Imani Jackson’s Daily American Adventures

Fat is not the new black. But fat and black is now news.

Surgeon general pick Regina Benjamin is not skinny.

Controversial?

People are concerned that selecting her for a position of health-related prestige sends the wrong message to millions of overweight people, who need another svelte physique warning them of their impending doom.

People with “healthy” weights need another reaffirmation of their desirability in an aesthetically obsessed culture.

Or something.

Studies harp on the fact that excess weight contributes to numerous diseases afflicting the masses.

Admittedly, racial minorities in this country are disproportionately affected by high cholesterol, diabetes, hypertension and the like, stemming directly from food choices.

Economically strapped Americans of all races are faced with consumption and caloric expenditure decisions daily.

Our decisions create the numbers beneath our feet.

Unhealthy food choices stem from not only the human desire to gravitate toward things that  aren’t necessarily the best for us, but also access.

In many inner cities corner stores have doughnut diversity, but lack fruit.

People who are faced with unsafe environments don’t often have community safety nets protecting them as they walk dogs or run around the block.

So they don’t.

Some juggle jobs, consume instant meals and curl up on their couches to continue the cycle.

Some don’t have time/effort/enlightenment enough to be faced with a soy milk versus almond milk conundrum.

Some people are sedentary and complacent.

Some struggle constantly with attempts at reversing genetics.

Some are confident.
A recent CNN study found that  overweight people don’t often see themselves as such.

Clothing companies  capitalize on American narcissism by using vanity sizing.

Our society adores food, but abhors obesity.

Many a teary eyed television personality has donned a fat suit to experience ostracization and comes back to viewers with a we-are-the-world mantra of societal acceptance.
Again, or something.

I have not experienced alienation as a result of being overweight.

However, I have been  made an outcast due to various components of my being, whether gender, geographically , socioeconomically, religiously or phenotypically based.

I can’t help but wonder if the questioning of Benjamin’s waistline, rather than her credentials is indicative of isms.

I can’t help but reflect on Sotomayor articles emphasizing her diabetes equally if not more than her Ivy League education and appellate judge experience.

Weight issues have nuances. One person’s chic is another person’s anorexic.

I attended high school with girls whose senses of self were invalidated by fashion magazines, but they continued to flip through them and select models with Photoshopped bodies that they appreciated more than their own.

Some of their bodies were fleshy. Others weren’t at all.

The issue of American health is not centered solely around weight. Psychological health is questionable. Family structures are failing. Education escapes the people who need it most. Post-racial euphoria has not yet come into existence.

Certainly I’d love to walk into a room full of people whose bodies are devoid of illness and/or fault.
Mine included.

However, we’re imperfect. Our bodies vary. Our life experiences differ.

Just as our bodies are diverse, so are our levels of commitment to working on our physical selves.

It’s not advisable to categorize people or attempt shallow assessments of their capacities for impact based on external composition.

Sidenote: Jerri Gray should not face criminal charges for her son’s 555 pound weight.

Anyone who is a parent or who has a parent is well aware that children do what they want.

In an age of candybar fundraisers and sweets swaps at lunch, there is no foolproof preventative plan to monitor kids and their food.

With that in mind their story can serve as a cautionary tale of the effects of living in a monetarily modest home with an unsupervised child.

Rather than send his mother to jail, sports teams, trainers and gyms ought to step up and extend a helping hand to this young man.

If he declines and his health as a result, then the choice was truly his.

Last night Somerfest began with a bang.

Randy Myers kept the audience entertained. He was so well-liked that after he came into the crowd to perform, an elderly lady sang and danced with him.

Her shoulders and his hips seemed in sync. It was adorable.

Families bonded. Friends toasted, talked and took advantage of the opportunity to unwind.

The different booths, with vendors of everything from airbrush tattoos to jewelry were supported.

The event had an air of carefree enjoyment, without feeling careless.

Alcoholic consumption occurred, but I didn’t see any slobbering drunks. It was as if everyone knew their boundaries and operated within them.

I must admit that I admire the Somerset citizens for uniting to support the festival.

Teens did their things. Senior citizens and other adults did theirs.

As for Myers, any performer who does “Brown Eyed Girl” justice is okay by me.

Today I enjoyed the Laurel Arts dancers. They performed jazzy numbers and ballet. Their youthful faces were dolled, their costumes shimmery, the audience was supportive.

My favorite performance was a bouncy piece to the Pussycat Dolls’ hit single “When I Grow Up.”

All in all, the Somerfest atmosphere appears to be one of love.

P.S. I forgot my press pass yesterday and they admitted me. Today, I was ushered straight back.

I also keep running into people I’ve interviewed, chatted with or photographed. It’s like I’ve become a minute part of this community, in only a month and a half.

This week Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor probably experienced one of the most grueling times in her life.

As both sides debate on her qualifications and viability as a justice, Sotomayor articles  pop up everywhere.

Some of the information is seemingly irrelevant.

I’m surprised that I don’t know her favorite color yet.

Our society has gravitated toward an open realm of communication regarding all things pertaining to people, especially potentially powerful people.

Power, of course, is relative.

Paris Hilton has about about 350,000 followers on Twitter.

Kim Kardashian has upwards of 1.5 million.

The three Sonia Sotomayor pages that I encountered are sparsely followed.

My personal Twitter has more followers than two of those pages.

Writers are scouring the land for color, mood and mystique. Maybe the next “it-phrase,” like Octomom intially was.

Sometimes we crave any additional bit that will cause increased readership and discussion.

Sotomayor likes bread sticks and decaf coffee.

Um. Okay?

I’m guessing the inferential leap being made is that although she is a diabetic, she consumes carbohydrates that could potentially upset her health and affect her interpretation of the law.

Or something.

It reminds me of the constant questioning of President Obama about his status as a smoker. One week the fit, trim Obamas are the epitome of attainable pulchritude.

The next week, he’s a tar lunged health deviant.

I digress.

In an article for CNN, Doug Gross reported that Sotomayor doesn’t lead an excessive lifestyle.

Doing so mid-recession could foster ill will between the judge and the general (struggling) American population.

According to the report, Sotomayor’s hobby is people, Chapnick said.

I’d like to believe that today’s journalism is evolving to a more people friendly era, where human interest is welcomed.

People who are  paid to relay information should have a tendency to look toward substantive information and the collective good when writing stories.

The metal detector didn’t repel me today. My purse didn’t warrant additional searching.

Random tidbit:

I had spinal fusion surgery to correct scoliosis 6 years ago. The surgeon inserted metal rods in my back to fuse it straight.

Post surgery I fretted about being the ultimate metal detector enemy. Thankfully, I’m not.

So anyway, I spent my morning in court.

Several cases kind of ran together. A few were compelling. One stayed with me.

Gregory Williams of Pittsburgh, appeared before the judge. His family watched from the stands.

Williams recently failed a drug test after working through an intermediate punishment program for previous charges.

Judge Cascio cited an extensive drug history before sentencing him to at least 8 months.

Williams begged the judge for additional chances. He said that he had sole custody of his daughter and was responsible for transporting his father to dialysis treatments.

“My hands are tied,” Cascio said.

Williams’ father spoke on his behalf.

“I need extensive treatment,” Williams said. “I have a problem.”

“You’ve failed yourself twice,” Cascio said.

Lesser sentencing would diminish the magnitude of the crime, Cascio said.

“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” Williams said to his sobbing daughter.

He begins serving time today.

Somerfest is happening this weekend.

It’ll be an opportunity to watch performers and support the  community.

This is the assignment that I’ve looked forward to the most.

During the first week of the internship I shared with my editor an interest in artistry.

He and several coworkers suggested that I cover Somerset’s biggest entertainment opportunity for the summer.

Did I mention it’s free? That is fast becoming this recessionista’s favorite word.

I can’t help but look to the work weekend with anticipation.

While covering meetings and previewing events is helping to diversify my writing, I’m still a right-brained leftie.

Crafting stories, doing page layouts and photography are all creative endeavors, but I look forward to seeing crafts, smelling whiffs of food for sale and experiencing this region’s seasonal creative climate.

I’m grinning as I type this.

More information will come soon.

Today had the makings of lax Friday. It was sunny, breezy and the newsroom was serene when I arrived.

Judy and I grabbed lunch and walked into the newsroom with our food.

Another coworker, Michelle was a crimson blur, scurrying around the newsroom gathering cameras, notepads and Mapquest directions.

“What are you doing right now,” she asked.

“Eating lunch. Nothing really,” I said. “Do you have something?”

The governor was scheduled to speak in Johnstown in less than an hour. She invited me to accompany her. I did.

I had a lunch bag in one hand, purse on my shoulder, camera bag around my neck and a tripod under my armpit. We hit the road.

In the car we laughed about our casual Friday attire.

What was the alternative? Miss the event in attempts to look snazzy? Negative.

We arrived at Greater Johnstown High School,  chatted up a few people and prepared for governor  Edward Rendell’s arrival.

I spoke with three individuals, two on the record and one who asked to remain anonymous.

The first was Eugene F. Dell Jr., of Johnstown, a 63-year-old man who said that the government implanted a chip inside of him without his permission in 1953 and 1966.

The goal is to control his thinking, he said. He handed me a business card with neon highlighted information and handwritten notes in red ink.

“They have three people corresponding into my electronic implant 24/7, to control plus a group to block disclosure,” it reads.

“I’m here to promote government knows what I’m thinking,” he said.

His baseball cap and hat both said such.

He wasn’t particularly concerned with Rendell’s upcoming speech.

“Whatever happens happens,” he said.

After several introductory remarks from local politicians, the governor spoke.

“Pre K Counts probably won’t be here next year if there is no budget,” Rendell said.

He talked about his tax plan, which he said would cost the average family less than $5 per week.

He motioned toward the pre-k children behind him as he spoke about budget cuts. If the budget didn’t leave room for these taxes, the children would suffer, he said.

The children highlighted a Pre K Counts rally, which occured before the governor’s arrival.

Rendell also talked about a friend’s child who has autism. Without proper funding assistance for people with special needs would disappear, he said.

He wrapped up his commentary to applause and fled the school, entourage in tow.

Richard Troyan, a state corrections office was displeased with the outcome.

“I’m all for the education, whether we raise taxes or not… I’m working every week and not getting paid,” he said.

He and an unidentified state worker approached the governor to ask about their pay. They were told that everyone was making sacrifices and that paying them was beyond the governor’s control.

State worker’s partial paychecks begin July 17.

Yesterday I spent about two hours with 83-year-old German POW, Hans Stumpf.

I budgeted between an hour and an hour and a half to talk with him for the article, which was a part of the Daily American’s 80th anniversary package.

Shameless plug: In stands today.

I had a ball with Hans and left about two hours later. His residence is a former print shop and mini-apartment complex. It is a structure full of art and music.

I walked back to the newsroom about two hours later.

There were so many takeaways from his interview. Obviously I chose to write the story, so in keeping with the journalism hat I tried to focus on a brief history of the building and the man in it.

But, the most rewarding part of this job is the PEOPLE. Telling their stories is humbling.

Professional voyeurism appears paradoxical.

Such is my life.

I saw direct links between Hans and a would be 80ish man, my grandfather, Frank Priestly.

Grandpa passed away five years ago. He served in Germany during the Korean War and spoke some German.

Since his death I occasionally  come into contact with  men who remind me of him.

Hans is  chattier than my Grandpa was; however, once questions flew, both men provided ample answers, often with humorous anecdotes and one-liners.

I wonder how many of those quips stem from younger people assuming that older people parted with their sanity.

Hans is no fool. Neither was Gramps.

One day I visited and was ecstatic to see him per usual, but I hadn’t had the allowance money to get my hair professionally styled in a while. I figured that

a) Grandpa loved me and didn’t care about the unruly raven mass on my dome and

b) He probably couldn’t see  the free form follicles anyway.

He  quickly informed me that “the old man” could still see and didn’t know exactly what issues I was having with my hair, but I was too pretty to remain untamed for long.

People often said Frank was just that.

My siblings and I had a way of softening the old man with dry retorts and straight faces in photos. We mauled him at the front door with hugs and kisses while he feigned discomfort.

“All this love. The old man doesn’t know what to do,” he said.

Hug back. That’s all.

My grandfather lost his true love when my grandmother died decades ago.

Hans’ wife died 12 years ago.

He talked about her activism with levity and passion. His home boasts numerous photos of the handsome pair on their wedding day.

As much as time helps ease pain, it is obvious that neither man recovered from the early departure of their angels.

His health is declining, but he didn’t ask for help. He paced steadily about the house, ignoring my offers of assistance.

Hans doesn’t expect to be an earthly presence much longer.

Then he and his Margaret, who wed on Feb. 14, 1950 in Germany, will begin an eternal phase of their union.

They’ll likely meet up with Frank and his Brenda.

I’m just grateful for the opportunity to encounter such extraordinary citizens and see the parallels of people.

Recession or not, that pays beautifully.

I volunteered to work early on a Monday.

My typical shifts begin at 1 p.m., but I arrived before 9 a.m. to prepare for and accompany my co-worker, Judy on a story.

That story was the $23.5 million Quemahoning Pipeline Dedication.

Once there, it was unmistakably lovely outside.

Breezes billowed onlookers’ hair. It was a day of Vitamin D, witty speeches and breaking bread.

It almost rivaled Florida.

Television anchors shook hands, set up cameras and conversed with the people.

Judy introduced me to the local (unofficial) Who’s Who.

I juggled video, snapping photos, taking notes and small talk.

Luckily for my right-brained ADD, none of the speakers were narcissistic enough to ramble in sleep inducing cadences.

Father Mark Zimmerman led a swift prayer.

Pamela Tokar-Ickes presided with grace and humility.

Congressman John Murtha  didn’t remain on any subject too long.

He expressed passion for nature and focused on celebrating the people who made the pipeline possible.

“Applaud people who were in it from the start,” he said.

He trekked memory lane with an anecdote about his great grandmother.

He was put on this earth to make a difference, she told him.

He also discouraged weighty government.

“The Soviet Union fell because they tried to dictate from the top down,” Murtha said.

As people listened to various speakers, sipped Quemahoning water and nibbled at light meals, my attention was drawn to the background people.

Insert the Tableland Crew.

These 17-24 year-olds made the day’s tasteful environment possible.

They landscaped, filled water bottles, set the tables, brought out shrubs and cleaned the facilities prior to the community’s arrival.

“It took a lot of hard work. We worked together,” said Jim Yoder, a friendly participant in the Tableland Crew work program.

After hours spent listening to the triumph behind the pipeline, people toured the treatment  plant, grabbed last minute bites and scurried back to their respective habitats.

Judy and I ventured off to the Quemahoning dam.

As I stood looking out into seemingly unending droplets, I suddenly understood the tranquility Pennsylvanians push to maintain.

Hello all.

My name is Imani Jackson. I’m an intern for the Daily American this summer.

I’m also a seasonal insomniac. Woo-hoo, Somerset nightlife! It’s just a little too intense here for me.

The Walmart romps in pursuit of rolled back prices, Sheetz frozen coffees, children on bicycles and one-way streets make me question my safety.

Okay in all seriousness, there was the unidentified criminal who pooped on a local’s porch on Father’s Day. That was probably my biggest where-the-heck-am-I moment.

Yep. So, I am originally from Jacksonville, Fla.

I earned this opportunity upon acceptance into the Freedom Forum Diversity Institute Multimedia Scholars program and completion of their journalism bootcamp.

All fuddy duddiness aside, I’m the eldest of four, also known as the grande experiment.

I’m a left-handed, sunshine baby, performance poet and cartwheel enthusiast.

I enjoy long walks on the beach (duh!), carbohydrates, pretty hair days, freebies and new places.

This is my first time in Pennsylvania and so far I haven’t had to teleport back south. If someone else poops on a porch, I might have to hightail it, though.

That’s just creepy.

I love feedback, suggestions and communication. I’m also a Cancer.

Read this blog if you really want to know about journalism’s underworld (muhahaha). I’ll keep you posted.

Later!