If A Tree Falls In The Forest....?

I remember this mind bender from a philosophy course I took in college and how I spent days, even years contemplating the question: "If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

And now at 70+, I am ready to pronounce the answer. Are you ready? Yes! It sure the hell does! This week my son Miguel took my wife and I to Silver Lake, an old haunt nestled at about 8500 feet elevation in the heart of California's Sierra Nevada mountains.

Across the lake, stubborn snow patches still dotted the granite monoliths, the last of this year's snowfall.  The one's at the top melted into temporary channels, which then poured into their brothers beneath them, which melted into more rivulets running down to those at the bottom which finally melted into large streams emptying into the lake.

Varieties of ants rushed aimlessly (or purposely) about, some black ones almost an inch in length! But they didn't really bother us. Clouds of mosquitoes hovered over us, agreeing among themselves, not to bite. Or was it the insect repellent? Two lizards did combat over a prime location on a bare rock in the sun. Why, when there were plenty of other rocks all over the place? Is there a story here?

As I lay on a rock looking up at the cotton tufts of cumulus clouds drifting by overhead, it occurred to me that all things do everything they're supposed to do whether we see, feel or hear them. The trees in a forest, if they wanted to could just fake growing and dying and no one would ever notice. Most could be replaced by photographic props, backdrops, and cheap visual tricks and most of us could care less.

Yet, each living thing goes through its prescribed ritual when it could take shortcuts, condense, delete or add things. Why? Every passing cloud formed, connected with larger clumps, devoured its neighbors, and deformed exactly as it was supposed to do without cheating. Every wisp, and shadow was perfectly in place. Cause and effect.

So I too went through the prescribed ritual of my species of drinking beer, lighting up my pipe, and eating salami and cheese sandwiches. What choice did I have? I didn't want to make a fool of myself.

Thus, the question really ought to be "if a man opens a can of beer in the forest, does it still make a sound?" Don't ask me, ask the squirrels!

'Escuse' Me But Some Of My Best Friends Are Illegals!

In my tiny barrio in Southside Modesto, I grew up surrounded by what were then commonly called "Mojados", referring to the crude namesake "Wetbacks."

They seemed normal enough to me. Young kids, old men whose only dream was to work the summer seasons in the fields, send money to families in Mexico, and return for the winter.

I worked alongside them in the fields, fruit picking machines, their skillful hands devouring fruits from sets of four trees and rushing off into the darkness before day break, till the infernal 105 degree heat of the mid-afternoons, lugging metal buckets and 14-foot ladders, to a new one.

In contrast, I was lazy and worked only enough to be able to buy my Buenas Garras, fancy new clothes for school. "No seas burro", my mom would tell me. "Estudia, para que no tengas que trabajar el los fieles como animal." 

I remember the dreaded call "Ahi, viene La Migra!!" And them scattering like cucarachas across rows of fruit trees, over fences, into irrigation ditches. Those caught were deported, and most in a matter of days or weeks, just waded back across the Rio Grande to pick again. Over and over.

In the popular imagination, Americans today picture hordes of Mexicans, rushing the borders into the U.S. to commit crimes and take away people's jobs. Many of our own Gente embrace the myth.

Ironically, immigration to the U.S. is something the great masses of Mexicans never even think about. They go about their lives, working, toiling, surviving with absolutely no intention of ever leaving Mexico, except to ocassionally fantacize about visiting Disneylandia or Las Vegas.

My relatives, who live in Mexico City are perfectly satisfied to remain there. After all, the U.S. comes to them, Walmart, Costco, Burger King, MacDonalds. They do so depite the povery surrounding them, the crime, and the corruption they all complain about in the police, local officials and the government.

Yet illegal immigrants in the U.S. are embedded in our way of life, and to remove them is like cutting off an arm or a leg to save yourself. Some of them have lived here illegally for generations, undetected, having raised their grandkids among us.

They are our brothers, fathers, wives, sisters and neighbors. We go to school with them. We work with them. We break bread with them.

As far as I can see, most still pick our fruits and vegetables, serve our food, wash our dirty dishes, roof our houses, and fix our cars, cheaply too. I don't know about you, but the ones I know are not drug-trafficers, not criminals, but maybe you and I don't run in the same circles, quien sabe,

In fact, some of my best friends are illegals.

Ethnic Studies: May You Rest In Peace

                                                   I

I recall reading that until recently, there was no mention of the Holocaust, or the dropping of the Atom Bomb on Nagasaki or Hiroshima during World War II, in German and Japanese history books, respectively.

Imagine if our U.S. History books selectively omitted mention of Black Slavery, The Mexican-American War, or the brutality visited on Native Americans in the Winning of the West? Yet, history is mostly told by the hunter, but what would the lion have to say?

The buzz about Arizona's new get-tough immigration laws aimed at illegal Mexicans is taking on a more sinister twist: SB1108 that seeks to ban the teaching of Ethnic Studies courses in the state's public schools because they promote (get this) the overthrow of the government, foment resentment towards a specific race or class of people, and are designed for students of a specific race!

I wonder if teaching of the Holocaust promotes resentment towards Germans, the bombing of Pearl Harbor promote dislike of Japanese, or of the war between Mexico and the U.S. in 1846 promote resentment towards Americans? Resentment or not the truth ought to be told from both the hunter and the lion's point of view, shouldn't it?

I was one of these Ethnic Studies teachers. Before 1965, the only view of the world we learned about was a Western European one. No questions were asked. Gospel was gospel. Ethnic Studies was born out of labor pains, epitomized by confrontation, demands, threats and student walkouts. The massive East L.A. student walkouts in 1968 were the poster child.  Latino students, a majority in many L.A. schools, felt alienated, noting the lack of Hispanic teachers, discrimination, and absence of a curriculum which reflected the contributions of minority groups to the building of the U.S.

The Chicano Movement was inspired by the black struggle for equality, Cesar Chavez and the farm worker struggle, and community activists like "Corky" Gonzalez and his epic poem "I Am Joaquin." Mexican Americans with a college degree were rare. Brown faces as lawyer's, writers, doctors, teachers, artists, school principals, were conspicuously absent from American society.

In Stockton, students, educators and community activists demanded the inception of Ethnic Studies courses. Our own community college finally relented, and as our offerings grew and we expanded, we were granted a division with our very own Division Chair, with classes in Chicano/Mexican, Black, Filipino, and Asian studies. And yes, the courses were primarily designed for students of each specific ethnic group. No bones here, but any brave soul wanting an alternative view of the world was welcome and there were a few. I'll speak to this later.

In 1962, against all odds, I had acquired a Master's Degree in Fine Arts from a private and prominent art school in Oakland. Soon after, I enlisted for three years in the U.S. Army, and spent most of it in Germany, which allowed me to travel though Europe and see museums and works of art I had only read about and seen in slides. Unable to find a job after my discharge in 1965, I married and settled in my old barrio in South Modesto. In desperation, I set my sights on teaching art, but after dozens of rejections reading "despite your impressive qualifications we do not currently have a position for you", I gave up, became a dropout, and took a job as a florist, a secondary trade I had picked up as a student.

In 1972, I received a phone call to my place of work. "Is this Richard Rios, The Richard Rios?". The voice introduced itself as that of a Chicano Studies teacher from Delta Community College in Stockton. "You come highly recommended. My old college buddies, Jose Montoya and Esteban Villa had apparently heaped lofty accolades on me.  "How would you like to teach a courses in Chicano Studies?" "What's Chicano Studies?"  "Don't worry, I'll send you some books; read them", he said. It was about October and classes for Spring Semester would start in January! He walked me through the application process and I was hired.

I trusted that having grown up in a Mexican family, in a barrio, with parents who immigrated from Mexico would tide me over. Meanwhile, I scoured books on Mexican History, traveled to Mexico during summer breaks, visited art and history museums, historical sites both modern and Precolumbian, and took hundreds of slides.
                                                                                 
At the time, there was no curriculum, no course of study, in any institution of higher learning where we could have gone to learn this. We had to teach ourselves, and I survived by keeping "a chapter ahead of the students." Worse, there were few books available by ethnic authors. Publishing companies were completely ignorant of an ethnic market. Later, our prodigies would have the courses, the curriculum and even majors in Minority and Ethnic Studies.

 But who was this skinny, freckled, light-complected, red-haired teacher claiming to be Chicano? Was it true?
 A Mexican college teacher? In my lectures, I through in some Spanish, some spanglish, some barrio slang. I played my guitar and sang Mexican songs for them,, the ones my family had sung at family get-togethers,  and we analyzed the traditions, the texts, the themes. We discussed art, history, literature, poverty, discrimination and education. We analyzed folk tales like La Llorona (The Weeping Woman), ones my mom had told me as a kid.  I had them write papers and research traditions in their own families. And they loved it.

But authenticity and credibility was vital to our mission. Students wanted the real McCoy, no substitutes, no facsimiles. In fact, before being hired I was summoned to a meeting with the campus M.E.Ch. A. club, presumably to determine if I was the real deal.  I must have answered their questions right. They were tired of interlopers, Anglos teaching Spanish etc. That was to be the key.

But it would be an uphill battle. Resentment and outright hostility brewed since the inception of our courses, from staff, from peers, from administrators who were probably hoping we would fail. We heard disparaging remarks about our competence as teachers.  Rumors had it that we had low student expectations, useless curricula that duplicated what students could learn in mainstream courses. That our students already knew about their history and their culture . That we passed students just because they were from our own ethnic group. That we excluded Whites. That units earned from our courses would never transfer to four-year colleges, and they were partly right about this. Students confessed to me that counselors would sometimes advise them not to take my course.

To boot, the term Chicano was suspect. I will not go into etymology here, but suffice to say that it carried a host of negative connotations. Mexicans argued that derived from the word "Chingado" (F.....r) and wondered who in their right mind would choose to call themselves that. Moreover, the term was in competition with terms like Mexican-American, which to many seemed less offensive. We argued that we wanted a term than sounded like us, who were neither completely American, nor Mexican, but part of each. Worse the term "Chicka-no" became a household name, associated to radicals, and Marijuana smoking "greniudos" (long haired), seen on the 6 O'clock news. Many would-be students avoid our classes because of the term.

Another problem was enrollment. If our courses did not reach the magical number 25 by the end of the first week, our courses would be cancelled.  In the first years, courses were packed. In later years, enrollments waned and in desperation, I even offered Richard, my shill, $5 bucks for every student he brought me!
                                                                             II
My students, were composed of old timers who never finished high school, young dropouts, vatos from the barrio, entire families, mom, dad and daughters. I started by telling them that they were part of an incredible culture, but that most of it had been suppressed by Spanish Conquest of Mexico in 1500. That Mexicans were "Meztizo", a product of Spanish father and Indian mother, an object of shame during Mexico's 300 years of colonization, but an object of pride after the War of Independence in 1810, offspring of two great cultures, European and Native American. That they were children of the great Maya, Toltec and Aztec cultures.

The pedagogy at the time was to attract minority students to the classroom with a curriculum they could identify with, entice them to read, to write papers, to ponder questions they had never dared ask. Appeal to cultural pride was the hook. The pitch. Once hooked, we would send them off with enough skills and self- esteem to enter into the mainstream courses, armed with the belief that they mattered and were just as smart as any Anglo. And for the most part, it worked, and many of my ex-students went on to get Bachelor's, Master's and Ph.D. degrees at some of our best universities. They became college deans, administrators, artists,  professors, professionals, lawyers, social workers.

While the rhetoric in my class was often heated, at no time did I ever advocate the overthrow of the country, or foment dislike of any ethnic group, though we got close with the Spaniards. While some students might have wanted to "take the country back", their notion of how to it, was pretty damned fuzzy. I mean no one in the Barrio that I knew had and tanks, bombs, or airplanes (with the exception of the Royal Chicano Air Force in Sacramento). The overthrow, if it came would be more subtle, a gradual infiltration of American culture through sheer numbers. The return to "Aztlan", a mythical birthplace of the Aztecs, became the symbol of the disenchanted, and the new society many of us fantasized about.

But getting an education would be the first step to liberation I told them. Some resisted. They had problems getting to class, turning in assignments, passing exams. For these, the classroom was a obstacle to the real business of revolution. They were dropped, or dropped out.

Some stormed out of the classroom to beat war drums that were quickly quenched by apathy and ironically, the very limitations posed by their lack of education. In fact, I often served as mediator, quenching discontent between radical groups and individuals. I was a pacifist born of the 50's and 60's. I would have made a poor General in this Revolution. I believed we could walk the narrow rope between cultural pride and outright assimilation without an overthrow. Forget your language and culture was the nativist's mantra. Be like us. We had heard that one for decades. But we could be American without sacrificing our language and our culture. And we would be the better for it, becoming bi-lingual and bi-cultural. 

Moreover, at no time did we ever discourage students of other races or cultural stripes to take our courses. I was in fact, flattered when a brave White or Black soul wandered into one of  my courses. I made extra effort to welcome them, make them comfortable and my students obliged. However, few stayed to finish the semester. Those who did, often offered a hearty handshake, and thanked me "for how much I've learned in this class." Chicanos and Mexicans (from Mexico) shook hands, and thanked me for enlightening them about their common, yet different cultures, because in spite of the myth that they already "knew" it, most were completely ignorant of their past and the role their people played in American and world history.

One brave soul I will never forget, was a Jewish student, one of the most articulate and well-read individuals I ever had. I smelled trouble the first day he arrived. After one heated discussion about the unjust treatment of Mexicans and Chicanos by White Europeans, he exploded: "All you guys do is bitch and moan about how you have been mistreated by other people! Your'e not the only ones! We Jews have also experienced it!" We were in for a hot one now. I let the students respond, as I often did. This was their baby. Hands shot up! "Ok, but we didn't say we were the only ones, did we?!" They clarified. I was the referee. And he took on the whole class by himself, becoming increasingly hot as the debate roared on.

A couple of days later, the student came to my office: "Mr. Rios, I feel very uncomfortable in your class. I feel I am being attacked. I have decided to drop it." I started by thanking him for having the courage to speak out in class. "You pointed out something that we all need to hear. If you feel alienated in my class, welcome to the club. This is what it feels like for us to be the only brown face in a roomful of White faces. It's scary, huh?"  In the end, I succeeded in convincing him to stay and encouraged him to continue to speak up, to challenge us. He did. At the end of that semester he left without even a backward glance or a "thank you." I was used to it.

Life went on and some years later, a friend of mine who was attending CSU, Stanisluas in Turlock, told me "I have a friend at college who says he was one of your ex-students and speaks very highly of you." When she told me his name, I realized it was the Jewish fellow. "Oh?"  I had concluded that his semester in my Chicano Literature course had been as complete disaster, a waste of his time. Some days later she brought me a letter penned by him. I opened it expecting him to chastise me for my course. It read "Mr. Rios how are you? Well, I hope. I just wanted to tell you that of all the classes, and the teachers I have ever had in my life, you are the best and yours was the most meaningful to me. Thanks."

That fear, misinformation, and prejudice might have resulted in non-Hispanic students never having taken one of our Ethnic Studies courses is a tragedy. We fought in vain to add our courses as requirement for any majors aimed at public service, but the best we could do is to be included as one of the many General Education transfer requirements students could choose from. I was satisfied with this.
                                                                           III
As the years passed, some of our courses thrived, while others languished with low enrollments. In time, our Ethnic Studies division was dissolved and each Ethnic Studies instructor transplanted to his/her respective department or division, according to discipline. Since I taught Mexican/Chicano Art I now belonged to the Art Department , since I taught Chicano Theater I joined the Drama Department, and since I taught Chicano Literature, the English Department. Strange bedfellows, huh?. Though we fought the dissolution, most of us were grateful we still had a job. Unbeknown to me, this would open new opportunities for my future at the college.

I continued to teach Chicano Literature now in the English Department, and when the time came for me to be evaluated by our Division Chair, I received a glowing report: "Rich, you're a fantastic teacher, and I would love to have you in my department, but you need to go back to school to get a Master's Degree in English." My head spun. English? Me? Go back to school? Without a second thought my wife said "hazlo. I will be there to help you."  While I worked on my degree, I was allowed to teach my first English courses, English 1A and 1B. I cherished being a student again. With an M.A. in English, I was finally legitimized, no longer a bastard-child, as an "Ethnic Studies teacher".

I would tell my English students in jest "Just look at how bad things have become. You now have Mexicans teaching English!' The tables had turned. In truth I will always be grateful to this college, and all those who gave me a chance, and opportunity for my slice of the pie. I became a good teacher I think, and gave my students, who were in sore need of positive role models, the best I had to offer.

A couple of years ago, I was contacted via email by one of my ex-students, Enrique Sepulveda, inviting me to his graduation ceremony at U.C. Davis. For the life of me, I could not remember who he was or when he might have been in one of my courses. It was early June, the temperature already over 100 degrees, and the thought of me sitting through another 2-plus hour ceremony, and the 1 hour drive to Davis, gave me chills, so I decided not to go. He would not even notice my absence in the sea of faces. When I told my wife, she looked at me in dismay and commanded: "Nonsense, you are going to attend!" I reluctantly obeyed.

When I told Enrique I would attend, he was ecstatic. "I have tickets for you and your wife. Just go to the box office when you arrive to pick them up." I was not even sure what the kid looked like. Regardless, I soon discovered the tickets were for two reserved seats, in the auditorium, center section, about three rows back from the front! We sat down and waited. As we read over the program I scanned it to find Enrique's name. He was receiving his PH.D. and would be the student speaker! When the VIP's settled into their folding chairs on stage, I saw a short, brown-faced young man take his place. "That must be Enrique", I whispered, nudging my wife.

"At least it's air-conditioned in here", I thought. When Enrique rose to the podium, he told of his challenging journey, of being raised in a poor Mexican family, of not caring about school, od being ignored and dismissed by his teachers. "It all changed when I met my professor at Delta College in 1984. He showed me that I mattered, that my culture mattered, that I could go to college, and I can honestly say that I am here today because of that teacher, Mr. Richard Rios." He pointed at me and I briefly stood and waved.

The applause flooded me with tears and shame to think that I might have missed out on this special moment because of my complacency and self-indulgence. Evidently, teachers can make a difference in a student's life.

 The rest is history. I continued to teach Chicano Literature to my last day, 33 years later when I retired, convinced more than ever of the validity of Ethnic Studies. May history some day reflect it. We made a difference.

Ethnic Studies: May you Rest In Peace.

We don't need no stinking badges!

Arizona: We Don't Need No Stinkin' Badges!

Alfredo Bedoya, famous Mexican actor said it best when he confronts Humphrey Bogart, gringo fortune hunter in the classic film, "Treasure of the Sierra Madre" who asks the quintessential (and stereotypical) Mexican Bandido, swarthy, greasy, sweaty in a dirty sombrero with a knick in it: "Who are you?"

"We are the Federales."
"Well, if you're the Federales where's your badges?"
"Badges? Badges? We ain't got no badges! We don't need no stinkin' badges!!"

A recent Arizona legislation gives police the right to demand proof that any person stopped (Betcha' they'll only be Mexicans) for "reasonable suspicion" of having committed a crime must present a document proving they're in the country legally!

But we were staunchly reassured by Arizona's Governor that all of this can be "reasonably" done without racial profiling. Oh, yeah?

Dios Mio, geev me a brake!

Worse, even if the person (Mexican) is here legally but cannot produce proof, he can be detained until it is all cleared up! Oh, no problema just tell your boss you missed last week because you were "detained".

Where in the hell are the Tea Party people when you need them? They, of course will be first on the lines to protest this dismal law since they heartily stand against any intrusion by government against the rights of individuals. Oh, I guess they only do this when the rights of (Americanos) have been violated, right?  But they are mad. Mad as hell.

For most Republicans, Immigration Reform means "round em' up, and ship em' out." All 12 million of them. And of course, Secure the Border which really means hiring more immigration officers and building more and higher fences.

But even the Great Wall of China was breached by marauding armies.

For most Democrats, Immigration Reform means, having the 12 million "get in line" for eventual legalization which opponents "reasonably" call Amnesty. And then tax the hell out of em'!

Maybe, if we curbed our appetite for illegal drugs, sales of guns, and cheap labor it would help.

Meanwhile all the mess is cleared up, we are mad. Mad as Hell. And we don't need no stinkin' badges either!

Up In Smoke: Cho & Lo In A Cultural Misadventure

(Two Vatos pull up on Acacia St. get out of their ranfla and look nervously around. They hold a crumpled up, soiled business card in one hand)

Lo: Ese Cho, are you sure dis' is da right place? Looks purdy spooky to me.
Cho: Pos claro que si. I wrote down da' address on the back of my hand but I think it washed off when I shaved dis' morning! (Laughs at his own joke).  But calmate Homie, it's right here on dis' lil' ol' card check it out: "Pathroads Natural Supplements", see?
Lo: You got the subscription, loco?
Cho: Este Vato. You mean the prescription! Simon, it's right here, mira. (They go inside the building). This shure beats the hell outta' having to buy the stuff from that creepy old Vato down on the corner of Main St. que no?
Lo: (hesitant) Hey Vato, I don't don't hink this is da' right place, look at all the weird pictures they have hangin' on da' walls.
Cho: Looks like the vato who painted this one was on a tripiazo, que no?
Lo: Yeah, look at this one with a piece of cheese hanging out of the vatos' head! And this one, hijola with this woman and a baby lookin' out at da' moon. Man, I cud' just feel this Jefita's love for life and her baby.
Cho: (Excited) And this one with the cactus. Orale, my jefita used to grow cactus in our backyard! We used to eat them!
Lo: This is a cool one too with a Mexican flag draped over a barbed wire fence. And a padlock on the gate.
Cho: Reminds me of all the pedo going on with the illegal aliens, verdad?
Lo: Hey homes, check out how all of the artistas are Chicano names: Gonzalez, Mora, Garcia, Rios, Lua. Are Mexicans the only ones smokin' this stuff?
Cho: Hey Lo, check this out they got all this stuff from Mexico on sale in dis' other room! Check out dis' pot from Michoacan. That's where my Jefitos came from. Orale. You'd never know this was a dispensary, verdad?!
 Lo: Yeah, my Tio used to have one of these posters of Cesar Chavez in his living room.
Cho: But there's nobody here.
Lo: Yeah, the place looks empty.
Cho: (In a loud voice): "Hey, anybody home???"
Lo: "Can we get some service here?"
Girl: (A young girl comes from a back room): "Hi, I'm Maria. How do you like our center?"
Lo: Looks purdy' firme to me, esa.
Cho: Yeah, me too. Kinda makes us feel good to see all this stuff by La Raza, sabes?.
Girl: Yeah, we have art exhibits all year round, and community groups use our space for meetings and different dance groups use it to rehearse. We have Mexican Folklore, Aztec, Salsa and even Haitian.
Cho: Haitian?? Orale, iz dat the girls with da' lil' ol' teensy-weency grass skirts??
Lo: You better chill it, ese. Show a little respeto.
Maria: (Ignores Lo) We also have other cultural events going on, music, poetry, speakers and workshops throughout for young and old during the year.
Cho & Lo: (Together) Orale!! Viva La Raza! You'd never guess this is a dispensary!
Girl: Here's a poster of our upcoming events. You guys can also become members.
Cho & Lo: (Together): Members?? Orale!!
Lo: (Getting Nervous): Give her da' prescription, dude!
Cho: Oh yeah, we're here to pick up some Mota, esa. Here's the prescription.
Girl: (Puzzled & Shocked) Prescription?? Oh my God! You guys got us mixed up with the place next door! They are the ones dispensing Medical Marijuana. This is the Mexican Cultural Center!
Lo: I told you, this wasn't da' right place, didn't I, Loco??
Cho: (Embarrased) Dispensa! It wuz nice to meet you anyway, Maria.
Lo: Yeah, lookin' at all dis' stuff was like a natural high, you know? Maybe you guyz oughta' the ones selling Mota, you'd get more people in here?
Maria: Good Idea!! Anyways, it was nice to meet you guyz. Stop by again!
(As Cho & Lo Exit): We'll be back, Esa!!

On Achieving Farthood: See You at Your Next Colonoscopy!

"Como te veo, me vi; como me ves te veras" is and old Mexican proverb that addresses the idea that we all must grow old, saying to the impudent young: "Go ahead and laugh at me, because how I see you I once was, but how you see me, you will one day be!"

It seems that lately all my friends and I talk about is pain, prescription meds, cataracts, enlarged prostrates, and yes my friend Colonoscopies! We gossip about CT scans, MRI's, Sleep Apnea, Hemorroids, and side-effects.

In between, we share the medicinal secrets of fish oil, daily vitamins and the curative properties of Marijuana, tortillas, Fish Oil, Ginger, Garlic and Meditation.

Go ahead and laugh but where I presently am, you will one day be too.

Dr. Oz and Opra mouth their daily mantras against snoring, obesity, fat, and lack of exercise, and we pay little attention to warnings signs until it is too late. There is something frightening about lab work, x-rays, mammograms, and gloved doctors shoving greased index fingers in our rectums to see if our prostrate has grown since last time!

But a colonoscopy? Oh Lord. Luckily, they put you out. As you sit in the tense lobby full of a dozen other patients you wonder "Are they all here for the same thing? Even that good looking young lady over there?"

We watch in horror as previous patients leave, searching in desperation for some sign on their face suggesting it will be horrible. "It's a breeze", one lady says to us, and chuckles, as she is led out of the office.

In truth, the worst part of the whole thing is Prep Day, 24 hours before the procedure and being restricted to a diet of liquid foods, jello! But even that pales against what awaits you at 4 and 6 o'clock that day: having to ingest two (2) 10 oz. bottles of that crap "Sodium Nitrate", and the boweled Vesuvius that follows! Not even my trusted Preparation H was any help!

Anyway, it's all over now and I'm home-free for another 5 years. "Can I get a picture of my hemorroids?" One lady in the adjacent cubicle asked. "Sorry", said the nurse, "but I can give you a picture of mine if you want", she quipped. No thanks.

I was given a photocopy of the inside of my colon; I have absolutely no idea why. Would anybody like to see it? So go right ahead and laugh, but I just attended a funeral for a young female friend who died of colon cancer just days before her 48th birthday. It's really not funny at all.

See you at my next colonoscopy.