There’s Hope in West Virginia

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“I think a lot of us on the coasts—and I would include myself in this—view West Virginia as America’s dumping ground.”

That’s what I told Julie* yesterday as we sat on her balcony, looking over the lush mountains of the Ohio Valley in West Virginia. We were both exhausted. I could feel the jet lag setting in. It was shocking to me to realize that I had only just returned from Italy to New York City two days before, and yet somehow I was already having a quiet morning in the Northern Panhandle of West Virginia. I told myself that I didn’t have the time to deal with jet lag—I was on a tight schedule, trying to get from Queens to Manhattan for dinner then a train to Newark for the night, before returning to Manhattan the next morning so that I could take a train to Pittsburgh and drive to West Virginia. Turns out, I’m really good at delaying exhaustion, but at some point sooner or later, it’ll catch up to me.

Julie was also probably dealing with a similar sense of chronic exhaustion. She had just returned from India a few weeks ago, where she was doing education-related research for an NGO called Kakatiya Sandbox and picked up the morning habit of having lemon water and yogurt. In the spring, she was studying abroad in Florence, Italy. And now, she’s been working on an independent research project on barriers to access to higher education among West Virginia high schoolers.

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Education is something that runs in her family. Her paternal grandfather used to be a superintendent, and her mother, who used to be a teacher and worked her way up through the school system, is now the superintendent of the Ohio County school district. Education is what Julie credits to transforming her into who she is today—Stanford, despite all its faults, gave her the opportunities to do things like live in Italy and India, connected her to a research team where she could do the serious, in-depth, and impactful work on education that she’s doing today, and helped expand her worldview. But what she might not realize is that, just as her social environment has created such an impact on her, she’s impacted the world around her just as much, if not more.

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Oglebay Park

Her time in California, Italy, and India have been a source of excitement and intrigue among people in Wheeling, a small city of under 30,000 people that was once a manufacturing center but has since had its population substantially decline as factories disappeared. Pretty soon after getting into West Virginia, Julie had alerted to me to the fact that we’d be going to the radio station for a cooking segment. That afternoon, before we left to the grocery store to pick up ingredients, I saw Julie frantically writing down her pesto recipe on a pink sticky note, double checking other pesto recipes on her phone. “I just need to make sure I know what I’m doing before I get there,” she said, throwing her mini-blender in a tote bag as we ran out the door.

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The radio station experience itself was unique. I’ve had experiences with local media; my brother, a former two-time cancer patient, has had a good amount of media exposure, and I’ve been on local news channels and our local NPR-affiliate station as well. But there was something different about this one. I’m used to the “liberal elitism” of Dallas, a phrase I genuinely don’t like to use, but I think it’s more prominent in Dallas than anywhere else in Texas… maybe even the rest of the South. At this radio station, the host of the show, an incredibly sweet and funny man, was missing some of his teeth and had a certain politically incorrect humor that occasionally broke out into the airwaves. He made brief mentions of his son who was in Iraq, and he closed off the show with “God bless you,” something that you simply don’t hear in Dallas.

The day we were there was for the weekly food segment that he does to close out the day, probably a more fun and exciting segment to sit in on than their politics or sports segments—in case you’re wondering, Wheeling is strong Steelers territory. Julie had filled in for her mom on a previous radio segment, and when she was asked about her time in Italy, she mentioned the fresh pesto she learned to make with her host family. Hence how I ended up standing behind the desk of a West Virginia radio station, watching Julie pull out her blender and fill it with basil that we had bought just a half hour before. Southern cordiality and friendliness shone through here, too, and I even got a few shoutouts from the radio host on the air. There were some brief mentions of how I was from Dallas—a great place to be from, since its combination of liberal metropolitan environment and conservative Texan surroundings makes me never seem like too much of an outsider, no matter where I am in the country—and also how I love pineapples.

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I don’t know if I’d really call my experience in Wheeling as a culture shock. It was certainly different—it is still West Virginia, after all—but it was much more scenic and urban than I had expected. Whereas Canadian, Texas, which sits in the Texas Panhandle instead of one of the two West Virginian ones, was genuinely small and rural, Wheeling is like a suburb without a city. And that’s a remnant of its once large stature within the area, before globalization led to the fall of American manufacturing. Unlike Canadian, which had a sizable Mexican-American population even if it’s much smaller than urban areas like Dallas, Wheeling was nearly entirely white and aging. Those demographics help explain why long stretches of Wheeling were just Christian churches, law firms that mostly deal with workers compensation and medical malpractice cases, and retirement homes. It’s a site of significant brain drain, in which the best and brightest minds end up abandoning Wheeling—and the state of West Virginia as a whole—due to the significantly fewer opportunities.

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Foggy mornings in Wheeling

“Wheeling has so much potential,” Julie told me as we sat out on her porch, minutes after I had admitted to her that I assumed West Virginia would just be a boring and unsightly place. The morning fog had finally cleared, and with that came a renewed optimism on her end. The tiredness in her voice that had characterized so many of our conversations the day before was replaced with a new sense of vigor as she told me more about the areas that West Virginia needs work. But even more exciting was her plans of how she’d fix it, drawing on her recent experiences in India, her background in economics, and the cultural knowledge and connections she’d built up throughout her time growing up in the state.

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I wasn’t the first person to suggest she should go into politics. So many others had seen her passion for the state, her love of the people, and how she’s a junkie for mountaineers, country roads, moonshine, and coal mining. And there was already precedent for it in her own life—her mother and father keep her grounded in local politics, and she’s close enough with Senator Joe Manchin that she got coffee with him a few weeks ago and worked for him in the Senate last summer. But the issue continues to rest in West Virginia’s lack of jobs for her—her interest is in policy, especially education policy, but there are few opportunities in policy or academia. “I hope to stay connected to [West Virginia] forever,” Julie told me, whether that was through her research, through business, or just in returning home to visit. “Maybe if I’m a fancy rich person someday,” she said, her smile widening as she chuckled, “I’ll get a little cabin somewhere that I can come and have my vacations in and escape from reality to. I don’t know. But I do love it here.”

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And the truth was, I loved it, too. At many points, Julie took so much personal pride when I agreed with her that Wheeling would be a perfect center for leisure tourism. Hell, it was a great place for me to rest in between nine-hour plane rides across the Atlantic and equally long train rides across New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

If you had told me a year ago that I would’ve spent two days in West Virginia with a girl who I had met in a statistics class—and that I’d love it!—I would’ve thought you were crazy. But there’s a certain charm to Wheeling. Especially after enjoying rural Texas so much, I can’t tell if it’s just that, like many Americans, I fetishize Americana to a certain extent and that West Virginia, with its coal mines and its Trump voters, is just a great symbol of the American “heartland” nowadays. To some, that fetishization isn’t the worst thing—at least people are interested in places like West Virginia, right? But there is a certain irony and danger in so many of us from urban, metropolitan areas yearning for “the real America” while still viewing places like West Virginia as—in my own words—a “dumping ground.”

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I said earlier in this post that Julie has already had an impact on the world around her. I’m definitely one of those people who’ve felt her impact and learned so much from her just in the past two days and three nights that I was with her. Especially after I abandoned economics and dove headfirst into anthropology, exhausted by microagressions by my mostly straight, white, and male peers, Julie’s sense of social responsibility to her community and her unrelenting ability to push through setbacks in funding have given me so much hope. Her interest too in policy writing itself, a requirement of Stanford economics majors that few look forward to with as much excitement as she does, leaves me even more confident that I’m watching the development and growth of a future leader and change-maker.

And I’m just genuinely glad to have gotten to see the beginnings of it firsthand.

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Entering Pittsburgh this morning

I’m currently on a long train ride to Philadelphia after Julie dropped me off at the Pittsburgh Amtrak Station bright and early this morning—all with enough time to make it back to Wheeling to watch her younger sister go to school. I’ll be home in Dallas for a few days after today before I head off to New England and then to the Holy Land.

This is a topic for a future time—maybe for while I’m at home—but it’s been impossible to disconnect the current political moment that we’re in from the research I’m doing, which should technically be what most people consider apolitical… or at least unconnected to partisan politics. But my very nature and existence is political, as a colleague and classmate of mine who’s a returning student reminded me in Italy. I’ve been thinking a lot about coalition building, what the future of our country can look like for people in places as different as California and West Virginia, and what that means in both the short-term (i.e. 2018 and 2020) and the long-term (i.e. how I proceed from here). And at the recommendation of my friend Whitney, I’ve been listening to a documentary–podcast (The Wilderness) on the train that’s included some emotional speeches by both Barack Obama and Bobby Kennedy.

As I close out this piece of my journey, and come very close to closing out “part three” of my overall travels, I just wanted to very publicly thank Julie, her parents, and her grandparents for taking me in these past few days and showing me a piece of the country that I probably would never have gone to on my own. My time in West Virginia was too short, and there were so many things I’d loved to have gone more in-depth about—from the strength of unions and organized labor to Trump’s support in the state to even just Julie’s mother’s dissertation and wonderful research around education—but I guess I’ll just have to come back. Who knows, maybe I’ll return to West Virginia next year?

* names changed

I still believe in America

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A friend of mine (a woman of color) told me today that she struggled with figuring out how to be patriotic on the Fourth of July. And the truth is, I struggled with the same. We live in a country that was built on the backs of Native Americans and Africans. The state that I currently go to school in, California, is the result of Manifest Destiny, a combination of the hubris that the United States was destined by God to stretch from coast to coast and the racist belief that white Americans were inherently superior to the Native American and Mexican people who resided in the lands that American colonists were “destined” to take over. This country was not built for me, a queer brown person. Only about fifty years ago—literally on the birthdate of my mother—the Supreme Court decided that anti-miscegenation laws, laws that ban mixed race marriages, violate the Fourteenth Amendment’s Equal Protection Clause, a landmark Supreme Court case that let my parents marry. Only about three years ago did the Supreme Court narrowly decide that I, too, have a right to marry, although that right is in danger now.

The United States of America isn’t perfect. We have a long legacy of racism and discrimination. We fought a war amongst ourselves, mostly over the right to own black Americans as property, only about 150 years ago. We turned away Jewish children who were seeking refuge from the Holocaust. We interned Japanese Americans during World War II because we considered them a “security risk.” That was only deemed unconstitutional about a week ago, in the same Supreme Court case that argued it’s acceptable for the president to prevent entry into the United States from Muslim countries because Muslims are also supposedly a security risk. And we’ve separated children from their families and put them in literal cages after they fled from Central America in order to seek asylum here. Reunification of families has still yet to happen. It’s not that we’ve strayed from our values as a nation. The reality of it is that, in many ways, we never lived up to our values.

But at the same time, I’m not ready to give up on this country. The American Dream may be dead—or maybe it never truly existed for everyone?—but that doesn’t have to be the case. We can still be a country of compassion, a beacon of hope, a true leader for human rights. We can fix the social ills that plague us: unequal access to education, health disparities and lack of access to affordable healthcare, our discriminatory criminal justice policy, income inequality, our unjust immigration laws, and even structural oppression that creates so many barriers to success for women and trans people, people of color, queer people, low-income people, and people living in rural areas. We can work toward a society that we can truly be proud of, one that doesn’t simply worship wealth and the accumulation of capital but rather one that gives everyone a chance to succeed, regardless of who you are, where you came from, or what your background is.

All of this is so much easier said than done. I’m fully aware of the blissful naiveté that jumps off the screen as you read this blog post. All these social ills probably won’t be fixed in my lifetime, but the answer isn’t to give up or grow jaded. We have to keep fighting for a just and equal world.

Frankly, it doesn’t mean a whole lot to me that a bunch of wealthy white men who owned slaves signed a document declaring their freedom from the British Empire, which they believed was now trying to exert too much control over them. I don’t really care about the American “Revolution,” which wasn’t really all that revolutionary—it was a conservative movement by and for the elites, not a radical one. But what I do care about is the many people who have come before me trying to make this country a better place; I think of people like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, who was hated by about two-thirds of Americans, who literally died so that, one day, someone like me could have equal rights.

As the fireworks went off last night, I sat in awe. For a few minutes, I forgot about the research I was doing (on educational inequality and social mobility), and I was able to soak in the beauty in front of me. As someone who always tries to fight for what’s right, someone who is committed to social justice, it was nice to take a breath. But immediately after it was over, I couldn’t help but think about where I was watching the fireworks: a country club, a location that I only had access to because of a friend of a friend and an institution that has a long history of only accepting very wealthy white men. I wanted to just let myself think of the fireworks and turn this whole research project into an extended vacation of travel instead of actively thinking about inequality every step of the way. But at the same time, if we all did that, who would fight for justice?

I’m a big believer that every single one of us—yes, you included—should be working towards creating a better world. There are so many ways to do that, and each of us have skills and/or resources that we could devote to such aims. Probably unsurprising to most people reading this, I believe very strongly in the power of government and the political process to create change. It’s through government that we can be bold and create a country in which everyone has access to education, healthcare, and housing. We could very easily create a country in which no one lives in poverty—universal basic income, anyone? But at the same time, we have a government that no longer works for us. We have politicians—both Republicans and Democrats—who are beholden to corporate money and special interests instead of you and me, the people who have the power to decide whether that politician should even have a job in government.

I was inspired when Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a young twenty-something Latina from the Bronx, ousted one of the top Democrats in the House. I’m not even a democratic socialist like she is, but the way that she knocked on doors, made individual connections with people in her district, and seemed to actually genuinely care about making this country better was truly inspiring. And seeing people like her engaging in David vs. Goliath battles—and winning—gives me so much hope for the future… and so much hope for my future. I don’t know if I’ll ever have a career in politics, which has been dominated by wealthy straight white men since July 4, 1776. But what I do know is that I want to help make this country and this world a better place, in whatever capacity I can do that.

At this point in time, I think a PhD in anthropology is likely in my future. It’s still too early to be completely certain, but the more that I learn about the world, the more and more that I’m convinced that we need people who intentionally seek to understand others. Economists and political scientists hold a lot of political power in terms of creating policy solutions, but when you’re too focused on the numbers and the quantitative data, you can easily forget about the real human impact that policy has. And that’s where anthropologists (such as myself one day) need to be able to step in. Qualitative research and ethnographic data are so valuable for fixing our society, and I do believe that I’m morally obligated to use these skills that I’m currently being trained in through my undergraduate degree in anthropology (and hopefully a future doctoral degree in the same) to create this change. At the same time, I’m doing everything I can to try to get into a one-year master’s program in public policy here at Stanford and find a way to pay for it—I want to be able to both point out problems with depth and complexity and then be able to present possible ways to actually fix these problems.

I believe that I can help make a difference. And I believe that there are so many other people—including many of my friends—who will have the skills and the heart to help create positive change as well, to create a society in which all are valued and all have the opportunity to succeed and live their lives to the fullest.

And that’s why I’m not ready to give up on the United States. I love what we tell ourselves we are: a country of compassion, a country of freedom, a country where anyone can succeed. Maybe I’ve never truly believed in this country and all the ways that it has betrayed the world and ourselves in terms of our lack of compassion for the most vulnerable and our inability to be a society where anyone can rise above the circumstances of one’s birth. But I always have and always will believe in the possibility of who and what we can be: as a country, as a society, and as a world. And that’s what I’ll always continue fighting for.

The Battle for Texas: What I Learned From Campaigning

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This is the third and final part of my series on the 2014 Texas gubernatorial race. The first part, written in the spring of 2014, introduced the two Democratic candidates for governor and lieutenant governor. The second part detailed the candidate rally I attended in the summer of 2014.

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Alessia and I after Wendy Davis visited our office.

It’s been almost one full year since the 2014 midterm elections, one year since Democrat Wendy Davis lost her race for governor of Texas, and one year since I took my first swing at politics. If you would’ve asked me in the spring of 2014 whether or not I’d work for a campaign, I would’ve told you, “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

But I went ahead and did just that. After stumbling upon a rally celebrating the anniversary of Wendy Davis’ landmark filibuster in support of Texans’ reproductive rights, I found myself on a list of potential volunteers for her campaign and received calls while I was a summer debate camp at UT Austin from Battleground Texas, the field arm of the Wendy Davis campaign, trying to get me to volunteer. While it’s not shocking for a political campaign to attempt to tap into enthusiastic supporters, what is shocking is that I said yes… and brought Alessia, one of my best friends, along for the ride.

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Right before Fellows Training at the campaign headquarters.

As soon as I came home from debate camp, I called back the field organizer for my county and Alessia and I found ourselves in our county’s Democratic Party office for an introductory meeting. It was the first of many, and over the next month we learned about phone banking (calling people the campaign identified as possible Democratic voters), block walking (knocking on doors to convince people to vote), “cutting turf” (preparing packets of houses for volunteers to visit), and other essential data-driven campaign tactics. On top of those meetings, I went to two region-wide summits—one open to volunteers and another only open to fellows on the campaign—all by myself, learning so much more about how campaigning works. And then there were the events: the small rally outside the office when Wendy Davis dropped by, the book signing for her memoir at a local bookstore, and the debate watch parties.

As summer turned into fall, I quickly rose in the ranks, moving from a regular volunteer to a senior fellow, the youngest one in my area. Campaign work became something I did alongside my schoolwork, and it created (rather, cemented) a perception of me within my school as a liberal activist, since I was definitely the most vocal and visible Wendy Davis supporter in my entire school. Looking back, even though being a senior fellow on the campaign was oddly (and sometimes unnecessarily) stressful and not sleek and sexy like I imagined it, I’m so incredibly glad I took the opportunity because I learned so much in those few months on the campaign. And while these five things aren’t all I took from my experience, these are the five I’d like to share with you today! Continue reading

The Battle for Texas: An Anniversary

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This is Part 2 in a series about the 2014 Texas gubernatorial race, The Battle for Texas. Read “Part 1: Meet the Democrats” here.

Yesterday marked three months until Election Day 2014 in the United States, and in Texas that means a very important race: the gubernatorial race between Democratic darling state Senator Wendy Davis and her Republican opponent, current Attorney General Greg Abbott. The Texas Democratic Party has never been more energized, and as both campaigns are preparing to go into full swing coupled with the national attention on Texas politics for the first time in a long time, the 2014 race could never be bigger.

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This past month, I had the opportunity to see Texas politics up close and personal. From June 26 to July 16, I attended the University of Texas National Institute of Forensics (UTNIF), a three week debate camp in the heart of Austin. While it wasn’t explicitly related to politics—although all of us stayed in touch with big political events, especially the disappointing Hobby Lobby Supreme Court ruling—my journey in Texas politics officially began around the same time UTNIF started.

The Filibuster Anniversary

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The Battle for Texas: Meet the Democrats

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This is Part 1 in a series about the 2014 Texas gubernatorial race, The Battle for Texas.

Texas Capitol and flag, taken by Jon Wiley.

Texas Capitol and flag, by Jon Wiley.

On Tuesday, March 4, all eyes in America were focused on one state: Texas. People across the state cast ballots for their party’s primary election, leading to some very interesting results from both the Republicans and the Democrats. The current governor, Republican Rick Perry, is stepping down, leaving the Governor’s Mansion in Austin completely open. (As a disclosure, I personally align with the Democratic Party, and I very much hope to see the Democratic Party win this November.)

The Filibuster

The beginning of the battle for Texas really begins in June, when State Senator Wendy Davis (D-Fort Worth) launched a dramatic 11-hour filibuster to block extremely restrictive abortion restrictions in a special session called by the governor that would ban abortions after 20 weeks and impose unnecessarily stricter regulations on abortion clinics and doctors who perform abortions, closing all but 5 abortion clinics. To stop House Bill 2, she had to speak continuously until midnight.

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By Texas filibuster rules, she had to stay completely on topic, couldn’t eat, drink, or use the restroom, and not lean on any desk or chair. After three strikes—first for referencing the Planned Parenthood budget, second for having a fellow senator help adjust her back brace, third for referencing the Texas sonogram law—her filibuster was abruptly ended at 10pm. As the Republicans in the chamber hurried to pass the bill, Democrats challenged lieutenant governor David Dewhurst’s ruling that Davis violated Texas filibuster rules, culminating in State Sen. Leticia Van de Putte (D-San Antonio) slamming her male colleagues and a 15-minute “people’s filibuster” where a packed gallery delayed the vote to stop the bill’s passage.

Governor Rick Perry immediately called a second special session to pass the abortion restrictions, and after making its way to the Supreme Court, a 5-4 decision to not interfere with Texas’ abortion bill allowed the state legislature to set the bill into effect. The last rural abortion clinic closed within the past week.

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Why We Need More Ads Like Coca-Cola’s

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Earlier this month, as the Super Bowl went underway, one ad sparked more controversy than any other: Coca-Cola’s. Despite lasting only sixty seconds, a national conversation on the issue of multilingualism and diversity ensued. Disputes broke out on social media. Both conservative and liberal politicians and commentators argued over whether the ad was anti-American or pro-American. Against the will of detractors, Coca-Cola defiantly aired the ad again during the opening of the Sochi Winter Olympics, this time televising the ninety-second version and adding the phrase “E Pluribus Unum” (Latin for “out of many, one”) to the beginning.

So what was it that caused so much controversy? Singing “America the Beautiful” in other languages.

Nine languages were represented in the song: English, Spanish, Tagalog, Mandarin, Hindi, Hebrew, Keres, French and Arabic. All of these languages—with the sole exception of Keres, which is a language native to the Pueblo Indian peoples of New Mexico—were brought to the land we currently call the United States, English included. Really, unless you are one of the small percentage of Americans who claim Native American heritage, at some point your ancestors (or maybe even you or one or more of your parents) immigrated here by foot, boat, or plane.

Diversity has been a particularly important issue recently. The idea of “being American” is so widely debated and open to interpretation that no one can truly pinpoint what it means. How much of your “foreign” culture can you retain—whether it’s Irish, Indonesian, or Iranian—and still consider yourself a part of American culture? Does it mean anything if America’s most common last names go from Smith, Johnson, and Williams to Garcia, Rodriguez, and Martinez?

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Four More Years: Thoughts on the Inaugural Address

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Today, the 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama, was inaugurated for his second term.

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Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts administers the oath of office to President Barack Obama during the Inaugural swearing-in ceremony at the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C., Jan. 21, 2013. (Official White House Photo by Sonya N. Hebert)

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