Jacob Jones Martinez

I can’t believe you are five years old. I can’t believe how much has happened in the past 12 months.

Amelia, you are becoming a really sweet and thoughtful little girl. You constantly have more questions than we have answers and your constant energy is exhausting.

You started Pre-K this past August and so far you really seem to be enjoying it. Each day you come home and tell me a little something about your day and what you learned. It’s usually pretty brief and we have to ask for details. You usually tell us that you forgot what you learned because you napped during the day.

You are developing a pretty quick wit and funny little sense of humor. Just yesterday you had climbed into bed with us early in the morning. You were sleeping on the edge of the bed on your mom’s side. When Laura asked you if you had any room you stated matter of factly, “naw, Mom, I’m like a squirrel in a tree over here.” It was a perfect analogy. I’ve told that story more times than I can count in just the last day.

As you get older and you and I get to spend a lot of time together, you’ve started confiding in me about certain things. Nothing big or outrageous, but you seem to like that we have secrets that we don’t tell your mom about.

Your favorite game to play is the one where I pretend not to know you. Every time we go to the grocery store or are in public together, you’ll say, “Dad, can we play that game where you don’t know me and tell me to find my parents.” It’s hilarious.

You’ve stopped saying a lot of the things I loved and we’ll miss them. At some point “candy cans” became “candy canes.” “‘Poon” became “spoon,” though I think that happened a while back. You’ve gotten pickier, if you can believe it. Some of the foods you used to love you hate now. But you’ve recently started eating salad. Tonight as I was cooking dinner you asked what we were having. I told you it was tacos, and asked if you would eat the beans and tacos. You said, “as long as salad’s involved, I’ll eat anything!” It was shocking. I’m pretty sure it’s the red wine vinegar; you’ve always liked that pickled vinegary flavor.

I made you a strawberry cake for your party, like you asked. Mom decorated it with snowpeople, but couldn’t fit the other people, the hockey sticks, and hockey balls you requested. It’s unclear at what point you became half Canadian or how you even heard about hockey, but I like that you’re taking an interest in sports…? This past fall you took your first ballet class. We’ll probably get you into another one this season, but your favorite thing to do these days is yoga. It’s sort of spendy, but you seem to like it so much we’ll keep taking you. The place near by has 2 classes each week just for kids and you love going. I’m glad you like it. I’m glad you’ve found something you really enjoy doing. The ballet class was tough. There was a kid in there who wasn’t very nice to you and it seemed to ruin the whole experience for you. I hope you go back though. I’m hoping you will try soccer this year, too. Also, you love singing. You are constantly singing. You may not know the words or the tune, but you will definitely sing. It reminds me of my grandfather. I’m glad you got that trait from him. I hope it sticks with you.

Amelia, every day you make me proud to be your dad. I absolutely love the time we spend together. I love when you spontaneously tell me you love me from across the room. I love when people compliment me on you, or your behavior. I love that you enjoy school and like your teachers. I love that you asked me today when you could watch Star Wars…

Happy birthday.

You are 4.

Four years old.

It’s been a long year and we’ve asked a lot of you. We asked you to leave your home and leave behind your best friend, your school, and your cousins to move halfway across the country. It wasn’t easy for any of us, but least of all you.

You’ve handled it really well and now that you’re 4 it’s really starting to show how much you’ve grown. You love your new preschool, though your mom and I have our doubts about it. Every day when I pick you up you ask if I brought you cookies. (That was a tradition I probably shouldn’t have started.)

Moving has had its up sides. You’ve gotten to spend time with your grandparents and great-grandparents. I’m not sure if you’ll remember this time as you get older, but you’ve developed a pretty sweet relationship with my mom’s mom. I don’t know how or why you’ve chosen her–maybe it’s because you’re named after her–but it’s fun to watch. A few weeks ago you decided you were going to spend the night with her and all but refused to leave. It took some cajoling and promising, but you finally agreed to leave on the condition you could spend the night with her soon.

For Christmas, Santa brought you a new turquoise (of course) bike. It’s got pedals and two wheels just like you wanted. It’s got training wheels, but I’m hoping to get you away from those soon. Right after Christmas, I re-taught your Tia Ang to ride a bike and you were so encouraging, I couldn’t tell if I was more proud of her for riding, or you for the support. I know she appreciated it, too.

You still don’t eat crust and it kills me. You refuse to try anything new. I’m sure you’ll grow out of it eventually, but right now you eat about 10 things all told. The other day you told your mom, “I believe in bikes. I believe in not eating animals, and I believe in cupcakes.”

I don’t think I could’ve said it better myself.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Not so long ago Laura and I were doing laundry just like any other week. As usual, there was too much to do and not enough time. We filled the washing machine with clothes, turned it on and forgot about it. It wasn’t until many hours later that we realized it was full of water, and the machine had not washed a thing.

We immediately went into panic mode and did…nothing.

As much as I hate to admit it, the clothes sat there for 24 hours before we did anything about them. I finally pulled them out and we were able to wash them at our neighbors’ house. But, of course, there was still the washer. It sat there for another 24 hours while we discussed our options. We called Sears who kindly offered to come take a look for upwards of $200, without fixing anything. At this point we decided that it was time to take the situation into our own hands. So I went straight to Google. After some searching I felt confident the problem was our lid switch. And after a few more searches, I found instructions for dismantling the machine and removing the broken lid switch.

It was unbelievably easy to do. As a matter of fact, the only hard part about the entire process was paying $50 for the switch when it was $20 online. Sometimes being committed to buying local is harder than we’d like, but we also couldn’t wait for it to be shipped.

When Laura and I first started dating we were both riding bikes which were more than 25 years old. Old steel bikes are great because everything was made to be repaired or rebuilt rather than replaced. I learned how to rebuild a hub because I had to–it needed to be done, and I couldn’t afford to pay someone to do it. Since then, we’ve become much more Do It Yourself, and less “buy something new.” More often than not, we will find an alternate way of doing something or work together to find a solution to the problem. It feels more genuine somehow. Laura, particularly, is certain we can figure out a way to do just about anything. This is part of the “Live slow” in the title of this site. So much of our time is spent working so we can buy new stuff so communicate faster and find out what everyone’s doing and where they’re doing it. Granted, I’m as guilty as the next person of doing it, but sometimes you have to stop and try find a better way.

Walk instead of drive. Call instead of text. Write a letter instead of an email.

(Note: This was originally published on the Community Cycling Center’s blog here.)

The Spring session of Bike Club at Faubion Elementary wrapped up with 100% graduation rate. Twelve kids completed the 6 weeks with no more than two absences and actively participated in the entire program.

Bike Club is a project of Community Cycling Center that is run through SUN, a program of Multnomah County, the City of Portland and Portland Public Schools. Ashley, the SUN Coordinator at Faubion Elementary, is an amazing resource for us, and is always there for suggestions, words of encouragement, and guidance. At the beginning of this Bike Club, Ashley pulled us aside to let us know one of our kids, Jeffrey*, almost wasn’t allowed into the program. Jeffrey, like many students, has a difficult time learning in a traditional classroom environment and school staff expressed concerns about his safety on the road. The SUN Coordinator shared that he could be a challenge, but she wanted to give him an opportunity to succeed.

Over the six-week period, Jeffrey did prove to be a challenge, but there were rays of hope along the way.

We teach each student to do personal and mechanical safety checks before getting on the bike each day. Jeffrey did perfect safety checks. And while he’d occasionally bump the tire of the bike in front of him, he was usually one of our stronger riders when we were on the road. And with the rainy Spring weather, Jeffrey was rarely one to complain. It seemed as though his bike provided an outlet for all of his energy and activity.

The last week of Bike Club, on top of his usual spotless safety checks, Jeffrey signaled, shoulder checked, and rode better than most experienced adult commuters I see. It was a pleasure to see him riding with confidence and focused only on the ride. Additionally, Sara*, the wobbly rider from my first post, was the leader on our last ride and with the right words of encouragement rose to the occasion.

If Bike Club has taught me anything, it’s that given the right circumstances, appropriate encouragement, and a little confidence bikes can bring out the best in all of us.

*All students’ names have been changed in the interest of privacy.

As I reflect over the past year on this, the eve of my 34th birthday, it feels as though little has changed. On the surface, it hasn’t. Laura is still in school. Amelia is still in preschool. And I am still not working full-time.

At first, not being a lawyer was pretty rough. Then doing interview after interview without finding the right fit began to take its toll. Ultimately, we’ve been able to manage, thanks to Laura’s hard work and my learning a few new things along the way. It hasn’t been easy, but changing my outlook was probably one huge turning point.

Rather than viewing the past few years as challenging and getting ever more frustrated, I began to look at them as a gift we would not otherwise have had.

We’ve been given the gift of time.

Time with each other. Time to ride my bike. Time to work when and how we can do so effectively. Time to learn and share and do all the things we wanted to, but never could. Time to be creative and collaborate or volunteer and be involved in our community.

If I had passed the Bar Exam and taken the job with the Public Defenders’ office, I would not have had all of this time spent with Amelia. We would be better off financially, but at what cost?

My inability to create and implement any sort of five- or ten-year plan is partially to blame. But making the most of it has been a critical part of the journey. Taking the time to practice writing and learning from my mistakes is one way I’ve not let the journey be wasted.

This past year, I saw New Orleans again, and visited Puerto Rico for the first time. I got married. My daughter turned 3(!). I got to see lots of old friends over the past year, and have been lucky enough to make new friends along the way. From my grandparents to my cousins, my family is mostly healthy, but we’re all still here.

I don’t know what the dawning of my next year holds, but I know joy cometh in the morning…

(Note: This was originally published on the Community Cycling Center’s blog here.)

Last October, I began volunteering with Community Cycling Center’s Bike Club at Faubion Elementary in Northeast Portland. Twice per week, I’d help teach fourteen 4th and 5th graders all about bike safety, flat fixing, and how to be an every day commuter. It’s a fun, challenging and rewarding way to spend a few afternoons each week.

Right now, we are 2 weeks into the 2011 Spring session with a whole new set of kids. Aaron* has older siblings so he has plenty of experience riding and seems to be familiar with bikes and hand signals but only wants to ride on the sidewalk. Sara* is a little wobbly, and gets frustrated with herself, but has already shown a lot of improvement. Joey* rides fine, but doesn’t know how or when to shift and often looks for his coaster brake out of habit.

That’s where we come in.

Josh, Lara, and I work to give them the skills and experience to ride their bikes with traffic. Along the way they’ll earn a helmet, a lock, a patch kit, a route map, and eventually, the whole bike. My favorite part of Bike Club, besides the sunny days riding our bikes together, is that these kids aren’t given anything––they earn everything. They make a commitment to learn and cooperate, and at the end of Bike Club, they’ll ride away with more than just a bike and a helmet, but with a sense of empowerment and the confidence to ride their bikes beyond their own streets.

My first day back for the Spring session as I was locking my bike in front of the school, I saw Angela*, one of the kids from Fall session, unlocking hers. I asked if she was still riding to and from school. She just smiled and said, “Yep,” and rode off.

There are a thousand and one reasons why I came back to volunteer with Bike Club, but none are as clear or as simple as that.

Be sure to come back in a few weeks for an update on our progress.

*All students’ names have been changed in the interest of privacy.

You were supposed to be born around February 2nd. So January 25th started just like any other day, except that your mom and I slept incredibly well. For the last few weeks of her pregnancy your mom had not slept well. She was uncomfortable and worried about having you. When we woke up that Friday morning we had breakfast together and talked about how we’d both slept deeply and soundly. Your mom felt great. I left for work before 7am, and your mom went back to bed.

I was working at the public defender’s office then, and was on my way to court at 9am when your mom called to say her water broke. Well, she thought it had broken, but wasn’t sure. I passed off my client files and caught the first bus home. I called Debbie, one of our midwives, and told her what happened. She asked a few questions, most of which I didn’t have answers for then we hung up so she called your mom.

I got home and we waited for Debbie.

When Debbie showed up she took a few tests. She explained to your mom the difference between cramps and contractions and told us to be patient because some mothers have gone as long as 3 or 4 days before the birth. She also said we should go to the birthing center when there’s a consistent pattern of intense contractions for at least an hour.

Your Auntie Caryn came over and the three of us took Porter for a walk together. Your mom had to go pretty slow, and take breaks, but we got home about 1:00pm.

Auntie left and when your mom and I got home she got into the bath. Your mom got out of the bath and said, “it’s time to go.”

We grabbed our stuff and hopped into your mom’s old Bronco. It was an awesome, but old truck and it broke. We couldn’t drive to the birthing center. I had to call a cab to pick us up. Your mom was having contractions pretty frequently and wouldn’t let me talk to or touch her. She wanted absolute quiet.

By the time the cab company showed up, and we were finally on our way it was almost 2:00pm.

When we got to the birthing center there was a couple leaving and they wished us luck. We got to our room and your mom got into the birthing tub pretty quickly. She still didn’t want anyone talking to her or touching her. She was starting to make more and more noise as labor progressed. The midwives were passing notes to each other and whispering to me about what would be happening next. And then your little head started coming out. At first, your head just started peeking out, but then you came right out all at once. You were so excited to be born, you came right out. It was 3:19pm.

You started crying almost as soon as you came out of the water. The whole time your mom was pregnant we didn’t know if you were going to be born a boy or a girl. After you were born your mommy sat in the tub holding you for a few seconds before finally saying, “I have to find out what you are!”

Everything about that day was beautiful. The sun was shining and your mom was fearless. She never doubted her body’s ability to give birth to you and didn’t need anyone’s help. It was a beautiful sight to see, and holding the two of you afterward was the most amazing feeling.

And now you’re 3 years old.

You’re funny, incredibly sweet, and sometimes a little bratty. Last night at dinner you thanked me for making a yummy dinner then told me you loved me when I carried you to bed. You’re picky about what you eat, but like tonight ate the tofu and quinoa like a big kid. You’re excited about cake for your birthday party and love painting. You also promised to start eating the crust on your bread now that you’re three. Your favorite color is turquoise and you love Toy Story 3.

Happy birthday, Mija!

Hunting never set well with me. I was never comfortable firing a gun. To me, a gun and the consequence of its use are more power than any single individual should hold. As such, I took that responsibility with reverence and reluctance. I was carrying a single barrel, single shell shotgun that would not fire unless I deliberately pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. After each shot fired, I had to open the gun, remove the shell, insert a new one, close the gun, and pull back the hammer before I could get another shot off. It was perfect for me. Because I would only get one shot at any given target, I had to take extra care if and when I leveled my sight.

On those mornings when my dad and I would go hunting, we’d get up before sunrise and drive out past Guthrie or Benjamin or Seymour, Texas. Small towns with simple names, a gas station, diner, and, if you’re lucky, a Dairy Queen. Out there I learned to drink my coffee black and to over-tip breakfast waitresses. We had a lot of fun on those trips, though I doubt I would have admitted that then. We didn’t go hunting often, but it was something we did from time to time since I never played golf and didn’t hang out at home much. Like many things from those years, I never appreciated it until much later.

Pheasant hunting is different than say, dove hunting. Dove fly at a certain time, so we would simply find a place to sit, then wait. They would fly as a flock and we would shoot. With pheasant we had to flush them out. We would walk through a field with another person about 10 yards to my left and another 10 yards to my right. It was my job to shoot any pheasant that flew up from my 12 o’clock to my 9 0′clock, or thereabouts.

After spending a few hours doing this, the group we were with decided to try another field. In that part of Texas there are open fields of tall grass, vast expanses of mesquite trees, and not much else. As we passed single-file along a path through a portion of mesquite trees my arm and shotgun got caught on branch and accidentally fired.

My heart stopped. I stared at my gun which was aiming directly in front of me where Ted, one of my dad’s oldest friends, had been walking. I knew I was going to look up and he would be on the ground, riddled with buckshot. As my ears stopped ringing and I caught my breath, I heard Ted ask, as happily as ever, “Didja see something?”

Stunned, I could only muster a nod and a meek, “Yeah.”

My heart pounded. To this day, I have no idea how I missed him. We were walking so close together. I didn’t know the hammer on the gun was pulled back and ready to fire with the safety off.

Over the years, I have relived that moment over and over again and every time I shoot Ted. I get so angry with myself for being so careless then try to figure out how it happened. Often, I am Vincent Vega, shrugging the whole incident off as a freak accident. Shit happens and sometimes there is no explanation. Other times, I am Jules Winfield, seeking some higher learning or attempting to ascribe some divine meaning from what happened. As if there is some purpose or reason behind my not shooting him.

It’s been more than 15 years since that happened, and I’ve finally resolved the whys and hows. Well, I’ve resolved not to let them get in the way. Instead of giving that event some meaning for my life, I’ve realized I can give my life meaning because of that event. It was not some divine intervention sparing me for some higher purpose, but since I was spared I can give my life some higher purpose.

I don’t know that I’ve found that purpose, but as cliched as it sounds, being a parent has provided some of that purpose. Being part of her growing and seeing her learn and experience this world is an honor and a pleasure. Being a good parent and partner is something I have to work at each day, but it’s a lot of fun and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s funny, I don’t hunt anymore and couldn’t imagine doing it ever again. I feel terrible about the birds I shot, but without those hunting trips, I probably wouldn’t be vegan now.

In 1934, a 20 year-old kid named René Vietto was racing the Tour de France for the first time with the French National team. At the time, participants rode either as individuals or as members of national teams. Vietto flatted the first two stages and lost considerable time in the General Classification. While his team leader, Antonin Magne, was winning overall, Vietto won stages 7, 9 and 11–all mountain stages–to climb to 3rd place overall.

In stage 16, Vietto led the charge up the largest climb of the day, Col de Puymorens. He was followed by Magne, his team leader and an Italian rider, Giuseppe Martano, in 2nd place. On the descent, Magne hit a pothole and broke his front wheel. Vietto had no knowledge of the crash and kept riding. When a race official informed him of what happened, Vietto turned around and climbed back up the Puymorens to give Magne his front wheel. A photographer snapped a photo of Vietto sitting on a rock wall with his bike weeping as the peloton raced past.

Vietto eventually got another wheel, finished the stage and ultimately came in 5th overall and won the Mountain Classification. Vietto raced for years, never winning the Tour. His highest finish was 2nd in 1939. In 1947, Vietto lost a toe to sepsis and kept racing.

Like few other sports–golf, comes to mind–cycling is not just about competing against your opponents. It is equally, if not more so, about competing against the road, the mountains, the elements, and one’s own mind. It’s stories like Vietto’s that make cycling, and sports in general, come to life and amaze and inspire us. Or maybe, it’s because as cyclists, we revel in that suffering. A modern day self-flagellation, wherein we hope to derive some wisdom or clarity in the process. Whether it’s in the incessant cold drizzle of January or a long, steady climb in June, we spin our way through the discomfort and pain to find some greater understanding about ourselves or about the world. I don’t know anyone who loves riding a bike who does it because it’s easy. Most of us want it to be difficult–need it to be painful. Greg Lemond famously said that it doesn’t get easier, you just get faster.

You bet your ass.

At the height of the Vietnam War in 1968, seven men and two women walked into a Selective Service office in Catonsville, Maryland. Moving past stunned clerical workers, the activists removed 378 A-1 Draft files from a cabinet, took them outside to a parking lot, poured homemade napalm over them, and set them on fire. While the files burned, the peace activists held hands and recited the Lord’s Prayer.

Shortly afterward, police officers arrived and arrested the Catonsville Nine. The 9 Roman Catholic activists were Philip Berrigan, Daniel Berrigan, David Darst, John Hogan, Tom Lewis, John Melville, Marjorie Melville, George Mische, and Mary Moylan. They did this to stop the flow of soldiers into Vietnam and “because everything else [had] failed.”

Be it your conscience, a Higher Power or some other moral code, I believe we have a responsibility to act in the face of injustice that supersedes the laws of the land. During the trial of the Catonsville Nine, Father Daniel Berrigan read a statement, which read, in part:

Our apologies  good friends

for the fracture of good order  the burning of paper

instead of children  the angering of the orderlies

in the front parlor of the charnel house

We could not  so help us God  do otherwise

For we are sick at heart   our hearts

give us no rest for thinking of the Land of Burning Children

The Catonsville Nine are heroes for putting what is right above what is easy and doing what is just above what is legal.