“I was on a leadership team in 5th grade. At the end of the year we were supposed to take a trip to Washington DC. We held fundraisers and everything. But when it was time to go, I didn’t have the identification papers to buy a plane ticket. So our teacher Ms. Rivera decided that we’d take a bus. Just so I could go too. That trip changed my life. It made me want to be a lawyer. And Ms. Rivera became one of the closest people in my life. She always kept in touch. She basically watched me grow up. One time in high school I got in a huge fight with my mom, and Ms. Rivera came and took me on a long car ride. I started to tell her everything. I told her about a recent break-up, and how I smoked weed, and ‘I did this,’ and ‘I did that.’ She just listened to everything. Then she started telling me about her life too. She told me that she’d been in an abusive relationship. I’d always thought her life was perfect because she was a guidance counselor. But she’d been through so much too. When it was came time to apply for college, Ms. Rivera was the one who helped me apply for DACA. She told me about the TheDream.us scholarship. I didn’t even want to apply. I was ready to give up. I’d just accepted that I’d always work in restaurants like my mom. But Ms. Rivera made me apply. She said: ‘What happened to that girl who wanted to be a lawyer?’ I learned that I got the scholarship in February. They’re paying for my entire college. Ms. Rivera was so proud of me. She kept saying: ‘I told you so.’”
“I was on a leadership team in 5th grade. At the end of the year we were supposed to take a trip to Washington DC. We held fundraisers and everything. But when it was time to go, I didn’t have the identification papers to buy a plane ticket. So our teacher Ms. Rivera decided that we’d take a bus. Just so I could go too. That trip changed my life. It made me want to be a lawyer. And Ms. Rivera became one of the closest people in my life. She always kept in touch. She basically watched me grow up. One time in high school I got in a huge fight with my mom, and Ms. Rivera came and took me on a long car ride. I started to tell her everything. I told her about a recent break-up, and how I smoked weed, and ‘I did this,’ and ‘I did that.’ She just listened to everything. Then she started telling me about her life too. She told me that she’d been in an abusive relationship. I’d always thought her life was perfect because she was a guidance counselor. But she’d been through so much too. When it was came time to apply for college, Ms. Rivera was the one who helped me apply for DACA. She told me about the TheDream.us scholarship. I didn’t even want to apply. I was ready to give up. I’d just accepted that I’d always work in restaurants like my mom. But Ms. Rivera made me apply. She said: ‘What happened to that girl who wanted to be a lawyer?’ I learned that I got the scholarship in February. They’re paying for my entire college. Ms. Rivera was so proud of me. She kept saying: ‘I told you so.’”
Coming quick at you, all the help that had been sent to my Island, is apparently on hold. Also the U.S. won’t open the borders so other countries can send aid and Trump is tweeting about it’s our fault. Puerto Rico has been an U.S. territory since 1898 and to this day we have no control of what comes through our borders because of The Jones Act.
You wanna help Puerto Rico? Call your Representative and your Senators and tell them to waive/repeal/ban The Jones Act.
We need to reconstruct and rise up again, not to be dragged while we’re down. We don’t need to be reminded of the country’s debt when there are towns that can’t be reached almost 7 days after Hurricane Maria, when power is still out and there’s no running water and communications are down. We don’t fucking need some inept talking about our debt, instead of opening the borders so doctors and engineers come and help, so other countries nearby can come and bring provisions too. So roads can be open and people can be helped.
Again, you wanna help? Call your Representative and your Senators and tell them to waive/ban/repeal The Jones Act.
Sometimes we feel powerless. This doesn’t have to be one of those times.
There are 3.5 million people in Puerto Rico (Americans, not that it matters) with limited or no access to potable water. And there’s a law called the Jones Act that is impeding supplies from getting through.
The law says that ships going between US ports must be built in America, sailed by Americans, and fly the American flag. Problem is, only two percent of all the world’s cargo is carried by compliant ships. And most of those are off somewhere else.
President Trump can waive the Act to allow foreign vessels to dock. He waived it after hurricanes Harvey and Irma. He needs to do it again.
Please call your representatives and have them demand a waiver for Puerto Rico. Here’s how:
1. Call the Capitol switchboard at 202-224-3121 and follow the prompts to reach your Senator/Congress Member.
2. Read the script below, filling in the blanks with your information.
“Hi, my name is [NAME], I am a voting constituent living in [CITY/TOWN] and my zip code is [ZIP CODE].
I’m calling to urgently request that [YOUR SENATOR / CONGRESS MEMBER’S NAME] please call DHS to demand an immediate waiver of the Jones Act so that additional rescue and relief resources can get to Puerto Rico.
The destruction caused in Puerto Rico by Hurricane Maria has been significant, comparable in scale to Katrina. The federal government’s response needs to be increased immediately. We cannot allow a Caribbean “Katrina” to unfold. The safety of 3.5 million U.S. citizens is at stake.
Coming quick at you, all the help that had been sent to my Island, is apparently on hold. Also the U.S. won’t open the borders so other countries can send aid and Trump is tweeting about it’s our fault. Puerto Rico has been an U.S. territory since 1898 and to this day we have no control of what comes through our borders because of The Jones Act.
You wanna help Puerto Rico? Call your Representative and your Senators and tell them to waive/repeal/ban The Jones Act.
We need to reconstruct and rise up again, not to be dragged while we’re down. We don’t need to be reminded of the country’s debt when there are towns that can’t be reached almost 7 days after Hurricane Maria, when power is still out and there’s no running water and communications are down. We don’t fucking need some inept talking about our debt, instead of opening the borders so doctors and engineers come and help, so other countries nearby can come and bring provisions too. So roads can be open and people can be helped.
Again, you wanna help? Call your Representative and your Senators and tell them to waive/ban/repeal The Jones Act.
Sometimes we feel powerless. This doesn’t have to be one of those times.
There are 3.5 million people in Puerto Rico (Americans, not that it matters) with limited or no access to potable water. And there’s a law called the Jones Act that is impeding supplies from getting through.
The law says that ships going between US ports must be built in America, sailed by Americans, and fly the American flag. Problem is, only two percent of all the world’s cargo is carried by compliant ships. And most of those are off somewhere else.
President Trump can waive the Act to allow foreign vessels to dock. He waived it after hurricanes Harvey and Irma. He needs to do it again.
Please call your representatives and have them demand a waiver for Puerto Rico. Here’s how:
1. Call the Capitol switchboard at 202-224-3121 and follow the prompts to reach your Senator/Congress Member.
2. Read the script below, filling in the blanks with your information.
“Hi, my name is [NAME], I am a voting constituent living in [CITY/TOWN] and my zip code is [ZIP CODE].
I’m calling to urgently request that [YOUR SENATOR / CONGRESS MEMBER’S NAME] please call DHS to demand an immediate waiver of the Jones Act so that additional rescue and relief resources can get to Puerto Rico.
The destruction caused in Puerto Rico by Hurricane Maria has been significant, comparable in scale to Katrina. The federal government’s response needs to be increased immediately. We cannot allow a Caribbean “Katrina” to unfold. The safety of 3.5 million U.S. citizens is at stake.
“I was just a year old when my family came from Ecuador. My parents were always open with me about it. Even from a young age. I was lucky that way– a lot of undocumented kids don’t find out the truth until they’re much older. Their parents never tell them because they want them to feel normal. So the kids grow up thinking that they’re 100 percent American. Then they try to study abroad, or apply to colleges, and they find out they don’t have the papers. And it hits them hard. It’s like they’ve got to figure themselves out all over again. They learn that they aren’t a part of the culture they grew up in. And they start to feel a sense of shame. Nobody ever talks about it. They’re too afraid. I certainly never told anyone. That’s why DACA was so interesting. It gave us the smallest amount of safety. People started to step out of the shadows, and say ‘I’m here.’ We began to find each other. Now there’s a community. And we’re speaking out together. We grew up in this culture. We grew up with the same kids as everyone else. This is our home.”
“I was just a year old when my family came from Ecuador. My parents were always open with me about it. Even from a young age. I was lucky that way– a lot of undocumented kids don’t find out the truth until they’re much older. Their parents never tell them because they want them to feel normal. So the kids grow up thinking that they’re 100 percent American. Then they try to study abroad, or apply to colleges, and they find out they don’t have the papers. And it hits them hard. It’s like they’ve got to figure themselves out all over again. They learn that they aren’t a part of the culture they grew up in. And they start to feel a sense of shame. Nobody ever talks about it. They’re too afraid. I certainly never told anyone. That’s why DACA was so interesting. It gave us the smallest amount of safety. People started to step out of the shadows, and say ‘I’m here.’ We began to find each other. Now there’s a community. And we’re speaking out together. We grew up in this culture. We grew up with the same kids as everyone else. This is our home.”
“This is bullshit, this right here. It’s melancholy sad-rad bullshit.”
Brynne kept talking and Gina listened to the sound of a toilet flushing upstairs. A real whoosh. They lived on the third and highest floor of an old building near Stanford and the walls were thin enough. It sounded like jumping into the pipes to freedom.
“And this,” said Brynne, gesturing to Gina, sitting on the ground, “this doesn’t help. You need to do something. We can go for a walk, we can take an Uber to the hills. We live in the best place, surrounded by everything we need. How can you be this way?”
The floorboards were polished and new, perfectly aligned, with no creaks or cracks to offend Brynne. He wouldn’t live in a place unless it was newly remodeled. When Gina rubbed her hand on a spot next to her, it felt cold, smooth, and slightly ribbed, for her pleasure, so she smiled.
“You don’t care about you, but I do,” said Brynne. “You think it’s funny that I care so much.”
She continued to look at the window. Its glass was streaked from weeks of alternating rain and dust deposits. That was how animals and people became preserved in the ground. Layers and layers, one after another, like a cake, or pages in a book. Each layer had something to say. The oldest, if they weren’t washed away, spoke volumes.
“God! I hate this shit. We’re adults and I feel like I’m a dad yelling at his kid.” Brynne walked away and slipped into his Nikes. “I can’t be here right now,” and he left.
The door was a heavy wood, perhaps old like the building, but sanded and polished like everything in the apartment. It thudded when he emphasized his exit. There was only one lock above the door handle and Brynne had the original key for it, given to them by the building manager. Gina had a spare key that they had made at the Home Depot. They were shopping for shelves.
She stood up and walked to the window. Brynne was waiting on the sidewalk, staring down at his phone. She lingered there and watched until a car appeared and took Brynne away.
Gina pulled a tin out of the drawer chest in her closet and rolled a spliff. The window opened to a quiet street where not much happened, except people, bikes, and cars passing, and she sat on the sill for a while. The bikes were her favorite part of the street. Many students passed and they were younger than her, but not by much, really. She would throw on her own Nikes and walk downstairs later in the morning, then walk down the way, past the quiet streets, by the RVs and vans parked on the road. Sometimes she chatted with people who lived in them, but not always, only if they wanted to talk and the air smelled friendly.
“This is bullshit, this right here. It’s melancholy sad-rad bullshit.”
Brynne kept talking and Gina listened to the sound of a toilet flushing upstairs. A real whoosh. They lived on the third and highest floor of an old building near Stanford and the walls were thin enough. It sounded like jumping into the pipes to freedom.
“And this,” said Brynne, gesturing to Gina, sitting on the ground, “this doesn’t help. You need to do something. We can go for a walk, we can take an Uber to the hills. We live in the best place, surrounded by everything we need. How can you be this way?”
The floorboards were polished and new, perfectly aligned, with no creaks or cracks to offend Brynne. He wouldn’t live in a place unless it was newly remodeled. When Gina rubbed her hand on a spot next to her, it felt cold, smooth, and slightly ribbed, for her pleasure, so she smiled.
“You don’t care about you, but I do,” said Brynne. “You think it’s funny that I care so much.”
She continued to look at the window. Its glass was streaked from weeks of alternating rain and dust deposits. That was how animals and people became preserved in the ground. Layers and layers, one after another, like a cake, or pages in a book. Each layer had something to say. The oldest, if they weren’t washed away, spoke volumes.
“God! I hate this shit. We’re adults and I feel like I’m a dad yelling at his kid.” Brynne walked away and slipped into his Nikes. “I can’t be here right now,” and he left.
The door was a heavy wood, perhaps old like the building, but sanded and polished like everything in the apartment. It thudded when he emphasized his exit. There was only one lock above the door handle and Brynne had the original key for it, given to them by the building manager. Gina had a spare key that they had made at the Home Depot. They were shopping for shelves.
She stood up and walked to the window. Brynne was waiting on the sidewalk, staring down at his phone. She lingered there and watched until a car appeared and took Brynne away.
Gina pulled a tin out of the drawer chest in her closet and rolled a spliff. The window opened to a quiet street where not much happened, except people, bikes, and cars passing, and she sat on the sill for a while. The bikes were her favorite part of the street. Many students passed and they were younger than her, but not by much, really. She would throw on her own Nikes and walk downstairs later in the morning, then walk down the way, past the quiet streets, by the RVs and vans parked on the road. Sometimes she chatted with people who lived in them, but not always, only if they wanted to talk and the air smelled friendly.
