March Madness

Gimme some stats University of Rhode Island.

Not the overall record of Jim Baron in his eleven years as head coach of the men's basketball team: 184-166. Not the times that Baron was awarded Atlantic 10 Coach of the Year: Three. Not the number of seasons that he coached his team to twenty plus wins: Six.

I don't want to hear about this year's losing record, during a time of complete and total team rebuilding: 7-24. And please don't bring up the amount still owed to Baron, to be paid in addition to the salary for an incoming coach: One million bucks.

What I want to know, as an alumni of URI, is the number of players that not only stayed in school during Baron's tenure, but graduated, you know, with a college degree.

Call me silly, but isn't that the true objective of an institute of higher learning? That all students, athletes or not, achieve a quality education? Coach Baron got it. He understood the importance of not only obtaining an advanced degree, but using basketball as a means to get it done.   

URI leadership? Not so much.

"Right or wrong, a Division I basketball program these days is judged on, 'Did you make the tournament or didn't you'," said University of Rhode Island athletic director Thorr Bjorn in Monday's Providence Journal.

Wow. So, with that, we'll be seein' ya, Coach Baron. Nothing personal. It's just business.

But it shouldn't be.

Coach Baron did a rare thing during in his tenure at URI; he conditioned his players to see hoops as a jumping off point for life. And in a culture based on instant gratification and impatience, yeah, much like that displayed by the URI top brass, ready to judge the success of their program on a single NCAA appearance, Baron showed true character.

It could have been a great moment for you, URI--an opportunity to change a bit of college sports culture.

But you, like so many before, blew the call.

Life On and Off a TV Set

Maybe I was just cranky because I hadn't finished my first cup of coffee.

Highly doubtful.

Sometimes I wish I could turn my brain off, and just think in single words, like a squirrel: Nut. Hungry. Car.

Nope.

Instead, my overactive noggin' goes deep into contemplation mode, even before 9am, considering stuff like the great societal implications of a new Cover Girl commercial starring Sofia Vergara and Ellen DeGeneres.

The two funny ladies doubled up recently for this thirty second spot promoting some sort of two-in-one concoction. I wasn't even really paying attention until I heard Sofia say, "That's what I was supposed to say now." To which Ellen responded, "Well, no one can understand you."

The camera panned to Sofia, the beautiful Colombian actress and star of Modern Family, who gave some sort of self-depreciating, shy smile, like, oh, silly me.

If it stopped here, I could have let it go. But of course it didn't.

In the next frame, Ellen continues to mock Sofia's English, first saying, "See, that's what I was talking about. See, what did you just say?" But then it goes way over the top, with Ellen stuttering her version of a Spanish accent.

Pause and watch. I'll wait.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-7YzJr3ZJu0&NR=1&feature=endscreen

Now tell me, which part of this is okay?

Granted, I understand Sofia has developed her schtick from being cheeky, self-effacing and difficult to understand. I get that Sofia, as a Latina, has the right to make fun of her accent, all the way to the bank. I also comprehend both ladies are comediennes, acting in a scripted piece.

But you'd think that somewhere in the creative process, someone, anyone, would have paused and said, hmmm, if we lived in a world that could tell the difference between satire and stereotypes, we'd be okay. But we don't, so let's work out another angle for this advertisement.

Think the modern viewer isn't making assumptions from what they see on tv? Think again.

One of my girlfriends, born and raised in Puerto Rico, has lived on the mainland for 20 years. She speaks Spanish and English fluently. Yes, with an accent. Recently, while talking to her son, a girl approached and said, "Hey, you talk just like that woman on Modern Family. Do you live near her?"

Her son replied, "No, we don't live on a TV set, stupid."

These words? They bear repeating.

In-State Tuition--No Green Card Required

There's certain things that I just don't understand in this life. The mass appeal of sit-coms. How an all white church in rural Kentucky recently banned mixed-race couples, then claimed they weren't racist. And why, in Rhode Island, there's so much anger towards a recent policy granting illegal immigrant students in-state tuition at our local colleges.

Seems to me, that our goal is to have an educated population. You know, so we can attract some industry and further tick down this ridiculous unemployment rate, which according to the Rhode Island Department of Labor and Training, stands at 10.4 percent for October 2011.

I have lived in Rhode Island my whole life. Don't cry for me Argentina. I think that it's a pretty special place to call home, with miles of beaches, a creative capital city, dedication to historic preservation and outstanding eats. The sad part is that not everyone who wants to stay, can. And as the unemployment rate continues to climb, so does my long distance phone bill.

Part of the problem is that Rhode Islanders are very routed in tradition. This works when we're sipping a Del's lemonade along the sidelines of the Bristol 4th of July parade, but not so much when we're trying to keep our economy from completely tanking into Narragansett Bay.

Yes, the industrial revolution did start here, thank you Samuel Slater, for building the first successful water powered cotton spinning mill in North America on the banks of the Blackstone River in 1793. And, truth is, that industrial jump off carried us quite far, even through my early childhood growing up in Pascoag. The prosperity of the mills in my small hometown created a vibrant downtown with a jewelry store, clothing boutique, hardware store, paint and paper shop, a furniture store and two department stores.

But no more. My childhood Main Street? Partially demoed, with a tackle shop laying claim as the industry. We are one depressed state.

So why doesn't education seem like a good thing--for anyone who wants to work hard for it? There's no free rides here; the application process is the same as it is for native born students. First, you have to be accepted into college in order to attend. And once enrolled, all those requirements for success are the same: study hard, don't party too much and get up for that eight o'clock class.

The only difference for children of illegal immigrants next September, comes from the bursar's office, as they become eligible for in-state rates. And there are stipulations. They must have attended a high school in the state for at least three years and graduated or received a GED. Students must also commit to seek legal status as soon as they are eligible, or lose their resident tuition. Seems fair to me.

So, which part of this should make me angry? I can't help thinking that the real issue is one of keeping people in their place, because the truth is, there's a very real possibility oh, ye, of no degree, that you're going to be somehow edged out by this non-white immigrant population attending your state school.  A possibility? Sure. But, in your linear thinking, you're not considering two things: a) Is the solution really to keep everyone down together? and b) If it bothers you so much, how about you go out and get that college degree yourself?

Personally, I'm thrilled by the progressiveness of our state. I understand the gifts brought by diversity. I'm willing to bet that this small piece of kindness, offered up by the people of Rhode Island, will create a fierce loyalty to the state, by those it benefits.

Like Brian.

My husband met Brian during his work as a juvenile probation officer. Indeed, Brian was an illegal immigrant, but all things considered, he had a pretty decent reason. He was trying to escape his life serving as a teenage soldier in the Guatemalan army, with who he had fought at the age of fourteen.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Brian did well here. His probation? For a minor issue that was quickly resolved. He truly appreciated and took advantage of the limited opportunities available to him, graduating from high school, with an intense desire to go to college. Only he couldn't, so back to Guatemala he went. And guess what? I still hope that someday, he returns.

And while I'm sorry that Brian may have missed this opportunity to continue his education in Rhode Island, I'm certain that there are many students, with a story like his, that will make our state a richer place--way, way beyond any financial bottom line.

Signed. Sealed. Delivered?!

When our heroine last left Brown, that's United Parcel Service, not the university or her husband Andre, it was late August. A pair of shoes had gone walking in the 'hood.

Luckily, the kindly folks at UPS have a policy to deal with their ineptness. Yup. No more unannounced drop-offs at our house--sort of like what you hope happens with houseguests. We officially became a signature required stop. I know you're jealous.

As far as I could tell, the only thing that drivers have to remember, now, is not to leave anything if no one's home. You know, to sign. So, I found it a bit odd Monday evening, when Andre and I returned home and found something on our stoop.

Hint: it wasn't a baby.

Now I understand, UPS, that your loss prevention tactics are a bit of a drag. Because if no one's home, you know, to sign, my casa becomes an unloading-free zone.

I get it. So why's it so hard for you?

According to the testy local representative sent my way, via my complaint to world headquarters, the driver had obtained a signature. Damn it. My bad. Andre must be teleporting again. Actually, come to think of it, shouldn't I be the one low on patience, since you're not only calling me at 7:30AM, but also working hard to dispute my story.

No matter. It's a new day. A new package on the way. Surely your men won't let me down.

Later that afternoon, Brown's environmental friendly diesel truck alerts me to their arrival. And what's this? There's not one, but two of their uniformed finest, carrying my package. Whew. Glad that group lift concept's understood, because that sucker does weigh 65 pounds and we wouldn't want anyone to get hurt.

Oh look. And they're super friendly too. I can hear them ask someone walking in front of my house if he lives here. I can assure you that he does not. But it's okay. The pedestrian knows who does: Andre. Only his car's not in the driveway. But maybe his wife's home, so how 'bout I open the gate, ring the bell, and check for you--UPS.

Um, why exactly do you have my neighbor involved?

I opened the door to find my neighbor on the stoop. The UPS men? They're almost out of view, rounding the corner behind the house with my package. No worries, their deputized crew member alerts them to the fact that I was indeed home. You know, in case someone wanted to leave the package inside. Or needed a signature. Or wanted to witness the steam coming out of my ears.

Naturally, that rave performance warranted another call to world headquarters. Someone needs to know what a good job they're doing here in Providence. I found out this time, that someone named Brown did sign for the package the day before.

Brown, you know, as in UPS Brown, because a signature of any other Brown, like, say Andre Brown, would seem to constitute fraud.

I got connected back to the local office too. Found out that my route is a training route. For what? I can't be certain. And that one of the two dudes content with leaving my wooden, antique TV stand in the depths of my backyard? A trainer. Which would probably explain why he scurried away so quickly.

I am certain that everything will be just fine from now on. We've stepped up our security measures to the next level. Code triple red: a signature AND id required for delivery.

I'm just not sure whose.

Dear Kim Humphries, ah, Kardashian

Dear Kim Humphries, ah, Kardashian,

Bit of a rough week, heh?

Seventy-two days of marriage. And then bam! It's over before it began.

Ouch. That's got to hurt, especially since your sister Khloe's got two years of marriage under her belt, after a shorter courtship than yours. Full disclosure, here in little Rhody, we think Lam Lam's a-ok, even though he did bail on our beloved URI for the NBA, without sticking around for a degree. Really man. No degree? But I digress.

Know what, Kim? I give you props for getting out quick. Life's too short, right? And so many couples stay together, completely miserable, for way too long. So bravo for your decisiveness.

Granted, I don't know you, well, at all. But you do appear in my living room on the regular, so I can't just sit by and say nothing. Especially when you seem like you could use some advice.

See, the truth is, I really don't claim to be a relationship expert. But I've been with my husband for nineteen years, and married for nearly thirteen. And that's gotta to be worth something. Especially since we still really do enjoy each other's company. A lot.

I met Andre when I was twenty-one. And trust me, the prince charming of my checklist, didn't quite match up with the one I fell for: an unemployment collecting, part-time cinema working, Chevy Sprint driving, outside of my race dude. But what a match we are. I am grateful every day that I have this kind of love in my life. And my man, are you listening Mr. Odom, has earned, not one, but two degrees in our time together.

Dear Kim, I want the same for you. The man, that is, not the diplomas.

Sigh, I watched your four hour wedding extravaganza, all right; it distracts me when I'm working out. And the truth is, I knew that you and the mister weren't going to make the long haul, even with your over-the-top diamond headdress and flawless make-up.  

Life's hard, doll. And if you don't want to sit together during your rehearsal dinner, or can't find room for your honey in your perfect white (decor, not race) world, there's gonna be issues. Couldn't you feel that underlying tension between you? Not love, no matter how much you loved that ring. Or that dress. Or the second one. Or the third.

Damn girl, didn't you get tired of changing?

Truthfully, it's that image you've been cultivating that's the real problem. The same one that's brought you riches and fame. A beautiful, dark-haired, big-eyed princess with a killer body, that every girl wants to be, and every boy wants to be with. Only problem is, you can't come up with that happy ending, no matter how hard you've tried to stage it for the cameras.

So, here's my radical proposition for you: Give up the hunt.

Yup, that's right. No more boys, until you're okay with being you. No, I mean really okay being you. You've got to change your motivations. Go to the party for the party, not because you think that maybe, just maybe, you'll meet your match. Experience life. Meet people. Wear pretty outfits. But whatever you do, don't try to fall in love.

In fact, don't even think about falling in love. Don't long to fall in love. Don't be sad about not falling in love. Don't think about the bambinos that you're not having. Or the anniversaries you're not celebrating. Don't mourn for that secret couple world you think you're missing out on.

Just be. Got that?

Oh, and, there is something else you could do. Right now, you've got the attention of what seems to be the entire universe. So how 'bout you go ahead and use your platform and give the single ladies out there a shout out. Tell them that they're okay all by themselves. That no one, that's right, no one, needs a man to complete them.

Not even you.