Monday, August 9, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
At 23, Alicia Parlette, was diagnosed with cancer. At the time, she was an intern that became a copy editor for the S.F. Chronicle. She passed away yesterday.
Here's a link to her series.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Friday, April 24, 2009
"You know," the person said, "If someone in our newsroom got sick, nobody would help out, nobody would visit that person. It's not like the police or firemen who take care of their own. It's just not like that here."
Right now the daily newspaper industry is going through seismic changes. Storied newspapers that have served communities for decades, sometimes more than a century, have gone under. The reasons why are complicated and I don't want to write a treatise on the demise of daily newspapers. Save it for the media fellows in institutions and universities across the country.
We had another round of layoffs this week. The fourth, maybe fifth, round since I arrived.
It's been hard on everyone. Unified is not a word I would use to describe my newsroom.
Nearly two years ago I discovered the tumor in my testicle. Before we could conclusively say I had cancer, I had to go into the hospital to remove my testicle and wait for the results of the biopsy. The surgery had me laid out for two weeks.
At the time I had barely reached my eligibility for health care at the Arizona Daily Star. After all, I had been there about nine months. I didn't have much time accrued for sick days off.
So my colleagues -- reporters, editors, staff and even the publisher -- pooled their resources together and helped me out. People donated their sick days. The human resources staff tweaked my paperwork to make sure everything was covered by health care. People called. People wrote. People visited me. Gifts were sent.
Everyone helped me. There's a lot of people I still need to thank in person. There are people to which I will forever be grateful. Words will never be enough.
With all the changes in this industry and all the desperation at the Daily News, I started thinking about my friends at the Daily Star.
Thank you. Sincerely.
Thanks for helping me. And thank you, years later, for being an example of a newsroom that helps its own.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I dont know why. I figured, thats the way he would have wanted it. Don't worry about...would something he'd say. I try not to. Following David's death, I spoke at this funeral. I didnt hold back...I said God Damn in church. Thats how david was...God Damn this and God damn that. Made me smile when i told a story how he used that little phrase for just about everything. Thats who he was. As happy as i was to see my grandpa pass on...let me back up a bit and clarify. When he went into the hospital, I sort of knew he wasnt coming back home. And he didint. He spent the last few weeks of his life in a hospital and a convalescent home. He kept asking when am i coming home. I knew, well, i figured, he just wanted to come home and die. I was happy because he didnt have to deal with all the god damn things anymore. He was at peace...
I dont talk about it much.
I wish i can say all is well. But with a death of a family figure head often leads to the down fall of ones family. Mine is no different. Slowly it seems, the fam has said f it all. And im in a agreement. Death often brings out the worse in folks, allowing them to say and do things that they normally wouldnt fathom. I stopped paying attention. Since my grandfather's death, ive done whatever normal person does...dives into work. Since November ive been working none stop. Ive volunteered for every project that has come up...sending me to the more seedier sides of LA County, Las Vegas, the IE, and i think SF...soon. Working damn near 12 plus hours a day...with zero end in stop. Life has been one thing after another...Since ive started writing this, (see first sentence), worked till 9 or so, grew more grey hair, sat in a at least 15 meetings, nodded off a few times, and asked some guy if he was a federalie...He have me an odd look.
In the end of it all...ive seem to have found Lety. My friend Josh Levy said, "you look happy." Brook and Omar say, I glow. I do. She makes me happy...and ive fallen in love. I dont want to sound like...all buttercups and hearts and shit. I'll end this here...
More to come...
Monday, March 9, 2009
Here's a special one from Roberto Rodriguez.
Something from Neto Portillo, Jr., a friend and fellow reporter from the Arizona Daily Star.
And lastly this one by Olga Briseno, who remembers Consuelo alongside Cesar Chavez and Lorraine Lee.
I have to be honest. It still shakes me to come across virtual altars or memorials to her in social networking sites like myspace and facebook.
We all carry her forward in our own way.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Francisco "on stage" at the Brujo's home. The woman to his right is trained opera singer and the dude with the guitar played a handful of huapangos (argueably). That's Rafa on bass guitar....
brujo [broo'-ho], m. Sorcerer, conjurer, wizard, warlock, a male witch, (LAm.) Medicine mn.
lujo [loo'-ho] m. Profuseness, extravagance or excess in pomp, dresses, far, etc.: superfluity. luxury, finery. Vivir en el lujo, to live in luxury.
from Velazquez Spanish and English Dictionary
"Disculpame, pero, como aprender a ser un brujo," I asked the man sitting to my right.
He just looked me in the eyes, stood up and walked away.
In my broken Spanish I asked the brujo de lujo how he became a witch doctor.
I guess the answer wasn't mine to know -- maybe not yet -- but I asked.
We met on my second day in Mexico City in the afternoon following my morning visit to El Tepeyac.
Just the day before, Francisco, Nacho and Rafa were telling me about the Brujo. Francisco wanted the guy to see me.
"He's also a cancer survivor, so he understands," Francisco added during our meal at Don Chon's.
So an appointment was made.
We took the metro and then walked into what seemed like an upper class neighborhood. It was a gated-community. Amid clusters of apartment buildings that could have been in any city, we entered the lobby of his practice.
There were about 50 people sitting in a waiting room that was more comfortable than any waiting room created by Kaiser Permanente. Most people were watching television on one of the multiple plasma screens. A friendly woman took us back into a small, private waiting room.
Nacho joked saying it was for "veeps."
It was a smaller lounge. About five people -- what looked like immediate relatives -- were already waiting there. There were couches and magazines. Art of western scenes and photographs of indigenous ceremonies hung from the wall. It was very comfortable. In fact, from the waiting room, we had access to a small outside patio, or garden, where one could retreat for a smoke.
While we waited, I grabbed a brochure and looked closely. In Spanish the text offered answers to frequent questions from customers.
It said the brujo only worked three days a week because the work was tiring. It also explained that people with grave illness or visitors from the country-side, or in my case, outside of the country, were given preference to other visitors that day, even if there is an appointment.
When my name was called, I entered a small office -- no more than 56 square feet. Inside was just a desk and three seats.
I met a man wearing grey silk slacks, a sweater and a collared shirt. His skin was cafe colored and his eyes were brown. His hair was cut short. In all honesty, he had the appearance of banker dressed in business casual attire.
For this occasion, Francisco served as my translator, though I understood some of the brujo's questions and was able to respond.
He already knew I was a cancer survivor. He asked what I did for a living?
"Soy un reportero, un periodista," I responded.
Then he shut off the lights and the office plunged into total darkness. To my left, a handheld light, like a maglight, went on, and suddenly was infront of my right eye.
El Brujo was examining my iris. Then he did the same with the other.
He offered an explanation as to why my cancer appeared. He warned if I didn't take care, it could return. Then he prescribed a diet and regimen of teas that I would have to take for two months. I am a cancer survivor, he told me, and I would need to take care of myself for the rest of my life.
The following evening, we went to a party at his home.
As we arrived, it seemed like the Brujo did well for himself. The garage was capable of housing five cars comfortably. His home had another garden patio, though much larger -- the size of a yard in a small southern californian suburban home.
The party was held in honor of Francisco. But it became clear pretty quickly that Francisco was a captive of his own party as he was expected to play and entertain.
As we ascended the stairs from the garage into a small room, we found four folding chairs up against a wall, each with a microphone and mic-boom stand in front of it. The mics were run into a p.a. system.
The p.a. didn't make any sense as the room was small -- no more than 200 square feet, including a small kitchen.
In front of the mics, with about three feet distance, were two video cameras. Another camera was set up in an adjacent hallway. Actually, it wasn't just a camera. It was a camera boom that extended about ten feet.
Francisco just sighed at the site. We had arrived late to this and there wasn't even any food available. I laughed in delight, saying I'd end up in the footnote of some award-winning documentary that draws hundreds of thousands to theaters across Western Europe. He just smiled.
About 45 minutes later, Francisco, Miguel and I sat down together to perform about four son jarocho songs -- El Pajaro Cu, El Jarabe Loco con decimas, La Indita and El Colas.
"So this is what it takes to play with you?" I joked. "Get out of the country."
Across from us -- the entertainment -- sat about six people in benches and chairs with soft cushions. El Brujo was one of them. He just sat and stared as we played.
While we played, the "stage" was "dressed." In the middle of our first song, some one placed a crystal vase of towering water lillies in front of us. Then speaker towers were placed to our right and left, to act as columns to support more vases of more flowers.
Two photographers snapped away while the video cameras ran.
I couldn't help from laughing at the obsurdity of the whole situation.
Some time after midnight, I found myself next to El Brujo. I told him he had a nice home and he said to me visitors weren't allowed in the library. Then I posed my question, hoping to learn about his training. He looked into my eyes, stood up and walked away.
Later I saw him speaking with Francisco.
As the party came to an end sometime after one a.m., we embraced goodbye. El Brujo looked at me and said in Spanish we would speak in two months.
The next day Francisco said he asked the Brujo about me.
"He said you were in much better health than he expected. He said what ever you're doing is great and to continue," Francisco recalled.
I have a cup of the Brujo's tea sitting next to my laptop right now.