MS-13: The Making of America's Most Notorious Gang by Steven Dudley My rating: 5 of 5 stars The power of Steven Dudley's MS13: The Making of America's Most Notorious Gang, comes from its exhaustively researched truth-telling. In an era when journalists and investigative reporters are routinely negated, wished away by spontaneous tweets, and branded as "fake news" by anyone who is inconvenienced by facts, Dudley's work is a refreshing return to a reality formed by truthful reporting. The author does not instruct us on who we should accept, celebrate or condemn; instead, he places his readers squarely in the center of a richly populated, and very real, world, where we must make sense of things ourselves.Thanks to Dudley's skills, both as a tireless research scholar and deft writer, MS13 is a book full of well-drawn characters -- real people on all sides of the difficult questions posed by gangs -- their horrific causes, as well as the terrible consequences wreaked by their existence. In an age when truth seems to have been foresworn in deference to sound bites and tweets, Steven Dudley's book is a welcome return to thoughtful examination of one of society's most pressing questions: What are the factors that cause the tragic transformation of people's lives into an existence of crime, violence, and desperation, which, in turn, tears at society's remaining fabric? More importantly -- or at least more immediately -- we the readers of this impressive work must take this truth and put it to use. We must do what we can to affect change that will, it is hoped, prevent the desperate cycle of violence from repeating itself indefinitely. View all my reviews

Love in the Time of Corona: Update Thirteen: My Dear Ole Alma Mater

 I recently came across an op-ed piece written by an administrator at Syracuse University on the school's website.  In no uncertain terms, he admonishes a group of students who convened on the Quad -- the very location where my well-spent tuition helped me develop a movie-star tan and a kick-ass Frisbee forehand -- in some, presumably, non-social-distanced behavior. 

Once I was done cycling through my appropriately adult reaction of being Shocked and Appalled, I fell into my annoying tendency toward Deanna-Troi-caliber hyper-empathy, as I tried to understand the "thinking" behind what happened that night at my Ole Alma Mater.

A few reference points popped to mind:  my own freshman year experience, of course, and the unabashed sense of independence and elation that  flowed through me at 18 years of age.  I thought also of my niece, whose freshman year at Cornell was cut short last year by the pandemic.  Additionally, I revisited an incident at the high school where I work here in the suburbs of Austin, Texas, that took place just last week.

Much like the esteemed vice chancellor, I was tasked by my principal to respond to an online call to students to gather for a "Senior Sunset," where kids would convene in our student parking lot, and watch the sun go down on the eve of their first day of virtual instruction as 12th graders.

I was more fortunate than Vice Chancellor Haynie, in that I received my intel before the event in question and was able to prevent it with one phone call to the young lady who posted the invite (under her actual name) and her mom.  No investigation, no scrolling through grainy surveillance footage.  Just the conversation, in which I acknowledged the need all people have -- especially young people -- to come together and be social, and then added my final pearl of administrative wisdom:  The sooner we're able to abide by these restrictions, the more quickly we'll get back to "normal."

That worked.  The student posted a cancellation, and the Senior Sunset never happened.  And here's what that unprecedented exchange left me with:  Young people are told "These are your salad days.  You're only young once.  It doesn't get any better than this."  They want to live it up and make the kinds of memories they hear their boomer dad spouting about as they flip burgers and gulp Lite beer at the grill in their Psychedelic Furs and "Kiss the Chef" aprons.  Meanwhile, they're also hearing, "How sad, that this generation will be deprived of these experiences."

Don't get me wrong here:  I'm not excusing the students who participated in this latest shit-show of Trump-era "humanity."  Had one of the revelers been my child, I'd have pulled them out and found a better way to invest $80K a year in a hot second.  But the fuel that caused this fire was the internet.  All it took was one 18 year old, a bong hit, and a decent wifi signal -- one child (let's be honest) who thought, "I wonder how many people would show up if...."

Back in my day, it would have been me and maybe four or five other idiots (some of whom are reading this now, I'm sure) lying in the grass, giggling up at the stars.  Now, it's a full-scale health crisis that leaves us all wondering how the hell we're ever going to get out of this horror.

Love in the Time of Corona: Update Twelve: FDoS

 (That stands for "First Day of School")

I've got to admit it -- I'm "SMH," as they say, at the fact that I am still writing posts under the Love in the Time of Corona heading, five months after I started.

Feeling compelled to reach out to all of those teachers who are freaking out right now, and, by the way, I'm not using the term to minimize what they're going through.  The freak-out is real.  And justified.  

Today marks a very different first day of school.  It is like previous First Days, in that many of us had sleepless nights last night.  This time, however, that sleeplessness had a slightly different flavor.  Instead of the "butterflies" of trying to picture that faceless group of young people, adding their excitement, anticipation, and straight-up fear to yours, as they fill up the classroom you've worked so hard to prepare, the emotion has shifted somewhat, along with the rest of our planet and our lives.

Although it's been almost twenty years since I was last in charge of a classroom full of high-schoolers, I recall the anxiety dreams I'd have leading up to Day One -- everything from having no chalk (yes, chalk) to having no clothes.  But this year, the year we've been asked to learn a brand new Learning Management System (LMS) for a group of students with whom we could conceivably never actually (as opposed to -- that word again -- "virtually") meet, by people who barely seem to understand how the LMS works themselves, I have only the following words of "wisdom" to offer:

My mantra, as always, is, "SCHOOL WILL HAPPEN."  It's up to each of us if we want it to happen to us, or for us.

POST SCRIPT - End of the Day Update for the Chicken Littles among us:

DF:  Look up.  What do you see?

CL:  I see the sky.

DF: And?

CL: And what?

DF: Is it falling?

CL: Ha ha.  Very funny.

DF: It's not, is it?

CL: No.  No, it's not.

That's right my friends and colleagues:  We will get through this.  One way or another, we will get it done.

The author, alias "COVI-Dan," in his office, ready as he'll ever be....

Love in the Time of Corona: Update 11

Sunday, July 19, 2020 (Day Three of Solitary)

Being confined to a room in one's house is a fascinating experience.  The family check in on me from time to time, Diego less so.  At 17, he seems put out by everything and everyone most of the time, including me and my annoying COVID scare.  Jackson and I even watched a movie "together" last night (me on my makeshift bed in the office and he on the living room couch).

I'm really only "quasi-" or "semi-" isolated, and have noticed restrictions loosening as the dirty dishes pile up.  (It's good to be needed...)

But seriously, I do place value on limiting contact until the lab results are in.

Yesterday, I spent some time working on our family "Emergency Binder."  I printed out a form for our memorial preferences, and realized a few things, in real time, about myself as I filled one out.  One is that I don't want to be buried, I want to be cremated.  Another is I don't want any of my end-of-life stuff to happen in Texas.  I started in New York, and I want to finish my current adventure there, as well.  I want everyone to gather in the Union Church in Pocantico Hills, surrounded by Marc Chagall's stained glass windows for my memorial service.  And whether they allow it or not, I want my ashes to be scattered in the Cherry Esplanade at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, where I sat on a bench in the rain with a beautiful young woman who is now my wife.  I'd never met anyone who made getting rained on seem like such an amazingly pleasant experience.

I also realized I want an old friend, Nate Dudley, to preside over my memorial.  He knows what I'm about, comes from a good spiritual and political place, and can officiate in both English and Spanish, a necessity, since approximately fifty percent of my loved ones are Spanish speakers.  When I texted him we promptly had a FaceTime conversation, and caught up after many years.  We asked after each other's families, compared notes on what opening our respective school systems might look like, until I finally, nervously asked the question I had originally texted him about.

Elder Dudley's answer to my entreaty was perfect:  "Very honored by your request.  Thank you.  But let's make a date in 30 years.  2050 sounds good."

Sounds good to me too, Nato.  Sounds good to me too.  

Old pal, and church elder, Nate Dudley, with his two greatest creations 

Love in the Time of Corona: Update 10

Saturday, July 18, 2020

(Day Two of Solitary Confinement)

Slept poorly last night in my new cell.  Too quiet without the rhythmic din of my bride's snoring.  I tried all the usual remedies -- reading, meditation, "self-care," but nothing worked.

Everything about this is upside-down.  Having to wear a mask and gloves when I venture out of the office is one strange part of it.  But the oddest piece, and one I admit I failed to anticipate, is that I'm unable to touch anyone.  I've developed, it seems, an almost physical dependence on the touch of my loved ones -- the feel of my wife's lips on mine, the hearty fist-bumps of my teenage sons, and even the solace of watching my dog fall comfortably asleep as I stroke her soft, stinky coat.  (Yes, the instructions they gave me at the testing site included "Do not handle household pets.")

My deepest sadness comes from realizing, early on, that the vast majority of those 600,000 people who have died of this disease have done so without the comforting hands of loved ones holding theirs.  When it's time for me to go -- and I'm confident it won't be for a long time -- this is all I ask.  I don't need to b e surrounded by six Vestal Virgins, waiting to show me the way to paradise.  I don't even need a holy person, reading last rites.  All I'll want when my day comes is the feel of a familiar hand, the sound of a familiar voice telling me it's okay for me to move on to my next adventure.

Sometimes you have to let the dark thoughts come

Love in the Time of Corona: Update 9

Friday, July 17, 2020:  Solitary Confinement, Day One

The first of these updates came to me on March 10, so if I consider that my "Day One," today is Day 129 of thinking seriously about this virus.  In fact, the thinking I've done today is the most serious I've done so far.  This morning, after my usual cup of black coffee, I began being bothered by a pain in my left side.  It intensified and became a full-on cramp, and just as quickly, and out of nowhere, I was kneeling in my bathroom, heaving the few contents of my stomach into the toilet.  J. had to leave for work -- a temp job as a bilingual social worker helping refer people for COVID services -- and suggested I try a bath with Epsom salts.

I took her advice, but found no relief.  When she called to check in, the cramps were even worse.

"Get dressed," she said.  "I'll find out where you can get tested."

I had sweated through the t-shirt I'd put on after my bath, and the thought that this could be the coronavirus sent me into a bona fide panic.

"Please don't let me have it, please don't let me have it, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die."

I muttered this mantra quietly but aloud, in the privacy of my bathroom.

Then I remembered my children.  And I became strong.  For them.  I refused to allow my fear to become theirs, so I calmed my breathing and told my older son Diego I was going for a quick checkup and that I'd be right back.

I got the nasal test -- a very long swab sent in through the nostril and down the passage and held there for about ten seconds.

And now I wait three to five days for my result.  I'm feeling much better and still have no fever; however I've moved into my home office, where I'll be in isolation, at least until we get the news, assuming it comes up negative.  Obviously, if it's positive, my isolation will continue for the prescribed 14 days.  

I'm confident I don't have the virus, and am staying optimistic, while staying isolated.

My fingers are crossed, my spirits are high, and I'll keep everyone posted....

The author, in Solitary, Day One

Love in the Time of Corona, Update Eight: The Resurgence

Image Credit:  Fortune Magazine

My state -- adopted state, I should say -- of Texas is now in the news, along with several others, due to a disturbing surge in the number of cases of Coronavirus.  Simultaneously, my native state of New York, after having spent weeks as the hellish epicenter of this pandemic, seems to be a making a nice recovery.  I only hope they can sustain it, or at least hold on for as long as it takes the scientists to come up with a vaccine for the damn thing.

Why the spike in cases here?  Many are second-guessing the governor, saying he re-opened too quickly.  Others almost seem to blame the "Come and Take It," rugged individualism attitude they perceive Texans to have.  As one friend in New York jokingly said to me on the phone recently, "What is it with you people? First it's 'you can't take my guns,' and now it's 'you can't make me wear a mask.'"

If I had to pick one or the other of these two theories, I'd be more likely to pick the former, just based on my own personal experience.  The people I see when I'm out shopping seem to be using an abundance of caution, as far as masks and social distancing are concerned.

However...upon saying that...I recall that just after Governor Greg Abbott reopened the state, I did see a noticeable, if brief, rise in the number of shoppers without masks.  Apparently, that may have been enough to cause this frightening "spike" we're currently in.  So I suppose the correct answer to my multiple choice question on why we are in this predicament might just be "(c) All of the above."

Most recently, Abbott has tightened things back up.  While not fully "locking down," he has put restrictions back on bar and restaurant owners, who were already suffering.  

I feel for them, and for all of us.  Even the most reclusive among us are longing for things to go "back to normal."  (Though I don't think "normal" will ever look the same again.)

But as Brooklyn's own infectious disease expert Tony Fauci put it, the best and fastest way to do that is by continuing to stay home as much as possible, and to maintain social distance and wear masks in those instances when necessity forces us to venture out into this scary, new world.