Dear Mr. Michaan:

I am writing to urge you to stop showing “Olympus Has Fallen” immediately for several reasons. You have taken courageous stances on many progressive issues and supported especially important causes, yet this film counters those values. Here’s how:

1. The film is approximately 70% extreme violence. After Newtown, Aurora, etc., the public has to wean itself off violent entertainment. Research shows that there is a strong connection between violent media portrayals and violent behavior. Here is just one of many examples of the research. According to L. Rowell Huesmann, Institute for Social Research, University of Michigan, and Laramie D. Taylor, Communication Department, University of California, Davis,[1]

“Media violence poses a threat to public health inasmuch as it leads to an increase in real-world violence and aggression. Research shows that fictional television and film violence contribute to both a short-term and a long-term increase in aggression and violence in young viewers.”

2. North Korea is saber-rattling right now, making threats against the USA. Fear-mongering movies that stir up rabid patriotism can lead to ignorant and irresponsible calls for warfare. That is the last thing we need when non-military diplomacy should be on the table instead.

3. I believe movies like this can lead to racial bias; in this case it could be against Koreans or Asians in general. While the plot includes an American insider, the vast weight of the story focuses on North Korean invading terrorists. Yes, the whole plot is absurd and people should know better, but they don’t.

Thanks in advance for considering this request. I welcome a response.

Respectfully,

Leanne Grossman

Grand Lake Theatre patron and Oakland resident

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A grandmother protesting cuts at rally in San Mateo, California

Achievements like this take place every day throughout adult schools in California. The fate of these students and 350,000 to 400,000 more  currently rests in the hands of state legislators. They are already utilizing policies that allow school districts to take money from adult education and move it to K-12 schools—in short, robbing Peter to pay Paul

Many adult students are immigrants. One of the biggest complaints about immigrants is that immigrants are a drain on society. Yet when they talk about their goals, whether they are from Mexico or Latin America, Turkey, Pakistan, the Philippines or China, participating fully in society is at the top of their lists. Getting a job, voting and paying taxes is far more likely to happen if they can learn to speak English, get a GED and/or gain vocational skills.

At the rally, several mothers held up handmade signs with their messages, “Please we need adult school to support next generation.” Half of all children in California have at least one immigrant parent.

Lizzi Arena and her daughter Alexa took the podium. Having never finished high school, Lizzi decided after 26 years to get her GED. She succeeded, inspiring Alexa to enroll and earn her high school diploma. Alexa had dropped out of regular public high school after a bombing there traumatized her.

Oscar Espinoza feels indebted to San Mateo Adult School. He explained how hard he studied in English class, then got a job and returned later to acquire technical skills. That landed him a better job in facilities maintenance. The 2010 census showedthe differential in mean income between high school dropouts and high school graduates as $10,000, a critical jump in an unforgiving economy.

Parents, workers & seniors fighting more cuts to adult education

A few other young men I spoke with who attend adult school in nearby Redwood City are obtaining their GEDs determined to get jobs and help their families. Are they unusual? Not at all. Five million Californian adults don’t have high school diplomas.

So why have so many adult education programs in California already been slashed? And why are more devastating cuts being planned?

Technically it’s due to a 2008 state provision that allows cities to take money from adult education and put it into children’s education.

In reality, the assault on adult education is like the cuts in all social services. The California Budget Project reported in 2011, “Over the past three decades, the cost of funding state services has shifted from corporations to personal income tax filers.” Major institutions including well-endowed universities and large corporations pay insufficient or no state taxes even though they reap large profits and benefits from doing business here. The same report stated, “The most costly corporate tax credit is the Research and Development Credit. In 2008, 2,483 corporations claimed $1.2 billion in R&D credits, an average of $497,197 per firm.”

Many adult education cuts have already occurred. Oakland’s program has been eviscerated. Once serving 25,000 adults, it now serves only about 1,000 people annually.

Student protesting cuts in adult education

The L.A. Board of Education voted earlier this year to ax adult education altogether. But local teachers and students wouldn’t have it. Two hundred  thousand people readily signed a petition and protested the move using a diverse array of actions. They wouldn’t let up until the decision was finally modified. It is still not clear what portion of the L.A. program will continue. Matthew Kogan, chair of the California Teachers Association Adult Ed Caucus who was a key organizer in the reversal explains why the cuts make no sense. “A good economy is based on good paychecks. And good paychecks come from good jobs. . . You get good jobs through good education.”

The absurdity of such shortsighted decisions to cut adult education is this. Legislators are trying to balance the budget, right? It only costs $500 per student annually to provide adult education classes. Yet it costs $47,000 annually to house a prisoner. I am not suggesting a link between the two. I am saying that our state legislators have priorities all messed up.

So why do they have their heads in the sand? I suggest you write your legislators and find out. Or simply tell them how you feel about the necessity of adult education. Finally, Patricia Brown, a veteran teacher of 17 years at San Mateo Adult School and the local AFT union president recommends a strong yes vote on Governor Brown’s budget initiative in the fall elections, which raises additional revenue by increasing the tax rate on those making $250,000 or more a year for seven years. It also raises revenue by making us pay ¼ cent more tax on purchases. The unions negotiated that rate down from ½ cent. Leveling the playing field between the wealthy and the rest of us is a step in the right direction. If this initiative does not pass, adult education will definitely be eliminated.

Patricia Brown, veteran teacher, addresses crowd

Note: Since the rally, the “weighted student formula,” which would, in effect, eliminate funding for California adult schools altogether, has been taken off the table. While this is great news, assistant director of San Mateo Adult School, Tim Doyle, pointed out before the latest decision, “Even if it [the weighted student formula] doesn’t go through in this particular budget proposal, it will come back again….Without dedicated funding, we’re gone.”

Middle keyhole canyon

In the Land of “127 Hours”

I was standing on the edge of a narrow canyon called Middle Keyhole in Zion National Park, a cold waterway behind me, a 25-foot drop ahead of me. My heart was pumping at full pace now. It had started beating faster the moment we arrived at Zion Adventure Company to pick up our voluminous canyoneering equipment.

My friend Lanell was showing me how to hook up the gear that could save my life “if anything happens.” I connected the rope to the metal piranha, the tool that helps slow descent, and clamped the piranha to my harness. I told myself that what I was about to do was completely voluntary—step backwards off a high cliff into the freezing waters below.

So began the 60^th birthday trip I’d planned for my friend Tom. Anyone in their twenties would likely have considered this ordinary recreation. But at our age it felt like an extreme sport. It was the first of three exhilarating adventures that we took on over the next week. No “staycations” for us.

I looked directly at Lanell’s confident smile to stem the fear of my first rappel ever. I was too scared to look down, although you’d think it would have been a good idea to figure out how deep my descent was going to be. But why make myself even more afraid?

After all, I had only recently overcome my first desire to quit, which occurred when we had to suit up 30 minutes earlier.

First, layers of shirts, sweaters and jeans. Second, dry suit. Third, outer suit to protect the expensive dry suit. Fourth, Neoprene booties, special industrial rubber shoes. Finally, harness and helmet. Whew!

By the time we got everything on, I was sweating like a sprinter. The gear made me so thick I could barely take a step. “Lanell, are you sure we need all this?”

Lanell in gear

“The water is really cold in the canyon. You’ll freeze otherwise.” Twenty years my junior, Lanell has always been a close friend and peer. At this moment, I couldn’t imagine being cold, but I did trust her, and she was the experienced one, not me. I accepted my sweaty fate.

“Ok, Le, you’re ready!” Lanell shouted over the sounds of the waterfall. “Don’t forget to unhook your safety line.”Ready? She had to be kidding. I’m about as ready as an agoraphobe entering Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

I grabbed the blue rope with both hands at just the right point—never above the piranha, where a searing rope burn can make you feel like the real fish just ate your hand—but below it.

“Remember to lean  into your butt and straighten your legs.”

Reminder to self: I want to do this. Tom had just completed his first rappel moments earlier. There was no way I was going to let him outdo me. Besides, there was no going back. It’s not the same as rock climbing where you can go up or down. Once you’re down the cliff in canyoneering, you can’t scale back up.

I followed Lanell’s commands. In a flash, the waterfall was spraying my face as I took my first few steps down the vertical wall. Awesome! My body leaned sideways over the rock face to get out of the unplanned shower. I was rappelling! Suddenly I felt free and powerful, loving this phenomenal natural wonder from the inside out. The cool sandstone walls surrounded me on all sides.

“Woo-hoo!” I shouted all the way down. At the bottom, I leaned back into the water hole. The cold water seeped through the protection I wore. Buoyed by the bloated dry bag inside my special canyoneer’s knapsack, I quickly unhooked the ropes from my gear, yelled “Off rope!” and joined Tom on a large log lodged inside the canyon.

Relieved, proud and exhilarated, we watched Lanell make her skilled descent in less than a minute. She recovered the ropes

Stemming down canyon. Photo by Lanell Dike

for our next rappel and then showed us how to stem. Stemming is a technique where you move yourself along the walls by inching your body laterally down canyon without using your feet to touch the bottom. The three of us continued swimming, walking, rappelling and stemming our way down the remainder of the canyon.

The freezing cold water turned my feet and hands numb. Obviously I needed the gear. Adrenaline, mixed with a sense of triumph and joy, kept us moving down the ravine despite the temperature. We wound through the sandstone chasm, which looked like an inspired Paiute artist had painted swirls over the walls in adobe and auburn earth tones. Turning a bend in the canyon revealed more natural art, as exquisite as what we’d seen in the preceding hollow.

Small patches of blue sky peeked over the waterway. After three hours, the canyon walls grew shorter. Full light now shined overhead at the end of the ravine. Zion’s magnificent 150-million-year-old mountain peaks reappeared.

We all waddled back to the car looking like Michelin men. Saturated with water, the gear had become twice as heavy. We readily stripped down to our first layer.

Day one’s adventure had ended. I was ready for the next thrill.

Danger Lurks

While Lanell went back to work, we planned the next adventure, a three-day backpacking trip. We made our “wanna-see” list: bighorn sheep, hummingbirds, elk, cougars, falcons, rabbits, coyotes. We started at the East Rim trail of Zion National Park and headed west toward Weeping Rock. I bolted ahead while Tom slowed down to meditate. Stunning 6,500-foot cliffs and canyons of multi-colored sandstone lined the trail.

I waited for Tom at a waterfall that spilled spring snowmelt down a sheer drop into Jolly Gulch. I couldn’t figure out what was jolly about it. It was so steep my stomach churned when I looked out over the raw edge, which I only did after gaining a good grip on a well-rooted Ponderosa pine.

Globemallow

Over the next ten miles, the late spring decorated the landscape with freshly blooming flowers. Carmine paintbrush burst out of cracks between the rocks. Bright white angel trumpets hid their devilish poison within. Even the magenta petals of the prickly pear were just beginning to show. I had never before seen so many flowers in a desert landscape.

We bedded down at dusk surrounded by a manzanita grove, inadvertently displacing a couple of brown desert cottontails when we landed. Elk tracks made deep grooves in ground softened by melted snow. Too tired to light our cook stove, we dined on dry turkey sandwiches and went to bed. Sleeping out in the open air chilled me throughout the night. I was too lazy to get up and put on extra layers or set up the tent. The consolation prize: seeing hundreds of constellations shining over our secluded campsite, impossible to observe in the city.

I awoke the next morning to the cheerful sounds of several different birdsongs, from the flicker’s drumbeat, “dtid, dtid, dtid” to the Clark nuthatch’s “enh, enh, enh.” I even heard the original “tweet, tweet, tweet,” but I couldn’t tell you who sang that.

Later, we hiked down to a spring, which fed the emerald meadow where we lunched and tossed a Frisbie. We played our favorite word game too. Our travel Scrabble goes everywhere we go, even the outback.

Since the sun was already beginning to set, we hiked some more, looking for that night’s “bedroom,” and found a spot away from the trail. We decided to make dinner cliff-side to enjoy the spectacular vista of Echo Canyon as sunset transformed it into a natural light show. Just as Tom primed the pump of the cook stove, a loud cough came from the opposite side of the canyon.

We looked across the eighty-yard gorge, and there, to our amazement was a cougar bounding out of the forest into a meadow. Then another one. We instantly froze, awestruck. When they came to a stand of trees the smaller one rolled over like a kitten.

Cougar meadow across canyon

The big cougar was much larger than I would have expected. Her fur was a ravishing auburn in the afternoon light and appeared soft as silk. Her black-tipped tail extended almost the full length of her body. Black markings adorned the tawny fur of the yearling. After a quarter hour relaxing in a stand of trees, the animals gamboled out in the direction from which they came. I know it sounds corny, but I felt at one with the world around me. This was a double treat—watching two of the most secretive and solitary predators in the world—together in their own habitat—and not on Animal Planet.

Tom and I didn’t think the pair had seen us, and we were relieved they didn’t head toward the beginning of the canyon where they could have picked up our scent. The largest cat in North America, with excellent smell and vision, a cougar (also known as a mountain lion or puma) will kill its prey by grabbing it with giant front claws, then crush the windpipe or the back of the neck with a long-toothed canine bite. Rather than inviting trouble, we played it safe and chose not to call olfactory attention to ourselves by cooking the beefy sausages we craved. Instead, we boiled some freeze-dried meatless chili and sprinkled it with beef jerky, followed by trail mix for dessert.

The next morning I spotted a large deer in the exact spot the cats had visited the evening before. They evidently hunted there regularly. A female cougar kills about 9,400 pounds of prey a year. That’s about one deer or sheep a week. After its first meal of the victim, the predator covers the kill with leaves and twigs to hide it for later dining pleasure.

After we hiked out the next day we were excited about letting the rangers at the visitor center know about our wild animal sighting. Apparently, this was the first one of the season. An estimated 42 pairs of cougars live in the park. Mating season can be anytime, but a breeding pair only stays together for two weeks.

We told lots of people—shuttle drivers, rangers, visitors—who were all insanely jealous. “I’ve been working in the park 21 years and still never seen a cougar,” exclaimed Paul, the park volunteer who greets visitors daily at the front gate. He had recommended the East Rim to us in the first place. A few days later, when we “let it slip” at the rangers desk that we had seen two cats, a ranger said, “Oh you’re the lucky ones who saw the cougars!” It seemed that we were gradually attaining celebrity status.

Down for Anything

On our last day in Springdale, the town that borders the park, Lanell took us dry canyoneering. Tom and I cheered the chance to rappel without having to wear a fat wad of gear.

We headed to the Kolob Plateau where sandstone cliffs of all sizes and shapes form a multi-colored backdrop to the verdant

Kolob Plateau

meadows below. Once we hiked through a dry creek-bed to the starting point, Lanell gave a repeat lesson in how to attach our gear properly. We now wore only a harness and a helmet. We practiced from a 20-foot cliff. All three rappels went smoothly.

Now it was on to the high cliffs. My heart began to beat loudly once again. We climbed up the side of a mountain, under an arch and onto a rock outcropping. Lanell rigged up some extra ropes and loops due to the exposed dropoff. Hmmmm, should I be doing this if it requires extra ropes? Well, Lanell didn’t want to die either, I reasoned.

Tom was first up. I was too scared to get close enough to the edge to take pictures of him rappelling. Lanell snapped away, standing out on the ledge as if she were simply tying her shoes on flat ground.

Tom made it down easily and released the rope. Lanell called me over from the level rock where I was waiting. Fear rose up and encircled me. This drop was eighty feet.

I stepped forward and hooked up my ropes per protocol. I heard myself say, Just do it! But I argued back, Are you crazy? I wish I’d had a premonition of what was coming, but I didn’t. I began the rappel.

The rope was taut. It would barely move through the line. Well, better tight than loose. If it were loose, I’d go flying to the bottom with a thud. I descended slowly, complaining up to Lanell, “I can’t move the rope to let myself down.” She kept saying, “Put your right hand on your auto-block (a clump of rope wrapped around the line that affects the speed of descent).

“I’m trying, but I can’t!” The rope is getting shorter and tighter.

I began to panic. “This is so damn hard,” I cried.

“I know, sweetie, but you’re doing great.”

She knew how hard it was because she had been in guide training all year. Her voice encouraged me, but maybe something was actually wrong with my gear and she just didn’t realize it.

“I can’t do it!”

“You’re okay.”

Okay? No, I was not okay. I was dangling on a swing in the middle of the goddamn canyon. My heart was in my throat now. I did not have the strength to overcome the taut friction on the line. I began to laugh and cry simultaneously. It was like I was outside myself laughing at the whole crazy thing. But I was also fearful on the inside that I had lost control.

Tom was trying to encourage me from below; Lanell from above. I knew they weren’t going to abandon me and go home for the night. But I really had no idea how I would get out of the predicament. I kept trying to release the rope—to no avail.

“You’re okay. Relax and breathe,” Lanell said, not an ounce of doubt in her voice.

All right. I had to stop fighting the line. I relaxed a bit. I was suspended, but I realized the rope was definitely holding me just like a toddler in a baby swing at the local park. It gave me a chance to regroup upstairs, in my head. I tried moving the rope again. No luck.

A canyon wren flew around me singing a beautiful sweet song. I laughed at her freedom and compared it to my “stuckness.” I took it as a hint to stop trying so hard.

Somehow, someway, I found the strength to push the rope through the autoblock. Errrrrrnh! I descended two inches.

I did it again. Errrrrrrrrnh, I groaned. Slow progress. After ten long minutes, moving a few inches at a time, I made it to the ground. Thank goodness.

Lanell descended easily once again. While Lanell and Tom released and gathered the ropes, I clambered down to the next rappel point. This next descent had a scrambling option where you could use your hands and feet to climb down while the rope still held you. Lanell had determined that the scary problem I had was too much friction on my line. She gave me an extender to compensate.

I went first and got down quickly. Piece of cake. Yeah! I had overcome my self-doubt and fear, the biggest obstacles of all. Tom and Lanell each followed.

On that trip I found a new identity: Adventure Boomer. Now I feel like I can do anything. My 60th birthday is coming up soon. How shall I celebrate? Hmmm. Maybe I’ll go skydiving.

Springdale park sculpture

Trinidad at Progressive Grounds

So I enter Progressive Grounds café in the San Francisco Mission district for a reading from “Love, InshAllah, the Secret Love Lives of  American Muslim Women,” when a bird walks in. Not just any old bird, but a blue and gold macaw. It sits down, well, perches, on the top of a chair. His owner sits in the chair next to him. They’re hanging out like they’re at home, which, actually is an upstairs apartment. They come here often.

Well, this bird, named Trinidad, is gorgeous. I mean drop dead gorgeous. His turquoise wings are so intense you are inclined to stare, and his yellow feathers so brilliant they could blind the sun.

The bird’s person orders an ice cream cone, imported from Mitchell’s, about a mile away (yea! the café is keepin’ it local). The bird turns around a few times, facing out the side door he had entered to check out what’s going on in the street. He turns back around to face the counter when it suits him. At the top of his lungs, he goes “Screeeeeech!” A man brushes by him as he enters the café. Apparently Trinidad doesn’t like men. His owner, who did not wish to share his own name, is an obvious exception.

In a little while, Trinidad starts bobbing his head up and down, up and down. His person says Trinidad is dancing to the jazzy music playing in the coffee house. Maybe his enjoyment contributes to his long life. Trinidad is already 25 years old and macaws can live up to 40, 50, even 90 years.

I can only imagine what goes on upstairs where no doubt he “rules the roost,” because downstairs, he seems to get what he wants. He eyes the ice cream cone. In time, he leans in and uses his thick black tongue to taste it. He seems unphased although it’s pretty different from the non-dairy diet his few brethren remaining in the rainforest consume: nuts, seeds and fruits. In case you were wondering, cacao beans are toxic to macaws.

Native to South America I can’t say whether or not such a phenomenal creature should be domesticated. But I can say that Trinidad does not have clipped wings, can fly wherever he wants and is not chained to his person in any way. A macaw characteristic, loyalty (in this case to a human), may explain it. Or maybe he just can’t find ice cream in the forest.

When I left I drank my coffee at the outdoor table. The young man was talking with two other store patrons at other tables. As they discussed political issues, I could see he was clearly intelligent and articulate. My feelings shifted. He started to become more human to me. He went from someone I subtly, but self-consciously, shunned to someone I understood. He went from a street beggar to a man in need. At one moment I saw him as a pitiful person whose situation made me have to decide in a guilty split-second whether or not giving money to him would “reinforce his behavior.” The next moment he had become a human being who was simply looking for a bit of help in the only way he could.

I now wanted to help him, but I had charged my purchase and had no cash. I was planning to go to Trader Joe’s across the street anyway. I told him I was going over there and asked if he wanted a sandwich. “Yes, no tomatoes,” he replied. His comment may have humanized him to me even more than anything else. Once I could see he was just a guy with likes and dislikes, preferences and tastes, another superficial layer of separation I had created between us vanished.

I went to the store and returned with the food. I explained, “There were no regular sandwiches so I got you a wrap.” He thanked me. Then I walked home.

Last night I saw a young man on “America’s Got Talent” who performed a phenomenal dance. He had been living on the streets for two years. He was so passionate about dance that he was only surviving with tips he collected performing on the street. This guy really moved the judges, the audience and me.

It’s only today that I realize the two guys are not all that different from each other. Both survived with a bit of help from the community around them—it’s just that one got the lucky break that millions of others won’t.

I learned in my mind a long time ago that there’s no place for judgment. I’m still working on teaching that lesson to my heart.

Van Jones reclaims the word patriotism, taking it back from what he calls “cheap patriots” who spend their time tearing down what we’ve fought for in education, equality and full participation by all sectors of society. Van invokes the rights inherent in the Declaration of Independence—that liberty and justice belong to everyone. Thomas Jefferson’s words are precisely what the extreme Right, the “cheap patriots,” do not believe in.

For those who also follow Van’s professional path as one of the country’s leading progressive thinkers and activists, he uses the book’s prologue to reflect on the period when he served as a Special Advisor to the Obama White House and was fiercely and falsely attacked by Glenn Beck, after which Van chose to resign. He openly shares the pain he endured facing these unexpected assaults on his character. Then he courageously emerges, blasting hope back into the movement.

Van Jones could have written an entire book to tell that fateful story, but in his inimitably selfless way, he uses the experience to take a step back and review the past decade, examining what has gone right and wrong for progressives and the president since he was elected. He explains how the Tea Party movement and later the Occupy Movement stepped into the vacuum left when Obama essentially abandoned the savvy campaign organization built by his base. Van also takes a careful look at the economic mistakes of the Obama administration, outlining some tenets of a “shareable economy.”

Some fellow activists may be disappointed to find that Jones is now pro-capitalism, enthusiastic about using its innovative and productive side, rather than its exploitative and corrupt side, to rebuild the dream for the common good: green jobs, schools that work, support for entrepreneurship, etc. If I have a disagreement, it’s about his need to reiterate twice, “We are the greatest country in the world.” Who says? Why must there be a “greatest country?” Why perpetuate the arrogance that makes other countries despise us? That’s the only place where Van sounds just like a politician.

He posits that the 99% are now acting in leaderless swarms, which are flexible, can attract media and raise the issues and outrages of our

Grid, p. 113, Rebuild the Dream

time without being pinned down by the building of hierarchical organizations. Yet he is clear that organizations (he has co-founded four successful progressive organizations himself) are still essential to put pressure on and engage in the electoral system locally and nationally. He also adds, “The 99% can do more than just lead protests and teach-ins. It can also help people meet their daily needs together.” In fact, that’s what Occupy Oakland did all along.

I found the book compelling, thought-provoking and inspiring. Many of us have been seeking this giant dose of leadership to keep us moving forward. If you believe in social change, you need this book. Call your independent bookstore and order it right away.

—Beatriz Leyva-Cutler, Co-Chair, CLF; Executive Director, BAHIA

October 15, 2011: An eight-piece mariachi band with its traditional blend of guitars, horns and violins trumpeted the beginning of the Chicana/Latina Foundation’s annual celebration. Dressed in shiny midnight blue costumes adorned with embroidered white flowers, the band welcomed scholarship recipients and their families, supporters, board members and staff. They delivered a classic Mexican sound. But one thing stood out. All the musicians were young women— and all of them had graduated from college or were currently enrolled.

The choice of Orgullo Mexicano Mariachi Femenil to start off the evening was not only about great, culturally rooted entertainment, but also served as a symbol of the vital importance of education. Every year since 1977, CLF has awarded scholarships to young, smart, talented Chicanas and Latinas to advance their education. The cost of college tuition in the U.S. has increased by over 900 percent since 1978. This year more students applied for the scholarships then ever before. And this year, due to the commitment of supporters and the dedication of staff, more women received awards than ever before.

If you ask a recipient of the competitive CLF scholarship how much she values the $1,500 award she won, she’ll

Proud recipients just after receiving their scholarship awards

likely tell you it helps cover her rent, buy textbooks or pay for transportation to school. Ask her how she finds the entire experience of being a CLF scholarship recipient and she’ll tell you it’s amazing, empowering, indescribable. In other words, priceless.

All of the recipients have endured tremendous hardship to get to this point in their lives. I had a chance to meet some of the 41 ambitious awardees at the celebration. Let me introduce you.

Lisa Stanley, a CLF awardee

Meet Lisa Stanley. A part-time worker and full-time student in business accounting at Folsom Lake College, Lisa lost herself when she got addicted to drugs, was in an abusive relationship and became homeless. She has been clean for more than two and a half years and is reunited with her children. But her Mexican grandmother suffers from dementia and can’t pass on the traditions of her heritage.

The CLF scholarship has helped Lisa find her roots and her potential by providing a multi-generational community of hardworking Latinas to share their skills and their stories. Lisa is determined to become a CPA and give back to the communities that have helped her shape her recovery.

Meet Luz Contreras. When she was growing up, her family only went to see a doctor when they got really sick. Her mom couldn’t take off work to bring them and they had no money or insurance to cover medical visits. “Even at a young age that made such an impression on me. . . . My passion is to go into primary care so that I can care for those who need it: those that look like me, those that don’t, those who can’t get quality health care because the doctors they see don’t understand them or their culture or where they come from.” Hers is not only a passion, but a dream in progress. In college, Luz volunteered at two clinics serving uninsured, underserved African-American and Latino communities. Now she is in medical school at UC Davis poised to graduate in 2014.

The Leadership Institute for Awardees

In addition to the financial award, scholarship recipients participate in a one-year program to acquire multi-dimensional training at the CLF leadership institute. This is where they develop a network, share their challenges and receive guidance from Latina professionals from a variety of fields, including the arts.

Being mentored by older generations of Latina leaders in North America is an essential part of the institute’s program. Ortensia Lopez, Board Treasurer and Executive Director of El Concilio of San Mateo County, is a 34-year veteran of CLF. Her advice to scholarship recipients comes from decades of experience as a community leader. “Research what you want to do. Make sure it’s aligned with your vision, your philosophy and your values.”

Values play a significant role at the leadership institute. CLF believes in the integrative development of each student. The program offers useful skills building such as understanding public policy and learning how to be

Awardees embracing Olga Talamante, CLF's Executive Director

an effective public speaker. But it also offers the intangibles such as defining and defending one’s values. A vital part of each woman’s personal development is making cultural connections—recognizing and telling her own story and those of her mother, aunt and grandmother. This well-rounded experience is part of what the scholarship recipients cherish.

The value of human rights and equality for all is vital to the very identity of the Chicana/Latina Foundation itself. It’s not news that the Latino community, with macho influences, has not always been open to strong societal roles for women or for gay people. Yet CLF ensures that people of any sexual orientation can proudly stand up as who they are, not just at the galas where outstanding students who are lesbians may be invited to speak, but in all programs and activities. The CLF promotes much more than tolerance. It promotes genuine human understanding. In fact,  the Foundation’s Executive Director, Olga Talamante, is well-known for her courageous advocacy on behalf of a multitude of civil rights causes.

When a scholarship recipient is interviewed by a panel, it is understood that the students are expected to become leaders and give back to society. All of them are already active volunteers in charities and social movements. When their year is up, they can join the alumni group, eventually mentor and educate the next generation, and provide their time and skills to the Latino community and beyond.

Latina Leaders Deliver Lessons

Rebeca Rangel, Senior Vice President, Community Affairs, Bank of the West, gave concrete advice to the scholarship recipients when she came up to the podium to receive the Emerging Leaders Award. It included how important it is for them to develop their intellectual horsepower by being curious and staying abreast of the news. She added, “Don’t distract from your intellect with low necklines or high hemlines. It’s not worth it. You’re building a brand.”

The notion of “brand” didn’t even exist when Rebeca’s predecessors were students. What else is different for Latinas in today’s world? Lopez had this to say, “When I was growing up, we were very poor and we didn’t have everything, but I’d come home every day and my mother was there to greet me and hug me and let me know I was loved. . . . [Today] The challenges of economics for families to stay alive means there are fewer parents at home to help raise the children.”

Research indicates that more Latinas are transferring to and graduating from four-year colleges. Some are getting Ph.Ds. But significant gaps still exist between Latinos and whites. Why does Chicana and Latina education and advancement matter?

Keynote speaker Catherine Sandoval is the California PUC's first Latina commissioner.

Keynote speaker Catherine Sandoval offered her perspective as the recipient of the CLF’s Legacy Award. A law professor, Sandoval is the first Latina to serve on the California Public Utilities Commission. She grew up in East Los Angeles, first in a trailer, then her family moved “up” to the barrio and lived in apartment housing. Her influence as a commissioner derives from her background, her ethics and her education. She graduated magna cum laude from Yale University, obtained her J.D. at Stanford and then became a Rhodes scholar.

Sandoval noted that most CPUC policies have historically been targeted at homeowners, yet 54% of state residents live in apartments. “How are we going to create policies that are effective, efficient and available to a broad variety of Californians and reflect the diversity of our needs: economic, geographic, demographic, linguistic . . .?” Without someone like Sandoval asserting the need to address complex questions like this with a comprehensive approach, a wide swath of residents would not be represented in public policy.

On related policy issues, many people in the room, disappointed by the Congressional rejection of the Federal Dream Act in 2011, for which they had lobbied, worked hard to pass the California Dream Act, which Governor Brown signed October 8, 2011.

The California law provides federal Pell grants to students, including the undocumented, on a merit basis. Far narrower than the original Dream Act, the state act still reaches only 33 percent of AB40 (undocumented) students. Guadalupe Gallegos-Diaz, CLF Co-Chair and a former scholarship recipient, explained that on campuses like U.C. Berkeley where she works, discussions are taking place to change the requirements of the Act to allow students with a 3.0 average to benefit from the law, which will reach more AB540 students who lack the networks and opportunities to get financial aid that are available to other students.

The evening drew to a close with people dancing to the music of a young Latin jazz trio. The transition of the music from traditional to contemporary seemed to reflect what the evening was all about—a timeless moment in which a diverse community of women and men, led by the Chicana/Latina Foundation, support students to accept the baton. And where a community of young women welcomes the rich experience and wisdom of their mentors to celebrate the future—a future they promise to lead with integrity.

Leanne A. Grossman is a freelance writer based in Oakland, California. (Leanne@portfolio-of-passions.com)

Organic farm with veggies & flowers

Rainforest Action Network is organizing the first ever day of action to Occupy Our Food Supply by targeting Cargill, Inc. “With annual revenues of over $119 billion . . .  Cargill is the world’s largest trader of grains, the largest privately held corporation and one of a very small handful of agribusiness giants . . . shaping the increasingly globalized food system to their advantage.Operating in more than 66 countries, Cargill . . . is owned by the McMillan-Cargill family, making them the richest family in America.” [From RAN fact sheet on Cargill, Inc.]

After you call Cargill’s CEO today to voice your opposition or join an event near you, here are some additional ways to occupy your food supply.

1. Eat organically. Eating organically is like practicing preventive medicine.It can be cheaper if you take into account the true costs of eating food poisoned with pesticides and fertilizers. What you would pay in health care costs from food-borne illnesses or cancer can be exorbitant, and add to that the emotional toll and lost wages.

2. Grow organic. If you’ve got the yard, plant veggies and fruits. My next door neighbor has occupied every square inch of his backyard with beds, more than enough to feed himself  and his family.

3. Consume sustainable poultry. “Happy chickens” are healthier. Those that get to roam around (read free-range) and eat organic food have it better than those living in a too-tight coop under an 18-hour light bulb, which STRESSES them out. My neighbor’s three chickens alternate egg-laying naturally.

4. If you can’t grow a lot, grow a little. I grow herbs that have nearly rocketed my cooking to top chef level. Ask my friends.

5. If you don’t have space or time to grow it, buy it from local farmers, not Safeway. Local farmers grow seasonal vegetables and fruits. which provides a well-rounded diet and saves energy: less fuel to bring goods to market. Do we really need apples from New Zealand?!?

6. Eat lower on the food chain. It can help you live longer. Too much beef clogs your arteries with fat. Greens are just better for you. And rainforests are being cut down to make way for cattle grazing. That’s an irreversible problem.

7. Not sure what you’re eating? You can always check Pesticide Action Network’s database to find out if the stuff on your food is dangerous or not. PAN tells us that of more than  “80,000 chemicals in use today, most have never been tested for efficacy or safety.”

8. Make your own cookies. Then you can leave out the palm oil—the massive use and planting of palms by corporate cookie monsters is shredding rainforests and ruining livelihoods in Indonesia, not to mention the habitat of the endangered Borneo orangutan. Another example of agri-business pretending something is cheaper because they don’t account for the costs of its terrible consequences.

The bottom line: Even if you can’t taste the methyl iodide on your strawberries, it can still poison you. You don’t fumigate your kitchen, why let agri-business fumigate your produce?