Marina Rose Martinez

I spent the entirety of last weekend in the desert, walking and sweating and eating exceptionally crappy college cafeteria food. As much fun as this actually was, I came home Sunday afternoon, sick, dirty and exhausted. I took two baths and two naps, but continued to suffer from a splitting headache and churning stomach until I took some Tylenol and some Benadryl, and went to sleep again for the night. On the one hand, the weekend really had taken a lot out of me: short restless sleep, exposure to the elements and poor quality food would cause anyone to feel badly. On the other hand, this happens a lot.

There are many of factors to my frequent illnesses. Being somewhat stressed-out by nature, I add to this condition by loading my schedule with activities and responsibilities. I rarely eat right. Like most people my age, I usually lack the time or the money to indulge in healthy food. Frequently, during the weekends I do not eat any meals at all, but a series of ill-chosen snacks. Being vegetarian and completely unable to cook so much as a squash has severely limited my choice of meals. Which brings me to confess the thing I have been thinking of doing, the thing I sometimes confess to my boyfriend in our kitchen late at night, when I’m hungry and unfulfilled. I have been considering eating meat again.

This is a decision I had already made to a certain extent. In college, broke, horribly anemic and uninsured I compared the $3.00 a pack of fake meat to $0.97 a can of tuna and after a particularly bad spell, I became a pescatarian and general thorn in the side of my more strict vegetarian friends. And now I am considering a thing that many of us do, but that none of us talk about. Since I started eating vegetarian, three of the four veggies I knew at the time have returned to meat and the fourth I have lost touch with. Over that time countless scores of my peers and younger friends tried and abandoned vegetarian diets of their own. Although I couldn’t find any statistics regarding this issue, it seems that if a person makes it past the first few months on a vegetarian diet, the next great hurdle comes at around the five year mark. Not coincidentally, this month marks my fifth year as a veg.

I’ve always believed that the five-year limit signaled the time for which one can maintain a diet as restrictive as the vegetarian diet in a meat-eating society like America without learning how to cook portable, enjoyable foods for yourself. Anticipating this milestone, I had attempted several very expensive, time-consuming and demoralizing portable, enjoyable meals of my own. Needless to say, here I am, five years in and still eating pickles for dinner on a semi-regular basis. Of course, if I was able to perfect the art of vegetarian cooking, as the impressive and untouched stack of books in my kitchen suggest, there is no guarantee that my health would improve. In the last month, my diet has improved, not through skill, but through the amount of money I am able to expend on food now. However, my health has not improved with my improved diet. I find that on average, one day a week is spent with a splitting headache and churning stomach. I know alcoholics in better shape than I am.

 Additionally, I wonder if I would even be able to resume a carnivorous diet. Last weekend, I found a piece of meat in my noodles, but being too hungry and too tired, I picked the meat out and continued to eat. Later, I became very ill and suffered through the rest of the day, unable to eat again, even when the contents of my stomach were quite gone. Other times, I have taken a bite of some poor dead animal, either out of ignorance, or because of how enticing it looked and smelled, only to be utterly disgusted by the fibrous, chewy texture of cooked flesh. Despite my meat-eating boyfriend’s assurances that he could ease me back into practice, I’m not sure I want to suffer in order to do a thing I quite liked avoiding for the last five years.

As for the movement, I care lease about this aspect of vegetarianism. What initially welcomed me as a warm political community has, upon further experience and inspection shown itself to be a minority of insular, delusional news-hounds, accompanied by a majority of reasonable people that remain relatively quiet. Initially, being young and broke I chose not to give my small money to a meat industry that abused it’s livestock and it’s customers by feeding them said abused livestock, which undoubtedly contained a higher rate of carcinogens and a lower nutritional value. In the last five years, two things have happened. First, the agriculture industry has responded to the buying public’s need for better treated livestock, and second, I make much more money than I did before. Seeing as I was never a vegetarian that believed that vegetarianism was natural, only that tainted and abused meat was unnatural, it seems only logical that I would re-gear my campaign to give my money to the companies that are doing it right, which still maintains my original goal of taking money away from the companies that are doing it wrong. Everybody wins. Of course, I do still hold on to the spirit of everyday activism that vegetarianism gives me, the idea that, in some small way, I am devoting my life to a cause. The thought of carefully researching the companies I would potentially buy my meat from and then spending the extra money in order to get said meat from reliable source doesn’t seem nearly as cool, although I’d still be restricted to about three items on any given menu, so there’s that.

I’m not about to be making any sweeping dietary changes today. I’d much rather try to nutrient-up my diet than attempt the inevitably painful and gross process of beginning to eat meat again, but I’m thinking that if nothing else clears up this lingering sickness, there may not be another option.

I Thought All Wool Was the Same

I work for an eco-friendly company as a copywriter, and although I knew that we sold New Zealand wool and not Australian wool, I’d never really given it much thought. Recently, I was assigned to write an article on the benefits of wool rugs and the benefits of wool rugs from New Zealand specifically. I learned that wool is naturally non-toxic, non-allergenic, flame, stain and abrasion resistant. A wool rug would suit a person with allergies like me, because wool naturally purifies the air in a house for thirty years.

When I went to write the article, what I came upon was a complete mess. On the one hand, some people didn’t want wool to be purchased at all and only talked about how horrific and cruel the Australian wool trade is. On the other hand, Australian wool industry insiders were defending their farming practices as necessary for the health of the sheep.

I’ve waded through all the information and came to the conclusion that although Australian wool is cruel, New Zealand wool is not cruel. I’m writing this article for people who are trying to figure out weather or not to buy wool, and who would like a little straightforward information weather than propaganda from both sides. I’ve made my decision, so this is biased, but at least I’m telling you that up front.

In order to begin research on my article, I went to the web and while performing a Google search on wool rugs, I ran across several sites that had nothing to do with rugs, and everything to do with wool. They fell into two camps, the ones that wanted to educate the public on the horrors of wool, and those that wanted to educate on the benefits of wool. I felt like I walked into the middle of a fight that I had nothing to do with. Both sides were adamant, and often graphic in their arguments. Each side had their own angry rhetoric and traumatic video of animals suffering. It was fairly uncomfortable on both the pro and anti wool sites.

As far as the issue itself is concerned, it seems that everyone is fighting over three main points. The first one was a process called mulesing, the second was that the sheep are often sheered so quickly and with such little regard to them that they are cut by the sheers in the process, and the third had to do with the practice of transporting sheep in sub-standard conditions.

Mulesing is a practice that happens to Australian lambs in order to prevent a deadly and painful blowfly infection later in life. It is a surgical procedure performed on the lambs without anesthetic to remove the skin that blowflies most commonly lay their eggs in, which is on their rump. This process only happens to Australian lambs, as the climate in New Zealand is too harsh to accommodate the flies.

The cruel sheering and harsh transportation were both charges levied against Australia alone. While I found no accusations that New Zealand was also employed these practices, I found no proof that they did not employ them either. I will say that sheep sheering is a tourist attraction in New Zealand.

My decision to stand by New Zealand wool centered on the mulesing issue. If Australian lambs are not mulesed, they are subject to blowfly infection. If they are mulesed, they’ll certainly suffer during the procedure. Because blowflies cannot survive in New Zealand, the lambs there are not subject to infection and therefore they will not be mulesed. The Australian wool industry is trying to conceive of a way to be rid of museling, but until then I’d rather put my money into an industry that doesn’t have to harm its animals in order to care for them.

It seems like every summer, we get the same speech, especially here in Sunny Southern California, where sunbathing on pool loungers is not just a hobby, but a way of life. ‘The sun is bad’, they tell us, ‘cover yourself in sunscreen’, they say! Fortunately for us sunbathers, there’s new evidence that the sun is actually good for you.

Recent studies have shown that regular and moderate exposure to sunlight can prevent certain kinds of cancer, strengthen your bones, and even make you happier. Of course, overexposure can cause damage that would outweigh the benefits, but about thirty minutes in the sun will stimulate your body to produce vitamin D, which boosts your immune system and is linked to the recent findings regarding cancer prevention.

There are ways to sunbathe safely that will maximize the benefits while minimizing the risks. You don’t have to burn in order to get your body to start producing vitamin D. In fact, doctors in notoriously overcast Britain have their vitamin D-deficient patients walk out of doors even when it’s overcast because they receive better benefits by doing this than they would by sitting in front of a special sun-lamp.

People especially at risk for skin cancer, who would be people with a history of skin cancer in their families, or with especially fair skin and hair, would do well to stay in the shade of a sun umbrella, which can be purchased from any patio furniture store.

Safe sunbathers must eat healthy, natural foods which assist the body in processing it’s exposure. Sunbathe progressively, for a few minutes at a initially, and then gradually more each day. Be aware of your body, burnt skin will feel abnormally hot, look red or become abnormally sensitive.

If you are very sun-sensitive, prop your feet up on an ottoman and try to expose only your legs and arms at first. If you are fairly sun-tolerant, lay out on a lounge and keep a timer nearby to ensure that you spend equal time on your back as on your stomach. In the summer, try to stay out of the mid-day sun as it is much stronger than it is during the winter. Safe-sunbathing, if done responsibly can ensure good health, mentally and physically for years to come, in addition to providing a relaxing hobby year round.

The American Futon

Everyone remembers the futon, weather in their first apartment as a dual-purpose couch, or on a visit as a convertible guest bed. Futons pepper the living rooms, bedrooms, and offices of our lives, our memories of youth and travel. The futon has become part of the American experience, even though the idea for the Futon came to America from Japan, like most of what we import, we have made it distinctly ours. The Futon’s place in the traditional Japanese home is very different than the way we come to know the Futon as a contemporary furniture piece.

In Japan, Futons are much thinner and more portable than they are in America. Traditional Japanese homes have soft tatami flooring, which the futons are placed directly onto at night for sleeping. In the morning, futons are rolled up and stored in cupboards so that the room can be used for other purposes.

In America, furniture is rarely moved, and we like to sit and sleep off the floor, which presented a problem for William Brouwer, the man that would bring the futon across the Pacific. Brouwer recognized the need for space in his native Boston, as well as the difficult, inconvenient hide-a-beds that were popular at the time. He made the mattress thicker and designed a three-fold, slatted wood frame that could slide down into a bed position or up into a couch position. In the years following the futon’s debut, others have added easy-conversion mechanisms, designer frames and mattresses made with modern foams and materials.

Today, the futon has become an American staple. Inexpensive futons can are frequently purchased by collage students and young people starting out. High end futons are made of sturdy hard woods and durable materials that can be used by families for decades.

Every summer, my grandmother and I would go on our pilgrimage to across the state, paying a visit to every relative in the line. Among the rolling green hills of California’s central valley my uncle and his family had made their home, which is where we would spend most of the summer. My uncle Chris and his wife were master gardeners. Their expansive back yard was the first place I ever saw a real compost bin, and their raised garden beds, with their thick, dark soil hid countless wriggling red worms for my amusement. I also remember the single most fascinating gardening accessory I had ever seen. Uncle Chris’ old push mower was nothing but an outdated nuisance to his sons, whose chore it was to cut the lawn, but to me it was an engineering marvel. It’s rotating blades whirred across the grass, sending clippings and the scent of fresh grass flying across the yard. I always got to rake the clippings and deposit them in the composter, but what I really wanted to do was cut the lawn.

As early disciples of the Xeriscape movement, we had no lawn at out house, and I longed to reach the age when I would be considered large enough to operate the push mower. Finally, that summer arrived. I only stood about six inches taller than the mower itself, but I was determined. I got nearly half the lawn mowed before I gave up and conceded the mower to my cousin. To be honest, I have no idea if I ever tried mowing with a push mower again, but to this day, I recall the work-out I got.

This brings me to three months ago, when I had an incredible epiphany. I’m always saying I need to get more exercise. I spend most of my time sitting in traffic, sitting in my cubicle, or sitting on the couch in front of the TV. All my single-girl clothes have made their way to good will and I’ve decided that it’s time to act. We needed to budget, and our gardener just happened to be moving to Texas. What a perfect coincidence. Remembering the push mower, I talked to my husband, and we decided to invest in a reel mower. All the electric mowers were easily three times the cost.

For the last three months, I’ve mowed the front yard and back yard once a week and I’ve been feeling great. I used to have back pain that I blamed on my office chair, but I noticed the other day that it has been gone for the last two months at least. All through college and my busy working life, I was constantly sick. I thought that I was just a sick person, but I’ve been in good health this whole time. At first, it was hard to do one whole lawn, much less front and back, but I split it up through the week, and now I’m a mowing machine! My husband is so impressed with my newfound vigor that he’s threatening to take up mowing as well. We may have to start our own gardening service.

I think that I will be the kind of old person that surrounds myself with my furniture. My bedroom furniture will be huge, and I will probably be small, like my own grandmother is today. I might buy a platform bed so that my children won’t have to throw away the box spring when I die. Or maybe I’ll have a box spring bed, so that they will. Part of me wants the cleaning and dismantling of my house to be long and difficult and heavy.

My dining room furniture will be massive, more so than the bedroom set. I refuse to own a lonely coffee table; I will buy my coffee tables by the truckloads and stack them in empty rooms along with extra dining tables, extra beds, extra sofas and exactly thirteen metal bed frames. Contemporary bedroom furniture is far too thin and easily transported. My children will suffer as I suffered.

I want them to painstakingly cart away each bed, each dining room set. I want them to take them to their individual homes, and keep them until their children will cart it to their homes. Centuries from now, across humanities viral sprawl I want for my furniture to live on without me. I want to have so many couches, so many coffee tables that surely, surely at the end of time, the last thing left will be something I loved, something I breathed on and left to my children. Something they took when there was nothing else left.

This was an assignment for my African American Literature class. We were told to write about our first memory of race in a non-linear way.

Race… I’m thinking in the shower. Shaving your legs is so gross-it’s totally just another way for the autocratic beauty industry to tell women that our bodies are in need of discipline. It’s a phenomenon that goes back thousands of years like how orthodox husbands can’t touch any women but their wives, and not even then when she’s on her period. Feminism is about being able to do what you want anyway.

So I do what I want and I shave my legs in accordance with the beauty autocracy. Do you know that I never actually had real leg hair? You know how there’s two kinds of leg hair, the little kid kind and the grown-up kind. I bet that’s every woman in the western world. Gross. Why can’t capitalism give me back my leg hair? I want all the leg hair I’ve ever shaved off right now. I want what you took from me. Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about lotus feet, especially when I shave my legs. I always wondered why they didn’t just cut off the women’s feet completely and put little shoes on their amputated ankles. Oh that’s a horrible thought. I feel sick. That should really be deleted. Maybe that’s just too much subjugation. How is it that we always think we know when to stop? After six years of constant orthodontia they tell me I’m not good enough yet. We want to create a hairline fracture in your upper palate and expand the bone plate a little every month. I started crying. Upper palate? That’s my face. You want to break my face. They make midgets do that to their legs. My face is like a midget leg. Fuck. I’m supposed to be talking about race. My grandmother jokes that I’m not a real Mexican because I don’t like spicy salsa.

You’re not supposed to say midget anymore. You’re supposed to say little person. Am I avoiding the subject of race? Possibly. I have no idea what to say. I think I had bigger problems as a kid. I wasn’t from the most tranquil environment if you know what I mean. But midget is a legitimate term. It applies to all adults five feet tall or under. My friend is a midget, among other things. Is it arrogant to suggest that I had bigger problems as a kid? That I was some sort of anti-racist messiah? Maybe I was just way too concerned about real shit. Everyone knows that race is just a social construction. Maybe it’s the bi-racial thing.

Once I was watching In Living Color with my dad and the Waynes sister came on and she was dressed like a little kid, and her mom was a maid, and she had a monologue about how in black world you mom doesn’t have to be a maid, and how in black world everyone likes you and and and you get new dresses everyday or something. I thought it sounded good. I’ve always wanted to live in a world where my moms different than what she is and I get whatever I want, which is basically what the television tells me I want. Kim Waynes, we should hang out. Right, race. I’m getting sleepy. I can’t think about this. My dad once told me that we were the only family that he knew that drank cool-aid after the kids grew up that was not black, and by we I mean them, his family. I wasn’t allowed to have cool-aid. So cool-aid belongs to black people and my dad is drinking it on the sly. What do they need it for? What is it about cool-aid that makes black people drink it? If only black people drink cool-aid then why do you drink it too? Because he had black friends in high school. And that’s not what he said, he said that the predominant amount of people who drink cool-aid after childhood are black, but we do it too. It’s funny because we’re a statistical outlier: drinks cool-aid, over eighteen, not black. I mean them, not me, I wasn’t allowed to have cool-aid. I didn’t even especially like it.

First Published in Voice Chapman University’s Social Justice Publication 2006

When the first Gulf war broke out, I wanted to protest. I wanted to be the kid in the CNN stock protest footage, surrounded by people, and an uplifting hope that peace was possible. My grandmother had protested in the 60s, my friends parents went to protests, and put stickers on their cars: NO BLOOD FOR OIL. There were lengthy discussions and strong opinions that flew across the dinner table, but we didn’t protest, and we had no stickers.

When I was a sophomore in high school, protesting the economic sanctions against countries, such as Iraq, I knew that ten kids with signs in front of a suburban post office were not going to save the world.

When 9-11 occurred, I expressed many opinions I later learned were shared with me by a man named Ward Churchill (since blacklisted for those very thoughts.) I sent rice to the president and pleaded for FOOD NOT BOMBS. I put up flyers, and had ‘intellectual discussion’ everywhere I could.

When war was coming, four of us organized a walk-out that got negotiated down to a teach-in at lunch with full use of our high school gym. I went to other teach-ins outside my community; I dragged my friends and ate Vegan cookies on college lawns. For my birthday, my mother bought me a ticket to San Francisco, where I marched with 27,000 others to make the anti-war voice heard.

When the war started, I wasn’t surprised, but I kept my distance from the movement, feeling failure slow me down.

When election time came, I touted the benefits of not voting Bush, fully aware that there wasn’t much to keep him from cheating again, but definitely not expecting him to get a fair win.

When Bush won, I stopped. I no longer cared. Trapped in Orange County, not only did I feel that I was in a minority, but a minority infected with apathy. I became infected as well.

When I woke up, it was February, and I was afraid to continue the fight. I was afraid of failure one more time. I now know why we never protested when I was a child, and why there were no stickers on our car. I can remember my grandmothers face as she watched the injustice she had fought so hard against rise again. In the 60s they believed that they were going to recreate the world in their image, their desperation was that they merely improved it.

When I remembered why I fight, I was listening to an old woman say that “You can’t allow others behavior to change who you are.” I am a believer in respect for life, I am a woman who deserves to be seen (as human, as valid, as beautiful, as powerful, as whatever I want to be). I don’t fight to win, and I’m not planning on recreating the world in my image. I fight to be who I am within My Reality, and in My Reality, WAR FOR PROFIT IS NOT OKAY. The victory is in resistance, and the failure is in apathy. Everything after that is only consequence.