So this just happened: 

While walking the dogs in the neighborhood, I had to cross the street right before getting back in our house because a woman from down the block had let her dogs off the leash for their walk.  Precious isn't so good with other dogs, and I was not in the mood to get between a big ass German Shepard and my Pughuahua, so I crossed the street.  Right as I got to the other side of Springfield, I heard a guy talking to a little girl asking where she lived and trying to get her to calm down.  So the dad in me immediately perked up.  I walked over and found out that the little girl had come out of her "garden" apartment looking for her mom.  She had thought maybe mom was just getting some air, but when she didn’t find her she started to panic, and the door shut behind her—even though her little Chihuahua, Oreo came with her--obviously to be a good guard dog--they ended up both getting locked out.  So this young guy on a low-rider, chromed out bicycle and I started talking with her, trying to keep her calm.  Poor thing was in just a tank-top and her chonies and obviously had been crying. 

After running across the street to get my dogs our house and grab a blanket to keep the little girl warm, I came back out to find her throwing up and the other guy not sure what to do. Having been to this rodeo before, I just kept her hair out of the way and rubbed her back.  We tried to get some information by asking her some basic questions: her name, her age (4), who she lived with (mom and dad), what they did, where they worked, if she knew any of her neighbors (no) and other questions to try and get something useful. .  She tried to tell me her dad’s phone number but could only remember 5 numbers, 

We agonized about getting the police involved, the 17^th District station is just ½ a block down Leland on Pulaski, maybe mom was running to CVS or Walgreens to get medicine for the little girl, we didn’t want to call the cops and then make trouble for this family (and maybe get the little girl in trouble with her family, you never know).  When we said the police though, the little girl started freaking out again, totally not what we wanted.  So we backed off, I showed her pictures of the girls, explained I lived in the brick house on the corner, just making conversation to calm her down.  The little girl then said her dad worked at Home Depot at night and maybe we could call him.  Just as we were going to try and call the two closest Home Depots, mom pulled up.  She had indeed driven the car over to a not so close Walgreens for medicine (because the one on Pulaski and Lawrence didn’t take her insurance).  She was frantic and apologetic.  Luckily this story had a happy ending.

I share this story not to show I’m a great guy or that there are other Good Samaritan’s in Chicago or Albany Park—every city is filled with good people, particularly in mixed-income neighborhoods like mine.  Nor am I trying to paint this mom as irresponsible. But it was clear to me (maybe from being a Sociologist, maybe from just being observant of details), this woman had gotten home from work not long before, and we knew from her daughter that her husband was working overnight at the nearby Home Depot.  Her daughter was sick, and tired, and needed medicine.  She made the choice to roll the dice, and leave her kid in her apartment, probably with instructions to “stay here and wait for mommy.”  This time it went a bit sideways, probably other times it had been ok.

And all this just brought in to focus how lucky Doris and I are, and why we moved back to Chicago.  Danny stays with us, and on nights that he’s not working (or working out), he’s someone who is around for the girls.  And my in-laws are 5 minutes away. My folks are 15. And we have friends and family, dozens of folks really, all within 20 minutes.  AND Gaby is so mature, and composed, and mother hen-ish, I know we can (and have) stepped out to the store or CVS or the Admiral (just kidding!) and left her in charge.  And in Merced, we had not just amazing friends that we could lean on (all within 15 minutes), but also GREAT neighbors who we could have knocked on their door at night for a favor if we needed it.  But not everyone has that extended family, or knows their neighbors, or can afford to go to sitters.com to make sure someone is always with their kid.

So if you have kids, go sneak into their room and give them an extra kiss goodnight (I already have), and if you can, remember to be aware of your surroundings, and try to be a person for others—especially those who most vulnerable and helpless—when you see something out of the ordinary.

Tonight I’m Glad I Don’t Have A Son………

Tonight I’m Glad I Don’t Have A Son………

I haven’t blogged in over a year, not because I haven’t had interesting ideas to riff on, but with the move from California to Chicago, actually having to commute to work, and adding our 4th little one, life has absorbed all my free time and energy and kept me from writing.  

But tonight, I have to write.  

Because for the very first time in my life, I was glad I don’t have a son.

I’m very blessed to have 4 amazing daughters—they all love playing and watching sports, are Star Wars fans, bury their noses in comic books, build with Legos, and love school, especially math and science—and they are so awesome that I've never missed having a boy.  I have always been more than slightly annoyed when people asked if Doris and I would “try for a boy” or “miss having a boy” or any of the other incredibly sexist modes of talking about family composition, not just because I’m a Sociologist, but because I can’t imagine that the gender of a child would make me happier because my girls are so great!!!

But after the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman verdict, I’m actually glad I don’t have a son.  I’m sure some of my more conservative friends (of all races and ethnicity), will think I’m over-reacting.  That I’m living in the moment, getting swept up in the politics, but it’s not that at all.  If you skew more conservative, you might be offended by what I'm going to say, you might think I'm entirely wrong, or you just might not get it.  So be it.  Just try to think about being me, an upper middle class Latino, who has lived in very good to great neighborhoods all his life, enjoyed incredible educational opportunities all his life, but in the end, has often been followed in stores, questioned by police, judged by teachers and peers and strangers, all because of my race/ethnicity.

I say what I did above about not having a son because I don't know how I would talk to my son in the aftermath of this case.  How would I explain to him the verdict?  How would I teach him how to behave in a similar situation?  Because make no mistake, if I had a son, though he could be as light skinned as I am, or my girls are, he could just as likely be as “Filipino Brown” (as Gaby would describe it) as Doris—or darker for that matter.  And he would be walking around predominantly white, middle and upper middle class neighborhoods in Chicago, or Merced, or wherever the Academy might take me next.  And what would I tell him to do if someone started yelling at him, chasing him, wrestling with him?  Be passive? Not fight back?  I've already taught the girls that if someone is trying to hurt them they yell, they scream, they run, they fight!  So why would there be a double standard if I had a son?  Why would I say he shouldn't fight? Because if you get shot, your assailant can say he was afraid for his life, and that's why he shot you?  That you have no right to stand your ground, being a young man of color?

And at 17, as a boy, we’re all knuckleheads and get ourselves into trouble.  I’d love to think my son would never get into a situation where he would have to defend himself, but if there’s one thing that he would have (as I've seen with the girls) it would be a high level of sarcasm, and a mouth that can get you in trouble, and more than likely a pretty strong stubborn streaker, and even quicker temper. 

Beyond that, just like me, he could do stupid things as a teenager.  Hell, there was a time I was hanging with a bunch of guys (who will remain nameless) from St. Ignatius--which is arguably the best High School in Illinois, and certainly Chicago, and carries serious egg-head cred—that certainly was full of dumb decisions.  We were running around Lincoln Park, being loud and stupid and brash and 17.  And at some point, we decided to hop into my Dad’s Mazada 626 to go somewhere, and because one guy was on crutches, and there wasn't much room, we stuck a guy in the trunk of the car.  The damn trunk!!! And of course unbeknownst to us, because we were rabble-rousing all night, the cops had started following us, we got pulled over and a dozen or so cops descended on us.  Imagine their surprise to pop the trunk and find another guy in there!!  We got off with a bunch of warnings and lectures, but we were without a doubt doing more than Trayvon was that night he was shot—wearing a hoodie, walking down the street with an iced tea and Skittles,.

Look, it’s not as if my girls aren't going to have their own issues that are going to be tough to explain—everything from “Mean Girls”, unrealistic body issues from the media/society, date rape, preventing teen pregnancy, workplace gender discrimination, the list goes on and on………it’s what gives me all my grey!

But I’d never say that someone else has more of a right to defend themselves than they do, which this verdict did.

I’d never have to say “a hoodie and your skin tone” could make you a target, which this verdict did.

I’d never have to say “you could get shot and the law really wouldn't care," which this verdict did.

And I know it’s for all the wrong reasons, but after this verdict, I am truly glad that I don’t have son.  A young man of color that I would have to raise in this world, and explain all the hypocrisy and injustice that will descend on him because of the interaction of his race/ethnicity and gender.

To all my friends raising young men of color: good luck, and may you find some words of wisdom to impart to him as he grows to explain situations like this.  I don’t envy your path forward, but I know that you will all try your best to keep this sort of tragedy from befalling him.  And that you probably hugged your sons a little tighter, held them a little closer, kissed them goodnight a little longer, and said that extra prayer for him too.

Where are the quantitative researchers of color?

So Thursday and Friday I was down at UC Irvine, participating as a review panelist for the Sociology Section of the National Academy of Sciences Ford Foundation Fellowship awards.  The job of the 15 panelists was to find the most exemplary research proposals for pre-doctoral, dissertation and post-doctoral levels.  The Fellowships are designed to increase diversity in the academy, as well as teach and do research on diversity, and mentor diverse students.  Anyone is eligible to apply, and receive, the awards regardless of race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, save for that they must be US citizens.  So White students/faculty that are committed to furthering research on issues impacting disadvantaged communities, and committed to working with diverse students can get the award, just as Chicano, African-American, Native-American, or API students/faculty could.  And while the deliberations are confidential, and I cannot comment on the number or distribution of awards, one thing struck the panel as a whole which I can report:  where are the students/faculty of color doing quantitative work?

At the pre-doctoral level, which is aimed at students entering grad school (or in their first or second years of study) it was disheartening to me to see so few proposals looking at questions quantitatively.  And my worry is that we are segregating, intentionally or not, students of color into only one mode of thought:  qualitative.  No doubt this is part because often, the topics students of color want to study seem to lend themselves to qualitative analyses.  But I worry that we are not stimulating and expanding our student’s sociological imagination enough if they can’t think of ways to tackle the myriad of issues addressing minority/disadvantaged groups by using numbers to tell the story.

But I know that there is a second explanation, and it has to do with the pipeline of students of color who are strong in math skills that come to sociology.  I know that on some level I am an exception to the rule:  I was a math/science kid in high school, and even thought I was going to be a physicist when I got to University of Chicago as an undergrad.  My father, though now retired, was an electrical engineer, who taught math as a “hobby”, and pushed me to excel at math to the point of having me take HS math courses (which he taught) on the weekends when I was in middle school [as a side note it’s taken many years of maturation and numerous shots of tequila to realize that was done out of love, not a desire to destroy my social life—love you Papi!]  You don’t have to be in soc of ed to know that even in elite colleges, the number of minority students in STEM majors is low, and that is a result of poor preparation in high school, which is a result of poor training in middle school, etc.

And even for me, after four years of doing qualitative research as an undergrad at Chicago, it was HARD to change my worldview, and grapple with graduate stats courses at Stanford taught by David Grusky and Nancy Tuma.  It took lots of help and support from my friends and TAs, but I managed to get through.  And though I won’t be a quantitative God or Goddess like my cohort mates like Shelley Correll and Emilio Castilla, I’m still probably better than the average Sociologist.

But the point is, I made a VERY conscious decision to go to Stanford to learn quantitative methods, which is something I don't think most students of color do.  And as Richard Pitts at Vanderbilt pointed out, students of color, after 2-3 semesters of getting their ass-kicked in quantitative methods, probably want nothing to do with stats/quantitative methods again.  I think as a discipline, we need to start grappling with how we can prepare students of color so that they can work in the quantitative realm.  And let’s face facts, the major journals and funding streams are biased towards quantitative work.  By not pushing students to learn quantitative methods, and at the very least work in a mixed-methods manner, we are hurting them and ourselves in the realms of publication and grants.

But to be fair, perhaps the Ford Fellowship pool being heavily qualitative is OK too.  The flip side to my point above is that there is less space in journals, and fewer  funding opportunities, for qualitative researchers, Ford provides a safe space qualitative scholars.  A place where qualitative work isn’t just accepted it’s valued. 

Nevertheless, I still think if we want to make the discipline more diverse, and stronger, we need more quantitative voices that are diverse.

Some Thoughts on Coaching and Sports

As many of you know, I am not only a Sociologist, but a soccer coach-having coached at the youth, high school, collegiate, and semi-pro levels.  As both a sports fan, and a coach, this has been a tough week for me.  It started with the horrific allegations from Penn State, about child sexual abuse, and a group of coaches and administrators that turned a blind eye.  Beyond the horrible nature of the crime, what made it worse for me was the role of these coaches.  I have coached since 1991, when I started coaching my younger brother Victor’s Summer League Soccer team for St. Ignatius while I was at University of Chicago.  When we are entrusted students or players as teachers/professors/coaches, there is an unspoken sacred trust.  There is a trust in us that we will not only teach or coach how to be a sociologist or a soccer player, but to help reinforce norms and values, such as hard work, sportsmanship, and doing the right thing.  In addition, as teachers and coaches, we are trusted to ensure the welfare of our students and players—physical, mental, and emotional.  

Those of us that excel at being teachers and coaches create bonds well beyond “I teach, you learn.”  You can create bonds that last a life time, because of how you impact someone’s life. I still keep in contact with many of my former players from when I was at Gunn High School, both as a JV girls coach and a Varsity Boys coach.  Now I get to see my former players and students get married, and some have started having families of their own.  It always touches my heart when they, or their parent(s) or wife/husband/partner comes up to me and says how important I was in their lives.  In part, it’s because we often have “kids” when they are at there at their most vulnerable.  Certainly when I had them in high school, that is a time of emotional turmoil, with all the drama high school entails, then combined with the highs and lows of success (or failure) both on the field and in the classroom.  I always tell me wife, and my former players, that what I miss the most are those times before practice or on the bus rides and at meals after games.  When you sit around, and shoot the shit, bonding over stories of the game, or loves lost, or movie scenes.  You bond as a team, you grow as a family, you give of yourself, and you trust that the person across from you won’t share the story inappropriately or use it down the line to hurt you.

So to hear what Sandusky did, and what Penn State didn’t do, it violated that sacred trust and unsworn (but implicit) oath that we all take as teachers and coaches, to always protects those in our charge.  What’s more I can’t, and probably will never, understand how given what Mike McCreary saw and told to Joe Paterno, that they could let Jerry Sandusky continue to walk around campus, in and out of practices, and work with an organization, The Second Mile, that was all about interaction with disadvantaged youths.  These are kids that are perhaps the most vulnerable due to their family life and living situations.  These are kids that need protection from what they might see on a regular basis in their neighborhoods and the cruelties of society.  

As teachers and coaches we often are VERY protective of our players/students—sometimes it’s from the opponent, other times from their teammates and friends, and often from themselves.  I think those young men and women that played for me always knew I would do anything to protect them, to take care of them, to help them.  Whether it’s getting a ref to protect my players from elbows and dangerous tackles, to helping with homework (hey I was working on my PhD at Stanford after all), to talking about what was going on at home or with boyfriends and girlfriends, I was always there to watch out for them. So how those coaches could let a young boy get assaulted in their locker room, and not follow up is unfathomable to me.  Their inaction cost who knows how many other boys their childhood by becoming victims of Jerry Sandusky.

This brings me to today.  What happened today is not nearly as bad as what happened at Penn State, but it perhaps disturbed me more.  My oldest daughter Gaby plays soccer, and I am the assistant coach.  We had lost our first game of the season early this morning, and they had a second game this afternoon.  I was looking forward to seeing how the girls bounced back from their first adversity.  Much to their credit they played hard, played as a team, and had fun—all the things you want from a group of U-8 girls.  However, the win was sullied by the other coach.  Her behavior was not acceptable.  First at half time she game over and claimed that our team had said something to their keeper (who it turns out was her daughter) when they scored.  Something along the lines of “you’re not good”.  Ok, the head coach and I said, but it sounded odd, because we don’t’ have that sort of team and those sorts of girls.  We asked the girls if they said anything when they scored the first couple of goals, and they said no, and we just reminded them to not say anything to the other team.  As an aside, we’ve been the target of a bunch of comments from the other team (and a few parents) because we’d won every game up to this morning, usually in the 4 or 5 to nothing range.

So at any rate, coach’s daughter comes out of the goal to play on the field in the second half, and she is a terror.  Elbows, pushing, tripping, stomping around, she is just not a good sport.  At the end of the game, one of our best players doesn’t shake her hand, which isn’t the right thing.  But the other coach decides that she is going to grab my player, stick a finger in her face and start yelling at her.  There are a couple of problems here.  First, you NEVER touch another team’s player/persons kid.  Unless it’s a situation where someone could get hurt, that is out of bonds.  Second, there is no reason to stick your finger in an 8 year olds face and start yelling at her.  So we shake everyone else’s hand and then the other coach gets in our faces.  As that is starting to rev up, over comes my player’s dad, with his daughter crying.  He’s pissed because this woman yelled in his daughter’s face, and she’s bawling, and I need to get in front of him to try and slow him down before he gets too close to the coach.  Eventually we get things settled down, my player shakes hands with the opponent, everyone walks away, and I try to defuse things by giving out the post-game snack of Gatorade and chocolate chip filled rice Krispy treats.

But I get home, and I can’t get the event out of my head.  In 20 years of coaching, I’ve never touched another player, aside from helping them up or shaking their hand post match.  I’ve never said anything to another team’s player except for when they popped off at me first, and I generally told them to play the game (although with High School boys my language might have been a bit more, shall we say, colorful).  And in all my time doing youth soccer camps and teams, I have never yelled at a kid, much less grabbed them, put my finger in their face, and start berating them.

This woman exemplifies all the worst thing about “sports parents” and “bad coaches”.  Its people like her that drive parents and kids away from organized sports in particular, and athletic endeavors in general.  They fail to see that they serve as a role model and example for their kids and team.  What this woman fails to comprehend is that their behavior then becomes the template for their kids and players.  It’s no wonder that her daughter thought it was okay to literally push other kids (including Gaby).  Teams take on the personality of their coach, and though it may seem cliché it is nonetheless true.  My teams at Gunn (and every other team I’ve coached) played defense hard, but not dirty; they worked hard, but smart; they were good winners, and gracious (though grudging) losers; they protected their teammates, but never looked to injure the other team; and they always trusted their teammates and coach.

But just as I was writing this Gaby came up to me to find out what I was doing.  I told her I was writing about the game, and how I didn’t like what the other coach and her daughter did.  I then said “I didn’t like how she pushed you down”.  Gaby’s reply “its ok (shrugging shoulders).  I didn’t get hurt.  Plus we got a free kick and Daisy scored.”  That certainly brightened my mood a bit.  Always good to see that an almost-seven-year-old has her priorities better than a 30-something parent and coach.

¡Hola! What's up world?!!?

So this is my first foray into blogging.  I've been thinking about this for quite some time, as I'm constantly posting long rants, raves, explanations, opinions and ideas on Facebook, as well as holding court with my students, monopolizing the time of my friends and colleagues at UC Merced, and slowly driving my wife and kids insane because I just talk too much :-)

I don't aim for every post to be controversial, thought provoking or even educational or enlightening.  Though my goal is that many of them will have some or all of the above elements, it is, quite selfishly, a way to get me writing more.  As a nontenured faculty member, it's publish or perish.  And to publish, you HAVE to write.  So sometimes my posts will just be a way for me to get the writing flowing from my head onto the screen/page.  Some posts will be on things I've dwelt on for a long time.  Some will be instantaneous reactions.

As to the name, well the second part, Simón, is my name obviously.  Born of a Venezuelan father who idolized the El Gran Libertador, I was named after Bolivar.  So needless to say I have A LOT to live up to with my name.  However, in Chicana/o slang (known as Caló--y sabes que loco, yo soy muy  malo), is used as a substitute for "hell yeah" or "right on".  Orale, also has much the same meaning.  So you could read the blog title as saying "yeah, right on" or "Hell yeah Simón" which is what I think will be many of your reactions.  But even if it's not, I hope you enjoy the read.  And of course, feel free to comment, send the link to your friends and family, and make this a place where we can share thoughts and ideas, jokes and fun, and help each other understand everything from the dynamics of protest in the United States, to the diversity of Latinos, to why Barcelona is the best soccer team in the world, or why Chicago style pizza is the best!!

I'll end with this quote from William Penn:  "A true friend freely, advises justly, assists readily, adventures boldly, takes all patiently, defends courageously and continues a friend unchangeably"

I look forward to our bold adventures together

c/s

Simón