OK, seriously, just cut it out with the fad diet stuff

A few years ago, it was Atkins. Normal-looking people eating dry hamburger patties with knives and forks. Then we had Sugar Busters. Now it’s all about gluten-free or paleo.

“You eat WHEAT BREAD?! Do you have a DEATH WISH?!”

Just, stop.

Anybody else notice that the only thing growing faster than our waistlines in America is the number of fad diets out there?

Want to get skinny? Here’s how you do it*:

• Eat less. For the love of Pete, eat less. If the portion is too big, get a doggie bag. I swear, a single meal at Cracker Barrel is enough to feed Somalia. Put down the fork.
• Eat better calories. I do not believe for one instant that a calorie is a calorie is a calorie. A hundred calories of fresh fruit is far better for you than the same amount in french fries.
• Eat balanced meals. This means grains, fruit, veggies, dairy and meat. None of this is bad for you when consumed in moderation. Not a single thing.
• Eat natural food. Read ingredients lists and purchase the item with the fewest unpronounceable things. Avoid processed ingredients, such as high-fructose corn syrup. When possible, buy organic, and buy in-season and local. You’ll soon discover that the natural stuff tastes way better than the processed garbage you’ve been eating all your life.
• Eat naturally low-fat and low-calorie options. This does not mean replacing Coke with Diet Coke. This does mean drinking 1 percent milk instead of whole or eating lean beef instead of the high-fat stuff.
• Cook. When you make a meal from scratch, you know exactly what you put in it. In addition, cooking burns calories. It’s a great form of …
• Exercise. This does not mean going to the gym once a week and sweating to the oldies. This means making small, manageable, daily lifestyle changes, such as parking farther from the store or taking the stairs at work. Your heart rate does not need to be “in the zone” for you to lose weight.
• Stop obsessing! Food is good! It’s OK for food to be good! There is absolutely nothing wrong with a satisfying, fatty meal or a tasty dessert, as long as they’re consumed in moderation. Don’t eat a celebratory steak dinner and then tell everybody about how you feel fat and guilty. Enjoy the steak!

There. I just saved you thousands of dollars in trips to nutritionists and trainers and three book shelves that would otherwise be occupied with the Next Big Diet Thing. Now seriously, stop with all the fad diet stuff and let me enjoy my meal.

* I am not a licensed dietitian or trainer. I’m simply a skinny guy who’s sick of fad diets. No part of this blog post should be taken as medical advice. Consult your doctor before you begin a diet or training regimen. By reading this entry, you waive all right to sue me.

Rock the blank vote

France votes tomorrow, and the poll numbers suggest that Nicolas Sarkozy, the center-right UMP incumbent, is not likely going to win a second term. François Hollande, of the center-left PS, is poised to take the Élysée. (Typical of the French press, Le Monde is effectively proclaiming Hollande’s victory while Le Figaro is burying the story.)

This election has immense consequences for the fate of U.S.-French and U.S.-E.U. relations, and it’s especially significant in regards to the Eurozone, which was arguably saved last year by Sarkozy and German Chancellor Angela Merkel. (The French do love crucifying their saviors, though. There’s a reason this is the Fifth Republic.) I’m not here to discuss that, though. I want to talk instead about the actions of the third-place candidate in this race: a fiery blonde qui s’appelle Marine Le Pen.

Marine Le Pen – “Convention présidentielle du Front national”, 25 février 2007, Lille / France (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Le Pen is the leader of the nationalist, ultraconservative Front national, and she’s angry. Sarkozy isn’t conservative enough, she argued. He’s Mr. Immigration, she said. At one point, she accused him of being a puppet of Merkel. (If you don’t know why that’s insulting, study your history.)

Attacks such as those above aren’t strange to us in the United States. Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich levied those and more at Mitt Romney. The instant they dropped out of the race, though, they jumped in line with the GOP and announced their support for Romney against Barack Obama.

Le Pen, by contrast, is doing no such thing. Instead of endorsing the only conservative left in the race, Le Pen spent la fête du travail slamming Sarkozy and telling her supporters (whom Sarkozy needs for a win) to do what they want come May 6. Then she doubled down: “On Sunday, I will cast a blank ballot.”

I don’t like Le Pen’s politics, but I love this move. She could very easily just stay home, but by casting a blank ballot, she’s refusing to compromise her values while still supporting the Republic by exercising her right to vote.

Now, I know the arguments: Isn’t casting a blank ballot the same as abstaining? Doesn’t not voting exercise the same right as voting? No, and no. Staying home on election day doesn’t send a very clear signal. Of the nearly 40 percent of voters who didn’t go to the polls in 2008, which ones stayed home because they didn’t like the candidates, which ones abstained out of ignorance of candidates’ positions and which ones stayed home because of laziness? There’s no way of knowing.

Imagine what would happen, though, if 80 percent or so of registered American voters cast ballots in November and 20 percent or 30 percent of those ballots were blank. At that point, voter frustration and apathy would be more measurable, and that might just catch the attention of those in power in this country.

We have the right to stay at home on election day, but doing so is akin to holding a protest rally in your living room. There’s no public statement. There’s no clear message. Those who need to see and hear the message never will, making the whole thing rather futile.

This election season, I encourage you to go to the polls and vote your conscience. If that means slipping a blank ballot into the box, do so. But please, if you’re trying to make a statement, don’t stay home. Nobody’s ever going to hear that protest.

« Le gourou des aiguilles »

My French III students are having difficulty understanding indefinite relative pronouns, so I wrote them a story that uses them. It’s a little strange, and it doesn’t really translate well into English, so, French-readers, enjoy!

Il était une fois qu’il y avait un gourou qui habitait l’aiguille Centrale des Aiguilles d’Arves. (C’est vraiment une montagne. Je vous promets.) Le gourou avait 3,513 ans, un an pour chaque mètre de la montagne. Il avait les cheveux longs et blancs, comme la neige, et sa barbe était comme un arbuste. Il était petit et gros, parce qu’il mangeait seulement le chocolat, les raisins secs et les hamburgers de Quick.

Le gourou s’appelait M. le Gourou des Aiguilles, le Curieux, le Sage, le Stupéfiant. Ses avis étaient toujours bons et prudents mais toujours bizarres. Il devint gourou quand il avait 27 après avoir quitté l’université. (Il ne reçut jamais son grade car il était trop étrange, d’après ses profs.)

Néanmoins, sa sagesse était toujours respectée, et il y avait toujours une grande queue hors de sa case. Le gourou s’asseyait toujours sur un petit tabouret de bois, et il fumait d’habitude une pipe noire. Il portait  un petit béret rouge un habit long et bleu qui coulait comme un fleuve. Il donnait les avis 23 heures sur 24 et sept jours sur sept. Il dormait entre 3h et 4h chaque matin.

Ce jour-là, la queue avait plus de 250 individus : les jeunes et les vieux, les hommes et les femmes, les riches et les pauvres.

Une jeune femme s’approcha de notre gourou.

— M. le Gourou des Aiguilles ! Si curieux ! Si sage ! Si stupéfiant ! dit-elle. Je vous adore ! J’adore votre sagesse ! J’adore …

— Continuez, ma fille, dit-il.

— Ô ! S’il vous plait, dites-moi mon avenir, M. le Gourou !

Le gourou pensa pour trois minutes.

— Non, répondit-il.

— Non ? dit-elle.

— Ce que tu veux, ce n’est pas de connaître l’avenir.

— Donc, que veux-je ?

— Ce que tu veux, c’est l’amour.

— Et je le trouverai ? demanda-t-elle.

— Je ne sais pas, dit-il. Cinq euros. Suivant !

La femme grogna en payant le gourou et s’en alla. Un vieil homme s’approcha de lui.

— M. le Gourou, dit le vieux.

— Oui, monsieur, dit le gourou.

— J’ai besoin de quelque chose, dit le vieux. Qu’est-ce que c’est ?

Le gourou pensa pour quatre minutes.

— Ce dont tu as besoin, c’est un ami, dit le gourou. Un bon ami, continua-t-il. Et un petit chien. Ce dont tu as besoin, c’est un ami et un petit chien.

— C’est tout ?

— Oui, c’est ça. Quinze euros. Suivant !

Les séances avec le gourou suivaient toujours la même recette : question, réponse bizarre, payement.

Une femme s’approcha du gourou.

— Avec quoi est-ce que je vais trouver la solution de la question de la raison d’être ?

— Avec le cerveau, madame, dit le gourou. Cinquante euros. Suivant !

Un jeune homme :

— Ce qui est le plus important ?

— Ce qui est le plus important, c’est l’esprit et les prix à la crêperie. Et c’est gratis. Merci ! Suivant !

Une femme et son époux :

— Ce à quoi est-ce qu’il pense ?

— Il pense à ce qu’il pense, madame, dit le gourou. Trois cents euros. Suivant !

Une très, très petite fille suisse :

— J’en ai envie ! J’en ai envie ! Mais qu’est-ce que c’est.

— Ce dont tu as envie, c’est un Noël plein de neige et un ventre plein de bonbons, dit le gourou. Quelques centimes, ma petite mademoiselle. Suivant !

Les avis continuèrent jusqu’à la nuit, jusqu’à ce que un petit jeune homme mince et gentil se soit approché de lui.

— Je vous attendais pendant ces années, dit le gourou.

— Oui, dit le jeune homme.

— Est-ce que tu es prêt ? dit le gourou.

— Je viens de la quitter, dit le jeune homme.

— Qu’est-ce que tu veux ? demanda le gourou.

— Qu’est-ce que je veux ? demanda le jeune homme.

— Ce que tu veux, dit le gourou, c’est de devenir gourou.

— C’est ça, dit le jeune homme.

— Alors, il est l’heure, n’est-ce pas ? demanda le gourou.

— Il est l’heure, dit le jeune homme.

— Profite bien, M. le Gourou. Adieu.

— Merci. Adieu, M. le Gourou.

L’ancien gourou se disparut dans les airs. Le nouveau trouva un habit bleu, un béret rouge et une pipe noire dans la case et les mit. Il s’assit sur le tabouret, et il vit la grande queue. Il mangea des raisins secs.

— Suivant !

I want justice for Trayvon Martin because I teach him every day

I first heard about Trayvon Martin’s death a week or so ago on CNN, and the moment I heard Zimmerman’s 911 call, I sensed something was amiss. The dispatcher told him to discontinue pursuit of the young man, but Zimmerman didn’t. Instead, he pursued Martin until the inevitable gunshot. “Why keep going?” I wondered. It didn’t make sense.

The more I learn about this case, the angrier I become. The kid was unarmed, and Zimmerman dwarfed him. How could Martin possibly be considered a threat?

I work in a school in which the minority is the majority. The typical student in my class is a person of color (black or Hispanic) whose family isn’t affluent. Their music of choice: rap, hip-hop and, for the Hispanic crowd, corridos or tejano. Their clothes: Hollister, American Eagle and Aéropostale, but with an urban swag. And hoodies. They’re ubiquitous, even if it’s hot outside. It’s as if many of my students want to hide and stand out at the same time.

It’s the clothes that made me think. Some of those fighting for an investigation of Martin’s death staged a “Million Hoodie March” on Wednesday, drawing attention to what the young man was wearing the night he was shot. (Some reports say that Martin’s hoodie was one of the reasons Zimmerman considered him suspicious.)

Martin’s clothes might have looked suspicious to Zimmerman, but if he had worn his hoodie in my classroom, he would have fit right in. I can think of at least three black, male, hoodie-wearers who enter my room on a regular basis. A couple of them are bigger than me, and they frequently reach into their jackets and, from time to time, eat Skittles. I don’t wrestle them to the ground and shoot them, I teach them.

This issue hits home in another way: G, my 15-year-old little bro, prides himself on dressing like a “gansta.” His style includes sagged pants, over-sized shirts and, you guessed it, hoodies. I don’t find G remotely threatening. He’s not the kind of kid who would even consider attacking anyone, much less a stranger on the street.

When he left my car tonight, he put up his hood, as he’s done countless times before. But this time, I couldn’t help but think of Martin’s death. G, like Martin, is a person of color living in an area that doesn’t always tolerate racial differences. What if somebody sees G and considers him a threat? What if someone misinterprets his pulling up his shorts as reaching for a gun?

I want justice for young Trayvon Martin. That is to say, I want this case opened up. I want charges against Zimmerman and, should the evidence show that he is indeed guilty of murder or manslaughter, I want Zimmerman to be punished.

Beyond that, though, I want justice for the Trayvon Martins I know. They’re human beings, and they don’t deserve to be objects of discrimination. Our only hope as a society in this case is that the outcry over Martin’s death brings us closer to putting an end to racism.

I’m a big kid now

Best read while listening to “Suddenly Everything Has Changed,” as covered by the Postal Service.

Nobody told me it would be like this. Adulthood, that is. The phase of life that hit me suddenly over the last three or four years.

Nobody told me it would be so complex. Childhood was easy in comparison. “Let’s play Nintendo.” “No, I’d rather play Ninja Turtles.” Those were our choices. Those were our challenges.

Middle school brought issues, of course. Bullies. Girls. DAREing to say no to drugs. And high school, which, for me, meant a new city and new friends. And the choices expanded: “Let’s play N64.” “No, I’d rather go swimming.” “No, I’d rather go to the mall.” We’d save our allowances and salaries so we could buy the new something or other and throw fits when our parents made us pay for things ourselves. “Two dollars a gallon for gas? Where am I supposed to get $30 to fill the tank, Dad?”

College came and went with a flash. When I was 18, people told me it would be the fastest four years of my life. I balked. Especially during exam season and those never-ending, late-night study sessions.

They were right. Grad school was fast, too. My thesis consumed my being. I spent more time in a study alcove at the library than in my own bed. But with the awarding of my graduate hood, I saw adulthood hiding, sneaking up on me.

My little bro, G, doesn’t get it. He’s 15, and whenever he wants to bring a friend with us when we “chill,” I make the friend call his mom first. “I just have to be careful,” I tell him. I love spending time with that goofball. He has decided to devote his life to gansta rap, in the same way that we all decided at 15 that we knew exactly what we were going to be doing with the rest of our lives. More power to him.

G once asked my salary, so I told him. (It’s public record anyway.) His eyes grew big. To him, $47,700 is an immense amount of cash. And at 15, I would have thought the same, ignorant of the responsibilities: rent, utilities, groceries, insurance, student loans, the car, taxes, etc. I try to explain the difference between what I make and what goes in my wallet. He loses interest and asks if we can have Buffalo wings for dinner.

“Sure.”

Nobody told me that adulthood would bring such a complex mixture of emotions. I’m excited to see G grow up, but I’m going to miss his childlike goofiness. I love my friends and the time we spend together, but I’m always a bit sad when I realize that things will never be like they were in high school and college: late-night excursions to Dunkin Donuts, last-minute road trips, day-long “Halo” tournaments. Adulthood takes planning and squeezing in fun around all the “stuff to do.”

There are some things I wouldn’t trade for the world, though. As an adult, I’m allowed to be me. I don’t feel the need to make my political or religious or philosophical beliefs square up with those of my friends and my parents. I have experience and education, and I’m good at things. I’m independent. I’m responsible. I don’t have to call home first to let anyone know that I’ll be out after curfew.

But sometimes—sometimes when I can’t sleep or when I’m lonely or upset or scared or full of so many emotions that I don’t even know what to say I am—I think I would trade all those things. Temporarily, at least. I’d trade the independence and the responsibility and the freedom just to be able to play in the yard with my best friend on a summer’s evening, not worried about financial security or the presidential election, or just to groan at my mom when she wakes me up for school.

Nobody told me adulthood would be bittersweet, at once good and bad. Nobody told me a single smell or sound would bring back so many memories.

Nobody told me it would be this difficult. Or this fulfilling.

Press, religion, petition, assembly and … what was that last one again?

Oh yeah, speech. Freedom of speech. To be specific (emphasis mine):

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

I know the above sentence by heart. I had to: Dr. Horvit, one of my journalism professors, required it for us to pass her class. For a journalist, the First Amendment is tantamount to scripture. Without it, the profession—and, in my opinion, democracy—dies.

This week, conservative radio host Rush Limbaugh stepped in it. During a rant about birth control, he referred to Georgetown student Sandra Fluke as a “slut” and demanded that she share her sex tapes with the taxpayers who, he said, are paying for her contraception. Such statements are par for the course for Limbaugh, but this one has earned more press than others. Advertisers are leaving his show, and he’s found himself the target of one Angelo Carusone, whose efforts helped remove Glenn Beck from the air.

From time to time, Carusone retweets the negative comments he receives from his dissenters. Much of the time, they’re ad hominem attacks, but he also receives comments from those who say his actions show he has no respect for the First Amendment. In short, these people argue that Limbaugh (and, in the past, Beck) should not only have the right to free speech but also the right to freedom from accountability.

This sentiment is hardly limited to Limbaugh supporters. In 2010, Sarah Palin expressed frustration over the dismissal of Dr. Laura Schlessinger‘s because of Schlessinger’s use of the word “nigger” during a broadcast. Palin tweeted:

Dr.Laura:don’t retreat…reload! (Steps aside bc her 1st Amend.rights ceased 2exist thx 2activists trying 2silence”isn’t American,not fair”)

Aside from her bastardization of the English language, Palin doesn’t seem to grasp the intent of the First Amendment. We’re free to say what we want. In my opinion, that freedom should be fully unrestricted except in cases when one person’s speech might limit that of another (libel, for example). We have no guaranteed freedom for consequences, though. In this case, Schlessinger exercised her First Amendment rights by using a racial epithet on the air. The consequence: Her employer and her advertisers exercised their rights by leaving her in the dust.

The same goes for Limbaugh. He absolutely should not be censored by the government. He absolutely should be held accountable by the public for his words. If this means he loses advertisers, listeners and his job, so be it. Maybe then he and his supporters will realize the freedom to say something doesn’t mean that that something should indeed be said.

Addendum

As my friend Mike points out, offensive statements aren’t limited to the conservative realm. Bill Maher, for example, has used disgusting language for Sarah Palin in his stand-up routines. The above argument stands, though. Maher should have freedom of speech, but should he lose supporters or his show because of his speech, it would not be a violation of his rights. His liberal views should no more make him exempt from accountability than the conservative views of Limbaugh and Schlessinger.

When push comes to shove, we really don’t care about our kids

As I type this, my Twitter feed is exploding with news about today’s school shooting near Cleveland, Ohio. The incident is bad enough when seen in a vacuum, but with recent events at my place of work, it’s just another straw piled on the camel’s back.

These incidents expose a pervasive problem in the United States that also happens to be one of the most ignored: the fact that we as a society don’t particularly care about our children.

We think we do, of course. When incidents such as these occur, we throw fits in government meetings and point fingers. We increase security, and we deploy teams of counselors. We make vows and pledges. In short: We react, and we do so quite well.

But where’s the proactive stance? Where was the mentor in the life of the teenager whose reckless driving killed two (including himself) and injured others? The warning signs were there. Many of his teachers tried to make a difference, but he needed more of a commitment than most teachers have time to make. (And for that, I do not fault them.)

If we cared about our kids, we’d fund our schools sufficiently so that teachers would have the time to pay more attention to their students’ needs. If we cared about our kids, we’d make it easier for families to survive on one full-time income, allowing parents to raise their children properly. If we cared about our kids, we’d volunteer in community centers and schools, we’d adopt every child in foster care, we’d ensure access to good healthcare for every child in America.

But we don’t. Instead of taking proactive stances, we, as a society, ignore our kids until something bad happens. Then we point fingers asking how “they” could let this happen.

The ugly truth is that every time a child dies or is injured because of a preventable occurrence, we—not “they,” we, as a society—are the ones who let it happen.

Treat her right

About a year ago, G and I were driving to dinner with one of G’s friends. The friend, whom we’ll call “F,” was talking about an argument he’d recently had with his mom. Like any other teenager, he was upset because he didn’t get what he wanted. And then it happened: F called his mom a “bitch.”

My little bro, G, who had been sitting and listening to the diatribe, spoke up. “Don’t talk about your mom like that,” I remember him saying. He proceeded to tell his friend that his mother was a good person who didn’t deserve that kind of talk.

I beamed with pride. G and I have often talked about how men should treat women. The gist: You can measure a man by how he treats the women in his life. We talk about respect and, in regards to girls he dates, fidelity and honesty. Calling Mom a “bitch,” then, is unacceptable. So is any sort of violence—physical or emotional or verbal—against a woman or girl.

I know G has made mistakes in this area, but it’s clear to me that his heart’s in the right place. For the most part, he treats his mom and his girlfriend with a great deal of respect. His example is one other students—and many adults—would be smart to follow.

Ending poverty: church vs. state

One of the biggest arguments (especially from the religious right) against the public safety net for the very poor is that such “big government” programs would horn in on the territory of places of worship. In short: It’s the church’s job to take care of the poor, the orphans and the widows.

I agree. At least with that last bit. Let’s run the numbers:

There were 313,232,044 people in the United States in July 2011, and 76.8 percent of them claimed Catholicism, Protestantism or another Christian denomination (source). That comes down to about 240,562,210 people.

According to the Census Bureau, there were 46.2 million impoverished Americans in September 2011, about 15 percent of the population as a whole. Assuming this percentage doesn’t discriminate based on religion, the number of Christians who are above the poverty line is probably around 204,477,879.

Based on all this rough-and-dirty math, there’s be about four Christians above the poverty line for every person in the nation who’s below it.

Four to one.

Imagine the possibilities. A church family of four could “adopt” a local student, helping his or her family pay for school supplies, food, clothing, etc. A group of friends could offer free, after-school tutoring. A business team could provide job training and networking opportunities. A group of construction-savvy individuals from a Sunday school class could repair homes on the weekends.

These things are happening, sure, but on a much smaller scale. I’m talking about large-scale mobilization: 204 million people doing everything they can to help the 46.2 million people in this country who don’t know whether they can afford food or heat this week.

If that were to happen, there’d be no need for the public safety net. Given the fact that poverty is increasing in this country, though, it’s clear to me that U.S. churches aren’t truly serious about ending this problem. If we were, we’d spend our money and time a little differently. We’d forego the multimedia extravaganzas and instead use that money to make sure area children have warm clothes. We’d cancel services once in a while and tell our parishioners to go mow lawns or repair fences. We’d open our homes and our hearts to the poor among us, not because they’re our projects but because they’re our fellow humans, sharing in the imago Dei.

But we don’t. We claim we do. We talk a big game. We proudly show our “Outreach” budgets on the church ledger, but when push comes to shove, we’d rather have a new digital projector in the worship center than give that $10,000 to a community college student who’s trying to graduate and start his family on its way out of poverty.

The public safety net doesn’t exist because of some malicious government plot to control our lives and decrease our freedoms, it exists because the 204 million Christians in this country have flat-out failed to address a real and solvable problem. We only have ourselves to blame.

Protect and serve

I just read this. You should read it, too. Go head, this post can wait.

There’s quite a bit about that article that I found troubling, but none more than this: Teachers and administrators, who are paid by the district to protect the best interests of the students in their charge, did nothing to stop the bullying they encountered. Their reason? Job protection.

Let me be clear: If I have to choose between the safety of one of my students and my monthly paycheck, I’ll pick the former every time. I can live without money, but I can’t live with the thought that I didn’t do everything in my power to protect those under my care.