. 2006. http://www.alfafarmers.org/issues/farm_programs.phtml

Philpott, Tom. “Mad cash cow: Will the U.S. slaughter agriculture subsidies?”. Gristmill: the environmental new. 11 Oct. 2005. 29 Oct. 2006. <http://gristmill.grist.org/story/2005/10/10/201856/33>
Slevin, Peter. “In North Dakota, Farmers Wary of Cuts to Subsidies”. The Washington Post. 4 Apr. 2005. 29 Oct. 2006. <http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A23705-2005Apr3.html>
Wasserman, Jim. “Farmers Shaken by Bush's Subsidy Plan”. SFGate. 11 Feb. 2005. 29 Oct. 2006. <http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/news/archive/2005/02/11/national/a110405S68.DTL> 

Come, Let Us Breathe

Each year in the United States, a single killer claims the lives of nearly 73,000 adults and 2,700 infants.  This violent killer also causes 700,000 to 1,600,000 doctor visits, 150,000 to 300,000 respiratory infections in infants and toddlers, 7,500 to 15,000 hospitalizations, and 400,000 to 1,000,000 asthmatic aggravations annually—yet we let this killer run free (Secondhand).  These victims do not personally know the killer; therefore, they are nothing more than helpless, innocent, unsuspecting bypassers.  Who is this killer, you ask?  Second-hand smoke; something needs to be done to stop this horrid assassin.

            The disclosure of many facts such as these has brought the problem with second-hand smoke into the public eye quite a lot over the past few years.  In fact, many states are starting to place laws against smoking—either statewide or citywide—in all public places.  So far, ten states (CA, CT, DE, ME, MA, NY, RI, VT, WA, and OH) have passed no smoking (Secondhand).  Just this past election, Ohio enacted the “Smoke-Free Ohio” law, banning smoking statewide in all indoor public places.  However, this law also requires those who still wish to smoke to be at least fifteen feet away from the building at all times so as not to affect those walking in and out.  Bans like these are the first step in eliminating the harmful issues surrounding second-hand smoke because they allow people to go out and enjoy themselves without feeling at risk from other’s habits.

            However, smoke-free laws alone will not completely stop the harmful affects of one person’s smoke from affecting anyone else.  Currently, about 21 million children in the United States spend their days and nights in houses where others (their parents and visitors) smoke regularly.  This smoking is to blame in the case of 2,700 sudden infant deaths each year.  In fact, traceable levels of nicotine byproducts can be found in the blood of up to seventy-five percent of American children (Secondhand). These children have rights to life as well as adults, but their parents are knowingly putting them at risk on a consistent basis and it has to stop.  Physical abuse of a child has been illegal for decades in the U.S., but second-hand smoke has the potential to kill these children as well.  Should it not be considered abuse as well?  How is it not okay for parents to spank their children but it is okay to expose them to lethal substances?  For step two, a ban should be enforced on all indoor places—both public and private.

            Knowing very well the problems such a ban would cause when dealing with private property, it will definitely hit some serious resistance.  In fact, it might not even work.  But, it is a very non-subtle hint to the third step—making cigarettes, cigars, and pipes completely illegal.  The number of people killed each year by second-hand smoke is 2.5 times greater than the number killed by gunfire (in 2003, Gun).  Murder by gunfire is illegal, so why is it legal for such a greater number of people to be murdered by second-hand smoke?  We have a serious problem here.  What is done is done, but it is the job of the present to protect the lives of the future.  The only way to do this is to eliminate the problem of second-hard smoke completely using this total ban.

            Second-hand smoke is not just a problem in large quantities or continual subjection or any other myths floating around the tobacco companies.  According to the current Surgeon General’s Report, “scientific evidence indicates that there is no risk-free level of exposure to second-hand smoke” (Secondhand).  This silent killer claims more lives each year than gunfire and automobile accidents combined (Leading).  We’ve come a long way, but we still have a longer way to go.

Works Cited

“Gun Violence in America.” NRA Information – Gun Violence in America. 16 March

2007. <http://www.vpc.org/nrainfo/phil.html>

“Leading Causes of Death in the United States.” National Vital Statistics Report.

<http://www.the-eggman.com/writings/death_stats.html>

“Secondhand Smoke Fact Sheet.” American Lung Association. Aug. 2006. 16 March

2007. <http://www.lungusa.org/site/pp.asp?c=dvLUK9O0E&b=35422>