Precious Gifts

ALBANY, N.Y. - Every so often, there's something that jolts you out of the endless stream of holiday shoppers purchasing last minute coats, skis and Nalgene bottles.

Today's interruption was a 34-year-old woman with shoulder length curly hair and a pilly black peacoat. She placed a year-old pair of long underwear on the table and said she wanted to exchange the size.

"I got married this year," she said. "When you get married everything just goes on hold."

While she picked out a new size, I searched the computer for the garment's coat. Without a receipt, the woman would receive the current price of the bottoms. She was very lucky; normally last year's models are put on clearance and eventually marked down to 99 cents. Instead this model was still in stock and at a higher price. The woman got a $9 credit in addition to the trade. I rang up the transaction and placed the cash on the table.

The woman looked confused by her windfall. She stumbled for a minute, and then said she had another transaction: She wanted a $15 gift card. Fifteen dollars is an unusual amount for the store; it's the smallest one I've made this year. Even more strangely, the woman requested that I take the $9 and place it toward the certificate. She paid the rest of the total - six dollars - by check.

"I don't have much money," she said, and I took it the reason why she divided up such a small amount.

On the gif certificate, she filled out the subject line "Paul's Gift" and circled a Bible verse on her check, something from the Gospel of John. I placed the check in the register and gave the woman her receipt.

"Thank you very much," she said, and then took a small, salmon colored business card that she'd been holding in her hands and pressed it into mine. After she left, I turned it over. It was another Bible quote, Isiah 43:4. "You are precious in God's eyes..."

This gesture moved me. I may not share this woman's passion for religion, but her actions were pure. That she'd give me this small card, with no sermon or attempt at conversation, is wonderful. I felt the same way earlier this year when a woman handed me a red "Support Our Troops" wristband at a gathering for a group of soldiers en route to Iraq. I treasure these objects, because of the people who gave them to me.

Everybody Down

WICHITA, Kan. – Tornadoes can really mess up a work day.

This afternoon there was a tornado warning.

A supercell thunderstorm formed in the southern suburb of Haysville, and raced toward downtown Wichita. A police officer spotted a funnel cloud – the tight formation that immediately proceeds a touchdown – and the warning was issued.

Meanwhile at the crime desk, I was furiously typing a story about a state agent being assaulted at a smoke shop and then chasing the suspect through North Wichita. Suddenly the entire newsroom stopped working, huddled around the two small televisions and began talking tornado.

"Has it touched down yet?" "Which way is it headed?" "How long is the warning for?"

They talked, and gossiped. Meanwhile I was listening to live weather reports from the Internet, television and radio, trying to get a handle on the situation.

Then an editor came up to me and said, "If they ask you to go downstairs, don't go. Just go over there for a minute or something."

Fair enough. A crime reporter needs to stay on scene in case of an emergency, to report to the public. Even if that means going for a short ride in a tornado. I started typing away: then he was dragged for several blocks near the area of 21st and Grove....

A custodian appeared and shouted, "Everyone. Get to the basement – now!"

Most people did what they were told, shuffling down to the stairs to take shelter. I stayed back. Out of the corner my eye I caught my editor, heading down the door presumably to the basement.

So much for staying the course.




(Postscript:Obviously, the Eagle didn't get blown over by a tornado. The cell didn't even touch down. There's always next week.)

Great White Fair

HUTCHINSON, Kan. – On stage was a hypnotist, doing one of those shows where he attempts to make ordinary people lose their inhibitions and cluck like a chicken in public.

"You won't believe what these people will do!" he said.

I scanned the crowd, skeptical. Could these people really let go? I'm pretty sure they could: I saw several of these acts in college. What concerned me a little bit more was the crowd at the Kansas State Fairgrounds: 600 people in this audience, and not a recognizable minority in sight.

To say the fair was very white would be an understatement. This fair could have been the site of auditions for a movie on the Third Reich.

Kansas is a diverse state these days. I spend my lunch breaks switching between authentic tortas, wonderful pho and sometimes passable Chinese food. Minority business ownership is increasing, and people are drawn to the industrial and service jobs locally. What it seems they can't be drawn to, is the state's celebration of its agricultural past.

I went to the fair on a rare day off from the newspaper (I'm scheduled to return on Saturday as part of an assignment, but things wouldn't the same on deadline), expecting to get yet another peak into Kansas life. What I found was an odd fact about the state in 2006: a state where people honor traditions, but only those with a tangible connection to these traditions.



Many of the people at the fair weren't farmers, but had a connection to the field. "My father was a farmer in Dodge City," was a common refrain. This ensures a healthy crowd – attendance was up 10% over last year – but not necessarily a diverse one. I struggled to see more than two or three minorities at the fair, with the obvious exception of Native Americans peddling crap "Western" merchandise.

To be relevant, the fair needs to step outside of its traditional audience. There needs to be more an effort to include the histories and traditions of some of the more recent arrivals to the United States. One shouldn't need to have been in Kansas for eight generations to feel welcome at this great assembly. The New York State Fair, while not perfect, has exhibits on African, Asian and Native American history and culture. There's fun, food and assembly – the same as any other fair. People welcome these exhibits and they're an important part of the audience. If the Kansas fair wants to ensure their future, they'd be wise to do the same.

How to Ace that Interview

WICHITA, Kan. – At the end of the interview, a source sometimes will say as a form of salutation, "Don't make me look bad!"

There's a paranoia that our time together was only for me to gather ammunition to earn my salary and make people look stupid. If only they knew the lengths that many other journalists and I go through in order not to embarrass people.

So far this summer I've omitted juicy but not tactful quotes from sources informing me that "all politicians are crooks," "birds are sacred creatures of nature" and more than one reference to "those Asian people." People I interview – "sources" in journalist speak – are usually nervous when I begin asking questions. Then pause, restate what they've already said, and sometimes give short responses. Then, after about five minutes, they seem to forget that I'm standing three feet from them scribbling down everything they say.

I struggle with these notes when I return to the office. Is my job as a reporter to give the objective truth – even if that means portraying someone in a less than pleasant light? I think the answer is no – most of the time. Since most people are only going to be quoted once or twice in the article, I usually go for a statement that gets at the heart of what they are trying to express. Sometimes I'll supplement that with a particularly insightful or funny comment, but rarely a rude one. People read the paper to be informed. It shouldn't be a place where they can get a few laughs because someone has no tact.

That being said, sometimes it wouldn't be ethical to not report a comment. If I was interviewing Mel Gibson and he said something anti-Semitic, that would have to go in the paper. The same with most politicians if they said something over the line. With people in public office or positions of authority, I'm much less likely to hold a comment because I believe they don't realize how their comments might be observed. These are generally skewered people, who know what they are saying when it comes out of their mouth.

The moral of this little tale is next time you're being interviewed by me or another reporter, take a deep breath before you answer each question. Trust me, I really don't want to have to make you look bad.

A Kansas Life

WICHITA, Kan. – How long have you been here in Kansas? How long have you worked at the paper?

I get asked these questions all the time. When you inquire for a living, people will turn the tables quite frequently. At the beginning, I was cagey about the answer. After all, I didn't want everyone knowing that it was only my third or 14th day on the job. By now, I've gotten to the point where the answer isn't completely embarrassing. Two months or ten weeks doesn't sound half bad. People assume I at least know where the copy machine is by now (although I can't get it to work more than half the time).

I've come to a point now where the idea that I can only live in Blue States or large coastal communities doesn't make much sense. There are places here I'm quite familiar with. The taco stand where I grab a torta pastol. The bar where I get a Wheat Boulevard. All of the QuikTrips where I purchase a variety of strange soda mixes, paid with a credit card. I've been to these places enough times to feel comfortable; like they are touchstones of my daily life.

The same is true with my apartment. It may be dirty, permanently smoky and have walls that let know exactly what my neighbor is viewing on T.V., but the other day I caught myself referring to it in conversation as "home." It was a pretty scary thought, but two months does seem enough time to put down roots. There's a reporter who joined the paper two weeks ago. She seems pretty settled now, already telling funny vignettes about run-ins with strange sources. Maybe I've been here that long, too.

The train of thought is dangerous, because it leads to more questions: Why do I live in such a dump? Why is there frequently violent crime in my neighborhood? I went to college so I could live here - I know people in Albany who didn't graduate high school living in better places.

Finding answers to these questions requires breaking the little illusion I've sometimes fostered in the last few weeks: Wichita isn't really home. In fact, it won't be terribly long before I break out of here. Perhaps the reason that I haven't put down roots in the ways the new reporter at the paper has is that I know that my ticket out of here is visibly on the horizon. I'm not in countdown mode yet, but there's no point in calling myself a Kansan when it's almost time to pack my bags.

Will You Buy Me a Drink, Carry Nation?

MEDICINE LODGE, Kan. -- From the top of the grassy mound, I could see no evidence of man. No power lines, no farms, no cities or even a cell phone tower. Just hundreds, maybe thousands of identical looking hills, rising a couple hundred feet off the prairie floor, a few low scrub trees and a threatening sky, sealing off Big Sky country.

I felt alone, more definitively in the wilderness than I thought possible in Kansas. It was like Wales, only more gloomy and more forlorn.

My two companions were Ryan, with a day off from his ambulance job, and Jean, in town from Quebec City. The first Quebecois to come to these hills? Maybe.

Why we climbed this hill, and not the dozens of others we passed since leaving Medicine Lodge, I'm not sure. But it wasn't until we abandoned my Toyota Corolla and hiked up the mound that I realized how far from civilization we had come. I wondered if we'd ventured too far. I suggested we head back to the car. We had no map, and it was already 5 p.m. On this gloomy day, that meant not more than two hours until nightfall.

Back at the car, I looked at the gas gauge. One-quarter full. I wondered if we'd be spending the night in these hills.

On a map, Medicine Lodge is about 75 miles from Wichita, an hour's drive. In practice it takes well over two, because of the paucity of roads in rural Kansas. We wound south, then west, then south and finally back to the east before reaching Medicine Lodge.

I wanted to see Indians. Medicine Lodge is where in 1867 20,000 Indians from five tribes signed a major peace treaty with the government, an important part of our nation's history of unequal agreements with these peoples. Coming into town, several large billboards advertised triannual campout where people would reenact the signing. Unfortunately it wasn't for a few more weeks.

The only pioneer relics in town were a few rusted out cart frames, parked next to the town's little league field.

We needed an activity for the day, so we decided to walk up and down the town's mostly vacant Main Street for ideas. At the grocery store - where the Wichita Eagle is sold, proudly displaying the lead article written by me - an older man suggested a drive in the hills. At a nearby gas station, a woman suggested the "Scenic Drive," a road that left the main highway just outside of town.

"People seem to like it," she said, and shrugged.

The road began by ascending a small hill, using wide curves to avoid steep inclines. The view slowly came into focus. We weren't terribly far from Wichita, but it seemed as if we'd crossed some invisible border that separated the High Plains from the West. The soil was now rust colored, and the grasses were spiky and short, not reaching three inches off the ground. I'd last seen this scenery in Colorado.

After six miles, the scenic road turned to dirt. On the way to Medicine Lodge we ran into a downpour so heavy that I had to pull over and wait for 15 minutes until it moderated. Water pools were scattered over the road. I have been on wet dirt roads before here in Kansas, with messy results. Egged on by my passengers, I turned on the road anyway.

The journey was wild. Wheels gripped the road one second and then slid off at a 45 degree angle the next. I had to keep the car in second gear, furiously pressing the gas petal and pulling the steering wheel to keep the car on the road.

The road went on and on and on. Ten miles became 20, then 30 and 40. We passed a couple cattle fences, but saw no one. There were no car tracks, and the route wasn't on the Kansas AAA map I had in the car.

We drove through the twilight. Right before I needed to turn on my lights, we reached the highway. I was thrilled. I wrote my name in Chinese on the inch-thick mud on the side of the car, took pictures and cleaned off my sandals. We had returned.

Note: This is the second of three entries on my recent travels outside of Wichita. They'll be posted between current musings on Kansas' largest city.

Little Harajuku

WICHITA, Kan. -- I scanned the crowd at the dimly-lit Best Western Wichita North auditorium. I saw one fat Mario, complete with an "M" hat, two Chun Lis from the Street Fighter series and three Soras from the Kingdom Hearts games. And there were 100 other people in costume, representing animes that I had never of.

I wanted to ask the attendees of the second annual Wichita Anime Festival one question: "What the fuck are you doing here?" But since that wouldn't be terribly tactful, I settled on this: "How did you make your costume?" The responses were the same.

"I've been waiting a long time for this," a 21-year-old man told me. He had on a costume that resembled the Disney representation of Robin Hood. He was actually Link, the hero of the Zelda games. He wore rubber boots covered with layers of white duct tape, a green cape made out of a sheet, held together with political buttons painted yellow.

How long had he been waiting? "Since January, when I got my ticket," he said.

To get to Wichita, he drove four hours with a friend from western Kansas. This event, attended by nearly 2,000 people, is the largest anime festival in the state.

"I've got about 60 hours in this costume," a 19-year-old art student from Kansas City said. She was a character from Kingdom Hearts II, a collaboration between anime video makers and Disney. Her costume was based on a character from Tron, the pioneering computer animation movie from 25 years ago. She used black car foam to make the curved costume, and took four coats of paint to put blue strips across the sides. Her keyblade -- a six-foot key that is used in the game like a sword -- apparently was wood, PVC piping and a lot of time with a saw.

This was her fourth festival, making her a veteran. At the festival people kept interrupting our interview so they could take snapshots. I've loved this line -- also in my story -- most of all:

"Sorry -- I'm popular."

Most of the attendees were in high school, dropped off by their parents and wearing costumes that their parents probably made.

What struck me most about the festival was that it wasn't about Japan at all. Or even about Japanese animation. What really drew these children together was a chance to dress up in crazy costumes and act out for a couple days. High school, I'm sure I don't need to remind anyone, can be a tough time, where being cute, popular and armed with the J. Crew spring collection is mandatory. Here, mostly smart and talented children get to be the ones on display for a change, rather than having to do the bidding of the cool kids.

"Anime conventions are the sci-fi conventions of this millennium," the organizer told me. I have to agree. If the art in display was noh theater or Amazonian rainmakers, I doubt the kids would have come out. But this is a group with fans all around the country, fans that want to meet each other and know they're not alone. I see this at indie concerts I attend. (You like Prefuse 73? No way! I do too!) Anime's the subgroup for this generation.

Lesson learned, I left the Anime Festival before the odor from many rounds of Dance, Dance Revolution and poorly ventilated plastic costumes became too much to bear.

The Price of Gas

WICHITA, Kansas - Nothing gets my mother going like a change at the gas pump.

"Did you see what the price is today?" she says, beginning a typical rant. "Every time I turn around they knocked it up again. Third time this week. $2.14. It's ridiculous."

I find this strange coming from someone who lived through the great gas shocks of 1973 and 1979 (when gas was more expensive than now and cars much less efficient), but she's not the only one. We dutifully write stories as the prices creeps up here in Wichita, interviewing outraged customers and unapologetic gas station attendants ("we're barely getting by," they all say). In the past I would just let these conversations roll on, waiting until they inevitably shifted to the weather before saying anything. A couple things have caused me to shift my track.

*Wichita's Strange Prices Gas doesn't jump here three times a week, but when it does the rises are quite large. They usually happen late in the week, too. Last Friday it jumped from $2.75 to $2.99. This Friday the jump was from $2.91 to $3.09. After the jumps, inevitably it begins to float down again. It might be a week or two, but than it shoots up again. It's hard to predict. Like Russian Roulette, you never know if spinning another round will mean you get stuck with the gas bill. Graph the price at wichitagasprices.com over three months if you want to see what I mean.

*Driving More I have to go places for work, to chemical spills, county fairs and everywhere in between. So the pump is on my mind more than when I lived in Boston. For three years, I didn't have a car. This year I did, although I spent around $7 a week on gas, even when it was over $2 a gallon. It's a large portion of my income now, so it's obvious that I think about it more.

*Sweeps I love a guessing game. And talking with people about how the Israel-Lebanon Crisis, refineries in Texas and falling demand for cereal products will affect the gas prices is great fun. The truth is, no one really knows why the price jumps from week to week as it does. This micro plus macro analysis is almost impossible to figure out, especially from someone who slept through the only economics course he took in his life. But who cares? I love to bullshit.

So now, during my weekly phone call home, I often find myself looking forward to the time when gas comes up in the conversation. I guess I truly am turning into my parents.

A Generous Serving

KANSAS CITY - I think there's a line between being friendly and being annoying. But that's just me, and clearly my definition isn't in line with the local customs here.

Yesterday evening we pulled in from a long day of driving (and a diversionary stop in Albany, Illinois: home of Indian burial mounds and the Desperado Casino in southern Iowa) to collapse at a hotel and get a bite to eat. This being Missouri, we wanted to try some barbecue. I inquired where the nearest place was at the front desk.

"Oh, just go down the street. Be careful crossing at the light," our receptionist said. I think she was trying to make up for putting us in a room with a king size and a roll away.

At Rudy's, we were served a mountain of food. I'm still on Asian portion sizes, but this was massive by any measure. The server, in suggesting this "sampler plate" described it as containing "eight slices of ham, ten slices of roast beef, four ribs and a stack of fries." She left out the six pieces of bread, but managed to rattle off this monstrosity with incredible nonchalantness.

It was nearly ten when we got to eating, which is really late for an area of the country that prides itself on eating "supper." We had a large side dining room to ourselves, and an extra-inning match up between the Kansas City Royals and the St. Louis Cardinals.

I sat there, trying to eat the meal for nearly an hour. A very large black woman came in from time to time to check in on the game and see how we were doing. Very full, thanks.