Eugenio's Blog!

Yesterday, I headed over to the southeastern coast of North Carolina with my friend, B. B has one of the thickest Southern accents I have encountered here in Raleigh – thicker than mine . . . so thick you can cut it like cake.

Anyway, this Confederacy-hype has cycled out of me, and I have redeveloped an interest in my true passion: carnivorous plants. They are native to a select area of land in Southeastern North Carolina, around the city of Wilmington. I could not leave North Carolina without seeing the Fly Traps in the wild.

As some of you may know, I once owned my very own Venus Fly Trap. I bought it on eBay, and I was determined to raise the first Vegan Venus Fly Trap. I heard that you could feed it peanuts and tofu instead of flies, but I was going a new direction – a strict water diet. And instead of providing a warm humid environment like Southeastern North Carolina, I provided it with a freezing windowsill in Iowa. Needless to say, Venie didn’t last too long. I think about him often, though. I’ve only had two plants that have died on me – Venie, and the one that I fed orange juice.

So I did a bit of research, and it turns out that there is this Carnivorous plant museum and nature trail at Carolina Beach. Dude, I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. So B and I embarked on this one-in-a-lifetime adventure to explore the wonders of evolution in carnivorous plants.

The Museum was actually pretty cool. There was this educational Bill-Nye-type video, cool exhibits, a couple carnivorous plant puppets, and some hands-on displays. It was pretty neat. After the Museum, B and I hit the trail.

I was reminded, at least 20 times with each mosquito bite, that I was not made for the outdoors. I got bit by these giant mosquitoes – like the size of my thumb fingernail. I normally don’t act like a princess (well . . . maybe sometimes), but these mosquitoes were crazy! I don’t mind getting bit on my legs and arms, but when you touch my face, I’m pretty sensitive. I got back to the car, and there were bumps all over my face. I now know why they’re called Venus Fly Traps and not Venus Mosquito Traps.

After the trail, B and I walked over to the Atlantic, the largest body of water I have ever seen. It’s way bigger than Lake Coralville, Iowa. I have visited the Gulf of Mexico and the Mediterranean Sea before, but this was the first ocean, and it was pretty amazing.

Countdown to the Midwest: 10 days.

“It appears the umpire was concerned that the coach or manager may have been using a language other than English . . . to communicate potentially ‘illegal’ instructions to his players,” National Little League spokesman Lance Van Auken said in an e-mail to The Associated Press Friday.

You have got to be kidding me. Isn’t using “code” the whole purpose of the 3^rd base coach, the 1^st base coach, the pitcher, the catcher . . . practically everyone on the baseball diamond? A rub on the chest, a tap on the thigh, a stroke of the arm . . . isn’t this all “using a language other than English?”

Of course, “illegal instructions” can only be given in Spanish. What kind of “illegal instructions” is the guy even talking about? Did he think the player on first base was literally going to steal 2^nd base? Was he going to shoot someone? Did he strip people of their right to unionize? What can be so “illegal” in a game of Little League Baseball? Spare me.

It’s times like this where I am glad I live in a city where issues of racial and ethnic politics are progressive.

Let’s get some things clear. My parents were born in the southern Italian province of Calabria, commonly known as the “toe” of Italy. I was born in Chicago, raised in a very Southern Italian setting in an immigrant working-class community. As a result, I proudly self-identify as Southern Italian American. For reasons to be discussed in a future blog posting, I do not identify as “white.” I do identify as European American.

Last week, I was involved in a minor traffic accident in Raleigh. Some punk rear-ended me and fled. It was not a huge deal by any means – two small scratches on the bumper. The police reported zero fatalities.

Still, I decided to file a police report. People shouldn’t be allowed to hit-and-run whoever they want. I called the police the next day to have them investigate. A police officer interviewed me and the other people in the car.

I received the report today, and I was surprised. There is my name, my driver’s license number, my mailing address, and my sex. No issues for these. However, the checkmark in the next box is what alarmed me. According to the City of Raleigh police officer, my race is “unknown.”

I’d like to make very clear that I am a first-generation American. I do not have to trace very far back to obtain my racial identity. I know my roots. I know who I am. Don’t lie to me. My racial identity is known.

I have made it back to Raleigh from yet another adventurous trip to Elizabeth City, my home[Elizabeth City]-away-from-home[Raleigh]-away-from-home[Iowa City]-away-from-home[Chicago].

The scary part is that Elizabeth City is about 3.5 hours east of Raleigh. Similarly, Chicago is 3.5 hours east of Iowa City. More so, the word “City” is in both Elizabeth City and Iowa City. Even more scarily, both “Raleigh” and “Chicago” each have seven letters – just like Kennedy, just like Lincoln.

Coincidence? I think . . . yes.

While in Elizabeth City, in addition to saving the world, my office partners and I were trying to figure out the correct words to a popular children’s tongue-twister: Does Sally sell seashells by the seashore? Or does she sell seashells by the seashore?

The Midwesterners in the car, myself included, are convinced it is “Sally.” Everyone else thinks it is “she.” I have already consulted the mastermind of popularity: the google-o-rama hit counter, a device which unarguably should be used as evidence in civil court proceedings. The numbers are usually overwhelming, but in this case, it is very close. For the record, “Sally” got 258 hits, while the generic “she” got 608.

I’m so stressed out over this conundrum.

This weekend, I was truly blessed to have my one & only sister, F, come visit me here in the land of Magnolia trees and candied yams.

As a welcome-to-Raleigh gift for F, I made her a disc of my 17 favorite Country hits, hoping that she would be excited beyond belief. Normally, it doesn’t take too much for F to get excited – seasons changing is usually enough of a reason for her to start dancing incessantly. A city girl at heart, she lives for the hustle and bustle of urban life.

However, when I presented her with the CD, it was as if she felt personally violated. I think she was petrified -- petrified by the power of country music. Now don’t get me wrong, she probably has good reason to be scared. After all, just a couple of months ago, I was a normal, non-dialectal Midwestern kid. Now I practically need to walk around with a Southern-to-Midwestern interpreter when I need to converse with Yankees. I have no idea how I’m going to survive in Iowa.

Friday night, F and I went to see S perform at an improvisation comedy club. There were a few parts where F got lost in the show, but I think it takes a whole show just to figure out what the heck is going on because everything is so face-paced. It was my third show, and even I got tripped up. When the director of the show asked the audience for an activity someone “hates doing around the house,” I shouted the first thing that came into my head . . . coloring! What can I say? . . . I love reading administrative law treatises around the house, but I absolutely abhor coloring.

After the show, we went out to this, I’ll admit, pretty hip club. The décor was fashionable and modern and the music was . . . pretty decent. There were flat screen televisions throughout the club displaying the videos of the music being played. F and S, hands down, were the hottest girls in the club. After they played a Spanish/Spanglish song, “Oye mi Canto,” [Hear my Song] I was relatively impressed . . . for a non-alternative club.

We were fortunate that we had enough time this weekend to pay a visit to Silent Sam on the UNC campus – the University of Negroes and Communists, at least according to Jesse Helms. F was so energized by my post about Silent Sam that she just had to see him for herself.

F and I bought our first (and probably last) pieces of Carolina gear. I bought a UNC hooded sweatshirt for those arctic summer days around here, and F bought a shirt that says “Carolina girls the best in the world.” The shirt purposely omits the necessary state-of-being verb “are.” I guess this sentence comes from a song, but it doesn’t really matter. For me, the shirt summarizes the interesting dichotomy of Southern race relations. If White people use grammatically incorrect language, it’s considered cultural; if Black people use it, it’s viewed as ill-mannered and ignorant. God bless the South.

Incident 1. I had a run-in with a farm-owner this week while outreaching to the agricultural camps. The farm-owner was shouting out these ludicrous propositions: “Legal Aid does not have the right to trespass on this property! It is my property! M – Y. My!”

. . . Wow . . . a 2-letter word. Try a harder word, Mr. Farm-owner . . . how about “property?” . . .

Respectfully, of course, we asserted that the workers do have the right to have visitors of their choosing, just as tenants of apartment complexes can have guests in their homes. “The law is very clear on this, sir.” We threw in the “sir” hoping that Southern hospitality would catch on.

It didn’t. “Oh yeah, y’all try me! Now get out of here!” with his thumb pointing out in the direction of the main road.

We weren’t quite sure what he meant by “try me.” Did he want us to invite him to participate in an evening of legal discussion about migrant visitation rights at the local organic coffeehouse? . . . Another lost opportunity.

Incident 2. I’m at the County Department of Social Services office:

“Good Morning, ma’am. May I please get some literature about applying for Medicaid?”

“Medicaid?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why yes, sir, here you are,” handing me a couple of pamphlets and applications.

“Thank you, ma’am.” I start looking at the materials . . . I was able to understand everything, but it took me a second before the light went on . . .

“Excuse me, ma’am . . . can I get this information in English, please?”

“Oh, I thought you would want it in Spanish, sir.”

What?! Didn’t I ask you in perfect formal Southern American English to obtain information? Why on earth would you assume Spanish?

Thank goodness she ended the sentence with "sir." Otherwise, she would have been just plain rude. Prejudicial and rude is a really bad combination.

As many of my readers probably know, the University of Illinois has an American Indian mascot, Chief Illiniwek, of which I am firmly against.

This weekend, I visited another university with an arguably similar situation, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill . . . I can hear the boos and hisses from Illinois fans.

On my walking tour of UNC, I saw Silent Sam, a confederate war memorial on the north side of the main quadrangle. As legend has it, Silent Sam is protecting the campus from another Yankee invasion should one occur. As Michelle Tanner might say, "See, he's doing a good job."

The North Carolina Chapter of the NAACP has called for the University to knock down the Silent Sam monument arguing it depicts the University’s racist attitude. According to its supporters, however, Silent Sam is a memorial to the 321 University student-soldiers who lost their lives in the Civil War as well as to all of the student-soldiers who joined the Confederate Army. Close to Silent Sam sits another memorial, a dedication to the people of color workers who built and maintained the University for 200 years.

For me right now, the Silent Sam controversy is much stickier than the Chief Illiniwek issue. The memorial is part of the school’s history, but the history is inherently racist. For example, Saunders Hall on campus is named in honor of William L. Saunders, leader of the North Carolina Ku Klux Klan. In addition, the University of North Carolina did not start admitting black students until 1955.

Although there are similarities between Silent Sam and Chief Illiniwek, I still haven’t been able to fully develop an opinion about Silent Sam, or Confederate statues in general. I think I’m still in this history-fascination mode where my historical perception blinds my sociological reaction. Hopefully this historical excitement will die down before I leave for the Midwest so I can develop a balanced opinion about Confederate memorabilia and icons.

Thank goodness I have another five weeks in North Carolina.

I welcome comments from Silent Sam supporters and opponents, and everyone in between. Supporters of Chief Illiniwek need not leave comments.

I’ve made it back from another four-day visit to Elizabeth City, North Carolina on business, and it looks like I have a little bit of catching up to do.

I headed up to Washington to celebrate our nation’s birthday (and my birthday, and H’s birthday) Fourth of July weekend. The weekend was outstanding, and a few of the highlights are below:

Our birthday meals. H picked this excellent Latin American restaurant in Adams Morgan to celebrate our birthdays. I enjoyed fresh lobster and shrimp along with Cuban black bean soup, courtesy of my wonderful Iowa law friends, and even a friend that H invited. Let us also not forgot the stylish and incredibly sharp shirt D and H gave me. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to start my Washington weekend.

The Spy Museum. H e-mailed me three weeks ago asking if I would be interested in going to the Spy Museum. She claimed she needed to reserve tickets. I must admit, I was a bit surprised. Three weeks to reserve tickets to a museum? I didn’t need to reserve anything for the Museum of the Confederacy, and that’s far more popular, right? Sure enough, the museum was packed and the tickets were sold out. Thank goodness H made reservations – a shout-out to her. D won the prize for being the best spy. She rocked, actually. I came in a close second. Never mind the fact that there were only two of us in the competition.

Dim Sum in Chinatown. H impressed both me and D with her fine cuisine choices. The best part of the meal, without a doubt, was when H said she called the waitress Rudy.

The World War II Memorial. On Sunday afternoon, D, H, and I headed over to the World War II Memorial to take a rest and enjoy the water. Upon arrival, however, we engaged in our normal dramatic selves being entertained by the memorial workers shouting at visitors to remove their feet and hands from the memorial’s water. There was one visitor yelling at the people, too. She was belligerently shouting that the people were all “pigs” who had no respect for our fallen World War II soldiers.

Taxi Cab Driver. One of my taxi cab drivers was singing Kelly Clarkson’s “Behind These Hazel Eyes” . . . out loud. Do I need to elaborate?

Independence Day Parade. People from all around the globe attended this wonderful multi-cultural celebration along Constitution Avenue. Floats of many cultures, including Iowan culture, were represented. Without hesitation, though, Woody Woodpecker was the star of the parade.

Fireworks on the Mall. With the Washington Memorial in the background and the National Symphony Orchestra playing at the Capitol, I witnessed the most beautiful Fourth of July fireworks display that I have ever seen.

Now if anyone is ever so ignorant to unfairly label me as un-American, let us remember that I was the one traveling long and far to celebrate our nation’s 229^th birthday marching alongside the true icon of American Democracy . . . the one, the only . . . Woody Woodpecker.